
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/14036625.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Wheel_of_Time_-_Robert_Jordan
  Series:
      Part 2 of The_Wheel_Turns_Anew
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-03-20 Chapters: 41/71 Words: 198078
****** The Call of the Horn ******
by Charon_Spole_(cascadingpoles)
Summary
     All of Creation is one. Light and Shadow exist in perpetual
     counterbalance to one another, as do the male and female halves of
     the One Power. Life is fleeting, and death as certain as rebirth. The
     souls of heroes and villains alike are but threads in the great
     Pattern of eternity, spun out again and again to live their lives,
     anew yet familiar.
     And so it is that once again the Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come
     and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth,
     and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes
     again. In one Age, called the Tenth Age by some, an Age yet to come,
     an Age long past, a wind rose once more in the Mountains of Mist. The
     wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings
     to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a new beginning.
Notes
     So this is a fan-fiction story based primarily on The Wheel of Time
     novels by Robert Jordan. It’s about what might happen when the Wheel
     of Time turns full circle and the events of the series happen once
     more. It will start very familiar, with only minor changes, but those
     minor changes will lead to other slightly bigger changes, which will
     in turn lead to more changes, getting bigger and bigger as the series
     progresses, ultimately leading to a completely different final half
     of the series.
     Running with the rather Campbellian idea that all legends, myths and
     stories are part of the same repeating Pattern, I will be stealing
     characters, settings etc from other fandoms and fitting them into the
     main Wheel of Time setting as best I can, it order to create one
     giant fan-fiction playpen. Expect to see many familiar, yet different
     faces, from The Wheel of Time and elsewhere.
     It will be very smutty. The idea for it started as part of a smut-
     fiction series that I ended up expanding upon, and that smuttiness
     remains at its core. Bisexuality will be common throughout the
     series, including with many of the main characters, and everything
     from romance and marriage, to rape and torture, to underage material
     will be included. Fair warning.
     Rand will be an absolute Mary Sue. I freely acknowledge that, and
     offer no excuse. But hey, the character concept calls for him to be a
     Mary Sue anyway—the Creator’s champion, born again and again to fight
     the Dark One and such. So why not just roll with it? I’ve taken to
     thinking of him as the reincarnation of many protagonists from other
     stories, from Commander Shephard, to the Hero of Ferelden, to
     Gorion’s Ward, and so on.
     I made a few alternations to the base setting. I decided to double
     down on the matriarchal nature of the Third, and now Tenth Ages.
     Almost all rulers are women for example, and most people inherit
     their mother’s surnames. I made Tar Valon a nation, rather than a
     city-state, to expand Aes Sedai power. I decided to make Travelling
     harder—requiring greater base strength in the Power to use and being
     very tiring to maintain—since I wanted other methods of transport to
     still be relevant. I also more than doubled the number of Forsaken,
     and decided to make them more competent and threatening opponents. In
     order to do this, without altering their personalities too much, I
     decided that they should all have ter’angreal similar to Cadsuane’s,
     and a holographic AI assistant to help manage their defences. Oh, and
     I renamed the Westlands continent as Valgarda.
     The series begins in 996NE, when Rand, Mat and Perrin are seventeen,
     and will stretch over a longer period of time.
     In making this, I basically copy-pasted the true Wheel of Time series
     into Word and then went through the books, editing as I wished. I cut
     some things, altered others, inserted new scenes and lines etc. This
     is almost certainly plagiarism, I know. With regards to that I can
     only offer the excuse that I make no money from this series, claim no
     ownership or right to The Wheel of Time—or any other published
     work—and that, for all that entire chapters in this series may be
     lifted directly from Mr Jordan’s work, other chapters are written
     entirely by me. I did this only for my own amusement, and if putting
     it on the internet for others to read constitutes a breach of
     copyright or causes trouble for anyone, I won’t object to its
     removal. I’ll still have my own copy after all.
     Still, in hopes of avoiding trouble I'll only post those chapters
     that are either entirely new or heavily edited, as a preview of
     sorts. The full story can be found here: https://mega.nz/
     #F!z3xTlBqb!nf0IYutdT11SoCL8qoZmhg
     Well that about covers it. Take a gander if you like. I hope you
     enjoy.
***** Preface *****
For the sake of neatness I'll start the series proper after the break.
***** In the Shadow *****
PROLOGUE: In the Shadow
 
The man who called himself Bors, at least in this place, sneered at the low
murmuring that rolled around the vaulted chamber like the soft gabble of geese.
His grimace was hidden by the black silk mask that covered his face, though,
just like the masks that covered the hundred other faces in the chamber. A
hundred black masks, and a hundred pairs of eyes trying to see what lay behind
them.
If one did not look too closely, the huge room could have been in a palace,
with its tall marble fireplaces and its golden lamps hanging from the domed
ceiling, its colourful tapestries and intricately patterned mosaic floor. If
one did not look too closely. The fireplaces were cold, for one thing. Flames
danced on logs as thick as a man’s leg, but gave no heat. The walls behind the
tapestries, the ceiling high above the lamps, were undressed stone, almost
black. There were no windows, and only two doorways, one at either end of the
room. It was as if someone had intended to give the semblance of a palace
reception chamber but had not cared enough to bother with more than the outline
and a few touches for detail.
Where the chamber was, “Bors”, did not know, nor did he think any of the others
knew. He did not like to think about where it might be. It was enough that he
had been summoned. He did not like to think about that, either, but for such a
summons, even he came.
He shifted his cloak, thankful that the fires were cold, else it would have
been too hot for the black wool draping him to the floor. All his clothes were
black. The bulky folds of the cloak hid the stoop he used to disguise his
height, and bred confusion as to whether he was thin or thick. He was not the
only one there enveloped in a tailor’s span of cloth.
His true name was Jaichim Carridin, but that was a fact that none in that room
knew, and he meant to keep it that way. But of course, the others were thinking
much the same.
Silently he watched his companions. Patience had marked much of his life.
Always, if he waited and watched long enough, someone made a mistake. Most of
the men and women here might have had the same philosophy; they watched, and
listened silently to those who had to speak. Some people could not bear
waiting, or silence, and so gave away more than they knew.
The young woman in the thick robe of black silk, for example. She interested
him most of all. Too impatient for her own good, she had earlier made
conversation with another young woman, one of those who wore the mask alone.
And she had done it within Jaichim’s hearing.
Her acquaintance he judged of small account; a voice too carefully sultry, a
dress cut to reveal more than was needed, and an accent that hinted of
commonborn Altaran heritage not as far in her past as she liked to think. The
seducer was inherently weak, their nature being to leech off the powerful. He
dismissed that one.
But the other spoke as a highborn Amadician, and more, she spoke in the accents
of Amador itself. Jaichim was quite familiar with Amador. There were not many
candidates who could be matched to that voice and every last one of them was of
interest to him. But the girl kept herself well-covered and he did not dare
speak to her himself, in case she recognised him. So instead he hovered near,
hoping she would let her impatience drive her to converse again. The Queen of
Amadicia was a mere figurehead, but she had three daughters. Was it possible
the girl was one of the Vistriams? That would be an opportunity he could
exploit handsomely, one way or another.
Servants circulated through the guests, slender, golden-haired youths
proffering wine with a bow and a wordless smile. Young men and young women
alike, they wore tight white breeches and flowing white shirts. And male and
female alike, they moved with disturbing grace. Each looked more than a mirror
image of the others, the boys as handsome as the girls were beautiful. He
doubted he could distinguish one from another, and he had an eye and a memory
for faces.
A smiling, white-clad girl offered her tray of crystal goblets to him. He took
one with no intention of drinking; it might appear untrusting—or worse, and
either could be deadly here—if he refused altogether, but anything could be
slipped into a drink. Surely some among his companions would have no objections
to seeing the number of their rivals for power dwindle, whomever the unlucky
ones happened to be.
Idly he wondered whether the servants would have to be disposed of after this
meeting. Servants hear everything. As the serving girl straightened from her
bow, his eye caught hers above that sweet smile. Blank eyes. Empty eyes. A
doll’s eyes. Eyes more dead than death.
He shivered as she moved gracefully away, and raised the goblet to his lips
before he caught himself. It was not what had been done to the girl that
chilled him. Rather, every time he thought he detected a weakness in those he
now served, he found himself preceded, the supposed weakness cut out with a
ruthless precision that left him amazed. And worried. The first rule of his
life had always been to search for weakness, for every weakness was a chink
where he could probe and pry and influence. If his current masters, his masters
for the moment, had no weakness ...
Frowning behind his mask, he studied his companions. At least there was plenty
of weakness there. Their nervousness betrayed them, even those who had sense
enough to guard their tongues. A stiffness in the way this one held himself, a
jerkiness in the way that one handled her skirts.
A good quarter of them, he estimated, had not bothered with disguise beyond the
black masks. Their clothes told much. A woman standing before a gold-and-
crimson wall hanging, speaking softly to a figure—impossible to say whether it
was man or woman—cloaked and hooded in grey. She had obviously chosen the spot
because the colours of the tapestry set off her garb. Doubly foolish to draw
attention to herself, for her scarlet dress, cut low in the bodice to show too
much flesh and high at the hem to display golden slippers, marked her from
Illian, and a woman of wealth, perhaps even of noble blood.
Not far beyond the Illianer, another woman stood, alone and admirably silent.
With a swan’s neck and lustrous black hair falling in waves below her waist,
she kept her back to the stone wall, observing everything. No nervousness
there, only serene self-possession. Very admirable, that, but her coppery skin
and her creamy, high-necked gown—leaving nothing but her hands uncovered, yet
clinging and only just barely opaque, so that it hinted at everything and
revealed nothing—marked her just as clearly of the first blood of Arad Doman.
And unless he missed his guess entirely, the wide golden bracelet on her left
wrist bore her House symbols. They would be for her own House; no Domani
bloodborn would bend her stiff pride enough to wear the sigils of another
House. Worse than foolishness.
The dark-cloaked man in the tooled leather tunic might have imagined himself
anonymous, perhaps a farmer or a simple woodsman. He was not. The engraving on
the leather was too fine, the fur that lined his boots too rich. Jaichim knew a
Falmeran nobleman when he saw one.
A man in a high-collared, sky-blue Shienaran coat passed him with a wary, head-
to-toe glance through the eyeholes of his mask. The man’s carriage named him
soldier; the set of his shoulders, the way his gaze never rested in one place
for long, and the way his hand seemed ready to dart for a sword that was not
there, all proclaimed it. The Shienaran wasted little time on “Bors”; stooped
shoulders and a bent back held no threat.
Jaichim snorted as the Shienaran moved on, right hand clenching and eyes
already studying elsewhere for danger. He could read them all, to class and
country. Merchant and warrior, commoner and noble. Here was a merchant from
Kaltor, male and successful, or married into success. There was a tall and
muscular Cairhienin, from the Foregate. Beyond him was a rich Saldaean lord who
walked like an experience horseman. Farther still was a rough-hewn Volsuni
commoner, with the scarred knuckles of a street tough, and the gold rings of a
successful one. From every nation and nearly every people. His nose wrinkled in
sudden disgust. Even a Tinker girl, in bright green breeches and a virulent
yellow coat. We can do without those come the Day. Does the foolish girl think
she can hide her gender with a boy’s garb? Slender as her hips are they still
give her away.
The disguised ones were no better, many of them, cloaked and shrouded as they
were. He caught sight, under the edge of one dark robe, of the silver-worked
boots of a High Lord of Tear, and under another a glimpse of golden lion-head
spurs, worn only by high officers in the Andoran Queen’s Guards. That one
hovered near a plump woman whose dress named her an Andoran noble; she kept to
herself, yet the stiff deliberateness of her isolation shouted out that she was
of high enough rank to fear being recognised even by strangers, a fear the
guardsman was plainly trying to realise. A muscular fellow—muscular even in a
floor-dragging black robe and an anonymous grey cloak caught with a plain
silver pin—watched from the shadows of his deep cowl. He could be anyone, from
anywhere ... except for the six-pointed star tattooed on the web between thumb
and forefinger of his right hand. One of the Sea Folk then, and a look at his
left hand would show the marks of his clan and line. Jaichim Carridin did not
bother to try.
Suddenly his eyes narrowed, fixing on a woman enveloped in black till nothing
showed but her fingers. On her right hand rested a gold ring in the shape of a
serpent eating its own tail. Aes Sedai, or at least a woman trained in Tar
Valon by Aes Sedai. None else would wear that ring. Either way made no
difference to him. He looked away before she could notice his watching, and
almost immediately he spotted another woman, stouter than the first, but also
swathed from head to toe in black and wearing a Great Serpent ring. The two
witches gave no sign that they knew each other. In the White Tower they sat
like spiders in the middle of a web, pulling the strings that made nations
dance, meddling, making certain that no man could rise above what they decided
his place should be. Curse them all to death eternal! He realized that he was
grinding his teeth. If numbers must dwindle —and they must, before the
Day—there were some who would be missed even less than Tinkers.
A chime sounded, a single, shivering note that came from everywhere at once and
cut off all other sounds like a knife.
The tall doors at the far end of the chamber swung open, and two Trollocs
stepped into the room, spikes decorating the black mail that hung to their
knees. Everyone shied back. Even Carridin.
Head and shoulders taller than the tallest man there, they were a stomach-
turning blend of man and animal, human faces twisted and altered. One had a
heavy, pointed beak where his mouth and nose should have been, and feathers
covered his head instead of hair. The other walked on hooves, his face pushed
out in a hairy muzzle, and goat horns stuck up above his ears.
Ignoring the humans, the Trollocs turned back toward the door and bowed,
servile and cringing. The feathers on the one lifted in a tight crest.
A Myrddraal stepped between them, and they fell to their knees. It was garbed
in black that made the Trollocs’ mail and the humans’ masks seem bright,
garments that hung still, without a ripple, as it moved with a viper’s grace.
Jaichim felt his lips drawing back over his teeth, half snarl and half, he was
ashamed to admit even to himself, fear. It had its face uncovered. Its pasty
pale face, a man’s face, but eyeless as an egg, like a maggot in a grave.
The smooth white face swivelled, regarding them all one by one, it seemed. A
visible shiver ran through them under that eyeless look. The Myrddraal’s look
shaped them into a semicircle facing the door.
Jaichim swallowed. There will come a day, Halfman. When the Great Lord of the
Dark comes again, he will choose his new Dreadlords, and you will cower before
them. You will cower before men. Before me! Why doesn’t it speak? Stop staring
at me, and speak!
“Your Master comes.” The Myrddraal’s voice rasped like a dry snake skin
crumbling. “To your bellies, worms! Grovel, lest his brilliance blind and burn
you!”
Rage filled Carridin, at the tone as much as the words, but then the air above
the Halfman shimmered, and the import drove home. It can’t be! It can’t ... !
The Trollocs were already on their bellies, writhing as if they wanted to
burrow into the floor.
Without waiting to see if anyone else moved, Jaichim dropped facedown, grunting
as he bruised himself on the stone. Words sprang to his lips like a charm
against danger—they were a charm, though a thin reed against what he feared—and
he heard a hundred other voices, breathy with fear, speaking the same against
the floor.
“The Great Lord of the Dark is my Master, and most heartily do I serve him to
the last shred of my very soul.” In the back of his mind a voice chattered with
fear. The Dark One and all the Forsaken are bound ...Shivering, he forced it to
silence. He had abandoned that voice long since. “Lo, my Master is death’s
Master. Asking nothing do I serve against the Day of his coming, yet do I serve
in the sure and certain hope of life everlasting.” ... bound in Shayol Ghul,
bound by the Creator at the moment of creation. No, I serve a different master
now. “Surely the faithful shall be exalted in the land, exalted above the
unbelievers, exalted above thrones, yet do I serve humbly against the Day of
his Return.” The hand of the Creator shelters us all, and the Light protects us
from the Shadow. No, no! A different master. “Swift come the Day of Return.
Swift come the Great Lord of the Dark to guide us and rule the world forever
and ever.”
Jaichim finished the creed panting, as if he had run ten miles. The rasp of
breath all around told him he was not the only one. In his haste to prostrate
himself he had not even thought to mark the Amadician Lady’s voice.
“Rise. All of you, rise.”
The mellifluous voice took him by surprise. Surely none of his companions,
lying on their bellies with their masked faces pressed to the mosaic tiles,
would have spoken, but it was not the voice he expected from ... Cautiously, he
raised his head enough to see with one eye.
The figure of a man floated in the air above the Myrddraal, the hem of his
blood-red robe hanging six feet over the Halfman’s head. Masked in blood-red,
too. Would the Great Lord of the Dark appear to them as a man? And masked,
besides? Yet the Myrddraal, its very gaze fear, trembled and almost cowered
where it stood in the figure’s shadow. Jaichim grasped for an answer his mind
could contain without splitting. One of the Forsaken, perhaps.
That thought was only a little less painful. Even so, it meant the Day of the
Dark One’s return must be close at hand if one of the Forsaken was free. The
Forsaken, some of the most powerful wielders of the One Power in an Age filled
with powerful wielders, had been sealed up in Shayol Ghul along with the Dark
One, sealed away from the world of men by the Dragon and the Hundred
Companions. And the backblast of that sealing had tainted the male half of the
True Source; and all the male Aes Sedai, those cursed wielders of the Power,
went mad and broke the world, tore it apart like a pottery bowl smashed on
rocks, ending the Age of Legends before they died, rotting while they still
lived. A fitting death for Aes Sedai, to his mind. Too good for them. He
regretted only that the women had been spared.
Slowly, painfully, he forced the panic to the back of his mind, confined it and
held it tight though it screamed to get out. It was the best he could do. None
of those on their bellies had risen, and only a few had even dared raise their
heads.
“Rise.” There was a snap in the red-masked figure’s voice this time. He
gestured with both hands. “Stand!”
Jaichim scrambled up awkwardly, but halfway to his feet, he hesitated. One of
those gesturing hands was horribly burned, crisscrossed by black fissures, the
raw flesh between as red as the figure’s robes. Would the Dark One appear so?
Or even one of the Forsaken? The eyeholes of that blood-red mask swept slowly
across him, and he straightened hastily.
The others obeyed the command with no more grace and no less fear in their
rising. When all were on their feet, the floating figure spoke.
“I have been known by many names, but the one by which you shall know me is
Ba’alzamon.” Jaichim clamped his teeth to keep them from chattering.
Ba’alzamon. In the Trolloc tongue, it meant Heart of the Dark, and even
unbelievers knew it was the Trolloc name for the Great Lord of the Dark. He
Whose Name Must Not Be Uttered. Not the True Name, Shai’tan, but still
forbidden. Among those gathered here, and others of their kind, to sully either
with a human tongue was blasphemy. His breath whistled through his nostrils,
and all around him he could hear others panting behind their masks. The
servants were gone, and the Trollocs as well, though he had not seen them go.
“The place where you stand lies in the shadow of Shayol Ghul.” More than one
voice moaned at that; Jaichim was not sure his own was not among them. A touch
of what might almost be called mockery entered Ba’alzamon’s voice as he spread
his arms wide. “Fear not, for the Day of your Master’s rising upon the world is
near at hand. The Day of Return draws nigh. Does it not tell you so that I am
here, to be seen by you favoured few among your brothers and sisters? Soon the
Wheel of Time will be broken. Soon the Great Serpent will die, and with the
power of that death, the death of Time itself, your Master will remake the
world in his own image for this Age and for all Ages to come. And those who
serve me, faithful and steadfast, will sit at my feet above the stars in the
sky and rule the world of men forever. So have I promised, and so shall it be,
without end. You shall live and rule forever.”
A murmur of anticipation ran through the listeners, and some even took a step
forward, toward the floating, crimson shape, their eyes lifted, rapturous. Even
Jaichim felt the pull of that promise, the promise for which he had dealt away
his soul a hundred times over.
“The Day of Return comes closer,” Ba’alzamon said. “But there is much yet to
do. Much to do.” The air to Ba’alzamon’s left shimmered and thickened, and the
figure of a young man hung there, a little lower than Ba’alzamon. Jaichim could
not decide whether it was a living being or not. A country lad, by his clothes,
with a light of mischief in his brown eyes and the hint of a smile on his lips,
as if in memory or anticipation of a prank. The flesh looked warm, but the
chest did not move with breath, the eyes did not blink.
The air to Ba’alzamon’s right wavered as if with heat, and a second country-
clad figure hung suspended a little below Ba’alzamon. A curly-haired youth, as
heavily muscled as a blacksmith. And an oddity: a battle axe hung at his side,
a great, steel half-moon balanced by a thick spike. Jaichim suddenly leaned
forward, intent on an even greater strangeness. A youth with yellow eyes. He
had heard reports of such.
For the third time air solidified into the shape of a young man, this time
directly under Ba’alzamon’s eye, almost at his feet. A tall fellow, with eyes
now grey, now almost blue as the light took them, and dark, reddish hair.
Another villager, or farmer. Jaichim gasped. Yet another thing out of the
ordinary, though he wondered why he should expect anything to be ordinary here.
A sword swung from the figure’s belt, a sword with a bronze heron on the
scabbard and another inset into the long, two-handed hilt. A village boy with a
heron-mark blade? Impossible! What can it mean? And a boy with yellow eyes. He
noticed the Myrddraal looking at the figures, trembling; and unless he
misjudged entirely, its trembling was no longer fear, but hatred.
Dead silence had fallen, silence that Ba’alzamon let deepen before he spoke.
“There is now one who walks the world, one who was and will be, but is not yet,
the Dragon.”
A startled murmur ran through his listeners.
“The Dragon Reborn! We are to kill him, Great Lord?” That from the Shienaran,
hand grasping eagerly at his side where his sword would hang.
“Perhaps,” Ba’alzamon said simply. “And perhaps not. Perhaps he can be turned
to my use. Sooner or later it will be so, in this Age or another.”
Jaichim blinked. In this Age or another? I thought the Day of Return was near.
What matter to me what happens in another Age if I grow old and die waiting in
this one? But Ba’alzamon was speaking again.
“Already a bend is forming in the Pattern, one of many points where he who will
become the Dragon may be turned to my service. Must be turned! Better that he
serve me alive than dead, but alive or dead, serve me he must and will! These
three you must know, for each is a thread in the pattern I mean to weave, and
it will be up to you to see that they are placed as I command. Study them well,
that you will know them.”
Abruptly all sound was gone. Jaichim shifted uneasily, and saw others doing the
same. All but the Illianer woman, he realized. With her hands spread over her
bosom as if to hide the rounded flesh she exposed, eyes wide, half frightened
and half ecstatic, she was nodding eagerly as though to someone face-to-face
with her. Sometimes she appeared to give a reply, but Jaichim heard not a word.
Suddenly she arched backwards, trembling and rising on her toes. He could not
see why she did not fall, unless something unseen held her. Then, just as
abruptly, she settled back to her feet and nodded again, bowing, shivering.
Even as she straightened, one of the witches wearing a Great Serpent ring gave
a start and began nodding.
“So each of us hears his own instructions, and none hears another’s,” Jaichim
muttered in frustration. If he knew what even one other was commanded, he might
be able to use the knowledge to advantage, but this way ... Impatiently he
waited for his turn, forgetting himself enough to stand straight.
One by one the gathering received their orders, each walled in silence yet
still giving tantalizing clues, if only he could read them. The man of the
Atha’an Miere, the Sea Folk, stiffening with reluctance as he nodded. The
Shienaran, his stance bespeaking confusion even while he acquiesced. The
Foregater cocking his head in surprise before giving an enviably relaxed shrug.
The second witch of Tar Valon, the slender one, stiffening in shock. The
Saldaean Lord making a pretence of reluctance as he rubbed thumb to fingers in
place of the knife hilt he was not carrying. The Andoran noblewoman listening
carefully, if confusedly, and the grey-swathed figure whose sex he could not
determine shaking its head before falling to its knees and nodding vigorously.
The Falmeran nobleman shook his head too and actually clenched a fist. Jaichim
was sure the man would die there and then, but Ba’alzamon spoke again, more
angrily this time, and the Falmeran fool abased himself in contrite submission
to whatever orders he had been given. Some underwent the same convulsion as the
Illianer woman, as if pain itself lifted them to toe tips.
“Bors.”
Jaichim jerked as a red mask filled his eyes. He could still see the room,
still see the floating shape of Ba’alzamon and the three figures before him,
but at the same time all he could see was the red-masked face. Dizzy, he felt
as if his skull were splitting open and his eyes were being pushed out of his
head.
“Are you faithful ... Bors?”
The hint of mocking in the name sent a chill down his backbone. “I am faithful,
Great Lord. I cannot hide from you.” I am faithful! I swear it!
“No, you cannot.”
The certainty in Ba’alzamon’s voice dried his mouth, but he forced himself to
speak. “Command me, Great Lord, and I obey.”
“Firstly, you are to return to Valreis and continue your good works. In fact, I
command you to redouble your efforts.”
He stared at Ba’alzamon in puzzlement longer than was wise, then took the
excuse of a bow to pull his eyes away. “As you command, Great Lord, so shall it
be.”
“Secondly, you will watch for the three young men, and have your followers
watch. Be warned; they are dangerous.”
Jaichim glanced at the figures floating in front of Ba’alzamon. How can I do
that? I can see them, but I can’t see anything except his face. His head felt
about to burst. Sweat slicked his hands under his thin gloves, and his shirt
clung to his back. “Dangerous, Great Lord? Farmboys? Is one of them the—”
“A sword is dangerous to the man at the point, but not to the man at the hilt.
Unless the man holding the sword is a fool, or careless, or unskilled, in which
case it is twice as dangerous to him as to anyone else. It is enough that I
have told you to know them. It is enough that you obey me.”
“As you command, Great Lord, so shall it be.”
“Thirdly, regarding those who have landed at Toman Head, and the situation in
Falmerden. Of this you will speak to no-one. When you return to Orlay ...”
Jaichim realized as he listened that his mouth was sagging open. The
instructions made no sense. If I knew what some of the others were told,
perhaps I could piece it together.
Abruptly he felt his head grasped as though by a giant hand crushing his
temples, felt himself being lifted, and the world blew apart in a thousand
starbursts, each flash of light becoming an image that fled across his mind or
spun and dwindled into the distance before he could more than barely grasp it.
An impossible sky of striated clouds, red and yellow and black, racing as if
driven by the mightiest wind the world had ever seen. A woman—a girl?—dressed
in white receded into blackness and vanished as soon as she appeared. A raven
stared him in the eye, knowing him, and was gone. An armoured man in a brutal
helm, shaped and painted and gilded like some monstrous, poisonous insect,
raised a sword and plunged to one side, beyond his view. A horn, curled and
golden, came hurtling out of the far distance. One piercing note it sounded as
it flashed toward him, tugging his soul. At the last instant it flashed into a
blinding, golden ring of light that passed through him, chilling him beyond
death. A wolf leaped from the shadows of lost sight and ripped out his throat.
He could not scream. The torrent went on, drowning him, burying him. He could
barely remember who he was, or what he was. The skies rained fire, and the moon
and stars fell; rivers ran in blood, and the dead walked; the earth split open
and fountained molten rock ...
Jaichim found himself half crouching in the chamber with the others, most
watching him, all silent. Wherever he looked, up or down or in any direction,
the masked face of Ba’alzamon overwhelmed his eyes. The images that had flooded
into his mind were fading; he was sure many were already gone from memory.
Hesitantly, he straightened, Ba’alzamon always before him.
“Great Lord, what—?”
“Some commands are too important to be known even by he who carries them out.”
Jaichim bent almost double in his bow. “As you command, Great Lord,” he
whispered hoarsely, “so shall it be.”
When he straightened, he was alone in silence once more. Another, the Tairen
High Lord, nodded and bowed to someone none else saw. The man who called
himself Bors put an unsteady hand to his brow, trying to hold on to something
of what had burst through his mind, though he was not completely certain he
wanted to remember. The last remnant flickered out, and suddenly he was
wondering what it was that he was trying to recall. I know there was something,
but what? There was something! Wasn’t there? He rubbed his hands together,
grimacing at the feel of sweat under his gloves, and turned his attention to
the three figures hanging suspended before Ba’alzamon’s floating form.
The muscular, curly-haired youth; the farmer with the sword; and the lad with
the look of mischief on his face. Already, in his mind, Jaichim had named them
the Blacksmith, the Swordsman, and the Trickster. What is their place in the
puzzle? They must be important, or Ba’alzamon would not have made them the
centre of this gathering. But from his orders alone they could all die at any
time, and he had to think that some of the others, at least, had orders as
deadly for the three. How important are they? Blue eyes could mean the nobility
of Andor—unlikely in those clothes—and there were Borderlanders with light
eyes, as well as some Tairens, not to mention a few from Ghealdan, and, of
course ... No, no help there. But yellow eyes? Who are they? What are they?
He started at a touch on his arm, and looked around to find one of the white-
clad servants, a young man, standing by his side. The others were back, too,
more than before, one for each of the masked. He blinked. Ba’alzamon was gone.
The Myrddraal was gone, too, and only rough stone was where the door it had
used had been. The three figures still hung there, though. He felt as if they
were staring at him.
“If it please you, my Lord Bors, I will show you to your room.”
Avoiding those dead eyes, he glanced once more at the three figures, then
followed. Uneasily he wondered how the youth had known what name to use. It was
not until the strange carved doors closed behind him and they had walked a
dozen paces that he realized he was alone in the corridor with the servant. His
brows drew down suspiciously behind his mask, but before he could open his
mouth, the servant spoke.
“The others are also being shown to their rooms, my Lord. If you please, my
Lord? Time is short, and our Master is impatient.”
Jaichim ground his teeth, both at the lack of information and at the
implication of sameness between himself and the servant, but he followed in
silence. Only a fool ranted at a servant, and worse, remembering the fellow’s
eyes, he was not sure it would do any good.
And how did he know what I was going to ask? The servant smiled.
Jaichim did not feel at all comfortable until he was back in the room where he
had waited on first arriving, and then not much. Even finding the seals on his
saddlebags untouched was small comfort.
The servant stood in the hallway, not entering. “You may change to your own
garments if you wish, my Lord. None will see you depart here, nor arrive at
your destination, but it may be best to arrive already properly clothed.
Someone will come soon to show you the way.”
Untouched by any visible hand, the door swung shut.
The man who called himself Bors shivered in spite of himself. Hastily he undid
the seals and buckles of his saddlebags and pulled out his usual cloak. In the
back of his mind a small voice wondered if the promised power, even the
immortality, was worth another meeting like this, but he laughed it down
immediately. For that much power, I would praise the Great Lord of the Dark
under the Dome of Truth itself. Remembering the commands given him by
Ba’alzamon, he fingered the golden, flaring sun worked on the breast of the
white cloak, and the red shepherd’s crook behind the sun, symbol of his office
in the world of men, and he almost laughed. There was work, great work, to be
done in Valreis, and on Almoth Plain.
 
                                     * * *
 
The gilt-framed mirror reflected the room, the disturbingly patterned mosaics
on the walls, the gilded furnishings and fine carpets, the other mirrors and
the tapestries. The heavy, polished table set with plates, goblets and utensils
of purest gold. A palatial room with broad windows displaying a harsh, dead
land beneath a sky wracked by striating clouds of red and black and purple, a
sky that still bent to the Great Lord of the Dark’s power, Lews Therin’s
imperfect seal be damned.
He wondered how many Atha’an Shadar had died carrying those luxuries so far
into the Blight, almost to the edge of the Blasted Lands. Ishamael doubtless
found it amusing to set them such trivial, deadly tasks, and to watch as they
struggled to complete them. He had been a philosopher after all, the most
idiotic of all professions. Not a man of science—not a genius!—like Aginor.
The juxtaposition of luxurious excess in this stern fortress of black stone the
man had built for himself, disturbed Aginor more than he would ever admit. But
then, Ishamael had always terrified him, from the very beginning. He had been
mad with power before they were sealed in the Bore, and in the millennia since,
he seemed to have convinced himself that he was actually the Great Lord in
human form.
Aginor could only wish he had had the freedom of those centuries, instead of
the long sleep, with all its endless nightmares. Even if it had meant living in
this harsh, barbaric Age, where even such a simple comfort as indoor plumbing
was an invention apparently beyond the intellect of the natives.
Gingerly he prodded the disgusting fungous that protruded from his neck. So
close to the artery. He scarcely dared shudder for fear it might set his life’s
blood flowing. His Sysan Odiva had done a barber’s job of healing his wounds,
the useless thing. If only the One Power could be used to Heal oneself, then he
would not be reliant on the efforts of dim-witted assistants, especially the
artificial kind. Not that any Healing could restore his legs, not without some
very specialised ter’angreal. None of which were likely to have survived the
Breaking. Damn this benighted Age!
No amount of fussing would ever restore his appearance. What imprisonment had
not ruined, the plants lodged in his flesh had. And that wretched child had
made matters worse, stealing the great well called the Eye of the World right
out from under Aginor’s nose and using it against him. Crippling him.
Reluctantly, he turned his head to peer at the giant who loomed beside him.
With only one good eye there was no way not to make it obvious. After
depositing him unceremoniously in a chair near the mirror, Indeallein had
placed himself on Aginor’s blind side. No doubt deliberately. When he looked he
found the man staring back him. He went shirtless, the better to display his
heavy musculature and the multitude of criss-crossing scars that rendered his
skin almost grey. His face was as scarred as his body and set in its usual grim
frown. And his dark eyes were as empty as the grave Aginor had escaped forever
when he pledged his soul to the Shadow.
I am one of the Chosen. I am a scientific genius, a geneticist beyond compare,
whatever Nagaru’s claims. Many of the most feared creatures in this Age and the
last were my creations. They cannot simply ... dispose of me.
Telling himself that didn’t stop his ancient heart from fluttering nervously in
his chest. Or inspire him to meet Indeallein’s dead-eyed stare for long. That
one was Ishamael’s creature to the core. And the others were no more likely to
come to his aid should Ishamael’s madness inspire him to do something
precipitous.
The mirror reflected a woman striding up and down in a dark blood-red gown, her
face a combination of rage and disbelief. She was beautiful enough to provoke
desire even in Aginor, with a sleekly lush body, suitable for a daien dancer in
the old days, and a green-eyed ivory oval of a face framed by glossy black
hair.
She spoke as she paced. “Emar Dal, Mar Ruois, all gone. Even M’jinn is lost
without a trace! I’ve Travelled all over this continent and I can find almost
nothing left of the world we knew.” Even in anger Balthamel’s voice had a
smoky, seductive edge.
“Doesn’t that suit you? You always preferred a rougher sort of company. It may
suit me. Less surveillance means more places to hide.” Moghedien was a very
different sort of woman. Her dress was drab of colour and simple of cut, her
body slightly stout. She had shoulder-length brown hair and pale skin that was
more lined than her age would inspire, her dark eyes twitched nervously even
here among allies. Perhaps especially here.
Balthamel stopped her pacing and came to stand over Moghedien’s chair. Even if
the Spider had been standing the other woman would have loomed over her. They
were both of no more than average height, but one was a woman’s average and the
other still a man’s.
“Does it suit me? To lose all my contacts, to have everything that we had once
hoped to rule destroyed, leaving us with a strange new world where the very
language is alien? What kind of stupid question is that? Does it suit me!”
Moghedien’s eyes flashed hatred. But only briefly. She was never one for direct
confrontations. The knife in the back or the poisoned winecup were more her
style. “The language is easy enough to learn. It is derived from our own,
though simplified greatly,” she muttered, her gaze was drawn to the window as
though thinking of taking flight. No, he would get no help there.
A small figure appeared upon Balthamel’s shoulder, a naked boy-child no bigger
than the size of her hand. His slender body glowed with a blue light that
intensified when he spoke in his irritatingly cheerful voice. “That’s true! It
took only minutes for me to translate. The hardest part was scanning all those
books that our friend Ishy prepared.”
Aginor smiled slightly. He doubted “Ishy” would find the little wretch amusing,
and anything that distracted him from the debacle at the Eye of the World could
only help Aginor’s cause. If Balthamel was going to be rude enough to leave her
Sysan Odiva active—and on holographic display no less—then he certainly wasn’t
going to complain.
“That’s not the point, Puki,” Balthamel sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to
start over. Did you record all the maps from the library?”
“You bet, mistress!” The fake boy took flight on tiny fake wings. He hovered
around her as she resumed her pacing.
They four were the only Chosen to have fallen free of the Bore thus far. The
seal Lews Therin had placed upon it had weakened over time, but it still held
many of their fellows prisoner. None of the three were fond of Aginor, no more
than Ishamael was. But they need me. They do.
The great double doors opened seemingly of their own accord. Even Aginor, as
skilled a channeler as there was, felt and saw nothing. Ishamael strode into
the room. To his surprise the man wore a small, satisfied smile. He also wore
rich, loose fitting robes of red and black silk that did not quite hide the way
he favoured his left arm. Aginor was not the only one who had taken harm from
the boy’s untrained flailing. Perhaps there was hope yet.
Ishamael came to a halt at the head of the table. “Our numbers grow,” he
announced with satisfaction. “Lanfear and Asmodean have been spat back into the
world.”
Indeallein gave no reaction. But the two women grimaced simultaneously.
“Lanfear. The ‘Mistress of Tel’aran’rhiod’,” grunted Moghedien.
“The woman of women walks among us once more,” added Balthamel with a wry
smile. Aginor had sometimes wondered how deep the enmity there truly went. Was
it coincidence that Balthamel’s female form so closely resembled Lanfear’s?
Before her surgery, when she had been the man called Eval Ramman, she had been
at least an acquaintance of Lanfear’s. At least. And the form she had chosen to
be remodelled as resembled the Daughter of the Night’s in a great many ways.
She shook her head slowly. “Will they be joining us?”
Ishamael, or Ba’alzamon as he often called himself now, shook his head. “No.
The reawakening is a confused time, and I will not waste my breath explaining
every detail of this ‘new’ world. Again. Let Bubo and Aigis distil the contents
of my library to them.” His pure black eyes gazed afar. “I will have a task for
Lanfear, once she has adapted herself to the new setting.”
A soft little laugh escaped Aginor. He noticed that the other man did not
bother to mention Asmodean. The Musician was a buffoon, the only noteworthy
thing about him was that he had somehow managed to survive the War of the
Powers and be present for the meeting at Shayol Ghul on that most fateful of
days. Surely Aginor’s genius must shine all the brighter in the eyes of his
fellow Chosen when a useless fool like Asmodean was the alternative.
His laugh turned to a grimace of pain. The shoots that malformed Nym had
implanted him with ran deep into his flesh, twisting painfully every time he
moved. He pressed his hands to his side and held very still. Small shafts of
wood poked against his palms, protruding from between his ribs. The
regeneration afforded by what was left of his valdarhei had preserved his
internal organs but the pain was terrible.
“Are you feeling unwell, Aginor? Or should we call you Gobhatsin now? You look
more plant than man of a sudden. If man you ever were.” Ishamael’s smile was
gone. His glare warmed Aginor’s face from across the room.
“How was I supposed to know a glorified house plant would attack me?” he
gasped. “It wasn’t my fault, any or you would have been as surprised.” The Nym
had been made to tend their gardens, nothing more. When the creature had
presumed to lay hands upon him, Aginor had been as shocked as he would be if
the chair he now twisted around in decided to kick him for the temerity. “And I
slew him for his insolence, I might remind you.” He had killed some apprentice
Aes Sedai girl too, but he well knew how his fellow Chosen would respond if he
boasted of such a small thing. She had been no-one important, killing her had
made no difference at all.
“The so-called Green Man was nothing!” roared Ba’alzamon. “The Eye of the World
is the deepest well ever Made and you allowed Lews Therin to drain it dry! It
is bound to him now! So long as he lives it will be no more than an ornament to
any other.”
Hunger made Balthamel’s eyes seem even greener. “Where is this boy you claim is
the Dragon’s reincarnation? I will rid us of him and claim the Eye for myself.”
Ba’alzamon’s fury went from hot to cold in an instant. “No. Not unless your
interests include a desire to be flayed alive. A great many plans, long in the
making, revolve around the Dragon Reborn. His death is not our goal.”
Balthamel shrugged uneasily under Ba’alzamon’s black stare. She could still
channel saidin of course, whatever the alterations to her body, but that would
not help her against the power the lunatic in their midst could bring to bear.
“If we aren’t going to just kill him, what are we going to do?” she asked with
a sour twist to her lips.
Ishamael smiled. The others gathered close as he began to explain. Mad or not,
Ishamael had enjoyed the Great Lord’s favour in the old world, and he had kept
that favour for three millennia now. Even Aginor leaned towards him as he
outlined the tasks each was to perform. He doubted the man was telling them
even half of what he truly planned, but that was no more than could be
expected. He would have gone to join them at the table, but Indeallein did not
offer to lift him again and asking for help would be far too humiliating. I
will have a wheeled chair made for myself, if I survive this meeting, he
thought, as Indeallein nodded grim assent to Ishamael’s orders.
The scarred brute remained behind after the other two had departed to their
tasks.
They stood together in silence, the madman staring at things only he could see,
and the warrior who served him staring at nothing. Aginor shifted on his seat
as he waited. Each movement sent a new stab of pain through his body but try as
he might he could not force himself to be still.
At last, Ishamael’s gaze focused and he pointed a finger at Aginor. “Bring
him.” He turned and strode from the room in a swirl of blood-red silk.
Indeallein trudged towards him with a look of complete disinterest on his face.
His unkempt, black braids swayed slightly as he bent to lift Aginor in his
powerful arms. That close he could feel saidin fill the man; their strengths
were evenly matched, but Indeallein had no valdarhei and Aginor had set his to
full defence. Yet, even if he killed the brute, where could he go? They need
me. I am Ishar Morrad Chuain. I am Aginor, the Vivisectionist! I am a genius!
He was carried down a dark stone corridor to a splintered door that was
indistinguishable from the twenty others they had passed. A stairwell waited on
the other side, the black stone steps looking disturbingly slick under the weak
light of the torches that burned fitfully in irregular sconces. These people
can’t even light their own homes properly. How can I work in conditions such as
this? I am lost in a backwards world, where brilliance goes unrewarded and the
crude are lauded for their animalistic flexing. It was enough to break the
hardest heart.
Down and down the brute carried him, past yet more identical doors and over
more black steps, until he was certain they were beneath ground level. Where
the dungeons awaited. At last, Indeallein came to a halt before yet another
identical door. Aginor was filled with saidin, ready to lash out at anything
and everything. The empty-eyed creature could not help but be aware of that,
but he showed no concern at all.
Instead he pulled the splintered wood door open and revealed a second door.
This one was made of metal, old metal, but it appeared to have been
strengthened and preserved; no rust marred its dull, grey surface.
The keypad beside it did not light up at Indeallein’s touch, but once he had
input a six-digit code the door unlocked with a loud clank. What is this? The
metal door swung slowly open.
Beyond was a vast, well-lit chamber filled with familiar wonders. Refrigerators
and mixers, microscopes and cookers. There were long tables covered with
glassware—poorly arranged and much-too-dusty glassware—but glassware
nonetheless. So many ter’angreal had been gathered in that room; he almost did
not dare to hope that they were all still functional. There was even what
looked to be a working clean room at the far end of the chamber! Several
doorways fitted with closed metal hatches promised more riches beyond.
Ishamael stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by the horded treasures of
a dead Age, hands folded behind his back and a contemptuous sneer on his lips.
Aginor’s elation curdled at the sight. The brute carried him to a cushioned
chair near one of the lab tables and dumped him into it.
Ishamael regarded him coldly. “You failed. And because of that failure Lews
Therin has grown stronger. Had you succeeded all of this would have been yours,
all that I have been able to preserve of the old laboratories. But now ...” He
gestured to Indeallein and a heavy fist came crashing down on Aginor’s ravaged
flesh, driving the twisted roots even deeper inside.
He screamed. Saidin was gone from him, blocked away by Ba’alzamon’s power.
“Please,” he whimpered. He was not used to pain. Pain was a thing for soldiers
and workers, not for thinkers of his calibre. “There is more I could do.
Creatures lost to the war that I could recreate. Even better ones that I might
yet design. Please! I’m too smart to die!”
Ishamael threw back his head and laughed manically; great, deep-throated howls
that echoed in the cavernous chamber. Indeallein did not so much as blink.
When at last his laughter abated, Ishamael turned his eyes of deepest darkness
to Aginor and said, “Death is what we hope for, Aginor. There are much worse
fates for which we should reserve our fear. Others among the Chosen might find
as much use for this place as you. And I am patient ...” He paused, and smiled
cruelly. “But I will allow you one final chance. Impress me, Aginor. Craft for
me horrors such as this world has not seen in living memory. Show them the
nightmare that is their existence ... and you may share it with them.”
Aginor met those mad eyes with his lone remaining one. Sweat beaded on his
wrinkled, parchment-like skin. “I will. I will. The terrors of old will be
nothing compared to what we unleash on the world this time,” he gasped hastily.
Anything that kept him alive even an hour longer was a perfect wonder. The
fates of these savages, and of his fellow Chosen, did not matter to him in the
slightest.
“Good, good,” said Ishamael musingly, his attention drifting elsewhere. “He
will see. I will make him see.”
***** Searchers *****
CHAPTER 4: Searchers
 
As soon as the door closed behind Leane the Amyrlin stood, and Moiraine felt a
momentary tingle in her skin as the other woman channelled the One Power. For
an instant, the Amyrlin Seat seemed to her to be surrounded by a nimbus of
bright light.
“I don’t know that any of the others have your old trick,” the Amyrlin Seat
said, lightly touching the blue stone on Moiraine’s forehead with one finger,
“but most of us have some small tricks remembered from childhood. In any event,
no-one can hear what we say now.”
Suddenly she threw her arms around Moiraine, a warm hug between old friends;
Moiraine hugged back as warmly.
“You are the only one, Moiraine, with whom I can remember who I was. Even Leane
always acts as if I had become the stole and the staff, even when we are alone,
as if we’d never giggled together as Novices. Sometimes I wish we still were
Novices, you and I. Still innocent enough to see it all as a gleeman’s tale
come true, still innocent enough to think we would find men—they would be
princes, remember, handsome and strong and gentle?—who could bear to live with
women of an Aes Sedai’s power. Still innocent enough to dream of the happy
ending to the gleeman’s tale, of living our lives as other women do, just with
more than they.”
“We are Aes Sedai, Siuan. We have our duty. Even if you and I had not been born
to channel, would you give it up for a home and a husband, even a prince? I do
not believe it. That is a village goodwife’s dream. Not even the Greens go so
far.”
The Amyrlin stepped back. “No, I would not give it up. Most of the time, no.
But there have been times I envied that village goodwife. At this moment, I
almost do. Moiraine, if anyone, even Leane discovers what we plan, we will both
be Stilled. And I can’t say they would be wrong to do it.”
Stilled. The word seemed to quiver in the air, almost visible. When it was done
to a man who could channel the Power, who must be stopped before madness drove
him to the destruction of all around him, it was called Gentling, but for Aes
Sedai it was Stilling. Stilled. No longer able to channel the flow of the One
Power. Able to sense saidar, the female half of the True Source, but no longer
having the ability to touch it. Remembering what was gone forever. So seldom
had it been done that every Novice was required to learn the name of each Aes
Sedai since the Breaking of the World who had been Stilled, and her crime, but
none could think of it without a shudder. Women bore being Stilled no better
than men did being Gentled.
Moiraine had known the risk from the first, and she knew it was necessary. That
did not mean it was pleasant to dwell on. Her eyes narrowed, and only the gleam
in them showed her anger, and her worry. “Leane would follow you to the slopes
of Shayol Ghul, Siuan, and into the Pit of Doom. You cannot think she would
betray you.”
“No. But then, would she think it betrayal? Is it betrayal to betray a traitor?
Do you never think of that?”
“Never. What we do, Siuan, is what must be done. We have both known it for
nearly twenty years. Tamra Ospenya knew it too. We are only continuing what she
started.”
“What she was murdered for starting,” said Siuan grimly.
Almost certainly, thought Moiraine. Tamra had been the Amyrlin when she and
Siuan were raised to Aes Sedai. The Amyrlin who first learned that the
fulfilment of the prophecies had begun. Neither she nor any of those senior Aes
Sedai she had entrusted that knowledge to had lived longer than a year
afterwards. Only Siuan and Moiraine had escaped the faceless assassins, two
newly raised Sisters whom no-one suspected of knowing the truth. Alone they had
worked to find the Dragon and to prepare for what must come of his Rebirth. And
now, at last, they had found him. As difficult as these years have been, they
will look simple compared to the task ahead of us.
She let nothing of her worry show on her face. “The Wheel weaves as the Wheel
wills, and you and I were chosen for this by the Pattern. We are a part of the
Prophecies, and the Prophecies must be fulfilled. Must!”
“The Prophecies must be fulfilled. We were taught that they will be, and must
be, and yet that fulfilment is treason to everything else we were taught. Some
would say to everything we stand for.” Rubbing her arms, the Amyrlin Seat
walked over to peer through the narrow arrowslit at the garden below. She
touched the curtains. “Here in the women’s apartments they hang draperies to
soften the rooms, and they plant beautiful gardens, but there is no part of
this place not purpose-made for battle, death, and killing.” She continued in
the same pensive tone. “Only twice since the Breaking of the World has the
Amyrlin Seat been stripped of stole and staff.”
Moiraine watched her closely. “Tetsuan, who betrayed Manetheren to its doom for
jealousy of Queen Eldrene’s powers, and Bonwhin, who tried to use Artur
Hawkwing as a puppet to control the world and so nearly destroyed Tar Valon.”
Siuan must be tense indeed if those two are on her mind.
The Amyrlin continued her study of the garden. “Both of the Red, and both
replaced by an Amyrlin from the Blue. The reason there has not been an Amyrlin
chosen from the Red since Bonwhin, and the reason the Red Ajah will take any
pretext to pull down an Amyrlin from the Blue, all wrapped neatly together. I
have no wish to be the third to lose the stole and the staff, Moiraine. For
you, of course, it would mean being Stilled and put outside the Shining Walls.”
“Elaida, for one, would never let me off so easily.” Moiraine watched her
friend’s back intently. They had found few opportunities to meet alone in the
years since their search began, but surely Siuan could not have changed so
much. Light, what has come over her? She has never been like this before. Where
is her strength, her fire? “But it will not come to that, Siuan.”
The other woman went on as if she had not spoken. “For me, it would be
different. Even Stilled an Amyrlin who has been pulled down cannot be allowed
to wander about loose; she might be seen as a martyr, become a rallying point
for opposition. Tetsuan and Bonwhin were kept in the White Tower as servants.
Scullery maids, who could be pointed to as cautions as to what can happen to
even the mightiest. No-one can rally around a woman who must scrub floors and
pots all day. Pity her, yes, but not rally to her.”
Eyes blazing, Moiraine leaned her fists on the table. “Look at me, Siuan. Look
at me! Are you saying that you want to give up, after all these years, after
all we have done? Give up, and let the world go? And all for fear of a
switching for not getting the pots clean enough!” She put into it all the scorn
she could summon, and was relieved when her friend spun to face her. The
strength was still there, strained but still there. Those clear blue eyes were
as hot with anger as her own.
“I remember which of the two of us squealed the loudest when we were switched
as Novices. You had lived a soft life in Cairhien, Moiraine. Not like working a
fishing boat.” Abruptly Siuan slapped the table with a loud crack. “No, I am
not suggesting giving up, but neither do I propose to watch everything slide
out of our hands while I can do nothing! Most of my troubles with the Hall stem
from you. Even the Greens wonder why I haven’t called you to the Tower and
taught you a little discipline. Half the sisters with me think you should be
handed over to the Reds, and if that happens, you will wish you were a Novice
again, with nothing worse to look forward to than a switching. Light! If any of
them remember we were friends as Novices, I’d be there beside you.
“We had a plan! A plan, Moiraine! Locate the boy and bring him to Tar Valon,
where we could hide him, keep him safe and guide him. Since you last left the
Tower, I have had only two messages from you. Two! I feel as if I’m trying to
sail the Fingers of the Dragon in the dark. One message to say you were
entering the Theren, going to this village, this Emond’s Field. Soon, I
thought. He’s found and she’ll have him in hand soon. Then word from Caemlyn to
say you were coming to Shienar, to Fal Dara, not Tar Valon. Fal Dara, with the
Blight almost close enough to touch. Fal Dara, where Trollocs raid and
Myrddraal ride as near every day as makes no difference. Nearly twenty years of
planning and searching, and you toss all our plans practically in the Dark
One’s face. Are you mad?”
Now that she had stirred life in the other woman, Moiraine returned to outward
calm, herself. Calm, but firm insistence, too. “The Pattern pays no heed to
human plans, Siuan. With all our scheming, we forgot what we were dealing with.
Ta’veren. Elaida is wrong. Artur Paendrag Tanreall was never this strongly
ta’veren. The Wheel will weave the Pattern around this young man as it wills,
whatever our plans.”
The anger left Amyrlin’s face, replaced by white-faced shock. “It sounds as if
you are saying we might as well give up. Do you now suggest standing aside and
watching the world burn?”
“No, Siuan. Never standing aside.” Yet the world will burn, Siuan, one way or
another, whatever we do. You could never see that. “But we must now realize
that our plans are precarious things. We have even less control than we
thought. Perhaps only a fingernail’s grip. The winds of destiny are blowing,
Siuan, and we must ride them where they take us.”
The Amyrlin shivered as if she felt those winds icy on the back of her neck.
Her hands went to the flattened cube of gold, blunt, capable fingers finding
precise points in the complex designs. Cunningly balanced, the top lifted back
to reveal a curled, golden horn nestled within a space designed to hold it. She
lifted the instrument and traced the flowing silver script, in the Old Tongue,
inlaid around the flaring mouth.
“ ‘The grave is no bar to my call,’ ” she translated, so softly she seemed to
be speaking to herself. “The Horn of Valere, made to call dead heroes back from
the grave. And prophecy said it would only be found just in time for the Last
Battle.” Abruptly she thrust the Horn back into its niche and closed the lid as
if she could no longer bear the sight of it. “Agelmar pushed it into my hands
as soon as the Welcome was done. He said he was afraid to go into the
strongroom any longer, with it there. The temptation was too great, he said. To
sound the Horn himself and lead the host that answered its call north through
the Blight to level Shayol Ghul itself and put an end to the Dark One. He
burned with the ecstasy of glory, and it was that, he said, that told him it
was not to be him, must not be him. He could not wait to be rid of it, yet he
wanted it still.”
Moiraine nodded. Agelmar was familiar with the Prophecy of the Horn; most who
fought the Dark One were. “ ‘Let whosoever sounds me think not of glory, but
only of salvation.’ ”
“Salvation.” The Amyrlin laughed bitterly. “From the look in Agelmar’s eyes, he
didn’t know whether he was giving away salvation or rejecting the condemnation
of his own soul. He only knew he had to be rid of it before it burned him up.
He has tried to keep it secret, but he says there are rumours in the keep
already. I do not feel his temptation, yet the Horn still makes my skin crawl.
He will have to take it back to the strongroom until I leave. I could not sleep
with it even in the next room.” She rubbed frown lines from her forehead and
sighed. “And it was not to be found until just before the Last Battle. Can it
be that close? I thought, hoped, we would have more time.”
“The Karaethon Cycle.”
“Yes, Moiraine. You do not have to remind me. I’ve lived with the Prophecies of
the Dragon as long as you.” The Amyrlin shook her head. “Never more than one
false Dragon in a generation since the Breaking, and now three loose in the
world at one time, and three more in the past two years. The Pattern demands a
Dragon because the Pattern weaves toward Tarmon Gai’don. Sometimes doubt fills
me, Moiraine.” She said it musingly, as if wondering at it, and went on in the
same tone. “What if Logain was the one? He could channel, before the Reds
brought him to the White Tower, and we Gentled him. So can Mazrim Taim, the man
in Saldaea. What if it is him? There are sisters in Saldaea already; he may be
taken by now. What if we have been wrong since the start? What happens if the
Dragon Reborn is Gentled before the Last Battle even begins? Even prophecy can
fail if the one prophesied is slain or Gentled. And then we face the Dark One
naked to the storm.”
“Neither of them is the one, Siuan. The Pattern does not demand a Dragon, but
the one true Dragon. Until he proclaims himself, the Pattern will continue to
throw up false Dragons, but after that there will be no others. If Logain or
the other were the one, there would be no others.”
“ ‘For he shall come like the breaking dawn, and shatter the world again with
his coming, and make it anew.’ Either we go naked in the storm, or cling to a
protection that will scourge us. The Light help us all.” The Amyrlin shook
herself as if to throw off her own words. Her face was set, as though bracing
for a blow. “You could never hide what you were thinking from me as you do from
everyone else, Moiraine. You have more to tell me, and nothing good.”
For answer Moiraine took the leather pouch from her belt and upended it,
spilling the contents on the table. It appeared to be only a heap of fragmented
pottery, shiny black and white.
The Amyrlin Seat touched one bit curiously, and her breath caught.
“Cuendillar.”
“Heartstone,” Moiraine agreed. The making of cuendillar had been lost at the
Breaking of the World, but what had been made of heartstone had survived the
cataclysm. Even those objects swallowed by the earth or sunk in the sea had
survived; they must have. No known force could break cuendillar once it was
complete; even the One Power directed against heartstone only made it stronger.
Except that some power had broken this.
The Amyrlin hastily assembled the pieces. What they formed was a disk the size
of a man’s hand, half blacker than pitch and half whiter than snow, the colours
meeting along a sinuous line, unfaded by age. The ancient symbol of Aes Sedai,
before the world was broken, when men and women wielded the Power together.
Half of it was now called the Flame of Tar Valon; the other half was scrawled
on doors, the Dragon’s Fang, to accuse those within of evil. Only seven like it
had been made; everything ever made of heartstone was recorded in the White
Tower, and those seven were remembered above all. Siuan Sanche stared at it as
she would have at a viper on her pillow.
“One of the seals on the Dark One’s prison,” she said finally, reluctantly. It
was those seven seals over which the Amyrlin Seat was supposed to be Watcher.
The secret hidden from the world, if the world ever thought of it, was that no
Amyrlin Seat had known where any of the seals were since the Trolloc Wars.
“We know the Dark One is stirring, Siuan. We know his prison cannot stay sealed
forever. Human work can never match the Creator’s. We knew he has touched the
world again, even if, thank the Light, only indirectly. Darkfriends multiply,
and what we called evil but ten years ago seems almost caprice compared with
what now is done every day.”
“If the seals are already breaking ... We may have no time at all.”
“Little enough. But that little may be enough. It will have to be.”
The Amyrlin touched the fractured seal, and her voice grew tight, as if she
were forcing herself to speak. “I saw the boy, you know, in the courtyard
during the Welcome. It is one of my Talents, seeing ta’veren. A rare Talent
these days, even more rare than ta’veren, and certainly not of much use. A tall
boy, a fairly handsome young man. Not much different from any young man you
might see in any town.” She paused to draw breath. “Moiraine, he blazed like
the sun. I’ve seldom been afraid in my life, but the sight of him made me
afraid right down to my toes. I wanted to cower, to howl. I could barely speak.
Amalisa thought I was angry with her, I said so little. That young man ... he’s
the one we have sought these twenty years.”
There was a hint of question in her voice. Moiraine answered it. “He is.”
“Are you certain? Can he ...? Can he ... channel the One Power?”
Her mouth strained around the words, and Moiraine felt the tension, too, a
twisting inside, a cold clutching at her heart. She kept her face smooth,
though. “He can.” A man wielding the One Power. That was a thing no Aes Sedai
could contemplate without fear. It was a thing the whole world feared. And I
will loose it on the world. “Rand al’Thor will stand before the world as the
Dragon Reborn.”
The Amyrlin shuddered. “Rand al’Thor. It does not sound like a name to inspire
fear and set the world on fire.” She gave another shiver and rubbed her arms
briskly, but her eyes suddenly shone with a purposeful light. “If he is the
one, then we truly may have time enough. But is he safe here? I have two Red
sisters with me, and I can no longer answer for Green or Yellow, either. The
Light consume me, I can’t answer for any of them, not with this. Even Verin and
Serafelle would leap on him the way they would a scarlet adder in a nursery.”
“He is safe, for the moment.”
The Amyrlin waited for her to say more. The silence stretched, until it was
plain she would not. Finally the Amyrlin said, “You say our old plan is
useless. What do you suggest now?”
“I have purposely let him think I no longer have any interest in him, that he
may go where he pleases for all of me.” She raised her hands as the Amyrlin
opened her mouth. “It was necessary, Siuan. Rand al’Thor was raised in the
Theren, where Manetheren’s stubborn blood flows in every vein, and his own
blood is like rock beside clay compared to Manetheren’s. He must be handled
gently, or he will bolt in any direction but the one we want.”
“Then we’ll handle him like a newborn babe. We’ll wrap him in swaddling clothes
and play with his toes, if that’s what you think we need. But to what immediate
purpose?”
“His two friends, Matrim Cauthon and Perrin Aybara, are ripe to see the world
before they sink back into the obscurity of the Theren. If they can sink back;
they are ta’veren, too, if lesser than he. I will induce them to carry the Horn
of Valere to Illian.” She hesitated, frowning. “There is ... a problem with
Mat. He carries a dagger from Shadar Logoth.”
“Shadar Logoth! Light, why did you ever let them get near that place. Every
stone of it is tainted. There isn’t a pebble safe to carry away. Light help us,
if Mordeth touched the boy ...” The Amyrlin sounded as though she were
strangling. “If that happened, the world would be doomed.”
“But it did not, Siuan. We do what we must from necessity, and it was
necessary. I have done enough so that Mat will not infect others, but he had
the dagger too long before I knew. The link is still there. I had thought I
must take him to Tar Valon to cure it, but with so many sisters present, it
might be done here. So long as there are eleven you can trust not to see
Darkfriends where there are none and you have a sa’angreal of sufficient
strength.”
Suddenly the Amyrlin Seat gave a wry grin “The Hall has gotten possessive of
such treasures, Moiraine. None were allowed to be risked on the river. They
want the angreal you carry back as well. There are not very many of them left,
and you are now considered ... unreliable.”
Moiraine smiled, but it did not touch her eyes. “They will think worse of me
before I am done. Mat would have leaped at the chance to be so big a part of
the legend of the Horn, but if he must go to Tar Valon so be it. Perrin should
not be too hard to convince. He needs something to take his mind off his own
troubles. Rand knows what he is—some of it, at least; a little—and he is afraid
of it, naturally. He wants to go off somewhere alone, where he cannot hurt
anyone. He says he will never wield the Power again, but he fears not being
able to stop it.”
“As well he might. Easier to give up drinking water.”
“Exactly. And he wants to be free from Aes Sedai.” Moiraine gave a small,
mirthless smile. “Offered the chance to leave Aes Sedai behind and still stay
with his friend a while longer, he should be eager enough.”
“But how is he leaving Aes Sedai behind? Surely you must travel with him. We
can’t lose him now, Moiraine.”
“I cannot travel with him.” It is a long way from Fal Dara to Illian, but he
has travelled almost as far already. “He must be let off the leash for a time.
There is no help for it. I have had all of their old clothes burned. There has
been too much opportunity for some shred of what they were wearing to have
fallen into the wrong hands. I will cleanse them before they leave; they will
not even realize it has been done. There will be no chance they can be tracked
that way, and the only other threat of that kind is locked away here in the
dungeon.” The Amyrlin, midway in nodding approval, gave her a questioning look,
but she did not pause. “They will travel as safely as I can manage, Siuan. And
when Rand needs me in Illian, I will be there, and I will see that it is he who
presents the Horn to the Council of Nine and the Assemblage. I will see to
everything in Illian. Siuan, the Illianers would follow the Dragon, or
Ba’alzamon himself, if he came bearing the Horn of Valere, and so will the
greater part of those gathered for the Hunt. The true Dragon Reborn will not
need to gather a following before nations move against him. He will begin with
a nation around him and an army at his back.”
The Amyrlin dropped back into her chair, but immediately leaned forward. She
seemed caught between weariness and hope. “But will he proclaim himself? If
he’s afraid ... The Light knows he should be, Moiraine, but men who name
themselves as the Dragon want the power. If he does not ...”
“I have the means to see him named Dragon whether he wills it or not. And even
if I somehow fail, the Pattern itself will see him named Dragon whether he
wills it or not. Remember, he is ta’veren, Siuan. He has no more control over
his fate than a candle wick has over the flame.”
The Amyrlin sighed. “It’s risky, Moiraine. Risky. But my father used to say,
‘Girl, if you won’t take a chance, you’ll never win a copper.’ We have plans to
make. Sit down; this won’t be done quickly. I will send for wine and cheese.”
Moiraine shook her head. “We have been closeted alone too long already. If any
did try listening and found your Warding, they will be wondering what you are
hiding. It is not worth the risk. We can contrive another meeting tomorrow.”
Besides, my dearest friend, I cannot tell you everything, and I cannot risk
letting you know I am holding anything back.
Siuan sighed. “I suppose you are right. But first thing in the morning. There’s
so much I have to know.”
“The morning,” Moiraine agreed. The Amyrlin rose, and they hugged again.
Neither woman wanted to be the first to relax her embrace. They had been closer
than sisters since they were scarcely more than children and who knew how many
more times they would be able to be alone like this in these troubled days. A
heat grew between them. Moiraine did not delude herself into thinking it was
merely friendship.
She did not jump when Siuan’s strong hands reached down and squeezed her
bottom. But she did open her eyes and lean back far enough to look into the
other woman’s clear blue eyes. The old, familiar hunger awaited her there. She
cupped the Amyrlin’s face gently and kissed her lips.
Comforting warmth and tingling desire brought a flush to Moiraine’s flesh. Her
tongue sought Siuan’s and they danced their favourite dance.
The Amyrlin broke the kiss with a gasp. “There’s still time. A little longer
won’t raise too many suspicions.”
“If we are fast ...”
Siuan grinned wryly. “Considering how long it has been I can guarantee it’ll be
fast.”
Moiraine needed little persuading. They had come so far, done so much. They
deserved a little celebration. And she had missed her sorely.
Siuan took her by the hand and pulled her to the far side of the table, where
they would be hidden from the doorway. Not that anyone was likely to intrude on
a private audience with the Amyrlin, but they had not gotten as far as they had
be being reckless. They sank to the soft carpet, kissing, caressing. Siuan’s
hands combed through Moiraine’s hair, sending delightful little shivers down
her spine. She reached out and gave the other woman’s breast a gentle squeeze.
Siuan’s touch grew more insistent. She dragged up Moiraine’s skirts and rubbed
her sex through her silken smallclothes. It was not long before she slipped her
hand down her underwear, combing through the soft hair and probing the warm
slit between her legs. She found her already sopping wet. Moiraine felt the
woman’s smile against her lips.
She set about returning the favour, exposing the Amyrlin’s legs, pale above her
woollen stockings, and putting her hand down the front of her drawers. The hair
on Siuan’s sex was rougher than hers, but the woman’s arousal matched her own.
Moiraine’s fingers slipped easily inside.
They had little time to spend on foreplay, unfortunately. The two old pillow-
friends fucked each other with an impassioned need, their stiff fingers
plunging in and out of each other’s wet holes, their kisses no longer gentle.
Moiraine located Siuan’s soft nub and stroked it insistently with her thumb,
bringing gasps of pleasure from the other woman, which quickly grew louder.
True to her word, Siuan finished fast. As her climax came upon her she clutched
Moiraine’s breast hard through the fabric of her dress and arched her back,
“Bloody fish guts!” she yelled.
Moiraine couldn’t help but give a light laugh. Siuan had not always been the
most romantic of lovers. Whenever she forgot herself the habits, and sayings,
of her childhood often came back in force.
The Amyrlin bit her lip and made small, pleased—and pleasing!—sounds as she
writhed on the carpet in the aftermath of her climax. The tension seemed to
flow out of her. Her fingers rested comfortably inside Moiraine. She rained
kisses across the woman’s ageless face.
“Amused are you? Well let’s see how sweetly you sing then.” Siuan put her on
her back and knelt over her. She pulled Moiraine’s underwear down over her hips
and then used them to push her legs upwards, leaving her bottom and her sex
exposed to the Amyrlin’s eyes ... and mouth.
She let out a long sigh as Siuan kissed her lower lips and slipped her tongue
inside. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered, and felt her smile once more.
Sprawled on the carpet with her feet in the air, Moiraine allowed herself to
truly relax for the first time in what felt like years. And, in truth, had been
years. We did it. One lost child in all the wide world, and we found him in
time. She took Siuan’s hand in hers as the Amyrlin licked her sex with the
assured precision of long intimacy.
Her soft gasps grew into wanton moans as Siuan administered to her. She had
never liked being intimate in public, but here in the privacy of the Amyrlin’s
rooms she could let herself go.
“That’s what I like to hear,” the woman murmured.
She raised her head to look down at her crotch. Siuan’s pretty blue eyes stared
up at her over the dark bush, her mouth working hard against Moiraine’s sex.
Her climax stole up on her like a thief in the night. She cried out in shock
and pleasure, staring right into Siuan’s eyes as she did so. Then she collapsed
on the carpet like, as Siuan would no doubt say, a boned fish.
“Light’s mercy, but I needed that,” she moaned.
Her oldest friend and lover came and lay beside her. They embraced and held
each other close. “We both did,” said Siuan.
They could not remain so long, however, before the reality of their situation
intruded. “We really should not be together in private like this,” Moiraine
said regretfully. “Some of our Sisters will still remember how close we were as
Novices. And too few will understand the necessity of what we have done; and
what we must yet do.”
The Amyrlin sighed. “I know. Fix yourself up and put on an appropriately
chastened look before you go. We will talk more tomorrow.”
They clambered to their feet, adjusting their dresses as they did so. Siuan
shared her washbasin as they cleaned their hands and faces and tidied their
hair.
Moiraine fixed the Amyrlin with a confident stare. “It will be well, my old
friend. We have come so far, in defiance of the odds against us. We will see it
through to the end.”
“I hope so. Not that it matters. Once you find yourself swimming with a shark,
there’s nothing left but to make for shore and not look back,” said Siuan.
Leane gave Moiraine a sharp look when she came out into the anteroom, then
darted into the Amyrlin’s chamber. Moiraine tried to put on a chastened face,
as if she had endured one of the Amyrlin’s infamous upbraidings—most women,
however strong-willed, returned from those big-eyed and weak-kneed—but the
expression was foreign to her. She looked more angry than anything else, which
served much the same purpose. She was only vaguely aware of the other women in
the outer room; she thought some had gone and others come since she went in,
but she barely looked at them. The hour was growing late, and there was much to
be done before the morning came. Much, before she spoke to the Amyrlin Seat
again.
Quickening her step, she moved deeper into the keep.
***** The Shadow in Shienar *****
CHAPTER 5: The Shadow in Shienar
 
Afternoon shadows gave way to evening as Liandrin made her way through the
women’s apartments. Beyond the arrowslits, darkness grew and pressed on the
light from the lamps in the corridor. Twilight was a troubled time for Liandrin
of late, that and dawn. At dawn the day was born, just as twilight gave birth
to night, but at dawn, night died, and at twilight, day. The Dark One’s power
was rooted in death; he gained power from death, and at those times she thought
she could feel his power stirring. Something stirred in the half dark, at
least. Something she almost thought she could catch if she turned quickly
enough, something she was sure she could see if she looked hard enough.
Serving women in black-and-gold curtsied as she passed, but she did not
respond. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, and did not see them.
At the door she sought, she paused for a quick glance up and down the hall. The
only women in sight were servants; there were no men, of course. She pushed
open the door and went in without knocking.
The outer room of the Lady Amalisa’s chambers was brightly lit, and a blazing
fire on the hearth held back the chill of the Shienaran night. Amalisa and her
ladies sat about the room, in chairs and on the layered carpets, listening
while one of their number, standing, read aloud to them. It was The Dance of
the Hawk and the Hummingbird, by Teven Aerwin, which purported to set forth the
proper conduct of men toward women and women toward men. Liandrin’s mouth
tightened; she certainly had not read it, but she had heard as much as she
needed about it. Amalisa and her ladies greeted each pronouncement with gales
of laughter, falling against each other and drumming their heels on the carpets
like girls.
The reader was the first to become aware of Liandrin’s presence. She cut off
with a surprised widening of her eyes. The others turned to see what she was
staring at, and silence replaced laughter. All but Amalisa scrambled to their
feet, hastily smoothing hair and skirts.
The Lady Amalisa rose gracefully, with a smile. “You honour us with your
presence, Liandrin. This is a most pleasant surprise. I did not expect you
until tomorrow. I thought you would want to rest after your long jour—”
Liandrin cut her off sharply, addressing the air. “I will speak to the Lady
Amalisa alone. All of you will leave. Now.”
There was a moment of shocked silence, then the other women made their goodbyes
to Amalisa. One by one they curtsied to Liandrin, but she did not acknowledge
them. She continued to stare straight ahead at nothing, but she saw them, and
heard. Honorifics offered with breathy unease at the Aes Sedai’s mood. Eyes
falling when she ignored them. They squeezed past her to the door, pressing
back awkwardly so their skirts did not disturb hers.
As the door closed behind the last of them, Amalisa said, “Liandrin, I do not
underst—”
“Do you walk in the Light, my daughter?” There would be none of that
foolishness of calling her sister here. The other woman was older by some
years, but the ancient forms would be observed. However long they had been
forgotten, it was time they were remembered.
As soon as the question was out of her mouth, though, Liandrin realized she had
made a mistake. It was a question guaranteed to cause doubt and anxiety, coming
from an Aes Sedai, but Amalisa’s back stiffened, and her face hardened.
“That is an insult, Liandrin Sedai. I am Shienaran, of a noble House and the
blood of soldiers. My line has fought the Shadow since before there was a
Shienar, three thousand years without fail or a day’s weakness.”
Liandrin shifted her point of attack, but she did not retreat. Striding across
the room, she took the leather-bound copy of The Dance of the Hawk and the
Hummingbird from the mantelpiece and hefted it without looking at it. “In
Shienar above other lands, my daughter, the Light must be precious, and the
Shadow feared.” Casually she threw the book into the fire. Flames leaped as if
it were a log of fatwood, thundering as they licked up the chimney. In the same
instant every lamp in the room flared, hissing, so fiercely did they burn,
flooding the chamber with light. “Here above all. Here, so close to the cursed
Blight, where corruption waits. Here, even one who thinks he walks in the Light
may still be corrupted by the Shadow.”
Beads of sweat glistened on Amalisa’s forehead. The hand she had raised in
protest for her book fell slowly to her side. Her features still held firm, but
Liandrin saw her swallow, and her feet shift. “I do not understand, Liandrin
Sedai. Is it the book? It is only foolishness.”
There was a faint quaver in her voice. Good. Glass lamp mantles cracked as the
flames leaped higher and hotter, lighting the room as bright as unsheltered
noon. Amalisa stood as stiff as a post, her face tight as she tried not to
squint.
“It is you who are foolish, my daughter. I care nothing for books. Here, men
enter the Blight, and walk in its taint. In the very Shadow. Why wonder you
that that taint may seep into them? Whether or not against their will, still it
may seep. Why think you the Amyrlin Seat herself has come?”
“No.” It was a gasp.
“Of the Red am I, my daughter,” Liandrin said relentlessly. “I hunt all men
corrupted.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Not only those foul ones who try the One Power. All men corrupted. High and
low do I hunt.”
“I don’t ...” Amalisa licked her lips unsteadily and made a visible effort to
gather herself. “I do not understand, Liandrin Sedai. Please ...”
“High even before low.”
“No!” As if some invisible support had vanished, Amalisa fell to her knees, and
her head dropped. “Please, Liandrin Sedai, say you do not mean Agelmar. It
cannot be him.”
In that moment of doubt and confusion, Liandrin struck. She did not move, but
lashed out with the One Power. Amalisa gasped and gave a jerk, as if she had
been pricked with a needle, and Liandrin’s petulant mouth perked in a smile.
This was her own special trick from childhood, the first learned of her
abilities. It had been forbidden to her as soon as the Mistress of Novices
discovered it, but to Liandrin that only meant one more thing she needed to
conceal from those who were jealous of her.
She strode forward and pulled Amalisa’s chin up. The metal that had stiffened
her was still there, but it was baser metal now, malleable to the right
pressures. Tears trickled from the corners of Amalisa’s eyes, glistening on her
cheeks. Liandrin let the fires die back to normal; there was no longer any need
for such. She softened her words, but her voice was as unyielding as steel.
“Daughter, no-one wants to see you and Agelmar thrown to the people as
Darkfriends. I will help you, but you must help.”
“H-help you?” Amalisa put her hands to her temples; she looked confused.
“Please, Liandrin Sedai, I don’t ... understand. It is all so ... It’s all ...”
It was not a perfect ability; Liandrin could not force anyone to do what she
wanted—though she had tried; oh, how she had tried. But she could open them
wide to her arguments, make them want to believe her, want more than anything
to be convinced of her rightness.
“Obey, daughter. Obey, and answer my questions truthfully, and I promise that
no-one will speak of you and Agelmar as Darkfriends. You will not be dragged
naked through the streets, to be flogged from the city if the people do not
tear you to pieces first. I will not let this happen. You understand?”
“Yes, Liandrin Sedai, yes. I will do as you say and answer you truly.”
Liandrin straightened, looking down at the other woman. The Lady Amalisa stayed
as she was kneeling, her face as open as a child’s, a child waiting to be
comforted and helped by someone wiser and stronger. There was a rightness about
it to Liandrin. She had never understood why a simple bow or curtsy was
sufficient for Aes Sedai when men and women knelt to kings and queens. What
queen has within her my power? Her mouth twisted angrily, and Amalisa shivered.
“Be easy in yourself, my daughter. I have come to help you, not to punish. Only
those who deserve it will be punished. Truth only, speak to me.”
“I will, Liandrin Sedai. I will, I swear it by my House and honour.”
“Moiraine came to Fal Dara with a Darkfriend.”
Amalisa was too frightened to show surprise. “Oh, no, Liandrin Sedai. No. That
man came later. He is in the dungeons now.”
“Later, you say. But it is true that she speaks often with him? She is often in
company with this Darkfriend? Alone?”
“S-sometimes, Liandrin Sedai. Only sometimes. She wishes to find out why he
came here. Moiraine Sedai is—” Liandrin held up her hand sharply, and Amalisa
swallowed whatever else she had been going to say.
“By three young men Moiraine was accompanied. This I know. Where are they? I
have been to their rooms, and they are not to be found.”
“I—I do not know, Liandrin Sedai. They seem nice boys. Surely you don’t think
they are Darkfriends.”
“Not Darkfriends, no. Worse. By far more dangerous than Darkfriends, my
daughter. The entire world is in danger from them. They must be found. You will
command your servants to search the keep, and your ladies.” She almost
commanded the woman to attend to the matter in person, but she would be
expected at the welcome feast. “Every crack and cranny. To this, you will see
personally. Personally! And to no-one will you speak of it, save those I name.
None else may know. None. From Fal Dara in secrecy these young men must be
removed, and to Tar Valon taken. In utter secrecy.”
“As you command, Liandrin Sedai. But I do not understand the need for secrecy.
No-one here will hinder Aes Sedai.”
“Of the Black Ajah you have heard?”
Amalisa’s eyes bulged, and she leaned back away from Liandrin, raising her
hands as though to shield herself from a blow. “A v-vile rumour, Liandrin
Sedai. V-vile. There are n-no Aes Sedai who s-serve the Dark One. I do not
believe it. You must believe me! Under the Light, I s-swear I do not believe
it. By my honour and my House, I swear ...”
Coolly Liandrin let her go on, watching the last remaining strength leach out
of the other woman with her own silence. Aes Sedai had been known to become
angry, very angry, with those who even mentioned the Black Ajah, much less
those who said they believed in its hidden existence. After this, with her will
already weakened by that little childhood trick, Amalisa would be as clay in
her hands. After one more blow.
“The Black Ajah is real, child. Real, and here within Fal Dara’s walls.”
Amalisa knelt there, her mouth hanging open. The Black Ajah. Aes Sedai who were
also Darkfriends. Almost as horrible to learn the Dark One himself walked Fal
Dara keep. But Liandrin would not let up now. “Any Aes Sedai in the halls you
pass, a Black sister could be. This I swear. I cannot tell you which they are,
but my protection you can have. If in the Light you walk and me obey.”
“I will,” Amalisa whispered hoarsely. “I will. Please, Liandrin Sedai, please
say you will protect my brother, and my ladies ...”
“Who deserves protection I will protect. Concern yourself with yourself, my
daughter. And think only of what I have commanded of you. Only that. The fate
of the world rides on this, my daughter. All else you must forget.”
“Yes, Liandrin Sedai. Yes. Yes.”
Liandrin turned and crossed the room, not looking back until she reached the
door. Amalisa was still on her knees, still watching her anxiously. “Rise, my
Lady Amalisa.” Liandrin made her voice pleasant, with only a hint of the
mocking she felt. Sister, indeed! Not one day as a Novice would she last. And
power to command she has. “Rise.” Amalisa straightened in slow, stiff jerks, as
if she had been bound hand and foot for hours. As she finally came upright,
Liandrin said, the steel back in full strength, “And if you fail the world, if
you fail me, that wretched Darkfriend in the dungeon will be your envy.”
From the look on Amalisa’s face, Liandrin did not think failure would come from
any lack of effort on her part.
Pulling the door shut behind her, Liandrin suddenly felt a prickling across her
skin. Breath catching, she whirled about, looking up and down the dimly lit
hall. Empty. It was full night beyond the arrowslits. The hall was empty, yet
she was sure there had been eyes on her. The vacant corridor, shadowy between
the lamps on the walls, mocked her. She shrugged uneasily, then started down
the hall determinedly. Fancies take me. Nothing more.
Full night already, and there was much to do before dawn. Her orders had been
explicit.
 
                                     * * *
 
Balthamel strolled through the little castle’s dark hallways with her hands
folded behind her back, serene in the knowledge that her valdarhei would
intercept any attack the savages thought to launch. If any of them even
recognised the Forsaken in their midst, which she didn’t think likely. She’d
found that they had some pretty colourful tales of her in this Age;
aggrandizing tales, insulting tales, but rarely anything close to the truth. If
they were so backwards as to actually believe she and the rest of the Chosen
had been bound in Shayol Ghul by the Creator at the moment of Creation, then it
had to be considered pretty bloody unlikely that they had a physical
description of her jotted down in some book.
“The next left, then down the corridor until you see a stairwell on your left.”
Puki had been set to privacy mode, his voice directed to her alone. She
couldn’t have the savages freaking out over the ghost boy who habitually
perched on her shoulder. Balthamel chuckled to herself, drawing curious looks
from those passing, which she ignored. Most of the people here wore uniforms,
but not of soldiers. Of servants. Professional servants. Philosophically, did
that mean the Shadow had won the war? She tried to imagine how the sickly-
sweet, oh-so-righteous Aes Sedai of the old world would react to seeing such a
thing and laughed aloud. Aristocracies. Blatant sexual prejudice. Wars of
‘honour’. And an entire class of people born and raised to serve. Oh they would
have shat their robes, and huddled weeping in a corner.
Balthamel had always resented the staid, clean, boring life the so-called Age
of Legends had afforded. She hadn’t been the only one who chafed under all the
regulations, or scorned the fools who sold their futures for a nice comfortable
place on the assembly line. Aginor, for example, had turned against the Aes
Sedai because they refused to authorise his experiments in genetic engineering,
supposedly out of fear for what would become of humanity if they altered
themselves too much. Almost, she might have sympathised with the arrogant
creep. He hadn’t been seen since Ishamael dragged him off to his dungeon. Dead,
or dying slowly she suspected. But that was not her problem.
She filled herself with saidin as she advanced down the stark corridor, looking
for Puki’s stairwell. The Aes Sedai had been fools, too stuck in their ways.
Gender reassignment hadn’t made her suddenly start channelling saidar, had it?
So what if someone wanted to give himself eyes like a tiger, or wings on his
back? Or make himself forever young. She was well rid of them and their
supposedly perfect world.
It was just a pity the world that replaced it was such a shithole. “I can never
catch a fucking break,” she muttered. Some serving woman had the guts to stop
and frown at her; she was lucky Balthamel had a job to do or she might have
learned to regret that look. When she’d decided to change to a female body she
had known—known beyond the shadow of a doubt—that she could have switched back
at any time; or mixed male and female attributes if she so chose. It had just
been an accepted fact of life. Here in this time though she would have an
easier time finding a beautiful Trolloc than a qualified surgery. And that was
just the tip of the iceberg. These kjasic people didn’t even have hot running
water! She would happily murder this entire castle in exchange for a warm
shower.
She found the stairs and headed downwards, mindful of her heavy shirts. The
clothing, like the language, was taking a little getting used to. A streith
gown might have drawn a bit more attention than Ishamael wanted though. There
was another one too full of his own brilliance. A sensible person would simply
destroy the Horn of Valere before it could be used against him, but Ishamael
wanted to use it as bait for Lews Therin Telamon’s supposed reincarnation
instead. The Dragon Reborn was right here in this castle ... and just walking
up to him and killing the stupid boy before he could learn to master saidin was
apparently a bad plan. She snorted. Ishamael would think his way into his own
grave, all the while convinced he was doing something ingenious, when in truth
he was just being a smug three-named prick. If the Great Lord had not named him
Nae’blis ...
But he had, and Balthamel had no intention of tempting the Great Lord’s wrath.
She rounded a corner and found herself in a long, well-lit stone corridor with
only one door and that at the far end, a good twenty feet away. It was a heavy-
looking thing of thick wood bound with large steel bars, stern and forbidding.
The woman who stood before it was no less so. Short, lean and dark, she frowned
at Balthamel’s appearance and stood taller. A futile gesture; Balthamel had not
been notably short even when she was male. The little woman’s face took on a
judge’s contemptuous cast when she saw Balthamel smirk.
“You are lost, daughter,” she said, laughably. “This place is forbidden to
servants or guests, save with permission from the Lady of Fal Dara or the
Amyrlin Seat herself. Remove yourself, or face the full weight of Tower law.”
Balthamel laughed aloud as she strolled towards her goal. It was too good. The
woman, one of these so-called Aes Sedai plainly, had the manners of a judge and
the face of a convict! How many times had she been threatened with a binder if
she didn’t stop “abusing” her gift? This one had already been bound, yet she
prated of the laws of their Tower as though grateful for her punishment.
“The full weight of Tower law, you say? Well fuck me sideways honey, that
sounds just terrifying.”
Scowling in censor, the woman’s companion moved from the wall he had been
leaning against and placed himself in Balthamel’s path. He was as dark as his
mistress, young, clean-shaven and handsome. It was almost a pity he had to die.
“No farther, miss,” he said, arms crossed before him and hands on the hilts of
the matched swords at his waist.
Swords, but she felt no Power in him. Of course, with the Great Lord’s shadow
on saidin none but his Chosen could use it safely. That would serve her very
well indeed. They will never even see me coming. The very idea that a woman
like me could exist is probably beyond their feeble imaginations to conceive.
The stern-faced Aes Sedai certainly didn’t see her coming. Her eyes went wide
and her mouth opened as though she could cry an alarm with only a blackened
hole where her throat had been. That for your laws, bitch. I answer to no law.
Her companion had his back to the dead woman, he could not possibly have seen,
yet, to her annoyance, he let out a roar of horror and grief as the Aes Sedai
crumpled to the ground, as though he knew her fate without looking. He lunged
at Balthamel, swords ripping free of their sheaths and a mad rage twisting his
face.
“Shield up,” Puki said cheerfully.
Balthamel didn’t need his help, not for something like this. She folded her
arms beneath her ample bosom and scowled at her attacker. She took the man’s
legs off at the knee with blades none but she could see; then claimed his arms
as well as punishment for making so much noise.
She could already hear a commotion from upstairs, as the locals wondered what
all the shouting was about. Scowling, she gave the cripple just enough time to
realise his ruination before hurrying towards the door. The man’s expression of
grief and horror was mercifully brief; but only because she could afford no
witnesses. She wove saidin and his life ended in a flash of fire. I must be
certain to dismember the bodies before I leave, she thought. It would be best
if it looked like something a Myrddraal could have done.
The heavy door gave her as little trouble as the guards had. She broke it down
with an invisible hammer of air, haste being more important than silence now.
Not that she was afraid of anyone in this quaint little fort. It was just that
she didn’t want to lose her advantage. She stepped over the body of the Aes
Sedai. Saidin had been as invisible to her as saidar was to Balthamel. And the
Aes Sedai had not been expecting her to channel the male half of the Power. Her
sisters wouldn’t be expecting it either. Balthamel smiled. A sweet advantage
indeed.
 
                                     * * *
 
Pitch-blackness covered the dungeons whatever the hour, unless someone brought
in a lantern, but Padan Fain sat on the edge of his cot, staring into the dark
with a smile on his face. He could hear the other two prisoners grumbling in
their sleep, muttering in nightmares. Fain was waiting for something, something
he had been awaiting for a long time. For too long. But not much longer.
The door to the outer guardroom opened, spilling in a flood of light, darkly
outlining a figure in the doorway.
Fain stood. “You! Not who I expected.” He stretched with a casualness he did
not feel. Blood raced through his veins; he thought he could leap over the keep
if he tried. “Surprises for everyone, eh? Well, come on. The night’s getting
old, and I want some sleep sometime.”
As a lamp came into the cell chamber, Fain raised his head, grinning at
something, unseen yet felt, beyond the dungeon’s stone ceiling. “It isn’t over
yet,” he whispered. “The battle’s never over.”
***** Always and Never *****
CHAPTER 6: Always and Never
 
Rand stared out at the Shienaran night through the narrow window of Nynaeve’s
bedchamber, seeing little. Even if it had been a clear, sunny day he would have
seen little; his thoughts were turned inwards, heavy with dark and certain
ends.
The dim light of a single lamp suffused the room. Nynaeve, clad in her usual
sensible brown clothes, sat knitting in a rocking chair on the other side of
the lone bed, its covers still in place. Her face was calm, and she seemed
aware of nothing except her knitting as she rocked gently. The steady click-
click of her knitting needles was the only sound. The rug silenced the rocking
chair.
There had been nights of late when he had wished for a carpet on the cold stone
floor of his room, but in Shienar men’s rooms were always bare and stark. The
walls here had two tapestries, mountain scenes with waterfalls, and flower-
embroidered curtains alongside the arrowslits. Cut flowers, white morningstars,
stood in a flat, round vase on the table by the bed, and more nodded in glazed
white sconces on the walls. A tall mirror stood in a corner, near the large
wood and canvas screen intended, he knew, for changing behind. Another mirror
hung over the washstand, with its blue-striped pitcher and bowl. He wondered
why Nynaeve needed two mirrors; there was none in his room, and he did not miss
it. There was only one lamp lit, but four more stood around the room, which was
nearly as large as the one he shared with Mat and Perrin. Nynaeve had it alone.
“The women’s apartments are much nicer than the men’s,” he said. “Thank you for
inviting me in. Though I’m still not sure it’s the proper thing to do.”
Nynaeve lowered her knitting and gave him an amused smile. She was a pretty
woman, and only a few years older than he, but being Wisdom added fifty years
of authority. “The Light help me, Rand, you are becoming more Shienaran every
day. Invited into the women’s apartments, indeed.” She sniffed. “Any day now,
you’ll start talking about your honour, and asking peace to favour your sword.”
He coloured, and hoped she did not notice in the dim light. She eyed his sword,
its hilt sticking out of the long bundle beside him on the floor. He knew she
did not approve of the sword, of any sword, but she said nothing about it for
once.
He could think of far worse things to be than Shienaran. A male channeler first
among them. Scowling, he straightened the leather jerkin she had found for him
and twisted around so he could lean back against the wall.
“I don’t suppose you know any herbs that would remove the ability to channel
without killing the person?”
Nynaeve made an angry sound when she dropped a stitch. “I don’t know why I am
even trying tonight. I can’t keep track of my stitches for some reason.” She
let the knitting fall onto her lap and turned her sternly kind eyes to him. “Do
you think if I knew a solution to that problem I’d be keeping it to myself?”
Rand rubbed his forehead. “No. No, of course not. You’d never let anyone be
hurt if you could stop it. I just ...” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Never
mind me.”
For a moment Nynaeve was silent. She fussed with her skeins of yarn. Finally
she said, “You mustn’t give up, Rand. Just because there is no cure known right
now doesn’t mean there is no cure at all.” She scowled at the floor and
muttered, as if to herself. “There has to be. I won’t lose another one.”
He nodded slowly. But would I be the one lost, or the one that caused the loss?
“It’s more the risk I pose to others that concerns me. I’d rather take care of
the problem while I can still think rationally enough to realise there is a
problem.” He pursed his lips and raised his hands wardingly. “Rationally enough
by men’s standards, before you say anything.”
Nynaeve sniffed, though it was a half-hearted thing. “You’re not so bad when it
comes to that. You’re at least half-sensible. Perhaps even two thirds on a good
day.”
That brought a short, wry laugh from him.
“You just need some rest. You’ve been worrying yourself near to death this past
month. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how hard you push yourself when training
with that fool sword. Prancing around with Lan, or Ingtar, or whoever isn’t
busy, until you’re ready to collapse from exhaustion. That’s no way to deal
with your worries. Get yourself a good’s night sleep, and we’ll discuss your
troubles in the morning.” Nynaeve frowned at him. “You can use the bed until I
get back from the feast, but after that it’s the floor for you. Got it?”
Rand smiled wanly. “Of course.” He had tried to kiss Nynaeve once, years ago.
She had turned him down gently. Well, gently for her. She’d only smacked his
face the once, and hadn’t brought the Women’s Circle down on him for his
lewdness. He had no delusions about why she had brought him here. A pallet on
the floor would do just fine. But what was that about a feast? “Where exactly
are you going?”
“There’s to be a welcome feast for the Amyrlin tonight. I imagine it will
stretch into the small hours so you needn’t wait up. I’m expected there. Even
if Moiraine had not said I should go, I would never let her think I was ...” He
eyes lit up fiercely for a moment, and he knew what she meant. Nynaeve would
never let anyone think she was afraid, even if she was. Certainly not Moiraine,
and especially not Lan. He hoped she did not know he was aware of her feelings
for the Warder. The man had been a fool to reject her advances so far as Rand
was concerned, though he was hardly going to say anything about it; to either
of them.
“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself,” he said.
“Speaking of the feast, I need to be getting ready.” Her eyes darted to the
changing screen and she scowled slightly.
Rand shifted his feet, suddenly embarrassed. “I should be going ...”
She shook her head. “Don’t be a complete woolhead Rand. What would be the point
of my having snuck you in here if you were just going to go wandering the
women’s apartments in full view of all those Aes Sedai?”
She pointed to the window. “Go ... count the stars or something.” Then she
pointed at him. “And keep your back turned!” she barked.
“Of course,” he said placatingly. He returned to the window and leaned against
the wall, looking out. Behind him he heard Nynaeve repositioning the screen and
the mirrors, then the sound of garments being shed.
From time to time the soft rustlings ceased and he saw, out of the farthest
corner of his eye, a dark head poking above the screen to frown his way. As if
she did not trust him not to try and steal a peek at her body. That was a
little offensive to be honest. Not that Rand wouldn’t very much like to see
Nynaeve naked, she was a very attractive woman, but he would never steal what
she did not want to give.
“I’m done,” she announced at last. He turned to find her eyeing him
appraisingly. She gave a small nod of what he took for approval.
Pleasing as that was, it could not distract him from the sight before him.
Nynaeve wore a dress of pale blue silk, embroidered in snowdrop blossoms around
the neck and down the sleeves. Each blossom centred on a small pearl, and her
belt was tooled in silver, with a silver buckle set with pearls. He had never
seen her in anything like that. Even feastday clothes back home might not match
it.
After a moment her gaze softened as it fell on the sleeve of her dress. “The
Lady Amalisa gave me this,” she said so softly he wondered if she was speaking
to herself. She stroked the silk with her fingers, outlining the embroidered
flowers, smiling, lost in thought.
“It’s very pretty on you, Nynaeve. You look beautiful tonight.” He winced as
soon as he said it. Any Wisdom was touchy about her authority, but Nynaeve was
touchier than most. The Women’s Circle back home had always looked over her
shoulder because she was young, and maybe because she was pretty, and her
fights with the Mayor and the Village Council had been the stuff of stories.
She jerked her hand away from the embroidery and glared at him, brows lowering.
“Make up the pallet before you go to bed. You’ll not want to be doing it in the
dead of night. I have to go. Don’t do anything foolish, or dramatic, while I’m
gone.” She was out the door before he could frame a response, closing it firmly
behind herself.
The room, for all its finery, seemed suddenly quite empty.
Rand sighed and unlaced his jerkin. Nynaeve had been right about one thing. He
was very tired. A good night’s sleep might be just what he needed to sort out
his feelings about what he had become.
The farmhouse door shook under furious blows from outside; the heavy bar across
the door jumped in its brackets. Beyond the window next to the door moved the
heavy-muzzled silhouette of a Trolloc. There were windows everywhere, and more
shadowy shapes outside. Not shadowy enough, though. Rand could still make them
out.
The windows, he thought desperately. He backed away from the door, clutching
his sword before him in both hands. Even if the door holds, they can break in
the windows. Why aren’t they trying the windows?
With a deafening metallic screech, one of the brackets pulled partly away from
the doorframe, hanging loose on nails ripped a finger’s width out of the wood.
The bar quivered from another blow, and the nails squealed again.
“We have to stop them!” Rand shouted. Only we can’t. We can’t stop them. He
looked around for a way to run, but there was only the one door. The room was a
box. Only one door, and so many windows. “We have to do something. Something!”
“It’s too late,” Mat said. “Don’t you understand?” His grin looked odd on a
bloodless pale face and the hilt of a dagger stood out from his chest, the ruby
that capped it blazing as if it held fire. The gem had more life than his face.
“It’s too late for us to change anything.”
“I’ve finally gotten rid of them,” Perrin said, laughing. Blood streamed down
his face like a flood of tears from his empty sockets. He held out red hands,
trying to make Rand look at what he held. “I’m free, now. It’s over.”
“It’s never over, al’Thor,” Padan Fain crooned, capering in the middle of the
floor. “The battle’s never done. You can’t hide, not from me, and not from
them. You thought it was over, did you not? But the battle’s never done,
al’Thor. They are coming for me, and they’re coming for you, and the war goes
on. Whether you live or die, it’s never over for you. Never.” Suddenly he began
to chant.
 
“Soon comes the day all shall be free.
Even you, and even me.
Soon comes the day all shall die.
Surely you, but never I.”
 
A crooked grin twisting his mouth, he chuckled deep in his throat. “Mordeth
knows more than all of you. Mordeth knows.”
The door exploded in splinters, and Rand ducked away from the flying shards of
wood. Two red-clad Aes Sedai stepped through, bowing their master in. A mask
the colour of dried blood covered Ba’alzamon’s face, but Rand could see the
bottomless darkness of his eyes through the eyeslits.
“It is not yet done between us, al’Thor,” Ba’alzamon said, and he and Fain
spoke together as one, “For you, the battle is never done.”
With a strangled gasp Rand jerked awake. The warm weight of the blankets held
him down. It seemed he could still hear Fain’s voice, as sharp as if the
Darkfriend peddler were standing beside him. It’s never over. The battle’s
never done.
He shivered and hugged himself. The blankets mumbled something in response.
Rand drew a deep breath and blinked himself awake.
There was a woman in the bed with him. She smelled faintly of perfume and wine.
She had her arms around his shoulders and her head rested on his naked chest.
She breathed deeply, as though sound asleep. He held himself very still and ran
his eyes across the darkened bedchamber.
The faint slivers of moonlight revealed little. But one thing stood out. The
pearls of Nynaeve’s fine new dress glowed ghostly-white; it was draped
carefully over the large changing screen. She must have arrived back while he
slept. But why hadn’t she awoken him?
She was snoring softly as she pressed against his side. His heart was beating
fast. Cautiously he moved his hand across her shoulder, feeling the fine linen
of her nightshift. She had come back from the feast, changed for bed ... and
then decided not to wake him up as agreed. Instead she had climbed in the bed
with him ... and then what? Put her arms around him and cuddled against his
chest? It didn’t seem likely. Fallen asleep, tossed and turned, and then been
instinctively drawn to his warmth? Perhaps.
Regardless of why, it felt good to be held like that. Warm and comforting. With
all that had happened in recent months it might have felt good to be held by
anyone, but especially so to be held by Nynaeve. Cautiously he tightened his
arm around her shoulders, and then dared to rest his cheek upon her head.
With a snort, Nynaeve’s snores came to an end. She stiffened in his embrace and
he fancied she looked around in confusion much as he had. His heart was beating
so fast he was afraid she could hear it.
After a time she whispered, “Rand. I know you’re awake, I can hear your ... How
did I come to be like this?”
He kept his tone as quiet as hers. “I didn’t do anything, I swear. When I woke
up you were just there.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice. She sighed and rested her cheek against his
chest.
That she did not immediately pull away emboldened him to tighten his embrace.
Her warmth seemed to melt the cold knot that had grown inside him since
learning what he was.
“That’s nice,” she whispered, sounding surprised for some reason. “But we
shouldn’t be touching like this. I’m the Wisdom. I’m not supposed to ... no-one
is allowed to ... to touch ...” He felt her muscles tighten, her hands bunch
into fists. It was such a waste. She was so beautiful, so passionate, so full
of love. What could possibly be wrong about it?
So he took her gently by the braid and brought her to face him. In the dark and
quiet night he could not see her lovely face, but he recalled it intimately
from all the years he had watched her from afar. Her breath was warm upon his
lips; he smelt the wine there. And then he tasted it, tasted her. Divine.
This time, this time she did not push him away. No squawk of outrage met his
advance. No hard hand cracked across his face. Nynaeve’s soft lips were pliant
beneath his. And soon, blessedly soon, she was kissing him back, kissing him
with a surprising hunger. Her arms came around his neck and her fingers tangled
in his hair.
He had been stiffening ever since realising who was in the bed with him, now he
was hard as stone and aching with need for her. He rubbed himself instinctively
against her thigh as they kissed. A little gasp met his movement. More
followed, each hastily suppressed, as he cupped the sides of her face, trailed
a hand down the side of her neck and over her shoulder.
The gasp she let out when he took her breast in his hand was much louder, and
when he squeezed it gently her legs parted beneath him as though of their own
accord. Nynaeve broke their kiss and tossed her head against the pillow in
wordless denial, but her hands clutched him to her still and beneath the soft
fabric of her shift he could feel her hard nipple pressing upwards, seeking
freedom.
He granted it, taking hold of the hem of her shift and pulling it up over her
head. For all her protests, Nynaeve shifted on the bed to allow him to rid her
of the hampering cloth.
Her hands went to her chest after, and even in the pitch darkness he could tell
she was covering her breasts, hiding them even from his blindness. It was oddly
sweet. He did not attempt to pry loose her grip, but turned his attention back
to her warm, soft lips.
He unlaced his drawers and struggled out of them. He had help to do so, for one
of Nynaeve’s hands came free of her breast to push his underwear down over his
bottom. Her hand remain there, clutching the soft-hard flesh of his buttocks as
he kicked his way free of his underwear.
Their breathing was hard and fast now. He touched the inside of her thigh and
kneaded his way upwards. As he got closer to her most intimate place he fancied
he could feel the heat of her arousal against his knuckles. Her soft gasps
returned, and when he dared to touch her furry sex and slip a finger inside she
cried aloud, “Light, yes!”
Nynaeve pressed her face to his shoulder to muffle her cries. Even if her words
had not urged him on, the sheer sopping wetness of her would have been enough
to tell him she wanted this as badly as he did.
He positioned himself above her spread legs and wrapped her in his arms,
savouring the silky-smooth feel of her skin on his. His hardness found her
softness without the need of guiding hands. He pressed forward slowly, gasping
in awe as he did so. Rand slid into Nynaeve and discovered in her the home he
had feared lost to him forever. He sighed out her name as he entered, warmth
and pleasure washing away all his fears and self-loathing.
A slight obstruction broke before him and Nynaeve’s arms tightened across his
waist and shoulders. She muffled a whimper against him as he slid farther into
her until at last his full length was cradled in her wondrous heat. She
clutched him tightly and, he dared to dream, welcomingly.
He rode her slowly, crushing the foolish instinct to go faster, savouring every
moment of their lovemaking. Nynaeve let him lead, legs spread wide, arms
wrapped around him and face pressed to his shoulder, she seemed focused on
ensuring no-one in the adjacent rooms heard her make a sound.
But Rand could hear. Much as she tried to hide them, her gasps of pleasure
spurred him on. Her heart beat against his; he could feel it thundering through
the deliciously soft breasts that pressed against his chest. Her hands explored
his body excitedly in the concealing darkness.
He explored her too. Her breasts were full, her waist slender, her hips curved
pleasantly. And her bottom, when he reached around to grab it with both hands,
was soft and pert.
And sensitive too, for it was that act that caused her to dig her nails into
his flesh and convulse against him.
“Oh. Oh. Oh, Light,” gasped Nynaeve as she wrapped her legs around his waist
and held him to her. She arched her back and tossed back her head as she
gripped his manhood tight inside.
Rand kissed her cheek, her brows, the side of her neck. The realisation that
Nynaeve, the wondrous, frustrating, brave, loud, kind, bossy Nynaeve had just
come, impaled upon his manhood, drove him over the edge. He wrapped her in his
arms and squeezed her tight to his chest, thrusting into her hard and fast now,
needing her. This, this was worth living for, whatever the horrors that might
await a man like him. If only they could stay together like this forever
nothing else would matter.
Nynaeve made sounds of surprise when he sped up, but before long she had her
arms around his shoulders and was kissing his face in the dark.
He moaned aloud with the sheer joy of it and Nynaeve pressed her hand over his
mouth, silencing him.
The pressure inside him built fast. He was moaning against her hand with each
new thrust as his body demanded release. When at last it came he buried himself
inside Nynaeve’s glorious heat and flooded her with his seed.
Wave after wave of pleasure coursed through him, draining him of all strength.
He lowered himself to the bed on shaking arms, resting his head on her shoulder
and trembling. “Nynaeve ...” he whispered softly.
She stroked his hair and cooed under her breath as though he was a little
child. “There you are. It’s alright. It will be alright. I’ll keep you safe.”
He took her breast in his hand and kneaded it lightly, fascinated by its
softness.
Rand did not remember falling asleep once more. When he awoke he found himself
hugging Nynaeve from behind. He felt her start just as he had from the
cacophony as bells crashed out ringing all over the keep.
He sat up in bed. “That’s an alarm! They’re searching ...”
Nynaeve shook her head uneasily. “No, I don’t think so. If they are searching
for you, all the bells do is warn you. No, if it’s an alarm, it is not for
you.”
“Then what?” He bounded naked from her bed and hurried to the nearest
arrowslit.
Outside, lights darted through the night-cloaked keep like fireflies, lamps and
torches dashing here and there. Some went to the outer walls and towers, but
most of those that he could see milled through the garden below and the one
courtyard he could just glimpse part of. Whatever had caused the alarm was
inside the keep. The bells fell silent, unmasking the shouts of men, but he
could not make out what they were calling.
If it isn’t for me ... could Fal Dara be under attack?
“What is happening out there?” Nynaeve turned from looking through another
arrowslit and he beheld her naked body for the first time. Moonlight bathed her
in stark blacks and whites, her rounded breasts, the curves of her waist, her
slender legs, the dark triangle at the juncture of her thighs. She was
beautiful.
He stirred again at the sight of her. She noticed, for her gaze slid down his
torso to his waist and she gasped, covering herself as best she could with her
hands. She turned her face away, the moonlight casting her blush in a darker
shade than red. He wanted nothing in life so much in that moment than to take
her in his arms and carry her back to the bed, to make sweet love to her over
and over until the dawn came to part them.
But the sound of steel on steel called to him from within the keep.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled his stare from her body and turned to snatch
his breeches from the floor. He yanked them on, not bothering with underwear,
and leaned against the cold stone wall to pull on his boots. “I have to go,” he
said tensely. “Mat and Perrin and Anna and Loial could be out there, mixed up
in whatever’s causing those alarms.”
He crossed the room in quick strides and snatched his sword and bow free of the
bundle. He hung a quiver from the back of his swordbelt and buckled it about
his waist. There was no time to bother with a coat, and the wool likely
wouldn’t do much to stop a blade or arrow anyway.
Nynaeve caught him at the door, grabbing his arm. She was not as tall as his
shoulder, but she held on like iron. “Don’t be a goat-brained fool, Rand,” she
said in a voice that was higher than any he’d ever heard from her. “Even if
this doesn’t have anything to do with you, these are the women’s apartments.
There will be Aes Sedai out there in the halls, likely as not. The others will
be alright. There are hundreds of Shienaran soldiers in this keep, and a dozen
Aes Sedai with their Warders.”
“I can’t risk it. What if something happened to them while I just sat here,
with my sword gathering dust in the corner?” In the dark it was hard to see her
face, but he found her shoulders with his arm and her lips with his. He kissed
her hard. It was over far too soon.
“I love you,” Rand said from the doorway. “I always have and I always will.”
Nynaeve did not respond, save to draw in a long deep breath. He waited in the
silence for four agonising heartbeats, the longest of his young life. Then he
jerked open the door and dashed out into the fray. Behind him he thought he
heard the Wisdom let out a low sob.
***** Raid *****
CHAPTER 7: Raid
 
A woman screamed at the sight of him, shirtless with a sword at his waist and a
bow in his hand. Even invited, men did not go armed in the women’s apartments
unless the keep was under attack. Women filled the corridor, many in their
nightclothes, serving women in the black-and-gold, ladies of the keep, some
still in silks and laces, women in embroidered shawls with long fringes, all
talking loudly at the same time, all demanding to know what was happening.
Crying children clung to skirts everywhere. He plunged through them, dodging
where he could, muttering apologies to those he shouldered aside, trying to
ignore their startled stares.
A fine-figured woman with long yellow hair to her shoulders stood with her back
to him, clad only in her shift. She barred his path so he set a hand gently to
her shoulder and nudged her aside with a low, “Excuse me.” As she stepped
aside, she turned towards him with a startled look on her pretty face, a face
he half-remembered. He hastened on.
One of the women in a shawl turned to go back into her room, and he saw the
back of her blue shawl, saw the gleaming white teardrop in the middle of her
back. Suddenly he recognized faces he had seen in the outer courtyard. Aes
Sedai, staring at him in alarm, now.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” demanded the beautiful, olive-skinned
Aes Sedai, now clad in a green robe with her hair tousled from sleep.
Lady Liu, Agelmar’s eldest child, had her father’s strong face. She narrowed
her eyes at the sight of Rand, but had more pressing concerns than his being
where he should not be. “Is the keep under attack? Answer me, man!”
“He’s no soldier. Who is he? What’s happening?” said her cousin, the Lady Rena.
“It’s the young southland lord!” cried a serving woman.
A lady he did not know pointed triumphantly. “Someone stop him!”
Fear pushed his lips back, baring his teeth, but he kept moving, and tried to
move faster.
Then a woman came out into the hall, face-to-face with him, and he stopped in
spite of himself. He recognized that face above the rest; he thought he would
remember it if he lived forever. The Amyrlin Seat. Her eyes widened at the
sight of him, and she started back. Another Aes Sedai, the tall woman he had
seen with the staff, put herself between him and the Amyrlin, shouting
something at him that he could not make out over the increasing babble.
She knows. Light help me, she knows. Moiraine told her. Snarling, he ran on.
Light, just let me make sure the others are safe before they ... He heard
shouting behind him, but he did not listen.
When he reached the exit he found the door open. Several women had preceded him
out into the night, among them a large, plain-faced woman in a lacy blue dress
and the green-clad Arafellin Aes Sedai.
“They are almost here,” said the latter to the former.
“Be careful, Alanna. Even with your Warders around you, the Shadow’s forces are
not to be taken lightly,” cautioned the other.
This Alanna had a temper on her. Her scowl robbed her of much of her beauty. “I
know the dangers of the Shadow, Anaiya. Better than you do. I was raised in the
Borderlands, after all.”
Anaiya quelled Alanna’s outburst with no more than a raised eyebrow. Her dark
cheeks darkened farther, and then darkened even more when Rand strode by her.
“You! What are you doing ...” she cut herself off with a snap of her teeth,
eyes darting back towards the bedchambers beyond the doorway. He ran on without
responding.
Once out of the women’s apartments, Rand took a moment to string his bow. There
was turmoil all around him out in the keep. Men running for the courtyards with
swords in hand, never looking at him. Over the clamour of alarm bells, he could
make out other noises, now. Shouts. Screams. Metal ringing on metal. He had
just time to realize they were the sounds of battle—Fighting? Inside the
keep?—when three Trollocs came dashing around a corner in front of him.
Hairy snouts distorted otherwise human faces, and one of them had ram’s horns.
They bared teeth, raising scythe-like swords as they sped toward him.
The hallway that had been full of running men a moment before was empty now
except for the three Trollocs and himself. Caught by surprise, his hastily-
strung arrow thudded into the first Trolloc’s stomach, lethal, but not
instantly so. It staggered as it ran, falling to its knees near the stairway up
to the woman’s apartments. The other two would be on Rand before he could nock
another arrow so he dropped the bow and reached for his sword.
Before he could draw it a pair of red spikes appeared on the Trollocs’ chests.
They fell forwards, revealing the two Warders behind them, clad in their
colour-shifting cloaks. One was pale and the other dark, but both moved with
the lean, deadly grace of hunting wolves. They pulled their swords free of the
Trollocs’ backs, heads swivelling this way and that, watching everything.
Fire burst from the stairway nearby, incinerating the injured Trolloc. Alanna
glided down to meet her Warders with her chin raised proudly. She cast Rand an
appraising look, but he ignored her. Snatching up his bow, he ran farther into
the keep.
Turning a corner he saw another group of Trollocs. Suddenly there were a dozen
Shienarans rushing past him at the Trollocs, men only half dressed, but swords
at the ready. One Trolloc snarled as it died, and its companions ran, pursued
by shouting men waving steel. Shouts and screams filled the air from
everywhere.
An explosive roar drew him toward the garden, down blood-stained hallways
littered with the bodies of humans and Trollocs both. As he reached the narrow
window overlooking the garden he heard a shriek of pain. Below he saw a
Myrddraal wreathed in flames, dancing in the night. The Trollocs with it roared
in a mix of rage and fear as they charged the pair before them.
The slender Aes Sedai from earlier wore a blue nightrobe now, instead or her
formal yellow dress. She must have been the first to rush out at the sound of
the alarm. Her one-eyed Warder lunged at the advancing Trollocs; his curved
two-handed sword looked heavier than those Lan and Rand used; it easily hacked
through the Trollocs’ chainmail. Two went down from a single slash but more ran
on. The Aes Sedai raised her hand and lightning shot from her fingertips.
Rand nocked an arrow and loosed, taking one Trolloc in the eye. He had another
arrow strung before his first target had hit the ground.
The dying Myrddraal still thrashed on the ground as Trolloc after Trolloc fell
around it, to sword, to arrow and to the One Power. Only when the Fade stopped
moving did the surviving Trollocs break and run, few as there were by then.
He lowered his bow and breathed a sigh of relief. The Aes Sedai looked up
towards him but in the flickering light cast by the burning shadowspawn he
could not make out her expression. He wasn’t sure he wanted to either. She
might prove to be one of his executioners. He turned his back on the garden and
ran. Where would Mat and Perrin be? What about Anna, or Loial? He could not
think. They had been avoiding him, mostly, since learning he could channel, he
did not know what they did with their time.
Chaos reigned all throughout Fal Dara keep. The Shienarans fought unarmoured,
he had no idea what had become of the nightguards. It wasn’t only the soldiers,
servants took up arms as well. As he ran through the halls of the castle he saw
a young Shienaran lord, one of Agelmar’s kin, hard-pressed by a Trolloc but
before he could line up his shot the serving girl Haku jumped the creature from
behind and plunged a dagger into its neck. Other women fought too. It was rare
for a Shienaran woman to join the army, most left the fighting to their men
while they managed the estates, but Rand saw one hard-faced woman take a
Trolloc’s leg off at the knee with her axe before hopping aside to avoid it’s
wild retaliatory swing and then coming back in to behead it as it lay on the
tiles. The woman’s topknot was of that rare ash-grey colour that Shienarans
seemed to prize. She scarcely looked like she needed Rand’s help, but he put a
few arrows through the nearby Trollocs just in case before leaving her and her
fellow soldiers to their work.
Later he saw Lord Agelmar himself from afar as the white-haired man stood in
his fine silk robe directing his officers in defence of the keep; grim and
topknotted men listened to his terse orders before running off to their
assignments. But wherever he ran Rand could find no sign of his friends.
He turned deeper into the keep, running down halls empty of life, though now
and again a dead Trolloc lay on the floor. Or a dead man. He helped where he
could, but he soon ran out of arrows and had to leave his longbow behind.
Then he came to a crossing of corridors, and to his left was the tail end of a
fight. Six top-knotted men lay bleeding and still, and a seventh was dying. The
Myrddraal gave its sword an extra twist as it pulled the blade free of the
man’s belly, and the soldier screamed as he dropped his sword and fell. The
Fade moved with viperous grace, the serpent illusion heightened by the armour
of black, overlapping plates that covered its chest. It turned, and that pale,
eyeless face studied Rand. It started toward him, smiling a bloodless smile,
not hurrying. It had no need to hurry for one man alone.
He felt rooted where he stood; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The
look of the Eyeless is fear. That was what they said along the Border.
He unsheathed his sword awkwardly, tried Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose. He
did the form so badly Lan would have stalked off in disgust. The Myrddraal
evaded it easily, disdaining to counterattack, playing with him. His hands
shook as he raised his sword for another attack. Light, it just killed seven
armed soldiers together. Light, what am I going to do. Light!
Abruptly the Myrddraal stopped, its smile gone.
“This one is mine, Rand.” Rand gave a start as Ingtar stepped up beside him,
dark and stocky in a yellow feastday coat, sword held in both hands. Ingtar’s
dark eyes never left the Fade’s face; if the Shienaran felt the fear of that
gaze, he gave no sign. “Try yourself on a Trolloc or two,” he said softly,
“before you face one of these.”
“I was looking for my friends—”
“Then go see to them.”
Rand swallowed. “We’ll take it together, Ingtar.”
“You aren’t ready for this. Go see to your friends. Go! You want Trollocs to
find them unprotected?” For a moment Rand hung there, undecided. The Fade had
raised its sword, for Ingtar. A silent snarl twisted Ingtar’s mouth, but Rand
knew it was not fear. Ingtar put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him towards
the other corridor and Rand allowed himself to be pushed. Still he felt ashamed
as he ran for the stairs that led underground. He knew a Fade’s look could make
any man afraid, but Ingtar had conquered the dread. His stomach still felt
knotted.
The corridors beneath the keep were silent, and feebly lit by flickering, far-
spaced lamps on the walls. He slowed as he came closer to the dungeons,
creeping as silently as he could on his toes. The grate of his boots on the
bare stone seemed to fill his ears. The door to the dungeons stood cracked open
a handbreadth. It should have been closed and bolted.
Staring at the door, he tried to swallow and could not. He opened his mouth to
call out, then shut it again quickly. Padan Fain was held in there, the
Darkfriend peddler who had led the Trollocs to the Theren and replaced their
comfortable lives with all this madness. Could this attack have been launched
just to free him? Rand hoped not, Fain had done more than enough damage. Taking
a deep breath, he set himself.
In one motion he pushed the door wide open and threw himself into the dungeon,
tucking his shoulder under to roll through the straw covering the floor and
come to his feet, spinning this way and that too quickly to get a clear picture
of the room, looking desperately for anyone who might attack him. There was no-
one there.
His eyes fell on the table, and he stopped dead, breath and even thought
freezing. On either side of the still-burning lamp, as if to make a
centrepiece, sat the heads of the guards in two pools of blood. Their eyes
stared at him, wide with fear, and their mouths gaped in a last scream no-one
could hear. Rand gagged and doubled over; his stomach heaved again and again as
he vomited into the straw. Finally he managed to pull himself erect, scrubbing
his mouth with his sleeve; his throat felt scraped raw.
Slowly he became aware of the rest of the room, only half seen and not taken in
during his hasty search for an attacker. Bloody lumps of flesh lay scattered
through the straw. There was nothing he could recognize as human except the two
heads. Some of the pieces looked chewed. So that’s what happened to the rest of
their bodies. He was surprised at the calmness of his thoughts, almost as if he
had achieved the void without trying. It was the shock, he knew vaguely.
Blood covered the walls, too, but in scrawled letters, single words and whole
sentences splashed on every which way. Some were harsh and angular, in a
language he did not know, though he recognized Trolloc script. Others he could
read, and wished he could not. Blasphemies and obscenities bad enough to make a
stablehand or a merchant’s guard go pale. Written by a hand more human than the
others.
“Fain.” Calmness vanished. He snatched the lamp from the table, hardly noticing
when the heads toppled over. He started toward the inner door, took two steps,
and stopped, staring. The words on the door, dark and glistening wetly in the
light of his lamp, were plain enough.
 
WE WILL MEET AGAIN ON TOMAN HEAD.
 
IT IS NEVER OVER, AL’THOR.
 
His sword dropped from a hand suddenly numb. Never taking his eyes off the
door, he bent to pick it up. Instead he grabbed a handful of straw and began
scrubbing furiously at the words on the door. Panting, he scrubbed until it was
all one bloody smear, but he could not stop.
“What do you do?”
At the sharp voice behind him, he whirled, stooping to seize his sword.
A woman stood in the outer doorway, back stiff with outrage. Her hair was like
pale gold, in a dozen or more braids, but her eyes were dark, and sharp on his
face. She looked not much older than he, and pretty in a sulky way, but there
was a tightness to her mouth he did not like. Then he saw the shawl she had
wrapped tightly around her, with its long, red fringe.
Aes Sedai. And Light help me, she’s Red Ajah. “I ... I was just ... It’s filthy
stuff. Vile.”
“Everything must be left exactly as it is for us to examine. Touch nothing.”
She took a step forward, peering at him, and he took one back. “Yes. Yes, as I
thought. One of those with Moiraine. What do you have to do with this?” Her
gesture took in the heads on the table and the bloody scrawl on the walls.
For a minute he goggled at her. “Me? Nothing! I came down here looking for my
friends.” And to see if Fain had escaped. He turned to open the inner door, and
the Aes Sedai shouted, “No! You will answer me!”
Suddenly it was all he could do to stand up, to keep holding the lamp and his
sword. Icy cold squeezed at him from all sides. His head felt caught in a
frozen vise; he could barely breathe for the pressure on his chest.
“Answer me, boy. Tell me your name.”
Involuntarily he grunted, trying to answer against the chill that seemed to be
pressing his face back into his skull, constricting his chest like frozen iron
bands. He clenched his jaws to keep the sound in. Painfully he rolled his eyes
to glare at her through a blur of tears. The Light burn you, Aes Sedai! I won’t
say a word, the Shadow take you!
“Answer me, boy! Now!”
Frozen needles pierced his brain with agony, grated into his bones. The void
formed inside him before he even realized he had thought of it, but it could
not hold out the pain. Dimly he sensed light and warmth somewhere in the
distance. It flickered queasily, but the light was warm, and he was cold.
Distant beyond knowing, but somehow just within reach. Light, so cold. I have
to reach ... what? She’s killing me. I have to reach it, or she’ll kill me.
Desperately he stretched toward the light.
“What is going on here?”
Abruptly the cold and the pressure and the needles vanished. His knees sagged,
but he forced them stiff. He would not fall to his knees; he would not give her
the satisfaction. The void was gone, too, as suddenly as it had come. She was
trying to kill me, he thought. Panting, he raised his head. Moiraine stood in
the doorway.
“I asked what is going on here, Liandrin,” she said.
“I found this boy here,” the Red Aes Sedai replied calmly. “The guards are
murdered, and here he is. One of yours. And what are you doing here, Moiraine?
The battle is above, not here.”
“I could ask the same of you, Liandrin.” Moiraine looked around the room with
only a slight tightening of her mouth for the charnel. “Why are you here?”
Rand turned away from them, awkwardly shoved back the bolts on the inner door,
pulled it open and went in, holding his lamp high. His knees kept wanting to
give way; he was not sure how he stayed on his feet, or what the Aes Sedai had
tried to do to him, or how he had resisted it.
A hollow gurgle and a thrashing sound came from his right, and he thrust the
lamp that way. A prisoner in a fancy coat was sagging against the iron grille
of his cell, his belt looped around the bars and then around his neck. As Rand
looked, he gave one last kick, scraping across the straw-covered floor, and was
still, tongue and eyes bulging out of a face gone almost black. His knees
almost touched the floor; he could have stood anytime he wanted to.
Shivering, Rand peered into the next cell. A big man with the sunken knuckles
huddled in the back of his cell, eyes as wide as they could open. At the sight
of Rand, he screamed and twisted around, clawing frantically at the stone wall.
“I won’t hurt you,” Rand called. The man kept on screaming and digging. His
hands were bloody, and his scrabblings streaked across dark, congealed smears.
This was not his first attempt to dig through the stone with his bare hands.
Rand turned away, relieved that his stomach was already empty. But there was
nothing he could do for either of them.
When his light finally reached the end of the cells he found the door to Fain’s
cell standing open, and the cell empty. “He’s loose,” Rand whispered.
The chamber was suddenly flooded with light as the two Aes Sedai entered. Each
balanced a glowing ball of cool light, floating in the air above her hand.
Liandrin marched straight down the middle of the wide hall, holding her skirts
up out of the straw with her free hand, but Moiraine paused to look at the two
prisoners before following. “There is nothing to do for the one,” she said,
“and the other can wait.”
Liandrin reached Rand first, but Moiraine darted in ahead of her to examine the
empty cell. Rand looked from one Aes Sedai to the other. “Fain is gone. Do you
think they launched this attack to free him? Why?” Liandrin arched an eyebrow
at him and turned to watch Moiraine with a wry expression.
“Be quiet,” Moiraine said in a flat voice. He had the odd feeling he had
somehow embarrassed her.
Voices suddenly came from the outer room, men exclaiming in disgust and anger.
“In here,” Moiraine called.
“When I came,” Liandrin said in a cold voice, “he was destroying the writing in
the outer chamber.”
He shifted uneasily. The Aes Sedai’s eyes seemed alike, now. Measuring and
weighing him, cool and terrible.
“It—it was filth,” he said. “Just filth.” They still looked at him, not
speaking. “You don’t think I ... Moiraine, you can’t think I had anything to do
with—with what happened out there.”
She did not answer, and he felt a chill that was not lessened by men rushing in
with torches and lamps. Moiraine and Liandrin let their glowing balls wink out.
The lamps and torches did not give as much light; shadows sprang up in the
depths of the cells.
Ingtar led the men. His topknot almost quivered with anger, and he looked eager
to find something on which to use his sword. “So the Darkfriend is gone, too,”
he growled. “Well, it’s the least of what has happened this night.”
“The least even here,” Moiraine said sharply with a hard look for Liandrin
before she glided towards the door.
Liandrin watched her, then turned to stare at Rand. He tried to ignore her. He
concentrated on scabbarding his sword and brushing off the straw that clung to
his breeches. When he raised his head, though, she was still studying him, her
face as blank as ice. Saying nothing, she turned to consider the other men
thoughtfully. One held the body of the hanged man up while another worked to
unfasten the belt. Ingtar and the others waited respectfully. With a last
glance at Rand, she left, head held like a queen.
“A hard woman,” Ingtar muttered, then seemed surprised that he had spoken.
“What happened here, Rand al’Thor?”
Rand shook his head. “I don’t know, except that Fain escaped somehow. I saw the
guardroom”—he shuddered—“but in here ... Whatever it was, Ingtar, it scared
that fellow bad enough that he hung himself. I think the other one’s gone mad
from seeing it.”
“We are all going mad tonight.”
“The Fade ... you killed it?”
“No!” Ingtar slammed his sword into its sheath; the hilt stuck up above his
right shoulder. He seemed angry and ashamed at the same time. “It’s out of the
keep by now, along with the rest of what we could not kill.”
“At least you’re alive, Ingtar. That Fade killed seven men!”
“Alive? Is that so important?” Suddenly Ingtar’s face was no longer angry, but
tired and full of pain. “We had it in our hands. In our hands! And we lost it,
Rand. Lost it!” He sounded as if he could not believe what he was saying.
“Lost what?” Rand asked.
“The Horn! The Horn of Valere. It’s gone, chest and all,” said Ingtar
despairingly.
“But it was in the strongroom.”
“The strongroom was looted,” Ingtar said wearily. “Berisha Sedai and her
Warder, who were guarding the door, were murdered. The killers did not take
much, except for the Horn. What they could stuff in their pockets. I wish they
had taken everything else and left that.”
His voice became quiet. “Ronan is dead too. He did not go down easily, though.
The old man had blood on his dagger. No man can ask more than that.” He was
silent for a moment. “When I was a boy, Ronan held Jehaan Tower with twenty men
against a thousand Trollocs.”
Rand sighed. The whole thing reminded him all too well of the Trolloc raid on
Emond’s Field last Winternight. “How did they get in,” he asked grimly.
“They came in through the Dog Gate, and left the same way. We put an end to
fifty or more, but too many escaped. Trollocs! We’ve never before had Trollocs
inside the keep. Never!”
“How could they get in through the Dog Gate, Ingtar? One man could stop a
hundred there. And all the gates were barred.” He shifted uneasily, remembering
why. “The guards would not have opened it to let anybody in.”
“Their throats were cut,” Ingtar said. “Both good men, and yet they were
butchered like pigs. It was done from inside. Someone killed them, then opened
the gate. Someone who could get close to them without suspicion. Someone they
knew.”
Rand looked at the empty cell where Padan Fain had been. “But that means ...”
“Yes. There are Darkfriends inside Fal Dara. Or were. We will soon know if
that’s the case. Kajin is checking now to see if anyone is missing. Peace!
Treachery in Fal Dara keep!” Scowling, he looked around the dungeon, at the men
waiting for him. They all had swords, and some had helmets, but few were fully
dressed. “We aren’t doing any good here. Out! Everyone!” Rand joined the
withdrawal.
“I suppose Lord Agelmar’s doubled the guard on all the gates,” he sighed.
“Tripled,” Ingtar said in tones of satisfaction. “No-one will pass those gates,
from inside or out. As soon as Lord Agelmar heard what had happened, he ordered
that no-one was to be allowed to leave the keep without his personal
permission.”
As soon as he heard ...? “Ingtar, what about before? What about the earlier
order keeping everyone in?”
“Earlier order? What earlier order? Rand, the keep was not closed until Lord
Agelmar heard of this. Someone told you wrong.”
Rand shook his head slowly. Neither Ragan nor Tema would have made up something
like that. And even if the Amyrlin Seat had given the order, Ingtar would have
to know of it. So who? And how? He glanced sideways at Ingtar, wondering if the
Shienaran was lying. You really are going mad if you suspect Ingtar.
They were in the dungeon guardroom, now. The severed heads and the pieces of
the guards had been removed, though there were still red smears on the table
and damp patches in the straw to show where they had been. Two more Aes Sedai
were there, placid-looking women with brown-fringed shawls, studying the words
scrawled on the walls, careless of what their skirts dragged through in the
straw. Each had an inkpot in a writing-case hung at her belt and was making
notes in a small book with a pen. They never even glanced at the men trooping
through.
“Look here, Verin,” the plumply pretty one said, pointing to a section of stone
covered with lines of Trolloc script. “This looks interesting.”
Her shorter, greying, companion hurried over, picking up reddish stains on her
skirt. “Yes, I see. A much better hand than the rest. Not a Trolloc. Very
interesting.” She began writing in her book, looking up every so often to read
the angular letters on the wall.
Rand hurried out. Even if they had not been Aes Sedai, he would not have wanted
to remain in the same room with anyone who thought reading Trolloc script
written in human blood was “interesting”.
Ingtar and his men stalked on ahead, intent on their duties. Rand dawdled,
wondering where he could go now. He still hadn’t seen any sign of his friends
and getting back into the women’s apartments would not be easy without Nynaeve
to help.
Lan found him before he reached the first stairs leading up. “You can go back
to your room, if you want, sheepherder. Moiraine had your things fetched from
Nynaeve’s room and taken to yours.”
“How did she know where I was hiding?” Rand asked, concentrating hard on that
question, hoping that nothing else of what he’d been doing there showed on his
face.
Lan’s face was as unreadable as ever. “Moiraine knows a great many things,
sheepherder. You should understand that by now. You had better watch yourself.
The women are all talking about you running through the halls, waving a sword.
Staring down the Amyrlin, so they say.”
“Light! I am sorry they’re angry, Lan, but I was invited in. And when I heard
the alarm ...”
Lan pursed his lips thoughtfully; it was the only expression on his face. “Oh,
they’re not angry, exactly. Though most of them think you need a strong hand to
settle you down some. Fascinated is more like it. Even the Lady Amalisa can’t
stop asking questions about you. Some of them are starting to believe the
servants’ tales. They think you’re a prince in disguise, sheepherder. Not a bad
thing. There is an old saying here in the Borderlands: ‘Better to have one
woman on your side than ten men.’ The way they are talking among themselves,
they’re trying to decide whose daughter is strong enough to handle you. If you
don’t watch your step, sheepherder, you will find yourself married into a
Shienaran House before you realize what has happened.” Suddenly he burst out
laughing; it looked odd, like a rock laughing. “Running through the halls of
the women’s apartments in the middle of the night waving a sword. If they don’t
have you flogged, at the very least they’ll talk about you for years. They have
never seen a male as peculiar as you. Whatever wife they chose for you, she’d
probably have you the head of your own House in ten years, and have you
thinking you had done it yourself, besides. It is too bad you have to leave.”
Rand had been gaping at the Warder, but now he growled, “I have been trying.
The gates are guarded, and no-one can leave. I tried while it was still
daylight. I couldn’t even take Red out of the stable.”
“No matter, now. Moiraine sent me to tell you. You can leave anytime you want
to. Even right now. Moiraine had Agelmar exempt you from the order.”
“Why now, and not earlier? Why couldn’t I leave before? Was she the one who had
the gates barred then? Ingtar said he knew nothing about any order to keep
people in before tonight.”
Rand thought the Warder looked troubled, but all he said was, “When someone
gives you a horse, sheepherder, don’t complain that it isn’t as fast as you’d
like.”
“What about the others? Are they alright? I can’t leave until I know they’re
alright.”
“The girl is fine. I saw her earlier, stalking around the upper parapets with
that bow of hers, winning some admiring looks from the fighters below.”
That was a relief. “What about Mat and Perrin? And Loial.”
“I saw the Ogier as well. He was unharmed. And the two ta’veren have fate on
their side, they will not be easily killed. The choice is up to you,
sheepherder. You can leave now, or tomorrow, or next week. It’s up to you.” He
walked away, leaving Rand standing there in the corridor deep under Fal Dara
keep. But much as he wanted to run, to live, Rand had already made his
decision.
***** Dark Prophecy *****
CHAPTER 8: Dark Prophecy
 
As the litter carrying Mat left the Amyrlin Seat’s chambers, Moiraine carefully
rewrapped the angreal—a small, age-darkened ivory carving of a woman in flowing
robes—in a square of silk and put it back into her pouch. Working together with
other Aes Sedai, merging their abilities, channelling the flow of the One Power
to a single task, was tiring work under the best conditions, even with the aid
of an angreal, and working through the night without sleep was not the best
conditions. The work they had done on the boy had not been easy and more
importantly it had not been conclusive. They could suppress Mashadar’s
influence on him but they would need to use something more powerful to fully
break his link to the evil that devoured Shadar Logoth. There were sa’angreal
in the White Tower that would more than suffice, though she expected that
getting the boy to accompany the Amyrlin on her return trip would prove tiring.
Leane directed the litter bearers out with sharp gestures and a few crisp
words. The two men kept ducking their heads, nervous at being around so many
Aes Sedai at once, and one of them the Amyrlin herself, never mind that the Aes
Sedai had been using the Power. They had waited in the corridor, squatting
against the wall while the work was done, and they were anxious to be gone from
the women’s apartments. Mat lay with his eyes closed and his face pale, but his
chest rose and fell in the even rhythm of a deep sleep.
How will this affect matters?Moiraine wondered.He is not necessary with the
Horn gone, and yet ... She had hoped that the Circle would prove sufficient
without a sa’angreal; hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary for Mat to visit the
Tower. Bringing a ta’veren to Tar Valon promised many dangers, both to the city
and to the ta’veren. Perhaps from her own sisters even. What had Liandrin been
doing to Rand last night? She had stopped quickly once she realised Moiraine
was watching, but from the little she had seen of the weave it almost resembled
Compulsion—a forbidden weave that allowed a channeler to force her will on
someone’s mind.
If she could not even trust her fellow Aes Sedai ... but no. There was prudence
and then there was madness. She had detected no sign of malfeasance in the
attempted Healing, and they had used a full Circle of thirteen to try to break
the dagger’s hold on Mat. Of those sisters present, all but the two Reds, the
sadly departed Berisha, and Alviarin had been involved. The White was busy
gathering a report on their sister’s death.
What could kill an Aes Sedai and a Warder like that? So brutally that the
bodies would be almost unrecognisable?They had performed the Healing now
instead of later as much to have an opportunity to discuss the attack, and to
gather in numbers, as for concern over Mat’s health. Some suggested a Grey
Man’s involvement in the murder, but the Soulless were Shadowspawn, even if
they had been human once, and any Aes Sedai or Warder should be able to detect
their presence. Unless they have learned to hide themselves even from us. A
disturbing thought.
Siuan’s Warder, the tall and grey-haired Alric, held the door for the sisters
to depart behind Leane and the litter bearers, then closed it with himself on
the outside. None would intrude on the Amyrlin while he lived.
Siuan drew an unsteady breath. “A nasty business that. Nasty.” Her face was
smooth, but she rubbed her hands together as if she wanted to wash them.
“But quite interesting,” Verin said. She had lingered when the others departed,
scribbling intently in her notebook. “It is too bad we do not have a sa’angreal
so the Healing could be complete. For all we did tonight, he will not live
long. Months, perhaps, at best.”
Beyond the arrowslits dawn pearled the sky. It had been a long night. “But he
will have those months, now,” Moiraine said sharply. “And the link can still be
broken.”
“It can still be broken,” Verin agreed. She was a plump, square-faced woman,
and even with the Aes Sedai gift of agelessness, there was a touch of grey in
her brown hair. That was her only sign of age, but for an Aes Sedai it meant
she was very old indeed. Her voice held steady, though, matching her smooth
cheeks. “He has been linked to the dagger a long time, however, as a thing like
that must be reckoned. And he will be linked longer yet. He may already be
changed beyond the reach of full Healing, even if no longer enough to
contaminate others. Such a small thing, that dagger,” she mused, “but it will
corrupt whoever carries it long enough. He who carries it will in turn corrupt
those who come in contact with him, and they will corrupt still others, and the
hatred and suspicion that destroyed Shadar Logoth, every man and woman’s hand
turned against every other, will be loose in the world again. I wonder how many
people it can taint in, say, a year. It should be possible to calculate a
reasonable approximation.”
Moiraine gave the Brown sister a wry look. Another danger confronts us, and she
sounds as if it is a puzzle in a book. Light, the Browns truly are not aware of
the world at all. “Then we must take Mat and the dagger to Tar Valon, Sister,
and put an end to the danger before it can spread.”
Siuan rubbed her eyes tiredly. “We have another worry. We must find this Padan
Fain. Why is one Darkfriend important enough for them to risk what they did to
rescue him? Much easier for them just to steal the Horn. Still risky as a
winter gale in the Sea of Storms, coming into the very keep like that, but they
compounded their risk to free this Darkfriend. If the Lurks think he is that
important”—she paused, and Moiraine knew she was wondering if it truly was
still only the Myrddraal giving commands—“then so must we.”
“He must be found,” Moiraine agreed, hoping that none of the urgency she felt
showed, “but it is likely he will be found with the Horn. Agelmar is sending
men to hunt those who took it and slew his family’s oathmen.”
“As you say, Daughter.” The Amyrlin pressed fingers to her lips to stifle a
yawn. “And now, Verin, if you will excuse me, I will just say a few words to
Moiraine and then sleep a little. Your help was invaluable, Daughter. Please
remember, say nothing of the nature of the boy’s hurt to anyone. There are some
who would see the Shadow in him instead of a thing men made on their own.”
There was no need to name the Red Ajah. And perhaps, Moiraine thought, the Reds
were no longer the only ones of whom it was necessary to be wary.
“I will say nothing, of course, Mother.” Verin bowed, but made no move toward
the door. “I thought you might wish to see this, Mother.” She pulled another
small notebook, bound in soft, brown leather, from her belt. Verin carried a
small library’s worth with her. “What was written on the walls in the dungeon.
There were few problems with translation. Most was the usual—blasphemy and
boasting; Trollocs seem to know little else—but there was one part done in a
better hand. An educated Darkfriend, or perhaps a Myrddraal. It could be only
taunting, yet it has the form of poetry, or song, and the sound of prophecy. We
know little of prophecies from the Shadow, Mother.”
The Amyrlin hesitated only a moment before nodding. Prophecies from the Shadow,
dark prophecies, had an unfortunate way of being fulfilled as well as
prophecies from the Light. “Read it to me.”
Verin ruffled through the pages, then cleared her throat and began in a calm,
level voice.
 
“Daughter of the Night, she walks again. The ancient war, she yet fights.
Her new lover she seeks, who shall serve her and die, yet serve still.
Who shall stand against her coming?
The Shining Walls shall kneel.
Blood feeds blood.
Blood calls blood.
Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.
The man who channels stands alone. He gives his friends for sacrifice.
Two roads before him, one to death beyond dying, one to life eternal.
Which will he choose? Which will he choose?
What hand shelters? What hand slays?
Blood feeds blood.
Blood calls blood.
Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.
Luc came to the Mountains of Doom. Isam waited in the high passes.
The hunt is now begun. The Shadow’s hounds now course, and kill.
One did live, and one did die, but both are.
The Time of Change has come.
Blood feeds blood.
Blood calls blood.
Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.
The Watchers wait on Toman’s Head.
The seed of the Hammer burns the ancient tree.
Death shall sow, and summer burn, before the Great Lord comes.
Death shall reap, and bodies fail, before the Great Lord comes.
Again the seed slays ancient wrong, before the Great Lord comes.
Now the Great Lord comes.
Now the Great Lord comes.
Blood feeds blood.
Blood calls blood.
Blood is, and blood was, and blood shall ever be.
Now the Great Lord comes.”
 
There was a long silence when she finished.
Finally the Amyrlin said, “Who else has seen this, Daughter? Who knows of it?”
“Only Serafelle, Mother. As soon as we had copied it down, I had men scrub the
walls. They didn’t question; they were eager to be rid of it.”
The Amyrlin nodded. “Good. Too many in the Borderlands can puzzle out Trolloc
script. No need to give them something else to worry over. They have enough.”
“What do you make of it?” Moiraine asked Verin in a careful voice. “Is it
prophecy, do you think?”
Verin tilted her head, peering at her notes in thought. “Possibly. It has the
form of some of the few dark prophecies we know. And parts of it are clear
enough. It could still be only a taunt, though.” She rested a finger on one
line. “ ‘Daughter of the Night, she walks again.’ That can only mean Lanfear is
loose again. Or someone wants us to think she is.”
“That would be something to worry us, Daughter,” the Amyrlin Seat said, “if it
were true. But the Forsaken are still bound.” She glanced at Moiraine, looking
troubled for an instant before she schooled her features. “Even if the seals
are weakening, the Forsaken are still bound.” Moiraine had not yet had the
opportunity to tell her about the encounter with Aginor at the Eye of the
World. But they could not speak of that in front of Verin.
First Aginor, and now Lanfear. In the Old Tongue the name meant Daughter of the
Night. Nowhere was her real name recorded, but that was the name she had taken
for herself, unlike most of the Forsaken, who had been named by those they
betrayed. Some said she had really been the most powerful of the Forsaken, next
to Ishamael, the Betrayer of Hope, but had kept her powers hidden. Too little
was left from that time for any scholar to say for certain.
“With all the false Dragons that are appearing, it is not surprising someone
would try to bring Lanfear into it.” Moiraine’s voice was as unruffled as her
face, but inside herself she roiled. Only one thing for certain was known of
Lanfear beside the name: before she went over to the Shadow, before Lews Therin
Telamon met Ilyena, Lanfear had been his lover. A complication we do not need.
The Amyrlin Seat frowned as if she had had the same thought, but Verin nodded
as if it were all just words. “Other names are clear, too, Mother. Lord Luc, of
course, was brother to Tigraine, then the Daughter-Heir of Andor, and he
vanished in the Blight. Who Isam is, or what he has to do with Luc, I do not
know, however.”
“We will find out what we need to know in time,” Moiraine said smoothly. “There
is no proof as yet that this is prophecy.” She knew the name. Isam had been the
son of Breyan, wife of Lain Mandragoran, whose attempt to seize the throne of
Malkier for her husband had brought the Trolloc hordes crashing down. Breyan
and her infant son had both vanished when the Trollocs overran Malkier. And
Isam had been blood kin to Lan. Or is blood kin? I must keep this from him,
until I know how he will react. Until we are away from the Blight. If he
thought Isam were alive ...
“ ‘The Watchers wait on Toman Head,’ ” Verin went on. “There are a few who
still cling to the old belief that the armies Artur Hawkwing sent across the
Aryth Ocean will return one day, though after all this time ...” She gave a
disdainful sniff. “The Do Miere A’vron, the Watchers Over the Waves, still have
a ... community is the best word, I suppose ... on Toman Head, at Falme. And
one of the old names for Artur Hawkwing was Hammer of the Light.”
“Are you suggesting, Daughter,” the Amyrlin Seat said, “that Artur Hawkwing’s
armies, or rather their descendants, might actually return after a thousand
years?”
“There are rumours of war on Almoth Plain and Toman Head,” Moiraine said
slowly. “And Hawkwing sent two of his sons, as well as armies. If they did
survive in whatever lands they found, there could well be many descendants of
Hawkwing. Or none.”
The Amyrlin gave Moiraine a guarded look, obviously wishing they were alone so
she could demand to know what Moiraine was up to. Moiraine made a soothing
gesture, and her old friend grimaced at her.
Verin, with her nose still buried in her notes, noticed none of it. “I don’t
know, Mother. I doubt it, though. We know nothing at all of those lands Artur
Hawkwing set out to conquer. It’s too bad the Sea Folk refuse to cross the
Aryth Ocean. They say the Islands of the Dead lie on the other side. I wish I
knew what they meant by that, but that accursed Sea Folk closemouthedness ...”
She sighed still not raising her head. “All we have is one reference to ‘lands
under the Shadow, beyond the setting sun, beyond the Aryth Ocean, where the
Armies of Night reign.’ Nothing there to tell us if the armies Hawkwing sent
were enough by themselves to defeat these ‘Armies of the Night,’ or even to
survive Hawkwing’s death. Once the War of the Hundred Years started, everyone
was too intent on carving out their own part of Hawkwing’s empire to spare a
thought for his armies across the sea. It seems to me, Mother, that if their
descendants still lived, and if they ever intended to return, they would not
have waited so long.”
“Then you believe it is not prophecy, Daughter?”
“Now, ‘the ancient tree,’ ” Verin said, immersed in her own thoughts. “There
have always been rumours—no more than that—that while the nation of Almoth
still lived, they had a branch of Avendesora, perhaps even a living sapling.
And the banner of Almoth was ‘blue for the sky above, black for the earth
below, with the spreading Tree of Life to join them.’ Of course, Taraboners
call themselves the Tree of Man, and claim to be descended from rulers and
nobles in the Age of Legends. And Domani claim descent from those who made the
Tree of Life in the Age of Legends. There are other possibilities, but you will
note, Mother, that most centre around Almoth Plain and Toman Head.”
The Amyrlin’s voice became deceptively gentle. “Will you make up your mind,
Daughter? If Artur Hawkwing’s seed is not returning, then this is not prophecy
and it doesn’t matter a rotted fish head what ancient tree is meant.”
“I can only give you what I know, Mother,” Verin said, looking up from her
notes, “and leave the decision in your hands. I believe the last of Artur
Hawkwing’s foreign armies died long ago, but because I believe it does not make
it so. The Time of Change, of course, refers to the end of an Age and the Great
Lord—”
The Amyrlin slapped the tabletop like a thunderclap. “I know very well who the
Great Lord is Daughter. I think you had better go now.” She took a deep breath,
and took hold of herself visibly. “Go, Verin. I do not want to become angry
with you. I do not want to forget who it was had the cooks leave sweetcakes out
at night when I was a Novice.”
“Mother,” Moiraine said, “there is nothing in this to suggest prophecy. Anyone
with a little wit and a little knowledge could put together as much, and no-one
has ever said Myrddraal do not have a sly wit.”
“And of course,” Verin said calmly, “the man who channels must be one of the
three young men travelling with you, Moiraine.”
Moiraine stared in shock. Not aware of the world? I am a fool. Before she
realized what she was doing, she had reached out to the pulsing glow she always
felt there waiting, to the True Source.
The One Power surged along her veins, charging her with energy, muting the
sheen of Power from the Amyrlin Seat as she did the same. Moiraine had never
before even thought of wielding the Power against another Aes Sedai. We live in
perilous times, and the world hangs in the balance, and what must be done, must
be done. It must. Oh, Verin, why did you have to put your nose in where it does
not belong?
Verin closed her book and slipped it back behind her belt, then looked from one
woman to the other. She could not but be aware of the nimbus surrounding each
of them, the light that came from touching the True Source. Only someone
trained in channelling herself could see the glow, but there was no chance of
any Aes Sedai missing it in another woman.
A hint of satisfaction settled on Verin’s face, but no sign that she realized
she had hurled a lightning bolt. She only looked as if she had found another
piece that fit in a puzzle. “Yes, I thought it must be so. Moiraine could not
do this alone, and who better to help than her girlhood friend who used to
sneak down with her to snitch sweetcakes.” She blinked. “Forgive me, Mother. I
should not have said that.”
“Verin, Verin.” The Amyrlin shook her head wonderingly. “You accuse your
sister—and me?— of ... I won’t even say it. And you are worried that you’ve
spoken too familiarly to the Amyrlin Seat? You bore a hole in the boat and
worry that it’s raining. Think what you are suggesting, Daughter.”
It is too late for that, Siuan, Moiraine thought. If we had not panicked and
reached for the Source, perhaps then ... But she is sure, now. “Why are you
telling us this, Verin?” she said aloud. “If you believe what you say, you
should be telling it to the other sisters, to the Reds in particular.”
Verin’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I should. I hadn’t
thought of that. But then, if I did, you would be Stilled, Moiraine, and you,
Mother, and the man Gentled. No-one has ever recorded the progression in a man
who wields the Power. When does the madness come, exactly, and how does it take
him? How quickly does it grow? Can he still function with his body rotting
around him? For how long? Unless he is Gentled, what will happen to the young
man, whichever he is, will happen whether or not I am there to put down the
answers. If he is watched and guided, we should be able to keep some record
with reasonable safety, for a time, at least. And, too, there is The Karaethon
Cycle.” She calmly returned their startled looks. “I assume, Mother, that he is
the Dragon Reborn? I cannot believe you would do this—leave walking free a man
who can channel—unless he was the Dragon.”
She thinks only of the knowledge, Moiraine thought wonderingly. The culmination
of the direst prophecy the world knows, perhaps the end of the world, and she
cares only about the knowledge. But she is still dangerous, for that.
“Who else knows of this?” The Amyrlin’s voice was faint, but still sharp.
“Serafelle, I suppose. Who else, Verin?”
“No-one, Mother. Serafelle is not really interested in anything that someone
hasn’t already set down in a book, preferably as long ago as possible. She
thinks there are enough old books and manuscripts and fragments scattered
about, lost or forgotten, to equal ten times what we have gathered in Tar
Valon. She feels certain there is enough of the old knowledge still there to be
found for—”
“Enough, Sister,” Moiraine said. She loosed her hold on the True Source, and
after a moment felt the Amyrlin do the same. It was always a loss to feel the
Power draining away, like blood and life pouring from an open wound. A part of
her wanted to hold on, but unlike some of her sisters, she made it a point of
self-discipline not to grow too fond of the feeling. “Sit down, Verin, and tell
us what you know and how you found it out. Leave out nothing.”
As Verin took a chair—with a look to the Amyrlin for permission to sit in her
presence— Moiraine watched her sadly.
“It is unlikely,” Verin began, “that anyone who hasn’t studied the old records
thoroughly would notice anything except that you were behaving oddly. Forgive
me, Mother. It was nearly twenty years ago, with Tar Valon besieged, that I had
my first clue, and that was only ...”
Light help me, Verin, how I loved you for those sweetcakes, and for your bosom
to weep on. But I will do what I must do. I will. I must.
 
                                     * * *
 
The column would have made an impressive sight under the waxing moon, moving
through the Domani night to the jangle of harness, had there been anyone to see
it. A full two thousand Children of the Light, well mounted, in white tabards
and cloaks, armour burnished, with their train of supply wagons, and farriers,
and grooms with the strings of remounts. There were villages in this sparsely
forested country, but they had left roads behind, and stayed clear of even
farmers’ crofts. They were to meet ... someone ... at a flyspeck village near
the northern border of Arad Doman, at the edge of Almoth Plain.
Geofram Bornhald, riding at the head of his men, wondered what it was all
about. He remembered too well his interview with Pedron Niall, Lord Captain
Commander of the Children of the Light, in Amador, but he had learned little
there.
“We are alone, Geofram,” the white-haired man had said. His voice was thin and
reedy with age. “I remember giving you the oath ... what ... thirty-six years
ago, it must be, now.”
Geofram straightened. “My Lord Captain Commander, may I ask why I was called
back from Caemlyn, and with such urgency? A push, and Morgase could be toppled.
There are Houses in Andor that see dealing with Tar Valon as we do, and they
were ready to lay claim to the throne. I left Eamon Valda in charge, but he
seemed intent on following the Daughter-Heir to Tar Valon. I would not be
surprised to learn the man has kidnapped the girl, or even attacked Tar Valon.”
And Dain, Geofram’s son, had arrived just before Geofram was recalled. Dain was
full of zeal. Too much zeal, sometimes. Enough to fall in blindly with whatever
Valda proposed.
“Valda walks in the Light, Geofram. But you are the best battle commander among
the Children. You will assemble a full legion, the best men you can find, and
take them into Arad Doman, avoiding any eyes attached to a tongue that may
speak. Any such tongue must be silenced, if the eyes see.”
Geofram hesitated. Fifty Children together, or even a hundred, could enter any
land without question, at least without open question, but an entire legion ...
“Is it war, my Lord Captain Commander? There is talk in the streets. Wild
rumours, mainly, about Artur Hawkwing’s armies come back.” The old man did not
speak. “The Queen ...”
“Does not command the Children, Lord Captain Bornhald.” For the first time
there was a snap in the Lord Captain Commander’s voice. “I do. Let the Queen
sit in her palace and do what she does best. Nothing. You will be met at a
village called Alcruna, and there you will receive your final orders. I expect
your legion to ride in three days. Now go, Geofram. You have work to do.”
Geofram frowned. “Pardon, my Lord Captain Commander, but who will meet me? Why
am I risking another war with Arad Doman?”
“You will be told what you must know when you reach Alcruna.” The Lord Captain
Commander suddenly looked more than his age. Absently he plucked at his white
tunic, with the golden sunburst of the Children large on the chest. “There are
forces at work beyond what you know, Geofram. Beyond what even you can know.
Choose your men quickly. Now go. Ask me no more. And the Light ride with you.”
Now Geofram straightened in his saddle, working a knot out of his back. I am
getting old, he thought. A day and a night in the saddle, with two pauses to
water the horses, and he felt every grey hair on his head. He would not even
have noticed a few years ago. At least I have not killed any innocents. He
could be as hard on Darkfriends as any man sworn to the Light—Darkfriends must
be destroyed before they pulled the whole world under the Shadow—but he wanted
to be sure they were Darkfriends first. It had been difficult avoiding Domani
eyes with so many men, even in the backcountry, but he had managed it. No
tongues had needed to be silenced.
The scouts he had sent out came riding back, and behind them came more men in
white cloaks, some carrying torches to ruin the night vision of everyone at the
head of the column. With a muttered curse, Geofram ordered a halt while he
studied those who came to meet him.
Their cloaks bore the same golden sunburst on the breast as his, the same as
every Child of the Light, and their leader even had golden knots of rank below
it equivalent to Geofram’s. But behind their sunbursts were red shepherd’s
crooks. Questioners. With hot irons and pinchers and dripping water the
Questioners pulled confession and repentance from Darkfriends, but there were
those who said they decided guilt before ever they began. Geofram Bornhald was
one who said it.
I have been sent here to meet Questioners?
“We have been waiting for you, Lord Captain Bornhald,” the leader said in a
harsh voice. He was a tall, hook-nosed man with the gleam of certainty in his
eyes that every Questioner had. “You could have made better time. I am Einor
Saren, second to Jaichim Carridin, who commands the Hand of the Light in
Valreis.” The Hand of the Light—the Hand that dug out truth, so they said. They
did not like the name Questioners. “There is a bridge at the village. Have your
men move across. We will talk in the inn. It is surprisingly comfortable.”
“I was told by the Lord Captain Commander himself to avoid all eyes.”
“The village has been ... pacified. Now move your men. I command, now. I have
orders with the Lord Captain Commander’s seal, if you doubt.”
Geofram suppressed the growl that rose in his throat. Pacified. He wondered if
the bodies had been piled outside the village, or if they had been thrown into
the River Akuum. It would be like the Questioners, cold enough to kill an
entire village for secrecy and stupid enough to throw the bodies into the river
to float downstream and trumpet their deed from Alcruna to Bandar Eban. “What I
doubt is why I am in Arad Doman with two thousand men, Questioner.”
Saren’s face tightened, but his voice remained harsh and demanding. “It is
simple, Lord Captain. There are towns and villages across Almoth Plain with
none in authority above a mayor or a Town Council. It is past time they were
brought to the Light. There will be many Darkfriends in such places.”
Geofram’s horse stamped. “Are you saying, Saren, that I’ve brought an entire
legion across Arad Doman in secrecy to root a few Darkfriends out of some
grubby villages?”
“You are here to do as you are told, Bornhald. To do the work of the Light! Or
are you sliding from the Light?” Saren’s smile was a grimace. “If battle is
what you seek, you may have your chance. The strangers have a great force on
Toman Head, more than Falmerden and Valreis may be able to hold, even if they
can stop their own bickering long enough to work together. If the strangers
break through, you will have all the fighting you can handle. The Falmerans
claim the strangers are monsters, creatures of the Dark One. Some say they have
Aes Sedai to fight for them. If they are Darkfriends, these strangers, they
will have to be dealt with, too. In their turn. But for now Falmerden will have
to face them alone. The Valreio have closed their borders and are allowing no-
one through to Toman Head, even the Children. I have that from Inquisitor
Carridin himself.”
For a moment, Geofram stopped breathing. “Then the rumours are true. Artur
Hawkwing’s armies have returned.”
“Strangers,” Saren said flatly. He sounded as if he regretted having mentioned
them. “Strangers and probably Darkfriends, from wherever they came. That is all
we know, and all you need to know. They do not concern you now. We are wasting
time. Move your men across the river, Bornhald. I will give you your orders in
the village.” He whirled his horse and galloped back the way he had come, his
torchbearers riding at his heels.
Geofram closed his eyes to hasten the return of his night sight. We are being
used like stones on a board. “Byar!” He opened his eyes as the Hundredman
appeared at his side, stiffening in his saddle before the Lord Captain. The
gaunt-faced man had almost the Questioner’s light in his eyes, but he was a
good soldier despite. “There is a bridge ahead. Pass orders to move the legion
across the river and make camp. I will join you as soon as I can.”
He gathered his reins and rode in the direction the Questioner had taken.
Stones on a board. But who is moving us? And why? If the Lord Captain Commander
simply wanted a few villages cleansed of Darkfriends he would not need to send
so many Children, or involve the Questioners. But if the nation of Almoth could
be restored under the authority of the Children of the Light then they would
have Arad Doman all-but besieged. He well knew how much it had stung Pedron
Niall’s pride to be defeated by Rodel Ituralde in the last war with Arad Doman.
Bringing the Domani to heel at last would appeal greatly to the man, especially
as old as he was. He must feel his chances to right that old wrong creeping
away from him.
Geofram was more troubled by these rumours of invasion from the sea. But if
Carridin’s word could be trusted Riela Selene had closed the passes through the
Zandarakh Mountains. He could well believe it of her. Leaving the Falmerans to
fight an invasion by themselves would neatly weaken her greatest rival. He
wouldn’t be surprised if Valreis were to declare war against Falmerden just as
soon as the latter was finished driving out these “strangers”, and was
presumably badly bloodied from the struggle. Could they truly be Hawkwings
armies, returned at last?
He almost wished he could go to Toman Head, orders and borders be damned.
Watching the Questioners at work on Almoth Plain promised to be more than
unpleasant. But if he wanted to discover the truth of the matter he would have
to risk conflict with the armies of Valreis and that was unacceptable. Whatever
was happening on Toman Head, the Falmerans would have to face it alone.
 
                                     * * *
 
“I trust then that your troops will be here shortly,” Lady Eleanor said. She
was a more than handsome woman, despite her grey hair and the fine lines on her
face. Even as much as ten years ago she had probably been stunningly beautiful.
The crossed green spears of House Elstan were proudly displayed on the wall
above her hearth. She sat in a tall chair before a roaring fire, the long table
before her littered with maps, and rolled correspondences, and surveyed her
guests regally.
“I expect they will start arriving tonight and we can march tomorrow,” his
father said contritely. “I apologise for the delay, my Lady. This is entirely
my fault.”
“There is no need to apologise, Lord Timoth,” Eleanor said. “The sudden
appearance of these invaders has us all scrambling, doesn’t it? I only received
the Queen’s summons a few days ago myself. Our footsoldiers march to Falme
already, as quickly as they can, and tomorrow my husband and son will lead our
cavalry to join them alongside your own forces. Even then I fear what you will
find in the capital. We were not prepared for a sea-borne invasion of the size
being claimed. Or even of half that size, should the tales prove to be
exaggerated.”
His father was a lean man, of an age with Lady Eleanor and every bit as grey.
His polished leathers and fine white furs gave him a wolfish appearance. “I
imagine they will, my Lady. Nothing is more likely to inflate an enemy’s
prowess than the testimony of a defeated man. Our friends on the other side of
the mountains were similarly prone to exaggeration in the last war. General
Surtir made good use of their fears.”
Eleanor nodded in remembrance. “Let us see that our current foe learns to share
those fears then, Timoth.” Standing just behind her chair with his hands folded
at the small of his back, her grey-bearded husband, a nobleman of House Loren,
also lost himself for a moment in solemn remembrance.
“Those were heady times,” said Lord Timoth, sounding as close to sad as he ever
did. “The years since have not held the same promise.”
The Lady turned her attention to Nafanyel. “May I assume this is your son? He
has your look about him.”
Lord Timoth’s mouth twisted sourly. “Taller though, there’s that.”
Nafanyel bowed to the lady. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady
Eleanor. I am Nafanyel Brylan, son of Lady Elayne Brylan,” he said. He knew his
voice sounded harsh, despite the politeness of his words. That too was
something he had inherited from his father.
“Well met. Your late mother is ever in our thoughts,” said Eleanor graciously.
Nafanyel bowed again. She was ever in his too. She had been a kind and
beautiful woman. He had inherited her glossy black hair, but little else of her
appearance. Just over six feet tall, he had a long, gaunt face with pale skin
and paler eyes. His hooked nose gave him a certain predatory appearance, which
suited him just fine. He enjoyed a good hunt.
“Perhaps you might be so good as to inform my daughter’s husband of your
retainers’ imminent arrival, Lord Nafanyel. Therus will want to be prepared to
march at first light. You will find him in the western solar I believe.”
Nafanyel bowed yet a third time and withdrew. His father watched the exchange,
flat-eyed and unsmiling.
House Elstan’s white-bearded bard, Alders, sang only martial songs tonight.
Songs of victory and defiance, and many of those home-grown from the not-
inconsiderable history of his young homeland. Falmerden was the newest nation
on Valgarda, but their independence from the Winged Throne of Valreis had been
hard-won. Grim-faced for a man of his years, Nafanyel marched by the singer. He
did not join the men who stamped and clapped in tune to the bard’s warbling.
The seat of House Elstan, like those of most Falmeran Houses, had more in
common with a military stronghold than an eastern noble’s manor. Armed and
armoured guardsmen stood sentry at the thick wooden doors to the main hall, and
he had passed many more like them on his way here, though a bare handful
compared to the forces House Elstan could muster. Had mustered, and then sent
to answer the call for aid issued by Queen Nora when she woke to find a fleet
in her harbour and an army at her gates. Soon we will join them, and face down
these invaders. He wished the thought was more exciting. At eighteen years of
age he had seen much of the hunt, but nothing of war. I will do my duty, I will
make my father proud, and honour my mother’s name.
The halls and walkways of Lady Eleanor’s home were made of the same thick, grey
stone as the tall walls and towers that surrounded it, a stern deterrence to
any attacker. But Falme’s walls had been thicker and taller, and the capital
was said to have fallen in a matter of hours.
The corridors still bustled, but with servants rushing to prepare for the
guests, rather than soldiers preparing for war. He stopped one harried-looking
fellow and secured directions to the Lord’s solar. Once there he knocked on the
polished wooden door and waited.
The man who answered had a neatly trimmed beard as black as the one Nafanyel
had shaved off just before their arrival at the Elstan’s seat. His tunic was
accented with black fox fur at cuffs and collar, as were his shin-length
leather boots. His dark trousers were wide and loose. All in all he was dressed
so similarly to Nafanyel that they might as well have been in uniform, he
realised with wry twist of his lips. “Yes?” the man said.
“Lord Therus? I am Nafanyel Brylan. Lady Eleanor asked me to inform you that my
father, Lord Timoth Rendin, has arrived and will be ready to march with you at
dawn tomorrow.”
His dark eyes lit warmly. “Ah, Lord Nafanyel. Come in, come in. That is
excellent news. We’ve delayed too long already. Barris, Gallacher and the rest
will not wait for us. They will fall on these invaders as soon as they can
reach them, to save the Queen. If, indeed, it is not too late already.”
The man ushered Nafanyel into a comfortable chamber around which was arrayed
the clutter of a young family. Books, letters, drinks, unfinished sewing, a
great many children’s toys. And, of course, a suit of armour arrayed on a
wooden stand with a shield and sword propped nearby.
“Do you think they will have killed her then?” he asked. “Surely she would be
more valuable as a hostage. My father tells me the King and their children were
at Calranell when the invaders landed.”
Therus nodded. “We had the same news. I agree it would seem foolish to execute
the Queen when her heirs are in the field, and with no less a man than Syoman
Surtir at their side. But who can say what these strangers would consider
wise.” He gave an incredulous laugh. “I’ve heard a rumour that they ride to
battle on the backs of giant frogs of all things.”
His wife, Oriana, heir to House Elstan, stood nearby, clad in shimmering green
silk and dry-washing her hands. Nafanyel suspected her sense of propriety was
all that was keeping her from clinging to her husband’s arm. She was very
pretty, with straight brown hair and big blue eyes. He studied her for a
moment, and saw in her an echo of the beauty that time was struggling to erode
from her mother.
Her young son didn’t seem to share her temperament. He bounced on his toes and
stared up at his father excitedly. “Will there really be a war, dada? Will you
bring me back a sword?” he said in a child’s voice.
Therus went to one knee, so he could look his son in the eye. “I’ll get you the
mightiest one I can find, Oren. I promise. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“I wish victory was indeed so certain. My heart is ... disquiet,” Lady Oriana
said, her voice trembling slightly.
“Don’t frighten the boy, love, I speak the truth,” Therus said heartily.
“I pray it is so,” Oriana said fervently. “The Light sustain and preserve us
all. Watch over our sons, husbands and fathers and bring them safely back to
us.”
“Ask the Creator to bring us some good ale while you’re at it,” said Therus
with a grin and a slightly exasperated shake of his head.
Nafanyel surprised himself with a laugh. If I must march to war, I can think of
worse people to march with than this one.
Oriana sniffed at them both.
“Well, if the order is finally given I must prepare our men to ride. Have no
fear, I will see you both again before we depart.” Therus gave his wife and son
a confident smile before he ushered Nafanyel out of the solar.
They spoke of hounds and hawks as they made their way to the barracks. Therus
was a son of House Calabra it turned out, whose holdings were not too far from
Nafanyel’s own family’s. He knew the land well, even after nearly a decade
away. Much as he liked the hunt, Therus admitted with a wry shrug, he’d had to
rely on his beasts to make his kills; he’d never been very good with a bow.
Nafanyel was too well-bred to boast of his own prowess in that regard, though
it was considerable.
When they arrived at the barracks they found Brylan, Rendin and Elstan
guardsmen mingled along the benches, boasting of what they would do to the
invaders, insulting their fellows, cursing, dicing, playing cards and drinking
ale. Spears, barred gates, mighty bears, all the sigils of the lordly families
were ignored for now. Nafanyel found himself wondering how much the rivalries
of the Houses were shared by those sworn to them, if any of these men really
cared what sign graced their surcoats or what cause the Lady they served fought
for. Or if they just obeyed whoever was paying their wages.
Captain Jak Denam commanded his father’s escort. A tall, broad-shouldered man
with a hard, square face and brown hair spilling to his shoulders, he silenced
the men around him with a raised hand. “Lord Nafanyel. Orders?”
“Stay sober. And sleep while you can. We march early tomorrow.”
Denam looked momentarily disappointed, but he nodded acknowledgment. His stony
eyes fell on Therus. Denam looked him over and nodded once. “Greetings, my
lord. You are the Lady’s son by marriage, are you not?”
“I am Lord Therus, yes.”
Denam’s smile did not touch his eyes. “That is good to know.” A few of the
older men with him grinned as though he had made a joke.
“Well met, captain,” said Therus distractedly. He made his way over to his own
guards and began relaying their Lady’s orders.
Nafanyel decided he would take his own advice. It promised to be a long, hard
march to Falme.
Later that night he was woken from a deep sleep by a hard hand on his shoulder.
Groggily, he looked around. Morning already? It was not like him to oversleep,
but he felt tired enough to sleep for hours.
“Wake up. Lord Timoth wants you,” a man said, his voice hard. Denam. Nafanyel
looked to the unshuttered window and saw that it was still dark outside.
He hauled himself into a sitting position. “What does my father want at this
Light-blasted hour?”
“He’s waiting in the barracks,” was all Denam said before he left. Despite the
chainmail he wore he moved almost silently, walking on soft slippers rather
than his usual heavy boots. Frowning, Nafanyel grabbed his unwashed clothes
from the floor and dressed hurriedly.
This late at night, and with so many of their people marching to war, the halls
of the Elstan stronghold were empty. Nafanyel approached and entered their
barracks without a single challenge.
He found his father within, armed, armoured and surrounded by his guardsmen.
Strewn about his feet were the corpses of the Elstan men who had been on
nightwatch.
Nafanyel felt his mouth fall open. “What happened?” he asked, for once grateful
for the natural harshness of his voice.
“A reckoning that was long overdue,” said Lord Timoth, his quiet voice dripping
satisfaction. “House Elstan, in all its pride, falls tonight.”
Blood drained from Nafanyel’s face. “What do you mean?”
His father shot him a scornful glance. “Try not to be an utter disappointment
boy. We have our so-called superiors at a disadvantage and I intend to seize
this opportunity. We will have to move swiftly. Denam, deal with Therus, Oriana
and the boy. I will take care of Lady Eleanor and her husband. The rest of you
know your tasks, make certain no-one survives.” He drew his sword, an old,
unadorned thing, but whisper-quiet and razor-sharp. “Nafanyel, get a bow from
the rack and follow me.” And just like that they were off, his family guards
stepping over the corpses of men they had been dicing with mere hours ago,
stalking away to find yet more of their countrymen to kill.
Nafanyel watched them go numbly. Why is this happening? What should I do? But
then his father called his name in a harsh whisper and he was snatching a bow
and quiver from the Elstan guard’s supplies and hurrying after the ... the
traitor to whom he owed allegiance.
On their way to the Lady’s private chambers he found ample evidence of their
men’s passing. Dead servants littered the hall. From within the chambers they
passed he could hear muffled cries as men and women were woken from sleep by a
length of sharp, cruel steel. Nafanyel felt cold inside. No alarm sounded, the
guards his father had brought with him were men experienced in the business of
killing.
They passed old Alders, his face slack with shock as he lay in a pool of his
own blood, his songs of Falmeran glory silenced forever. Nafanyel tried not to
look at his accusing, dead-eyed stare.
Their slippered feet were quiet on the soft green carpet that ran down the
middle of the stone halls. When they arrived at the Lady’s rooms they found
only two guards on duty. Two, against the dozen his father had brought. The men
exchanged uncertain looks, then the oldest of them stepped forward. “Lord
Timoth, what brings you here at this hour. Lady Eleanor is abed.”
“I know,” his father drawled. He glanced at his guard. “Shoot them.”
Three arrows thudded into the senior guard before he could react. But the
younger man was quick, he jerked his shield up and crouched behind it. The
crossed green spears painted upon it were pierced by half a dozen arrows, but
the guard survived. “’Ware treachery!” he shouted. “Wake, wake! We’re under
attack!”
“Little bastard!” Lord Timoth snarled. “Finish him, and clear the rooms.
Nafanyel, keep four men here and make sure no-one escapes.”
The young guard’s shield did not long protect him from the shouting, sword-
wielding men who now charged at Lord Timoth’s command. He went down and the
door to the chamber he guarded was soon kicked open.
Throughout the stronghold, Nafanyel could hear confused cries as the surviving
people woke to find chaos and blood all around. He notched an arrow to his
bowstring and stood, trembling with emotion. Fear, is that fear? Am I a coward?
He heard Lady Eleanor scream and looked away, looked down the corridor,
searching for an enemy, guarding his father’s back.
A door to an adjoining study burst open and a man stood silhouetted against the
candlelight within. He wore fur and leather but no armour and in his hand was a
naked sword. He gasped when he saw the bodies laying in the corridor. Nafanyel
felt the man’s eyes settle on him accusingly.
“Back-stabbers! Honourless mongrels!” roared Therus. He charged into the hall,
slashing wildly at the Brylan men. Nafanyel stumbled back, putting as much
distance as he could between them. He saw blood spurting from Mitch’s throat;
Karl lost a hand and the bow it held, but Wat and Ulic between them managed to
check the enraged Lord’s charge. Steel rang against steel as Nafanyel stood
transfixed, his arrow still nocked.
“Why?” Therus snarled, as he checked Wat’s blade and shouldered him back. “Are
you in league with the invaders?” He slipped away from Ulic’s slash and found
the gap under the arm of Wat’s armour. The guard shuddered as the cold steel
slid into his body. “Did Valreis buy you? Why are you doing this!?”
“I don’t know why,” Nafanyel whispered as he watched the man make short work of
Ulic.
Therus turned to him then, and his dark eyes were filled with hate. You’re
next, they said.
The threat snapped Nafanyel out of his funk.  He raised his bow and took aim at
Therus’ chest. “Don’t,” he warned. “Just leave. Find your wife and son and go,
before my father comes back.”
Therus’ knuckles were white on his swordhilt. “Is that what you would do?” he
hissed. Then he darted forward, moving swiftly from side to side, trying to
draw Nafanyel into wasting his arrow, as if he truly believed that would
happen. I should have told him how good a shot I was, he thought sadly. I
should have ... Therus’ sword was almost in reach of him when Nafanyel loosed.
The Lord stumbled, a thick cedar shaft protruding from his heart; his sword
fell from suddenly slack hands and he crashed to his knees. “Oriana,” he
whispered as he toppled forward. He died there, on his face in the hallway, his
hand inches from Nafanyel’s feet.
Nafanyel squeezed his eyes shut. “Why are you doing this,” he echoed. “...
father?”
He turned and stumbled towards the bedchamber, though once there he had to lean
against the doorpost and take a few moments to compose himself.
Lord Baris Loren lay dead on the floor, unarmed and wearing only a nightshirt.
Men of House Rendin were rummaging through the chests and wardrobes of his
chamber, heedless of the corpse in their midst.
“We were attacked,” Nafanyel said harshly. “Four of our men are dead.”
One thick-shouldered man grunted in response. “The lord’s in the next room,” he
said, not bothering to look up from the chest he crouched over.
When he pushed open the door and stepped inside, Nafanyel found his father
sorting through some papers on Lady Eleanor’s desk.
The Lady herself lay face down on a her bed, the sheets of which were stained
red with her blood. Her throat had been slashed and her white nightgown was
ripped at the back, leaving the pale, slack flesh of her buttocks on display.
Her blood was not the only fluid he saw staining the bed.
Nafanyel felt the rank taste of his own bile. Grimacing, he struggled to choke
it back down, determined not to shame himself by puking in front of his father.
But no amount of struggle could keep the disgust from his face.
“Therus is dead,” Nafanyel snarled. “He was in the study, working late.”
His father’s eyes were like grey stones. “Good. You did well to deal with him.
And it will make things easier for Denam.”
“Easier to do what, exactly?” he asked, but he already knew the hateful answer.
His father did not even flinch. “Kill Oriana and her son of course. And end the
Elstan line in the process.”
Of course. I knew. Burn me, but I knew. “Is that why? To end another House?
They aren’t even our enemies.”
“They think themselves better than us. But you should not be concerning
yourself with the whys of my orders, Nafanyel. Your only concern is how best to
carry those orders out. I will have more for you to do in the months to come. I
know you will not fail me.”
He might have asked what exactly he would have to do, when, and to whom, but
one phrase kept repeating in Nafanyel’s mind. Why are you doing this?
***** A Lure *****
CHAPTER 9: A Lure
 
Perrin peered around the corner at the retreating back of the Aes Sedai. She
smelled of lavender soap, though most would not have scented it even close up.
As soon as she turned out of sight, he hurried for the infirmary door. He had
already tried to see Mat once, and that Aes Sedai—Leane, he had heard somebody
call her—had nearly snapped his head off without even looking around to see who
he was. He felt uneasy around Aes Sedai, especially if they started looking at
his eyes.
Pausing at the door to listen—he could hear no footsteps down the corridor
either way, and nothing on the other side of the door—he went in and closed it
softly behind him.
The infirmary was a long room with white walls, and the entrances to archers’
balconies at either end let in lots of light. Mat was in one of the narrow beds
that lined the walls. After last night, Perrin had expected most of the beds to
have men in them, but in a moment he realized the keep was full of Aes Sedai.
The only thing an Aes Sedai could not cure by Healing was death. To him, the
room smelled of sickness anyway.
Perrin grimaced when he thought of that. Mat lay still, eyes closed, hands
unmoving atop his blankets. He looked exhausted. Not sick really, but as if he
had worked three days in the fields and only now laid down to rest. He smelled
... wrong, though. It was nothing Perrin could put a name to. Just wrong.
Perrin sat down carefully on the bed next to Mat’s. He always did things
carefully. He was bigger than most people, and had been bigger than the other
boys as long as he could remember. He had had to be careful so he would not
hurt someone accidentally, or break things. Now it was second nature to him. He
liked to think things through, too, and sometimes talk them over with somebody.
It was not the Trolloc attack of the night before that troubled him. When it
had all started he had been in one of the gardens. Some women had found him
sitting there in the dark, one of them Lady Amalisa’s attendant, the round-
faced and amber-skinned Lady Nisura. As soon as they came upon him, Nisura sent
one of the others running, and he had heard her say, “Find Liandrin Sedai!
Quickly!”
Then they had all stood there watching him as if they had thought he might
vanish in a puff of smoke like a gleeman. Perrin stared at them, dumbfounded.
He had still been trying to decide how best to ask what they wanted without
implying they had all gone crazy when the first alarm bell rang, and everybody
in the keep started running.
He had spent most of the rest of the night looking for and shadowing Anna. They
weren’t as close as they had once been. Not since the wolves ... and the
Whitecloaks. But he still cared for her and would not let any harm come to her
while he lived. They’d lost too many friends already.
“Liandrin,” he muttered now. “Red Ajah. About all they do is hunt for men who
channel. You don’t think she believes I’m one of those, do you?” Mat did not
answer, of course. Perrin rubbed his nose ruefully. “Now I’m talking to myself.
I don’t need that on top of everything else.” Rand was the one who was supposed
to go crazy, the poor fool.
Mat’s eyelids fluttered. “Who ...? Perrin? What happened?” His eyes did not
open all the way and his voice sounded as if he were still mostly asleep.
“Don’t you remember, Mat?”
“Remember?” Mat sleepily raised a hand toward his face, then let it fall again
with a sigh. His eyes began to drift shut. “Remember Moiraine. Said she needed
to reinforce the barrier. Whatever that means.” He laughed, and it turned into
a yawn. He smacked his lips, and resumed the deep, even breathing of sleep.
Perrin leaped to his feet as his ears caught the sound of approaching
footsteps, but there was nowhere to go. He was still standing there beside
Mat’s bed when the door opened and Leane came in. She stopped, put her fists on
her hips, and looked him slowly up and down. She was nearly as tall as he was
and had skin of a strange, but beautiful, colour to his Theren-bred eyes. The
world is so much bigger than I ever knew. The thought did not fill him with
wonder. Perrin would trade all the exotic sights in a heartbeat if it meant he
could go back to the way things were.
“Now you,” Leane said, in tones quiet yet brisk, “are almost a pretty enough
boy to make me wish I was a Green. Almost. But if you’ve disturbed my patient
... well, I dealt with brothers almost as big as you before I went to the
Tower, so you needn’t think those shoulders will help you any.”
Perrin cleared his throat. Half the time he did not understand what women meant
when they said things. Not like Rand. He always knew what to say to the girls.
Or had. Now, who knew what would become of him. He realized he was scowling and
wiped it away. He did not want to think about Rand, but he certainly did not
want to upset an Aes Sedai, especially one who was beginning to tap her foot
impatiently. “Ah ... I didn’t disturb him. He’s still sleeping. See?”
“So he is. A good thing for you. Now, what are you doing in here? I remember
chasing you out once; you needn’t think I don’t.”
“I only wanted to know how he is.”
She hesitated. “He is sleeping is how he is. And in a few hours, he will get
out of that bed, and you’ll think there was never anything wrong with him.”
The pause made his hackles rise. She was lying, somehow. Aes Sedai never lied,
but they did not always tell the truth, either. He was not certain what was
going on—Liandrin looking for him, Leane lying to him—but he thought it was
time he got away from Aes Sedai. There was nothing he could do for Mat.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’d better let him sleep, then. Excuse me.”
He tried to slide around her to the door, but suddenly her hands shot out and
grabbed his face, tilting it down so she could peer into his eyes. Something
seemed to pass through him, a warm ripple that started at the top of his head
and went to his feet, then came back again. He pulled his head out of her
hands.
“You’re as healthy as a young wild animal,” she said, pursing her lips. “But if
you were born with those eyes, I am a Whitecloak.”
“They’re the only eyes I ever had,” he growled. He felt a little abashed,
speaking to an Aes Sedai in that tone, but he was as surprised as she when he
took her gently by the arms and lifted her to one side, setting her down again
out of his way. As they stared at each other, he wondered if his eyes were as
wide with shock as hers. “Excuse me,” he said again, and all but ran.
My eyes. My Light-cursed eyes! The morning sunlight caught his eyes, and they
glinted like burnished gold.
He stumped along, shoulders slumped, until his feet led him to the baths. It
seemed a fitting place, though he knew no amount of scrubbing would remove the
wolves from his mind or restore his eyes to their natural brown colour. With a
sigh he pushed open the door and slipped inside, closing it again quickly to
keep the heat in. He found the baths almost empty, save for Rand.
His old friend jerked a glance at the doorway, then sighed in evident relief
when he saw it was only Perrin. He understood that. This Shienaran business of
sharing baths was ... awkward to say the least. Hopefully this early in the
morning they would have some privacy. Especially since no-one had gotten much
sleep last night.
Perrin made his way to the bench, head down and yawning, and began undressing.
Rand sat up, his bare chest glistening wet. Perrin tried not to notice. That
too was a thing of the past. The thought made him sad, but no amount of wishing
would cure Rand of the ability to channel.
“How is Anna? And Mat?” his friend asked.
“She’s asleep, so they tell me. They wouldn’t let me into the women’s
apartments to see her. Mat is—” Suddenly Perrin scowled at the floor. “If
you’re so interested, why haven’t you gone to see him yourself?” He tossed his
shirt on the bench and began undoing his belt.
“I did go to the infirmary, Perrin. There was an Aes Sedai there, that tall one
who’s always with the Amyrlin Seat. She said Mat was asleep, and I was in the
way, and I could come back some other time. She sounded like Master Finngar
ordering the men at the mill. You know how Master Finngar is all full of snap
and do it right the first time, and do it right now.”
Perrin did not answer. He just shucked off his trousers and added them to the
clothespile. What good would it do to talk about the past?
Rand studied his body as he undressed. It always made Perrin feel a little
uncomfortable when he did that, but a little excited too.
After a moment, Rand dug up a laugh. “You want to hear something? You know what
she said to me? The Aes Sedai in the infirmary, I mean. You saw how tall she
is. As tall as most men. A hand taller, and she could almost look me in the
eyes. Well, she stared me up and down, and then she muttered, ‘Tall, aren’t
you? Where were you when I was sixteen? Or even thirty?’ And then she laughed,
as if it was all a joke. What do you think of that?”
Perrin clambered into the warm water and gave him a sidelong look. “I think you
should avoid Aes Sedai as much as you can. You definitely shouldn’t be flirting
with them.”  Rand was too, well, randy for his own good sometimes. Nearly as
bad as Mat. Perhaps worse in some ways.
Rand threw up his hands. “Believe me I know. But ... never mind.”
Perrin frowned to himself as he slowly soaped up his hair, thinking it through.
“I think the Aes Sedai are looking for all of us. That Liandrin at least. She
has some of the women of the keep working for her,” he said at last.
Rand’s frown matched his own. “Why would she need searchers? Moiraine knows
where I am, even without those coins of hers.” The coins Moiraine had given the
three of them had allowed her to track them wherever they went. Mat had been
the quickest to discard his once he learned what it did, but Rand and Perrin
had not been far behind.
“Who knows why Aes Sedai do what they do? Best to just stay clear of them.”
“Easier said than done,” Rand muttered.
As if his words had summoned them, the door opened and several women entered
the baths. Perrin groaned, and Rand sunk deeper into the water with a low
growl. They weren’t Aes Sedai at least, there was that for comfort. But the
sight of Lady Amalisa, her niece Liu, her attendant Nisura and the shatayan
Elansu was more than enough to redden Perrin’s cheeks.
Amalisa paused in the doorway, looked around the room, then gave a satisfied
nod and pushed the door closed behind her. She was a short, dark-skinned and
maturely beautiful woman. Her niece looked a lot like her, though Liu had
narrower eyes and sharper cheekbones and a more slender figure. The two ladies
exchanged unreadable looks before making their way towards the benches,
ignoring the naked men in the large bathing pool.
“I have nothing against Nao,” Liu said, as though resuming a conversation, “I
simply point out that the Queen needs a more suitable consort. Preferably a
highborn lord to give her heirs.”
The four women began undressing matter-of-factly as they spoke, utterly
unconcerned by the watching men. Perrin averted his eyes and Rand did the same
... at first, but it was hard not to steal a glance every once in a while,
especially when the women weren’t even trying to hide their nakedness.
“Prince Akashi could always be married to a suitable woman and their children
allowed to take his name instead of the mother’s, should Kensin have no heir of
her own body,” said Lady Amalisa as she bared her breasts. They sagged low and
were crowned by large dark nipples.
Perrin busied himself with his bathing, fighting his body’s reaction. How could
he escape the room if he couldn’t stand up without revealing more than a decent
man ever should? He was convinced flight was needed, and not just for
propriety’s sake. Nisura had tried to hide it, but he could almost smell her
satisfaction when she had seen who occupied the baths. He felt like prey, and
his hackles tried to rise.
“Kensin’s heir would be uncontested. Akashi’s wife would face rivalry. Possibly
even rebellion from ladies who felt they would have been better suited as Queen
Regent.” Elansu spoke to her liege lady as though to an equal and Amalisa did
not rebuke her. The two women were about the same age and Perrin suspected they
were friends rather than simply mistress and servant.
“I wouldn’t relish it,” said Liu in a low voice.
“You don’t harbour ambitions of marrying the Prince, niece? Most young ladies
your age would think him a fine prize.” Her aunt’s voice was teasing.
“Most young ladies are fools,” said Liu, sounding calm despite the sharpness of
her words. “I would rather Kensin did her duty and spared us all the trouble.
You know my name will be put forward if she doesn’t, daughter of the great
captain as I am.”
“Better your brother or cousin should become Prince Consort then?” asked
Amalisa.
Rand was watching the women out of the corner of his eye and seemed to like
what he was seeing. Perrin couldn’t help but steal a glance. Liu was fully
naked, her pert breasts and the triangle of jet-black hair that covered her sex
on display for all to see. She was folding her dress as she spoke. “I know
Kajin wouldn’t object. And he and Kensin are of an age ...”
The others were naked too. Elansu was paler than her mistress, her breasts
smaller, her nipples long; her stern face was framed by dark hair cut just
short of her shoulders and her mouth framed by distinct lines that accentuated
her wide cheekbones and did nothing to hide the small smile on her lips. She
did not look in Rand’s direction, but Perrin had the feeling she was fully
aware of his scrutiny.
Come to think of it, young Lady Nisura was looking at Perrin with the same
intent stare she had worn last night. Her long black hair was pulled forward
but did little to hide her large breasts, much less her wide hips. She and
Elansu accepted small clay pots of something from Amalisa, a soap of some kind
perhaps. Nisura smiled at Perrin and he averted his gaze again, feeling more
and more like a hunted beast.
The other women held Lady Amalisa’s hands as she stepped down into the bath
between Perrin and Rand. Elansu settled on the stone rim and swung her legs
over, settling herself near Rand. She sighed in satisfaction as the warm water
covered her up to her breasts. Perrin lost sight of her when Nisura’s fine,
round bottom filled his view as she too sank into the water. Liu took a place
off to his other side with a wry smile on her face. He tried to tell himself it
was just the usual Shienaran amusement at the odd outlanders ... but there was
something strange about it all this time.
“How soon will the Queen arrive?” asked Nisura as she soaped her breasts. The
flesh jiggled hypnotically under her ministrations.
“The Amyrlin Seat’s arrival caught us all by surprise,” said Amalisa. “Kensin
will have to leave much of her court at Fal Moran if she is to make good time,
but I would be surprised again if she did anything less. With good remounts it
shouldn’t take more than five days.”
“Lord Kajin will have his chance to impress her then. Or perhaps some of the
other men of the keep will try their luck.” Nisura turned to Perrin and caught
him looking at her chest. His face turned red. Again. “Would you like to see
the Queen, Perrin?” she asked with a broad smile. “It is Perrin isn’t it?”
His tongue betrayed him. “Yes. I mean, no. I’m Perrin, but ... I ... I doubt
the Queen would ... I’m sure she’s a busy woman ...”
Elansu laughed. “That one is Perrin. Mat is the skinny fellow with the roving
eye. And the pretty giant here is Rand.” She reached out and patted Rand’s
shoulder. He stared  at her like a deer frozen beneath the wolf’s eyes.
“They came with Moiraine Sedai,” added Liu. “Though she never did explain why
...”
Perrin let the implied question lie there unanswered. He could hardly tell
them, or anyone, about Ba’alzamon and Aginor, about the wolves who spoke to him
in his dreams or about Rand’s channelling the One Power; and he didn’t trust
himself to come up with a convincing story to explain the admittedly odd party
they had arrived here with.
Elansu dunked herself to rinse the soap from her hair. When she rose again she
said, “The Queen could do worse than these two specimens, wherever they’re
from.” She pushed a bowl of soap along the edge of the pool, towards Rand.
“Wash my back for me? I’ll do the same for you.”
Rand bit his lip slightly. With his fair skin he had an even harder time hiding
his blushes than Perrin did. “I ... well. Okay. Of course.” The women laughed
softly, all save Amalisa who washed herself perfunctorily, a troubled frown on
her brow.
Rand soaped up Elansu’s back and attended to her dutifully, but the woman
seemed to have other things on her mind. She drifted closer to him, until there
was so little space between them that he couldn’t properly move his hands to
scrub her. Rand tried manfully to continue, but there was a look of alarm
growing on his face.
“That’s nice,” murmured Elansu. “But here too ...” She reached back and took
one of Rand’s hands in hers. Then she pulled it forward and guided it to her
breast. Perrin gaped, and Rand drew a sharp breath. The woman was old enough to
be both their mothers, but her nipples stiffened visibly under Rand’s touch.
Something took hold of Perrin’s hand. Before he knew what was happening he was
cupping a heavy breast in his palm. “Won’t you help wash me too, Perrin?” asked
Nisura breathily. Perrin was so shocked that he immediately made to jump out of
the bath, but embarrassment stunned him before he got far. He was as hard as a
rock, and had been for some time. Only the murky waters of the bath concealed
his private parts from everyone’s view.
Nisura saw his dilemma and moved swiftly. A small frown marred her brow, but
whatever her doubts she did not hesitate to throw a leg over his lap and kneel
above him, trapping him with her lovely nakedness.
He thought he heard a soft grunt from Liu. And he saw Amalisa and Elansu
exchanging a look fraught with hidden meanings before the shatayan turned to
Rand and threw her thin arms around his shoulders. Rand swallowed visibly but
made no move to resist her when the old, or at least older, woman kissed his
lips. In moments he was kissing her back hungrily.
Perrin had little time to wonder at his friend’s perversions. Nisura’s lips
descended on his and stole the world away. Her arms around his neck held him in
place as she sampled his kisses. Soon her tongue was darting out to explore his
mouth. And not long after that something warmer than the bathwater engulfed his
manhood. Nisura broke their kiss to throw back her head, wet black hair flying,
moaning loudly as she took his length inside her.
Another moan from his right drew Perrin’s eye. Elansu was crouched above Rand’s
lap. The woman lowered herself slowly, satisfaction brightening her dark eyes
and leaking from her lips with each inch of him she took inside her. “All that
I imagined, and more ...” she whispered. She took his face between her hands
and kissed him hard as he continued to massage her soft breasts.
The great globes of Nisura’s breasts soon filled Perrin’s vision, pushed upon
him by the woman who now rode him with increasing ardour. Some rational part of
Perrin’s mind still tried to puzzle it out. There had been many embarrassing
incidents in the baths since they had come to Fal Dara, but nothing like this.
These were communal baths, anyone in the keep could walk in here at any moment,
stuff like this simply didn’t happen. Unless there was another woman stationed
outside, to ward off visitors. But why? He was not half so vain as to think
they just wanted to avail themselves of his and Rand’s bodies. It was hard to
think with Nisura bobbing up and down on his cock.
Lady Amalisa herself was right there, seemingly unconcerned that her shatayan
and her lady in waiting were riding a pair of strange cocks on either side of
her. She drummed her fingers on the stone rim of the bath, eyeing the small
pots of soap nearby. Unopened pots, though the washing had long since begun ...
Nisura kissed him again, driving his wariness away.
For a time he lost himself in the young woman’s lush body. He squeezed the
smooth flesh of her buttocks and breasts in his rough hands and consigned his
worries to the past. But, of course, they did not stay there.
From his left he heard a woman’s wry voice. “You seem to find this task well to
your liking, Nisura.” Liu had drifted closer, she rested her head on one hand
as she lounged nearby, watching the show with sharp black eyes. Her nipples had
stiffened. When she saw Perrin staring at them she sunk farther beneath the
water with what casualness she could muster.
“It does fill one quite nicely,” moaned Nisura without even looking towards the
other woman.
Task, thought Perrin, fighting through his own lust-dimmed mind, what task is
she talking about? Nisura’s eyes were squeezed shut and her mouth hung open,
she was very tight and she rode Perrin’s cock feverishly, seemingly savouring
every inch as it stroked her insides.
Elansu attended to Rand no less eagerly, and Rand seemed to welcome it. If his
friend harboured suspicions no sign of them showed in the way he kissed the
lined and mature face of the shatayan, touching his lips to her cheeks, her
closed eyes, the sides of her neck. Her hands roved over his broad chest and
shoulders, caressing him as she stirred up waves around them. From the way her
teeth were gritted he thought the woman near her climax.
A sharp cry from Nisura revealed that Elansu wasn’t the only one who was
pushing her limit. The young lady slumped in Perrin’s arms, breathing deeply
and moaning softly.
Liu smirked at the sight, and Lady Amalisa frowned at her attendant in
disappointment.
Her frown turned to Elansu when the elder woman suddenly seized Rand’s head and
pressed his mouth to her breast as she thrashed in his lap. Rand happily
suckled upon her as she rode out her orgasm, spraying water around them both.
The shatayan looked not half so stern when she was slumped in her young lover’s
arms.
Rand saw Amalisa’s disappointment and reached out to her. He took her by the
hand and pulled her towards him. The lady gave a startled gasp and her niece
stirred, frowning at the young man from the other side of Perrin and Nisura.
Elansu came to her senses. “Stop that you greedy boy, I’m not quite done with
you yet,” she said, a touch breathlessly.
“I hoped you wouldn’t be,” Rand responded. “But Amalisa looks lonely.” He put
his hands around the lady’s hips and stood her up. Water cascaded over the ripe
curves of her bottom.
“I’m quite alright, thank you,” Amalisa all-but yelped. But Rand didn’t seem to
believe her. He pulled her forwards until she had no choice but to fall or lift
a leg and step over him. She stepped over, baring a womanly thigh and the
stretched skin of childbirth. Amalisa stood right over Rand and Elansu, looking
down at him with wide-eyes, her black-furred sex inches from his face. Then he
leaned in and kissed her hungrily.
Amalisa let out a surprised groan as Rand went to work on her pussy. Elansu
seemed just as shocked to find herself staring at her mistress’ round bottom,
but soon began rocking her hips along Rand’s member once more.
Nisura still lay slumped in Perrin’s arms as she gaped at the now-threesome.
She stirred only when Liu reached out, took her by the shoulders and
practically hauled her off Perrin’s lap.
“What are you ...?” Nisura gasped as she plopped down in the water.
Liu frowned at her aunt, whose hands had drifted down to tangle in Rand’s wet
hair. “Well, if she’s going to go that far ...” she muttered. She turned her
sharp, slanted eyes on Perrin. “Let’s see what we have here.” So saying, Lord
Agelmar’s daughter climbed into Perrin’s lap and reached down under the water
to take his throbbing manhood in her hand. “Thick,” she whispered as she held
herself over him, then said no more, just sighed out her satisfaction as she
slid her heat down his length.
Liu rode Perrin fiercely. She pulled the still-groggy Nisura to them and urged
her to kiss Perrin’s lips and fondle his body, which the round young lady
seemed happy enough to do. They both seemed very determined to bring him to
orgasm and from time to time Liu’s eyes darted towards that odd pot.
Just as often Liu’s gaze went to the other three in the bath with them. Her
aunt’s eyes were squeezed shut now, her breasts swayed as she rubbed herself
against Rand’s mouth. Behind her Elansu rode Rand’s cock with a passion that
almost matched Liu’s, though the latter was in her early twenties and the
former was old enough to be her mother.
The shatayan shocked them all even more when, spurred on by who knew what, she
placed her hands on Amalisa’s cheeks, parted them and began to lick around her
mistress’ butt.
The Lady of Fal Dara’s eyes shot open. “Peace!” she gasped.
Liu gasped nearly as loudly. “Elansu ...” she whispered, mouth hanging open.
She didn’t stop riding Perrin though and her tight pussy, combined with
Nisura’s large breasts pressed up against him and all the sights around them
was bringing him closer and closer to climax.
Perrin fondled the breasts of the two young Shienarans while Rand grasped the
bottoms of their elders.
It was Amalisa who came first, while being licked front and back by man and
woman. She scrunched her brows together as she let out a single, loud cry, held
herself stiffly in place for a long moment, then slid back down into the water,
her legs wobbling. She came to rest in Rand’s lap, between he and Elansu. The
shatayan didn’t stop riding Rand’s cock, though her breasts now rubbed up and
down her lady’s back. Not that she had to do it much longer.
With both of the elder Shienarans satisfied, Rand relaxed. He looked back and
forth between the wide-eyed Lady Amalisa and the sharp-faced Elansu who peered
over her mistress’ shoulder at him as she bobbed up and down on his cock. It
wasn’t long before he groaned loudly and pushed his hips upwards.
“There we go,” whispered Elansu breathlessly. “At last.” She rested her head on
Amalisa’s shoulder, red-faced from the exertion. Amalisa herself wore a rather
chagrined expression as she watched Rand come.
Liu slammed her hips down on Perrin one more time and dug her nails into his
shoulders. She gritted her teeth and hardly a sound escaped her, but he knew
from the way her pussy quivered that she had reached her limit.
It was the fluttering of her insides that finished him off. “Light’s mercy,” he
swore as he sent spurt after spurt up into her womb, trusting she had taken or
would take her heartleaf tea. Thought faded for a time as he floated in the
languid aftermath of sex.
“... more stamina than expected,” someone was saying. “Still, there is no
reason we can’t go again.”
There was a groan. “I might possibly have underestimated the weight of my
years.” He recognised the shatayan’s whispered voice. “And you jumped in early,
Liu.”
“Well Nisura proved too ... excitable,” whispered Liu angrily.
“I did not!” objected Nisura, not very honestly.
“I’m just saying, what they’ve never had is usually more appealing to men than
a second serving of what they just did,” whispered Elansu.
He didn’t think they realised he could hear them. Even with the enhanced sense
of hearing that the wolves had given him, their voices sounded very low.
“Offer them the ‘medicine’ anyway. If need be we can swap places,” sighed
Amalisa. “It will work quickly. You wouldn’t have had to do anything beyond
look appealing if you had waited, niece.”
“Ah, well. I’ll live,” said Liu with a light laugh.
Perrin let one eye open, just a crack. He and Rand were sprawled in the bath
while the four women clustered nearby, the suspicious pots that were almost
certainly not soap near to hand. Whatever is in that, I am not drinking it. But
how to stop Rand from taking some without letting the women know he knew what
they were up to? It was a puzzle, and there wasn’t much time to solve it.
Perrin hated to be rushed.
Liu parted from the group and slid towards Rand, naked, flushed, beautiful ...
and dangerous. She settled in beside him and trailed her fingers along his
chest. He blinked himself out of his stupor with a foolish smile on his face.
She had her father’s strong jawline, but somehow it suited her. She smiled
prettily. “You are tired, Rand? That is such a shame,” she sighed. “I liked
what I saw of you; you are so strong, so handsome. You gave Elansu such
pleasure. Would you think poorly of me if I said I was jealous? I’d like to
have ... what she had ...” She brought her face close to his, almost but not
quite close enough to kiss.
Rand licked his lips. “I ... a beautiful woman like you, Liu? I’d be crazy to
say no.”
Liu’s smile was as friendly as could be. She produced her ‘medicine’. “I know
it takes a while for men to recover their virility after sex. But this should
help to restore you to your full ardour. Won’t you take some?” Her voice turned
breathy. “I just don’t know that I could wait any longer ...”
Rand blinked at the unstoppered pot in her hand. Amalisa was sloshing her way
across the pool towards Perrin, pot in hand. He had to do something. If need be
he would call out a warning to Rand and they could flee the baths, rudeness be
damned. Rand reached for the pot and Perrin opened his mouth.
There came a loud clamour from the doorway. Someone pounded on the wooden
planks while a girl’s angry voice rebuked the intruder.
“Sheepherder. Get dressed and get out here.” The sound of Lan’s iron-toned
voice had not been so welcome since that time he freed Perrin from the clutches
of the Children of the Light.
“Burn me,” cursed Rand under his voice. “Every time things start to look less
grim ...” Liu sniffed softly and gave him a sardonic look.
Lady Amalisa raised her voice. “If this matter is not urgent Dai Shan, I would
ask that you settle it at a later time.”
There was a momentary silence from beyond the door. Then. “My apologies, Lady
Amalisa, but I cannot. The Amyrlin Seat has summoned Rand al’Thor to attend
her. I am to escort him to her immediately.”
Nisura let out a groan of dismay. Elansu and Amalisa exchanged confused looks.
“The Amyrlin ...” said Amalisa slowly. “Of course, if the Amyrlin Seat calls
all must answer. But why would ...?”
Liu stoppered her pot with a vexed sigh. “The left hand does not know what the
right is doing,” she muttered. She patted Rand’s cheek. “Best be off with you
then. I trust you enjoyed yourself? And I trust you know the value of
discretion. I can make life very uncomfortable for those who do not ...”
Without waiting for an answer she rose from the bath and splashed her way
towards the deposit of fresh towels. Rand watched the slender young lady go
with a look of regret on his face, seemingly unaware of the danger they had
just escaped.
Perrin let out a long, low sigh. “I’ll come with you,” he said hastily. “You
won’t want to be meeting with someone like the Amyrlin without the support of
your friends.”
Elansu eyed him sharply. Her nakedness, and all that he had seen her do today,
didn’t stop him from feeling nervous beneath that probing stare. He carefully
avoided looking at their suspicious pots.
Rand shrugged. “Thanks, Perrin. I, ah, I know we haven’t talked much lately ...
but, thanks.”
His honest gratitude almost made Perrin cringe. It wasn’t that he had been
avoiding Rand he started telling himself ... then quickly dismissed that as a
self-serving lie. He had absolutely been avoiding Rand. With a sigh he rose
from the bath and went to dry off and get dressed. Being a male channeler
wasn’t that different from being able to talk to wolves, it occurred to him.
Rand was probably as afraid of himself as Perrin was, as afraid of losing his
mind. And if people had good cause to be afraid of Rand—Perrin was not ashamed
to admit that he was, the man could wield the very Power that had once broken
the world after all—they also had good cause to be afraid of Perrin. If he lost
himself to the beast within, would he be any less dangerous than a male
channeler?
He found himself sitting beside Liu as they both dried off and began to get
dressed. She was a beautiful woman and they had just had sex, but she had
plainly only done it to entrap him. He had no idea why, and no intention of
asking her directly. But in the absence of truth he was at a loss for what to
say. It seemed to him that you should be able to say something to a woman after
you’ve done the things he had done with her. He frowned to himself, trying out
various words in his mind and finding them flawed.
Rand was reluctant to leave the bath for some reason; he just sat there for a
time, staring into space. But eventually he gave his head a shake and hopped to
his feet with an oddly forced smile. He waved to Elansu as he splashed his
naked way to the edge of the bath and climbed out.
The ageing shatayan gave him a wry smile as she watched him go, admiring his
sculpted body with its narrow hips and wide shoulders. Perrin couldn’t help but
admire it too. Elansu and the other women sat in the murky bathwater, immersed
up to their chests, looking a bit nonplussed.
Rand dressed so hastily that he was finished even before Perrin. He waited at
the door.
Perrin rose with a sigh. He looked Liu in the eyes and said. “You are a very
pretty woman. I’m glad I had the chance to know you like this.” Poor words, he
knew. But in the context they were all he could come up with. He could hardly
say he hoped to see her again. Not when he had already decided he would be
avoiding every woman in Fal Dara for the rest of his stay.
Liu raised an eyebrow at him. “Thank you,” she drawled. “You are quite a
handsome man yourself. Watch your back out there.”
He nodded and made his way to the door without another word, feeling awkward.
Lan awaited them outside the baths. As usual, he wore his sword over a plain
coat of green that would be nearly invisible in the woods.
Rena, one of Amalisa’s daughters, was even younger than Egwene had been when
she died. The girl frowned at Rand and Perrin as they approached, then frowned
at Lan too, though she seemed to have to work at that last. Lan was more than a
little famous in the Borderlands. The Warder ignored her frown completely,
though Perrin had no doubt he had noticed it. Lan noticed everything.
Rand gave her a bright smile, giving no indication that he had had a face full
of her mother’s pussy mere minutes ago. Perrin was almost impressed. If you
didn’t know any better you’d think he’d done that before.
She didn’t return his smile, just turned away from the three men and stumped
into the baths, closing the door firmly behind her.
Perrin felt a wash of relief as he watched the door to the baths close. Rand
seemed more wistful, but that soon changed.
Rand turned to face Lan. “The Amyrlin then,” he said grimly.
“Yes. I told you you should have left, sheepherder,” answered Lan, proving he
could still give the younger man lessons on grim.
Rand looked resigned. “I thought about it. I’m still here.”
The Warder nodded. He eyed Rand up and down, then shook his head. “That won’t
serve. We’ll stop by your rooms on the way.”
Rand looked confused. “Why?”
The slight curve of Lan’s lips almost looked like a smile. But that couldn’t be
so, Perrin must have been imagining it. They made their way back to the men’s
apartments.
***** The Gathering Storm *****
CHAPTER 11: The Gathering Storm
 
There was a storm coming. Nynaeve felt it. A big storm, worse than she had ever
seen. She could listen to the wind, and hear what the weather would be. All
Wisdoms claimed to be able to do that, though many could not. Nynaeve had felt
more comfortable with the ability before learning it was a manifestation of the
Power. Any woman who could listen to the wind could channel, though most were
probably as she had been, unaware of what she was doing, getting it only in
fits and starts.
This time, though, something was wrong. Outside, the afternoon sun was a golden
ball in a clear blue sky, and birds sang in the gardens, but that was not it.
There would have been nothing to listening to the wind if she could not
foretell the weather before the signs were visible. There was something wrong
with the feeling this time, something not quite the way it usually was. The
storm felt distant, too far off for her to feel at all. Yet it felt as if the
sky above should have been pouring down rain, and snow, and hail, all at the
same time, with winds howling to shake the stones of the keep. And she could
feel the good weather, too, lasting for days yet, but that was muted under the
other.
A bluefinch perched in an arrowslit like a mockery of her weather sense,
peering into the hallway. When it saw her, it vanished in a flash of blue and
white feathers.
She stared at the spot where the bird had been. There is a storm, and there
isn’t. It means something. But what?
Far down the hall full of women and small children she saw Rand marching
towards the exit, his escort of women half running to keep up with his long-
legged strides. Nynaeve nodded firmly. If there was a storm that was not a
storm, he would be the centre of it. Gathering her skirts, she hurried after
him.
Trepidation tried to slow her pace but she ploughed through it stubbornly. They
had not had a chance to talk since the night before. What would she say? What
would he? She still could not believe she had done the things she had done;
with any man, but especially with him. He was younger than she, practically a
little brother ... but he had not kissed her like a brother, and when he took
her in his arms there had been nothing little about him.
She blushed to remember it. It had been the wine, she had drunk much more than
she was used to at the Amyrlin’s welcome feast. That was all, the wine. That
and the fear that he was thinking of doing something drastic. It felt so good.
So wrong, and yet so right. She took a firm hold of her braid and gave it a
quelling tug. Enough of that foolishness! There’s a storm brewing.
Women with whom she had grown friendly since coming to Fal Dara tried to speak
to her; they knew Rand had come with her and that they were both from the
Theren, and they wanted to know why the Amyrlin had summoned him. The Amyrlin
Seat! Did they already Gentle him? Ice in the pit of her belly, she broke into
a run, but before she left the women’s apartments, she had lost him around too
many corners and beyond too many people.
“Which way did he go?” she asked Aya. There was no need to say who. She heard
Rand’s name in the conversation of the other women clustered around the arched
doors.
“I don’t know, Nynaeve. He came out as fast as if he had Heartsbane himself at
his heels. As well he might, coming here with a sword at his belt. The Dark One
should be the least of his worries after that. What is the world coming to? And
him presented to the Amyrlin in her chambers, no less. Tell me, Nynaeve, is he
really a prince in your land?” The other women stopped talking and leaned
closer to listen.
Nynaeve was not sure what she answered. Something that made them let her go on.
She hurried away from the women’s apartments, head swivelling at every crossing
corridor to look for him, fists clenched. She couldn’t lose another one, like
she had lost Egwene, she had not enough tears left to shed. Light, what have
they done to him? I should have gotten him away from Moiraine somehow, the
Light blind her. I’m his Wisdom.
Are you,a small voice taunted. You’ve abandoned Emond’s Field to fend for
itself. Can you still call yourself their Wisdom?
I did not abandon them, she told herself fiercely. I brought Mavra Mallen up
from Deven Ride to look after matters till I get back. She can deal well enough
with the Mayor and the Village Council, and she gets on well with the Women’s
Circle.
Mavra would have to get back to her own village. No village could do without
its Wisdom for long. Nynaeve cringed inside. She had been gone months from
Emond’s Field.
“I am the Wisdom of Emond’s Field!” she said aloud.
A liveried servant carrying a bolt of cloth blinked at her, then bowed low
before scurrying off. By his face he was eager to be anywhere else.
Blushing, Nynaeve looked around to see if anyone had noticed. There were only a
few men in the hall, engrossed in their own conversations, and some women in
black-and-gold going about their business, giving her a bow or curtsy as she
passed. She had had that argument with herself a hundred times before, but this
was the first time it had come to talking to herself out loud. She muttered
under her breath, then pressed her lips firmly together when she realized what
she was doing.
Anna found her in the kitchens, where the bustle of the keep continued,
heedless of the new arrivals and the surprise attack of the night before both.
She and Rand had always been close and she knew as well as Nynaeve that he had
never lacked for appetite. “I heard some people in the women’s apartments
talking about Rand. Do you know what happened between him and the Amyrlin?”
asked the girl, in the gruff tone she always used when trying to hide what she
felt.
Rand and Anna were neighbours and almost the same age, but Nynaeve had never
gotten the impression that there was anything untoward between them. She caught
herself eyeing the girl suspiciously and quickly schooled her face to
stillness. Get a hold of yourself, woman.
“I saw him leave the apartments looking in a foul mood, but I haven’t been able
to find him since,” she said in her best no-nonsense voice.
Anna nodded. “I’ll check near the stables. If you find him and I don’t, will
you tell me later?”
“Of course.”
They parted at the next hallway. Nynaeve headed towards the baths but found
nothing there either, save for a solemn-faced Lady Amalisa coming the other way
with a train of ladies and the shatayan. One and all they gave a start when she
asked after Rand.
When Nynaeve had finished explaining, Liu Ling, Lady Timora’s eldest, planted
her fists on her hips. “The Amyrlin let him go,” she said flatly.
The others shook their heads, looking oddly chagrined.
Nisura Guyen laughed softly. “Well. Your countryman will not be found in the
baths, Nynaeve. They are being drained and cleaned at the moment.”
Amalisa had always been friendly with Nynaeve, but she was being very stiff
today for some reason. When the silence stretched too long, Nynaeve excused
herself and wandered on, not knowing where else Rand might be found. She was
finally beginning to realize her search was futile when she came on Lan, his
back to her, looking down on the outer courtyard through an arrowslit. The
noise from the courtyard was all horses and men, neighing and shouting. So
intent was Lan that he did not, for once, seem to hear her. She hated the fact
that she could never sneak up on him, however softly she stepped. She had been
accounted good at woodscraft back in Emond’s Field, though it was not a skill
in which many women took any interest.
She stopped in her tracks, pressing her hands to her stomach to quiet a
flutter. I ought to dose myself with rannel and sheepstongue root, she thought
sourly. It was the mixture she gave anyone who moped about and claimed they
were sick, or behaved like a goose. Rannel and sheepstongue root would perk you
up a little, and did no harm, but mainly it tasted horrible, and the taste
lasted all day. It was a perfect cure for acting the fool.
Safe from his eyes, she studied the length of him, leaning against the stone
and fingering his chin as he studied what was going on below. He’s too tall,
for one thing, and old enough to be my father, for another. A man with a face
like that would have to be cruel. No, he’s not that. Never that. And he was a
king. His land was destroyed while he was a child, and he would not claim a
crown, but he was a king, for that. What would a king want with a village
woman? He’s a Warder, too. Bonded to Moiraine. She has his loyalty to death,
and ties closer than any lover, and she has him. She has everything I want, the
Light burn her!
He turned from the arrowslit, and she whirled to go.
“Nynaeve.” His voice caught and held her like a noose. “I wanted to speak to
you alone. You always seem to be in the women’s apartments, or in company.”
It took an effort to face him, but she was sure her features were calm when she
looked up at him. “I’m looking for Rand.” She was not about to admit to
avoiding him. “We said all we need to say long ago, you and I. I shamed
myself—which I will not do again—and you told me to go away.” It was a fine
pickle really. She had offered herself to Lan only to find he wanted nothing to
do with her; while Rand wanted her but was cursed with an ability that made it
impossible for him to have a life with anyone. Men! They were nothing but
trouble.
“I never said—” He took a deep breath. “I told you I had nothing to offer for
brideprice but widow’s clothes. Not a gift any man could give a woman. Not a
man who can call himself a man.”
“I understand,” she said coolly. “In any case, a king does not give gifts to
village women. And this village woman would not take them. Have you seen Rand?
I need to talk to him. He was to see the Amyrlin. Do you know what she wanted
with him?”
His eyes blazed like blue ice in the sun. She stiffened her legs to keep from
stepping back, and met him glare for glare.
“The Dark One take Rand al’Thor and the Amyrlin Seat both,” he grated, pressing
something into her hand. “I will make you a gift and you will take it if I have
to chain it around your neck.”
She pulled her eyes away from his. He had a stare like a blue-eyed hawk when he
was angry. In her hand was a signet ring, heavy gold and worn with age, almost
large enough for both her thumbs to fit through. On it, a crane flew above a
lance and crown, all carefully wrought in detail. Her breath caught. The ring
of Malkieri kings. Forgetting to glare, she lifted her face. “I cannot take
this, Lan.”
He shrugged in an offhand way. “It is nothing. Old, and useless, now. But there
are those who would know it when they see it. Show that, and you will have
guestright, and help if you need it, from any House in the Borderlands. Show it
to a Warder, and he will give aid, or carry a message to me. Send it to me, or
a message marked with it, and I will come to you, without delay and without
fail. This I swear.”
Her vision blurred at the edges. If I cry now, I will kill myself. “I can’t ...
I do not want a gift from you, al’Lan Mandragoran. Here, take it.”
He fended off her attempts to give the ring back to him. His hand enveloped
hers, gentle but firm as a shackle. “Then take it for my sake, as a favour to
me. Or throw it away, if it displeases you. I’ve no better use for it.” He
brushed her cheek with a finger, and she gave a start. “I must go now, Nynaeve
mashiara. The Amyrlin wishes to leave before nightfall, and there is much yet
to be done. Perhaps we will have time to talk on the journey to Tar Valon.” He
turned and was gone, striding down the hall.
Nynaeve touched her cheek. She could still feel where he had touched her.
Mashiara. Beloved of heart and soul, it meant, but a love lost, too. Lost
beyond regaining. Fool woman! Stop acting like a girl with her hair still not
braided. It’s no use letting him make you feel ...
Clutching the ring tightly, she turned around, and jumped when she found
herself face-to-face with Moiraine. “How long have you been there?” she
demanded.
“Not long enough to hear anything I should not have,” the Aes Sedai replied
smoothly. “We will indeed be leaving soon. I heard that. You must see to your
packing.”
Leaving. It had not penetrated when Lan said it. “I will have to say goodbye to
the others,” she muttered, then gave Moiraine a sharp look. “What have you done
to Rand? He was taken to the Amyrlin. Why? Did you tell her about—about ...?”
She could not say it. He was from her own village, and she was just enough
older than he to have looked after him a time or two when he was little, and he
was the only man she had ever been intimate with, but she could not speak about
he had become without her stomach twisting.
“The Amyrlin will be seeing all three boys, Nynaeve. Ta’veren are not so common
that she would miss the chance to see three together in one place. Perhaps she
will give them a few words of encouragement, since two will be riding with
Ingtar to hunt those who stole the Horn. They will be leaving about the time we
do, so you had better hurry with any farewells.”
Nynaeve dashed to the nearest arrowslit and peered down at the outer courtyard.
Horses were everywhere, pack animals and saddle horses, and men hurrying about
them, calling to each other. The only clear space was where the Amyrlin’s
palanquin stood, its paired horses waiting patiently without any attendants.
Some of the Warders were out there, looking over their mounts, and on the other
side of the courtyard, Ingtar stood with a knot of Shienarans around him in
armour. Sometimes a Warder or one of Ingtar’s men crossed the paving stones to
exchange a word.
“I should have gotten the boys away from you,” she said bitterly, still looking
out. “Egwene, too. She would still be alive if only I had made her steer clear
of you.” Light, why did they have to be born with this cursed ability? Her and
Egwene, and especially Rand. “I should have taken them all back home.”
“They are more than old enough to be off apron strings,” Moiraine said dryly.
“And you know very well why you could never do that. For one of them, at least.
Besides, it would mean forgoing Tar Valon yourself. If your own use of the
Power is not schooled, you will never be able to use it against me.”
Nynaeve spun to face the Aes Sedai, her jaw dropping. She could not help it. “I
don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Did you think I did not know, child? Well, as you wish it. I take it that you
are coming to Tar Valon? Yes, I thought so. As to Egwene ...” Moiraine pursed
her lips and for a moment she almost looked sad. “None mourn her loss more than
I. She would have made a fine Aes Sedai. Better even than you in many ways.”
Nynaeve wanted to hit her, to knock away the brief smile that flashed across
the Aes Sedai’s face. Aes Sedai had not been able to wield power openly since
the War of the Hundred Years, much less the One Power, but they plotted and
manipulated, pulled strings like puppetmasters, used thrones and nations like
stones on a stones board. She wants to use me, too, somehow. If a king or a
queen, why not a Wisdom? Just the way she’s using Rand. I’m no child, Aes
Sedai.
“What are you doing with Rand now? Have you not used him enough? I don’t know
why you have not had him Gentled, now the Amyrlin’s here with all those other
Aes Sedai, but you must have a reason. It must be some plot you’re hatching. If
the Amyrlin knew what you were up to, I wager she’d —”
Moiraine cut her off. “What possible interest could the Amyrlin have in a
shepherd? Of course if he were brought to her attention in the wrong way, he
might be Gentled, or even killed. He is what he is, after all. And there is
considerable anger about last night. Everyone is looking for whom to blame.”
The Aes Sedai fell silent, and let the silence stretch. Nynaeve stared at her,
grinding her teeth.
“Yes,” Moiraine said finally, “much better to let a sleeping lion sleep. Best
you see to your packing, now.” She moved off in the direction Lan had gone,
seeming to glide across the floor.
Grimacing, Nynaeve swung her fist back against the wall; the ring dug at her
palm. She opened her hand to look at it. The ring seemed to heat her anger,
focus her hate. I will learn. You think because you know, you can escape me.
But I will learn better than you think, and I will pull you down for what
you’ve done. For what you’ve done to Mat, and to Perrin. For Egwene’s death.
And for Rand, the Light help him and the Creator shelter him. Especially for
Rand. Her hand closed around the heavy circlet of gold. And for me.
She held her resolve and Lan’s ring firmly as she hastened back to the women’s
apartments.
When she arrived she found Anna had already returned and was hastily packing
her belongings. The fine dresses Lady Amalisa had given her were being rolled
up like so many blankets ready to be stuffed into her saddlebags. Nynaeve,
walking by the open door to Anna’s room, grimaced at the sight. The girl’s
mother had died birthing her and she had been raised by her father, also now
sadly deceased. Someone should have taken her in hand years ago, instead of
letting her grow up to be so ... boyish. Nynaeve’s own mother had died when she
was only little, but Mistress Barran, the Wisdom she had been apprenticed to,
had seen her raised right. But there was no time for that now.
She shoved open the door to her own room, where she and Rand had made love less
than a day ago. The ring in her hand had grown hot from her bodyheat. That was
why she stuffed it hastily into her pocket. It wasn’t that she felt guilty. She
had nothing to feel guilty about.
She set to folding her own dresses into a leather-covered travel chest. They
were lovely things, gifts from the Lady Amalisa, but Nynaeve still felt good
stout Theren wool was all a woman should need. It would be rude not to keep
them though. Or to wear them every once in a while.
Today would be one of those once in a whiles, she decided. The riding dress
caught her eye, the blue silk with red loversknots on the bosom. She draped it
over the changing screen and went to get undressed.
Anna put her head into the room while Nynaeve was still buttoning herself up.
“Are you ready?” She came the rest of the way in. “We must be down in the
courtyard soon.” She wore plain brown breeches and a leather jerkin over a nice
white shirt of, yes, silk. Nynaeve sighed.
“Almost. I met Moiraine by the way. She saws the Amyrlin met with Rand ... and
did nothing to him.”
Anna closed the door behind her. “Did Moiraine not tell her, or ...?” she asked
slowly.
“I’m not sure.” Nynaeve frowned. “But some of the things Rand was saying
yesterday worry me. I think he might take matters into his own hands. If you
follow my meaning. Someone needs to keep an eye on him, and I’m bound for Tar
Valon with Mat ...”
Anna nodded. “I understand. Perrin says he’ll probably be travelling with us.
Or at least that’s what the Amyrlin Seat led Perrin to believe. I’ll make sure
he doesn’t do anything crazy.” She shook her head. “You know, despite all the
stories I never once pictured myself as a Hunter of the Horn. Now here I am all
set to go help take it back from the Shadow. All told I’d rather be heading
back home. Or at least I think I would. Shienar wasn’t so bad really, for all
that the Blight is just next door. Settling here wouldn’t be so terrible.” She
gave an abrupt laugh. “Still, Wisdom, I won’t miss being able to bathe without
looking over my shoulder the whole time.”
“Much better to bathe alone,” Nynaeve said briskly. Her face did not change,
but after a moment her cheeks coloured. It had only been that one time and she
had hidden herself under the water until they left. She had never realised how
long men took in the bath before. Such vain creatures they were, wandering
around with their muscles and their long black hair, rubbing themselves and
talking nonsense as if she wasn’t even there not-watching. After that she had
taken pains to ensure there was no-one else around when she bathed, and rushed
through the process as fast as she could.
“I don’t think you should call me Wisdom any longer,” Nynaeve said suddenly.
Anna blinked. “Why not?”
“You are a woman, now.” Nynaeve glanced at her hair, short and unbraided as it
was. “You are a woman,” she repeated firmly. The braid was just a tradition.
“We are two women, a long way from Emond’s Field, and it will be longer still
before we see home again. It will be better if you simply call me Nynaeve.”
Anna grinned, looking a little teary-eyed. “We will see home again, Nynaeve. We
will.”
“Don’t try to comfort the Wisdom, girl,” Nynaeve said gruffly, but she smiled
as she said it.
There was a knock at the door, but before Nynaeve could open it, Nisura came
in, agitation all over her face. “Nynaeve, that young man of yours is trying to
come into the women’s apartments.” She sounded scandalized. “And wearing a
sword. Just because the Amyrlin let him enter that way ... Lord Rand should
know better. He is causing an uproar. Nynaeve, you must speak to him.”
“Lord Rand,” Nynaeve snorted. “That young man is growing too big for his
breeches.” She hoped not literally. What did Nisura mean by calling Rand hers?
Surely no-one knew what they had done. “When I get my hands on him, I’ll lord
him,” she finished, forcing a laugh.
Nisura nodded. “The best of men are not much better than housebroken.”
Nynaeve paused at the door, “But then, the best of them are worth the trouble
of housebreaking.”
“Sometimes that is what it takes,” Nisura said, walking quickly. “Men are never
more than half-civilized until they’re wedded.” She gave Nynaeve a sidelong
glance. “Do you intend to marry Lord Rand? I do not mean to pry, but you are
going to the White Tower, and Aes Sedai seldom wed—none but some of the Green
Ajah, that I’ve ever heard, and not many of them—and he will make a good
husband. Once he has been trained.”
Nynaeve stalked along. Nisura was telling her nothing she did not already know.
She had heard the talk in the women’s apartments about a suitable wife for
Rand. It had started jokingly; as tall and handsome as he was Rand often
inspired such banter, even back in the Theren. But it had gotten more serious
ever since his antics during the raid. If he stayed here much longer some
Shienaran woman would likely try to make an honest man of him, never knowing
what he was. She could marry him. And watch him go mad, watch him die. The only
way to stop it would be to have him Gentled. Then she could watch him die
anyway, slowly and miserably. Fate is a cruel thing sometimes.
“I don’t think marriage is in his future ...” she said quietly.
Nisura nodded. “No-one will poach where you have a claim, but if you are going
to the Tower ... There he is.”
The women gathered around the entrance to the women’s apartments, both inside
and out, were all watching three men in the hallway outside. Rand, with his
sword buckled over his red coat, was being confronted by Lord Agelmar and his
son Kajin. Neither of them wore a sword; even after what had happened in the
night, these were still the women’s apartments. Nynaeve stopped at the back of
the crowd.
“You understand why you cannot go in,” Agelmar was saying. “I know that things
are different in Andor, but you do understand?”
“I didn’t try to go in.” Rand sounded as if he had explained all this more than
once already. “I told the Lady Nisura I wanted to see Nynaeve, and she said
Nynaeve was busy, and I’d have to wait. All I did was shout for her from the
door. I did not try to enter. You’d have thought I was naming the Dark One, the
way they all started in on me.”
“Women have their own ways,” Kajin said. He was tall for a Shienaran, almost as
tall as Rand, lanky and sallow. His topknot was black as pitch. “They set the
rules for the women’s apartments, and we abide by them even when they are
foolish.” A number of eyebrows were raised among the women, and he hastily
cleared his throat. “You must send a message in if you wish to speak to one of
the women, but it will be delivered when they choose, and until it is, you must
wait. That is our custom.”
“I have to see her,” Rand said stubbornly, somehow he looked handsomer today
than he ever had before. It must be the fancy clothes, she thought. “We’re
leaving soon. We will get the Horn of Valere back, and that will be the end of
it. The end of it. But I want to see her before I go.” Nynaeve frowned; he
sounded odd.
“No need to be so fierce,” Kajin said. “You and Ingtar will find the Horn, or
not. And if not, then another will retrieve it. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel
wills, and we are but threads in the Pattern.”
“Do not let the Horn seize you, Rand,” Agelmar said. “It can take hold of a
man—I know how it can—and that is not the way. A man must seek duty, not glory.
What will happen, will happen. If the Horn of Valere is meant to be sounded for
the Light, then it will be.”
“Here is Nynaeve now,” Kajin said, spotting her.
Agelmar looked around, and nodded when he saw her with Nisura. “I will leave
you in her hands, Rand al’Thor. Remember, here, her words are law, not yours.
Lady Nisura, do not be too hard on him. He only wished to see his friend, and
he does not know our ways.”
Nynaeve followed Nisura as the Shienaran woman threaded her way through the
watching women. Nisura inclined her head briefly to Agelmar and Kajin; she
pointedly did not include Rand. Her voice was tight. “Lord Agelmar. Lord Kajin.
He should know this much of our ways by now, but he is too big to spank, so I
will let Nynaeve deal with him.”
Rand raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m not that much taller than Perrin ...” he
said innocently.
Nisura’s cheeks coloured and Nynaeve frowned, wondering what Perrin had to do
with anything.
Agelmar gave Rand a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “You see. You will speak with
her, if not exactly in the way you wished. Come, Kajin. We have much to see to
yet. The Amyrlin still insists on ...” His voice trailed away as he and the
other man left. Rand stood there, looking at Nynaeve.
The women were still watching, she realized. Watching her as well as Rand.
Waiting to see what she would do. So I’m supposed to deal with him, am I? Yet
she felt her heart going out to him. His hair needed brushing. His face showed
anger, defiance, and weariness. “Walk with me,” she told him. A murmur started
up behind them as he walked down the hall beside her, away from the women’s
apartments. Rand seemed to be struggling with himself, hunting for what to say.
“What did the Amyrlin Seat want with you, Rand?”
“Nothing important. Ta’veren. She wanted to see ta’veren.” His face softened as
he looked down at her. “What about you, Nynaeve? Are you really leaving with
her to become an Aes Sedai?”
She took her braid in hand. “I’m going to Tar Valon to learn how to channel the
One Power. As to the rest ... we’ll see.”
He sighed. “The next time you see me, you will likely want to Gentle me.”
She looked around hastily; they were alone in their stretch of the hall. “If
you don’t watch your tongue, I will not be able to help you. Do you want
everyone to know?”
“Too many know already,” he said tiredly. “Nynaeve, I wish things were
different, but they aren’t. I wish I could be everything you deserve, but I
can’t ... Take care of yourself. And promise me you won’t choose the Red Ajah.”
She set her jaw and tugged her braid. “You take care of yourself, Rand al’Thor”
she said fiercely. “If you get yourself killed I’ll box your ears until you
howl for mercy.”
He laughed softly, then dared to place his hand over her fist and give it a
gentle squeeze. It sent tingles along her skin, across her scalp ... and down
below her belly too, a cruel reminder of what might have been.
“Don’t,” she said in an embarrassingly weak voice. “Someone might see.”
He smiled sadly, and let her go. “Farewell, Nynaeve. Whatever happens, know
that I loved you.” And then he turned and strode away from her, almost running.
***** A New Arrival *****
CHAPTER 13: A New Arrival
 
In the distance reared a single mountain, its peak broken and split. It looked
out of place there on the flat grassland, with no other in sight. A broad river
flowed by the mountain, and on an island in the middle of that river was a city
such as might live in a gleeman’s tale, a city surrounded by high walls
gleaming white and silver beneath the warm sun. As the boat sailed closer she
made out soaring towers, many joined by wondrous walkways that spanned the open
air. High bridges arched from both banks of the river to the island city. Even
at a distance she could see lacy stonework on those spans, seemingly too
delicate to withstand the swift waters that rushed beneath them. Tar Valon, the
oldest and most powerful city in the world.
Min Farshaw leaned on the railing of the Spray and tried not to stare like some
downcountry bumpkin ... but it was hard. Next to Tar Valon her home city of
Baerlon seemed barely more than a village. She had been trying to convince
herself that it was nothing to be worried about, travelling so far from home.
Telling herself that she was a worldly woman who could handle whatever was out
there beyond Baerlon’s walls. But watching that gleaming city drift closer made
her feel very small and alone.
I’ll be fine. Who knows, it might even be for the best. A fresh start where no-
one knows what I can do. She would miss her aunts, but it was not as if she was
leaving many friends behind. Everyone in Baerlon knew about the strange girl
who could see the future. Knew and kept their distance, as if she might curse
them with a nasty fate. Min sighed. If she could actually alter the futures she
saw she would have, many times. And perhaps not always in a positive manner.
But whatever she saw happened, and whatever she tried to do to change it never
worked. As gifts go it was pretty useless. Ever since she was a little girl it
had caused her nothing but trouble. And it was still doing so.
She glanced at Dynahir out of the corner of her eye. The Aes Sedai had arrived
in Baerlon only a few weeks after The Stag and Lion burned down. Min had never
met her before, but the woman had seemed to know almost everything there was to
know about her, and everyone else in Baerlon besides. She had convinced Min’s
aunts, and Min herself, that it was in all their best interests for Min to
accompany her to Tar Valon.
She looked nothing like Moiraine. She was tall and full-figured with skin as
dark as peat and long, wavy black hair, and she spoke with an odd accent.
Taraboner, the sailors had claimed. But, for all the differences between them,
both Aes Sedai favoured the colours of the Blue Ajah and Min had little doubt
Moiraine was behind her sudden relocation. Dynahir’s high-waisted and loose-
sleeved blue dress was richly embroidered in gold thread. It made a stark
contrast to Min’s plain brown coat and trousers, but she didn’t mind. She had
no interest at all in fancy dresses.
Dynahir did not fail to notice Min watching her. She turned away from the sight
of the city, and smiled warmly. “What do you think of Tar Valon, Min? It is a
place of great beauty, yes?”
Min found herself smiling back, if in a half-hearted way. Dynahir had never
been less than pleasant towards her. Firm, always certain she would get her way
in the end, but pleasant. It was hard to resent her. “It’s a stunning sight.
And so large. I’m worried I might get lost in it.”
“Oh, have no fear of that. The Aes Sedai know all that takes place in Tar
Valon, city and nation.” Dynahir’s smile was as pleasant as ever, but Min heard
the warning underneath. She wondered what the Aes Sedai would do if she hopped
off the boat at the docks and wandered towards one of those arching bridges
instead of the White Tower.
“You will be well taken care of in the Tower, Min. There is no need to be so
glum. And here, your gift can be put to good use.”
Min gave a resigned shrug. “I really don’t know what you all expect of me. My
‘gift’ isn’t much use to anyone.” She glanced around to make sure no sailors
were within earshot. “I can’t change the future, only see glimpses of what will
happen. Honestly, you’re probably better off just not knowing.”
“The Amyrlin feels differently,” said Dynahir. “Even if your strange kind of
Foretelling cannot be altered, knowing what will happen will allow us to be
better prepared for it.” As she spoke Min’s gaze was drawn from the Aes Sedai’s
face to the images that swirled around her. Most of them were incomprehensible
to her, but some she knew the meaning of. That trumpet spoke of a battle
Dynahir would fight in, but it would not be soon. The tattered journal was a
book she would write, and the chains splattered with blood ... Min did not know
the meaning, and did not want to. She shook her head and turned her gaze back
to the other woman’s face. What had she been saying? Better prepared, right.
“I suppose, but ...” She cut herself off as she spotted the Spray’s captain
approaching. When she was little Min had told everyone she met what visions she
had of their future. That was one mistake she did not intend to repeat. “Here’s
Captain Domon now.”
Dynahir turned to greet him. Bayle Domon was a stocky Illianer in a coat that
hung to his knees. His black hair was quite a bit longer than Min’s; it fell
all the way to his thick shoulders. An equally black beard left his upper lip
bare. They framed a tanned and wind-burnt face that was round but not soft.
“Here we be,” said Domon, in an accent even odder to Min than Dynahir’s had
been. They didn’t get many Illianers in Baerlon, they were a sea-faring folk
for the most part. “Swiftest passage down the Erinin, Fortune prick me if it be
no.”
The Aes Sedai inclined her head a fraction. “Your coin is well-earned, captain.
Jaim?”
Dynahir’s hulking Warder, ever mindful of his Aes Sedai’s safety, had been
swift to move to her side when he saw the captain approach. He produced a coin
pouch and began counting out what they owed, moving his lips as he did so.
Domon’s Spray had been the second vessel they had travelled on since leaving
Baerlon. The first had taken them up the Arindrelle River to the town of Nesum
on the easternmost border of Tar Valon’s territory. It had proven a smaller
version of Baerlon, walled for safety and with well-maintained docks, familiar
enough to lure Min into a false sense of security. The Aes Sedai defended it
jealously as it was their only access to the Arindrelle and all the lands that
great river touched on. Beyond Nesum they had ridden along an oft-broken road
through land that was only sparsely populated until they approached the fertile
farmlands that touched on the Erinin. The fishing town of Deane’s Bounty,
upriver of Tar Valon, had been where they took passage with Captain Domon.
Dynahir had paid for Min’s passage and seen her safe and fed, but had little to
say to her beyond that. The Aes Sedai spent most of her time writing in her
journal. Her topknotted Warder had proven more friendly, but it was difficult
to make sense of what he was saying sometimes. He seemed a nice man underneath
it all, but a blow from a Whitecloak’s mace had apparently robbed him of his
wits years ago.
As Domon settled up with his passengers, his first mate directed the Spray
towards an opening in the tall white walls of Tar Valon. The northern docks of
the city were cupped within a protected harbour, partially sheltered by the
towered walls that extended out into the water. In that harbour dozens of
vessels loaded and unloaded their wares. The Spray curved smoothly in beside
the first dock, thick timbers sitting on heavy, tar-coated pilings, and stopped
with a backing of oars that swirled the water to froth around the blades. As
the oars were drawn in, sailors tossed cables to men on the dock, who fastened
them off with a flourish, while other crewmen slung the bags of wool over the
side to protect the hull from the dock pilings.
Before the boat was even pulled snug against the dock, carriages appeared at
the end of the dock, tall and lacquered, each one with a name painted on the
door in large letters, gold or scarlet. The carriages’ passengers hurried up
the gangplank as soon as it dropped in place, smooth-faced women in gleaming
silk dresses and fur-lined cloaks and cloth slippers, each followed by a
plainly dressed servant carrying an iron-bound moneybox.
His business with Jaim concluded, Domon went to greet the merchants, and the
Aes Sedai led her Warder below to gather their things.
Min was on her way to join them—the Aes Sedai had paid for everything on their
journey, the least she could do was carry her own belongings—when Captain Domon
left the merchants to intercept her.
“You be leaving us now, girl?” He looked conflicted. “Fortune prick me, mayhap
I should no say a thing but ... can you channel? Is that why the Aes Sedai do
bring you here, and watch you so sharply?”
Min laughed lightly. “Me? Channel? No captain, certainly not.” She would have
said more but she was at a loss to explain the Aes Sedai’s interest in her
without revealing her viewings to him. And she was determined to keep those as
secret as she could in this new life.
Domon nodded. “Good, good. Not that there be anything wrong with that, but ...
well, if you no be joining the Aes Sedai then mayhaps you be in some kind of
trouble, is what I be thinking. So. The Spray will sail for Illian at noon
tomorrow. The cabin you’ve been using will no be occupied. Or mayhaps it will
be. Is all I be saying.” He combed thick fingers through his beard as he spoke.
Min blinked in surprise. “That’s very kind of you, captain.” Oddly kind. Domon
had been full of stories of all the places he’d visited. He seemed to have a
liking for antiques and history. Their passage on the Spray had been the most
enjoyable part of Min’s journey in no small part due to the captain’s stories,
but she was at a loss to explain why he would try to ‘rescue’ her from the Aes
Sedai. For that was plainly what he was doing.
Domon shrugged his heavy shoulders. “If you find yourself no liking Tar Valon
as much as you thought, remember the Spray. Go careful, girl. Aes Sedai be
tricky sorts.” With one last nod, he turned on his heel and strode back to the
merchants, arms spreading wide as he began an apology for keeping them waiting.
Min stared after him. Maybe he fancied her. She did like older men, learned and
well-travelled. She usually liked them from afar though, the few times people
had gotten physical with her had ended badly. Her short hair and the boy’s
clothes she wore put most men off. Breeches were far more practical than
skirts, easier to work in. Not that she would ever work in a stables again
after ... She hurried off towards the cabin, not wanting to think about that.
It didn’t matter anyway. She already knew the name of the man she would fall in
love with, and it wasn’t Bayle Domon.
In the cramped cabin she hastily gathered her belongings. She had several
changes of clothes, mostly shirts and trousers but Aunt Jan had insisted she
bring at least one dress. Min had not had the heart to argue with her, not
then, but she had no intention of ever wearing it. There was a respectable
amount of coin in her purse, both the one at her hip and the larger one within
her travel bag. Min had never been idle with her time. She had worked as a
stablehand, a tavern girl, a maid at an inn. She had even tried to get a job at
the mines, like her father before her, but the quarrymaster had just laughed
her away. The coin she hid under her unwashed clothes, in hopes that would
deter any would-be thief.
The last things she packed were her much-read books. They looked ragged but
they were her most prized possessions. She had brought a few favourites with
her for the journey, and if there was one good thing about this change in her
circumstance it was that she would have the opportunity to visit the famed
library of Tar Valon. That should be worth getting pestered over a few silly
viewings.
Min shouldered her bags and made her way back to the deck.
The Aes Sedai and her Warder were waiting for her at the top of the gangplank.
Jaim easily hefted both their belongings, leaving Dynahir free to look gracious
and poised. In Min’s experience Aes Sedai did not like to look anything but,
especially when strangers could see them. The way she held her head as she
descended to the docks of Tar Valon, like a queen descending from her throne,
showed that Dynahir Rashamon was no different.
Min combed her fingers through her short hair and followed the Aes Sedai with a
wry smile on her face. She looked back only once, and found Captain Domon
standing by the railing watching them go. She gave him a cheerful wave. She
wasn’t really planning to take him up on his offer, but just knowing that there
was another option made her feel less like a prisoner.
The streets of Tar Valon were packed with people dressed in so many colours
they made her think of a field of wildflowers. All gave way before the Aes
Sedai, even if it meant pushing into a stranger’s doorway. But it wasn’t fear
that drove them back, the faces were friendly, respectful, awed even. The city
seemed a wonderland to Min and she gave up the pretence of being worldly to
gape around her. Even the meanest structure seemed a palace that Governor Ada
would be jealous of. It was as though the builders had been told to take stone
and brick and tile and create beauty to take the breath of mortals. There was
no building, no monument that did not make her stare with goggling eyes.
The street by which she left the docks, broad and paved with smooth, grey
stone, stretched straight before her toward the centre of the city. At its end
loomed a tower larger and taller than any other, a tower as white as fresh-
fallen snow. The White Tower.
Music drifted down the streets, a hundred different songs, but all blending
with the clamour of the crowds. The scents of sweet perfumes and sharp spices,
of wondrous foods and myriad flowers, all floated in the air. But for all the
wonders before her, Min grew increasingly troubled. For a second she glimpsed a
raven above a moon-faced shopkeepers head and knew he would die by the sword. A
sickly green aura around the lovely golden-haired girl who played her lute so
happily promised a short life. Arrows and spears appeared in many men’s hands,
but only Min could see them. This city will not always be so peaceful. There
are dark days ahead.
The streets flowed into a huge square in the middle of the city, and for the
first time she saw that the White Tower rose from a great palace of pale
marble, sculpted rather than built, curving walls and swelling domes and
delicate spires fingering the sky. The whole of it made her gasp in awe.
Soldiers in silvered plate and mail with snowy white tabards stood watch at
every door and walkway. The sight of them reminded Min of Whitecloaks though
she doubted these men would appreciate the comparison. Broad stairs of pristine
stone led up from the square to massive doors carved in intricate scrollwork so
delicate she could not imagine a knife blade fine enough to fit.
The doors seemed too heavy for even Jaim to move, but Dynahir pushed one open
with a single slender hand.
“Be welcome, Elmindreda Farshaw,” said the Aes Sedai with an air of formality,
“to the White Tower.”
Min had never felt smaller than she did when stepping through those huge doors
into that tall and famed place. She hadn’t even the heart to object to the use
of her full name.
Inside, archways almost surrounded a large, round entry hall beneath a domed
ceiling. The pale stone floor looked as though it had been polished to a
mirror’s sheen.
A handful of women about Min’s age or younger sat on a plain bench to one side
of the chamber, as though waiting for someone. They wore demure white dresses
with no decoration except for seven bands of colour at the hem. One woman, her
yellow hair tied tightly back, made to rise at their entrance but her wispy-
looking friend caught her by the arm after one look at Dynahir’s ageless face.
She whispered something and the first woman sat back down, squinting their way.
Her eyesight must be bad, Min thought with a stab of sympathy. Her Aunt Rana
had often warned that Min’s eyes would go bad if she didn’t spend less time
reading and more time outdoors. The idea of losing her sight had always
horrified her.
Dynahir strolled to the centre of the entry hall and summoned one of the girls
to her with a glance and a single graceful flick of her wrist. “Daniele,” she
said after the chosen girl had hastened over to her. “Has the guest chamber I
requested been made available?”
“It has, Dynahir Sedai. We were told to expect you today.” This Daniele was a
tall whip of a woman with coppery skin and long, straight black hair. She stood
straight before the Aes Sedai with her hands folded behind her back, like a
soldier reporting for duty, but there was something challenging about her dark
eyes and the set of her jaw.
If Dynahir saw it too she did not care. “That is well. Kindly summon a Novice
to escort young Min to her new home. She will be staying with us for some
time.”
Daniele gave Min a speculative glance. “I understand Aes Sedai. Do you want me
to pass the news on to the other Accepted?”
Dynahir shook her head reproachfully. “The matter is being addressed,” she
said. Then added under her breath. “By those more versed in subtlety.”
They’re going to be watching me, Min realised. She had the sudden impulse to
turn and run back to Captain Domon’s ship. She wondered if Daniele and her
white-robed friends would jump her if she tried. Min had chosen to come here of
her own free will, albeit under the strenuous advice of her aunts and an Aes
Sedai, but that didn’t mean she liked feeling that she had no choice in whether
she stayed or not. I get quite enough of inevitability from my viewings, thank
you very much.
The Aes Sedai turned to her. “You have been a pleasant travelling companion,
Min. I hope that I shall hear good things of you in the future. May the Light
watch over you.”
“Thanks, Dynahir,” she said with a wry smile, “It’s been fun. I hope our future
meeting is a long way off.”
The Aes Sedai froze, studying Min carefully, and the Accepted frowned at her.
Min made her smile as friendly as she could. It sometimes helped at times like
this.
Dynahir gave a small shrug. “Quite. Daniele, you have a task. Jaim, with me.”
She turned and glided towards an archway, her huge Warder striding along behind
her. Jaim gave Min a single broad grin as they parted and then she was alone
with the girls in white, all of whom stared at her with credible imitations of
the still faces of Aes Sedai. All save Daniele, who strode off towards a
different arch, her long legs eating the distance quickly.
“Sooo,” Min said after a lengthy silence. “Do you get many visitors in the
Tower? Bards or gleemen maybe?” No-one answered. She suspected not. The Tower
didn’t seem a place for music. That was a pity; she had enjoyed the last dance
she’d been to, when Rand and his friends passed through Baerlon, and gave the
place a good stirring as they did.
Stirred my life up, certainly. But what will happen to me now? She knew part of
it. She couldn’t see her own future the way she saw others’, but occasionally
she caught glimpses of it in the futures of the people closest to her. What she
had seen of herself around Rand was not what she would have expected. Not at
all.
The stares of the Accepted were making her uncomfortable. She gave a plump,
blue-eyed girl her most winning grin. “How do you know when it’s time for
dinner here? I imagine a fancy place like this has some pretty great cooks.”
The girl glanced at her fellows uncertainly, but maintained her silence.
The sound of Daniele’s swift footsteps came as a relief. She blew out a sigh as
she turned to face the copper-skinned Accepted, then found herself staring,
open-mouthed. The Accepted hadn’t come alone ... she had brought the future
with her.
The future wore a pure white dress; a Novice come to lead her deeper into the
Tower and dressed accordingly. Min was only vaguely aware of it. She was as
tall as the Accepted who summoned her, but fair where she was dark, with red-
gold curls that fell down her back, pale, unblemished skin and bright blue
eyes. She was stunning, no-one could deny it, but it was not her beauty that
left Min gaping. I’ve seen this girl before. She was one of the three. Her
heart was thundering in her chest. What am I supposed to say to her?
The stranger with the familiar face ran a sharp eye over the room and gave a
small sigh. “Dinner is available after the fifth bell,” she said with a
welcoming smile. “I suspect you will find little fault with Cook Laras’ work. I
know I do not.” She advanced gracefully on Min and took her unresisting hand.
“I am Elayne, a Novice of the White Tower. I have been tasked with helping you
familiarise yourself with your new surroundings. If there is anything I can do
for you, please feel free to ask.”
Min was still staring. Daniele wore an oddly knowing smile and she heard one of
the Accepted behind her snigger. Say something, you looby!
She blinked and summoned a smile, but was sadly unable to suppress the blush
that darkened her cheeks. “Uh, it’s nice to meet you, Elayne. I’ll try to learn
my way quickly, and make things as easy for you as I can.”
Elayne’s smile brought out her dimples. She was the prettiest girl Min had ever
seen. “I’m sure you’ll be no trouble at all. If you would follow me, please, I
shall escort you to your chambers.”
She adjusted the straps of her bags as they hung from her shoulders and fended
off Elayne’s wordless offer to carry one for her. Side by side they walked
farther into the White Tower.
“The gardens are free for anyone’s use,” Elayne said as they strolled down a
covered walkway. “Though planting and picking the flowers is, of course,
reserved for the appropriate gardeners.” The flowers visible on the green
beyond were no doubt pretty, but Min’s thoughts were too full of the girl at
her side to pay much heed to plants.
She licked her lips and tried to recover her aplomb. “So, Elayne. Where are you
from? Your accent sounds a little Andoran.”
She laughed in delight. “I would say my accent sounds a lot Andoran. You are
quite right, I was born in Caemlyn. And you are a fellow countrywoman. From
Baerlon, I was told?”
Min found herself relaxing. She seemed nice, this Elayne. Easy to get along
with. That was a huge relief, all told. “Yes. A great city, I used to think.
But seeing Tar Valon puts things in perspective. Is Caemlyn as big as this?”
Elayne nodded solemnly. “Bigger, in truth, though not as old. In Caemlyn you
will find a mix of old Ogier-built structures and newer buildings that were the
making of humans alone. Here in Tar Valon, the original builders’ designs are
strictly maintained. It gives the city an air of eternity, I’ve often thought.
But in saying this let us not speak too harshly of Baerlon. The industry of the
frontier miners is of great value to Andor.”
Min smiled crookedly, feeling oddly touched by the praise. “My da was a miner,”
she said.
“I hope you shall not miss him too terribly. Leaving home can be hard, I know.”
She gave a little shrug. “Actually he died years ago. His sisters finished
raising me in his place.”
Elayne winced. “I beg your pardon, Min. I should not have spoken of him without
knowing your circumstances.” She closed her eyes and made a fist. “I really
must do better.”
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” she said hastily. “Honestly, there’s no
reason to get upset.” She holds herself to some pretty high standards, this
Elayne. I wonder why. She cast about for a change of subject. “So, have you
been in Tar Valon long?”
Elayne straightened her shoulders. “I only just recently arrived in the Tower
myself. Roughly a month ago.”
“So you’re a novice Novice.”
She giggled. “Yes. That would be rather accurate.”
“Well I wouldn’t have known it if you hadn’t told me,” she said with a grin.
Elayne seemed pleased. “I do try. I shall be at your disposal for the next few
days. If there is anything I can do to make you feel more at home here it would
be both a duty and a pleasure.”
“You know, Elayne. I think you and I are going to be great friends,” Min said.
She surprised them both by bursting out laughing. Fate was a strange, strange
thing.
The red-haired girl blinked once, her smile turning slightly tremulous. “I
would like that. I never ... I never mind getting to know new people,” she
said, finishing her sentence more firmly than she started it. “And here we
are,” she announced, gesturing ahead.
The door she pointed to was one of dozens of identical ones in a featureless
corridor of white stone. Min looked around her with a sinking feeling. “This is
my room, I take it?”
“It is. The chambers are not exactly luxurious, but there is no need to confine
yourself to them. I hope to see you about the Tower in the coming months.”
Min smiled glumly. “Likewise. But I have an embarrassing confession to make. I
haven’t been paying the slightest attention to where we were going. I fear I’m
lost already.” She hung her head dramatically. “So much for making things easy
for you.”
Elayne just laughed. “Well, then I shall simply have to visit you early
tomorrow. I will escort you all around the Tower, whether you like it or not!”
“I’ll take that punishment, and gladly,” Min said with a matching laugh. She
unlatched the door to her new room and shouldered her way in.
Her room in the Tower was bigger than her room in the attic above her aunts’
shop, but smaller than the good rooms Mistress Fitch had kept for her wealthier
clients at The Stag and Lion. It had a narrow window and a narrow bed with
clean-looking sheets. A dresser with a mirror and chair, and a heavy oak
wardrobe completed the furnishings. Min deposited her bags at the foot of the
wardrobe for later.
“It’s bigger than the rooms in the Novice Quarters at least,” said Elayne
cheerfully. She stood in the doorway with her hands folded before her. Waiting
for an invitation, Min realised. So polite!
“Come on in. My cell is your cell,” she said with a wave of her arm and an
irreverent grin.
“A cell?” Elayne’s fine orange brows rose almost to her hairline. “Surely you
are not a prisoner here?”
“Ah, don’t mind me. I’m only joking. Though the Aes Sedai that came to fetch me
didn’t seem very likely to take no for an answer.” She’d also brought several
very fat purses for Mistress Fitch. Enough to rebuild The Stag and Lion ... if
Min would come with her. She had a bad enough reputation in Baerlon, without
being the ungrateful employee who left her boss penniless and living on the
street.
“Why did they bring you here, if I may ask? You can’t channel. I would know.
And besides, you would be sent to the Novice Quarters if you could, not the
guest wing.”
Min hesitated. She didn’t want anyone to know about her viewings, and she still
hadn’t come up with a convincing story to explain the Aes Sedai’s interest in
her. They had been getting along well, she’d even begun to hope that they might
become friends. Though, depending on exactly what my viewing meant, that could
actually make things worse. Her viewings usually made things worse, in fact.
How would Elayne respond it she knew about them? She opened her mouth ... but
the lie died on her tongue. Lying to Elayne seemed very wrong somehow.
Abruptly a crown appeared among Elayne’s curls, a wreath of roses wrought in
yellow gold, contrasting with the red gold of her hair.
“You are going to be a queen some day,” Min blurted.
Elayne pursed her lips. “I didn’t think you knew who I was.”
Min shook her head. The crown was still there. But only to her eyes, she knew.
“Who you are? What do you mean? Who are you?”
“I am Elayne Trakand, Daughter-Heir of Andor. But you knew this already, no?”
She gaped. “The Daughter-Heir?” That made the least sense of all. Why would the
Daughter-Heir of Andor even consider ... for that matter, why would I!?
“You didn’t know? Then why would you think I would become Queen?” She raised a
hand to her mouth. “Was it only a compliment? Did I give myself away? I rather
liked the idea of my House name being secret, at least for a time. It would
have been nice to be just Elayne for once, and not Mother’s heir.”
Min knew what it was like to want to escape who you were. On reflection, she
didn’t much care that Elayne was a princess. Min had never been one for
proprieties, despite her aunts’ best efforts. But she imagined a lot of folk
would treat you different if they knew your mother was a queen with a massive
army and more money than she could ever spend. They certainly did when they
found out you could see the future. Most of them anyway. Rand and his friends
hadn’t been too put out by it, to her relief. Maybe Elayne wouldn’t be either.
We can both have a fresh start, or neither of us can.
She took a deep breath and stood as tall as she could, which was still a few
inches shorter than Elayne. “Well, now I know your secret. It seems only fair
you know mine. I rather liked the idea of no-one knowing it too, but ...”
Elayne raised a hand. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” But she
came the rest of the way into Min’s room and closed the door discreetly behind
her.
“I appreciate that. But maybe it’s best to do this now, rather than later.” She
combed her fingers through her hair nervously. “So, it’s, ah ... well, the Aes
Sedai say I see pieces of the Pattern. I don’t know about that, it sounds too
fancy. But I do see things when I look at people, images and auras that no-one
else can see and sometimes I know what they mean. For that person’s future, I
mean. I look at a man and a woman who’ve never even talked to one another, and
I know they’ll marry. And they do. That sort of thing.” Elayne’s eyes had
gotten even bigger as she listened. “I saw a crown on your head just now. It
was made of golden roses.”
“The Rose Crown of Andor,” Elayne said in awe. “That’s incredible, Min. Where
did you acquire such a gift?”
That was better than making warding signs against evil at least. “It’s not much
of a gift,” she scoffed. “I just see what’s going to happen. I can’t change it.
Sometimes trying to change it is exactly what causes it to happen, and then
people get mad at you. Or they get mad at you for doing nothing and ‘letting’
the bad things come to pass. As if I had a say in the matter.” She scowled
bitterly. “I don’t though. Fate is far beyond my control.”
Elayne rested her hand on Min’s shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “It’s
alright, Min. I understand. I won’t ask you to change the future, or blame you
for anything that it holds.”
“You don’t think I’m a freak then?” Min asked warily.
Elayne smiled kindly. “I think you’re very special. And I think you were right.
You and I are going to be great friends.”
Relief washed over Min and she gave Elayne an impulsive hug. The other girl
gave a surprised start, before hugging her back hesitantly. Fate was strange
indeed. But sometimes it could be a lovely kind of strange.
***** A Deepening Darkness *****
CHAPTER 16: A Deepening Darkness
 
For once, Ingtar called a halt to the day’s march with the sun still golden
above the horizon.
The toughened Shienarans were feeling the effects of what they had seen in the
village. Ingtar had not stopped so early before, and the campsite he chose had
the look of a place that could be defended. It was a deep hollow, almost round,
and big enough to hold all the men and horses comfortably. A sparse thicket of
scrub oak and leatherleaf covered the outer slopes. The rim itself stood more
than high enough to hide anyone in the campsite even without the trees. The
height nearly passed for a hill, in that country.
“All I’m bloody saying,” he heard Uno tell Ragan as they dismounted, “is that I
bloody saw her burn you. Just before we found the goat-kissing Halfman. The
same flaming woman as at the flaming ferry. She was there, and then she bloody
wasn’t. You say what you bloody want to, but you watch how you flaming say it,
or I’ll bloody skin you myself, and burn the goat-kissing hide, you sheep-
gutted milk-drinker.”
Rand paused with one foot on the ground and the other still in the stirrup. The
same woman? But there wasn’t any woman at the ferry, just some curtains blowing
in the wind. And she couldn’t have gotten to that village ahead of us if there
had been. The village ...
He shied away from the thought. Even more than the Fade nailed to the door, he
wanted to forget that room, and the flies, and the people who were there and
not there. The Halfman had been real— everybody had seen that—but the room ...
Maybe I’m going mad already. He wished Moiraine was there to talk to. Wishing
for an Aes Sedai. You are a fool.
“Packhorses and supplies in the middle,” Ingtar commanded as the lancers went
about setting up camp. “Rub the horses down, then saddle them again in case we
must move quickly. Every man sleeps by his mount, and there’ll be no fires
tonight. Watch changes every two hours. Uno, I want scouts out, as far as they
can ride and return before dark. I want to know what is out there.”
He’s feeling it, Rand thought. It isn’t just some Darkfriends and a few
Trollocs and maybe a Fade anymore. Just some Darkfriends and a few Trollocs,
and maybe a Fade! Even a few days before there would not have been any “just”
about it. Even in the Borderlands, even with the Blight less than a day’s ride,
Darkfriends and Trollocs and Myrddraal had been bad enough for a nightmare,
then. Before he had seen a Myrddraal nailed to a door. What in the Light could
have done that? What not in the Light? Before he had walked into a room where a
family had had their supper and their laughter cut off. I must have imagined
it. I must have. Even in his own head he did not sound very convincing. He had
not imagined the wind on the tower top, or the Amyrlin saying—
“Rand?” He jumped as Ingtar spoke at his shoulder. “Are you going to stay all
night with one foot in the stirrup?”
Rand put his other foot on the ground. “Ingtar, what happened back at that
village?”
“Trollocs took them. The same as the people at the ferry. That is what
happened. The Fade ...” Ingtar shrugged and stared down at a flat, canvas-
wrapped bundle, large and square, in his arms; he stared at it as if he saw
hidden secrets he would rather not know. “The Trollocs took them for food. They
do it in villages and farms near the Blight, too, sometimes, if a raid gets
past the border towers in the night. Sometimes we get the people back, and
sometimes not. Sometimes we get them back and almost wish we hadn’t. Trollocs
don’t always kill before they start butchering. And Halfmen like to have their
... fun. That’s worse than what the Trollocs do.” His voice was as steady as if
he were talking of every day, and perhaps he was, for a Shienaran soldier.
Rand took a deep breath to steady his stomach. “The Fade back there didn’t have
any fun, Ingtar. What could nail a Myrddraal to a door, alive?”
Ingtar hesitated, shaking his head, then pushed the big bundle at Rand. “Here.
Moiraine Sedai told me to give you this at the first camp south of the Mora. I
don’t know what is in it, but she said you would need it. She said to tell you
to take care of it; your life may depend on it.”
Rand took it reluctantly; his skin prickled at the touch of the canvas. There
was something soft inside. Cloth, maybe. He held it gingerly. He doesn’t want
to think about the Myrddraal either. What happened in that room? He realized
suddenly that for him, the Fade, or even that room, was preferable to thinking
about what Moiraine might have sent him.
“I was told to tell you at the same time that if anything happens to me, the
lances will follow you.”
“Me!” Rand gasped, forgetting the bundle and everything else. Ingtar met his
incredulous stare with a calm nod. “That’s crazy! I’ve never led anything but a
flock of sheep, Ingtar. They would not follow me anyway. Besides, Moiraine
can’t tell you who your second is. It’s Uno.”
“Uno and I were called to Lord Agelmar the morning we left. Moiraine Sedai was
there, but it was Lord Agelmar who told me. You are second, Rand.”
“But why, Ingtar? Why?” Moiraine’s hand was bright and clear in it, hers and
the Amyrlin’s, pushing him along the path they had chosen, but he had to ask.
The Shienaran looked as if he did not understand it either, but he was a
soldier, used to odd commands in the endless war along the Blight. “I heard
rumours from the women’s apartments that you were really a ...” He spread
gauntleted hands. “No matter. I know you deny it. Just as you deny the look of
your own face. Moiraine Sedai says you’re a shepherd, but I never saw a
shepherd with a heron-mark blade. No matter. I’ll not claim I would have chosen
you myself, but I think you have it in you to do what is needed. You will do
your duty, if it comes to it.”
Rand wanted to say it was no duty of his, but instead he said, “Uno knows about
this. Who else Ingtar?”
“All the lances. When we Shienarans ride, every man knows who is next in line
if the man in command falls. A chain unbroken right down to the last man left,
even if he’s nothing but a horseholder. That way, you see, even if he is the
last man, he is not just a straggler running and trying to stay alive. He has
the command, and duty calls him to do what must be done. If I go to the last
embrace of the mother, the duty is yours. You will find the Horn, and you will
take it where it belongs. You will.” There was a peculiar emphasis in Ingtar’s
last words.
The bundle in Rand’s arms seemed to weigh ten stone. Light, she could be a
hundred leagues off, and she still reaches out and tugs the leash. This way,
Rand. That way. You’re the Dragon Reborn, Rand. “I don’t want the duty, Ingtar.
I will not take it. Light, I’m just a shepherd! Why won’t anybody believe
that?”
“You will do your duty, Rand. When the man at the top of the chain fails,
everything below him falls apart. Too much is falling apart. Too much already.
Peace favour your sword, Rand al’Thor.”
“Ingtar, I—”
But Ingtar was walking away, calling to see if Uno had the scouts out yet.
Perrin approached him and volunteered to take first watch. Those trees would be
well-suited to an archer, he said, while there was still light to see by. Anna
was quick to step forward and add her voice to his. Rand wondered what had
passed between those two; they spent a lot more time in each other’s company
now than they had back in the Theren, but there was a stiffness about the way
they spoke to each other that hadn’t been there before. Ingtar sent Perrin
south and Anna north and cautioned them to keep a sharp look out.
Rand stared at the bundle in his arms and licked his lips. He was afraid he
knew what was in it. He wanted to look, yet he wanted to throw it in a fire
without opening it; he thought he might, if he could be sure it would burn
without anyone seeing what was inside, if he could be sure what was inside
would burn at all. But he could not look there, where other eyes than his might
see.
He glanced around the camp. The Shienarans were unloading the pack animals,
some already handing out a cold supper of dried meat and flatbread. Others
tended their horses, and Loial sat on a stone reading a book, with his long-
stemmed pipe clenched between his teeth and a wisp of smoke curling above his
head. Gripping the bundle as if afraid he might drop it, Rand sneaked into the
trees.
Knowing how keen his friends’ eyes were, he made sure to put some distance
between himself and the camp before stopping. He knelt in a small clearing
sheltered by thick-foliaged branches and set the bundle on the ground. For a
time he just stared at it. She wouldn’t have. She couldn’t. A small voice
answered, Oh, yes, she could. She could and would. Finally he set about untying
the small knots in the cords that bound it. Neat knots, tied with a precision
that spoke loudly of Moiraine’s own hand; no servant had done this for her. She
would not have dared let any servant see.
When he had the last cord unfastened, he opened out what was folded inside with
hands that felt numb, then stared at it, his mouth full of dust. It was all of
one piece, neither woven, nor dyed, nor painted. A banner, white as snow, big
enough to be seen the length of a field of battle. And across it marched a
rippling figure like a serpent scaled in gold and crimson, but a serpent with
four scaled legs, each tipped with five golden claws, a serpent with eyes like
the sun and a golden lion’s mane. He had seen it once before, and Moiraine had
told him what it was. The banner of Lews Therin Telamon, Lews Therin Kinslayer,
in the War of the Powers. The banner of the Dragon.
Anger boiled up in Rand, anger at Moiraine and the Amyrlin Seat, pushing him,
pulling him. Moiraine wanted him to be a puppet on Tar Valon strings, a false
Dragon for the Aes Sedai. She was going to push it down his throat whatever he
wanted. He crumpled up the banner in both hands, words boiling out
uncontrollably. “I—will—not—be—used!”
Yet, if the Aes Sedai were intent on pulling his strings, even from afar like
this, what could he do? He anger burned out as quickly as it had come and he
hung his head, suddenly weary. He only knew of one solution to the problems he
faced. Ingtar doesn’t need me to find the Horn. The White Tower can’t make me
its monster if I’m dead.
Rand knelt there for some time, staring at the banner in his hands.
There came a rustling sound from the surrounding foliage and he instinctively
began rolling up the banner, then let his hands fall lax. What did it matter if
someone saw him with it and recognised the creature? They’d attack him most
like, and he told himself he would not resist when they did. At least he
wouldn’t get anyone else killed, like he had Egwene.
As weary and disheartened as he was, he still gave a single, slow blink of
surprise when Masema emerged from the trees clad in his quilted wool doublet.
The man studied Rand, his upper lip quivering back to bare teeth. Rand did not
think it was supposed to be a smile. “Well,” he said finally. “A fancy banner,
with some weird snake-thing on it. And fancy dressed for your kind. Did
somebody catch you young in the Eastern Marches and tame you? You don’t look so
tall down on your knees.”
Rand sighed and lowered his eyes. “I’m not what you think I am,” he said
listlessly.
Masema’s harsh voice lashed at him. “What are you then?”
It was a good question. Not too long ago Rand would have known the answer. Now?
I’m a male channeler. I’m wanted by the Shadow. I’m a madman in the making. I’m
a monster fit to frighten children. All of those things were true, and none of
them were the truth. Who was he? His eyes drifted to Moiraine’s damn banner and
he shuddered. No. I’m not that. Definitely not that.
“You know what I think? I think you’re another murderous savage. Another blood-
haired, ice-eyed monster. And I know how to deal with the likes of that.”
Masema strode across the clearing towards him. Rand glanced up from where he
knelt, saw the hate in the man’s deep-set, nearly black eyes, saw the sword
strapped to his back ... and did nothing. It was not the end he would have
chosen, but perhaps there was truth to Masema’s words. He had not chosen to be
born the way he was, but he still had to answer for it.
Masema took him by the hair and bared his throat. Rand quashed the impulse to
fight back. He deserved this.
“Pretty-boy savage. Prancing around in your fancy clothes, while good men are
forced to fight the Shadow and you at the same time,” snarled Masema, and for
the first time Rand saw the pain that lay behind his anger.
The Shienaran stepped behind Rand and he waited for the sound of steel being
drawn ... but it was the clink and rustle of a belt being undone that reached
his ears and he suddenly wondered exactly what kind of sword Masema intended to
use on him. And did it matter? He still deserved to be punished.
Hard hands pushed him forward onto all fours with the hated banner laying
crumpled in the dirt before him. Ungentle fingers gripped the band of his
breeches and yanked downward, exposing his bottom to the cool evening air.
“Not even going to fight back? You people are all crazy,” said Masema, his
breath coming heavy.
A heavy weight thudded to the ground behind him and something hot and stiff
pressed against his ass. Rand did nothing as Masema pushed his cock inside him
but his cheeks coloured in shame. This was not the kind of punishment he had
thought the man had wanted to dish out. The glittering banner on the ground
held his eye as Masema began to ride him, hard and fast.
“Smooth and hairless,” the Shienaran gritted. “That’s an ass that was made to
be fucked.”
That was as close to a compliment as he was ever likely to get from this man,
Rand thought. Masema began pulling at Rand’s coat, undoing the buttons, yanking
it off one arm at a time, tossing it aside and exposing Rand’s pale, muscled
back.
It was not the first time Rand had submitted himself to another man’s pleasure.
Perhaps it should have horrified him. Certainly Masema was no friend of his,
and could hardly be considered a lover. Nor was there much of affection in his
harsh thrusts and clawing fingers. But he was not horrified. The Dragon banner
before him occupied his thoughts much as Masema’s cock occupied his ass, and
for a disturbing moment it seemed almost familiar. As if he had seen that
strange creature long before, somewhere else, somewhere far away. He shook his
head in denial.
Masema mistook him. “Yes actually. You stay there and take it, my Aiel Lord,”
he growled, and increased his pace.
There was something else familiar too, but Rand denied that just as fiercely as
he did the banner. Masema’s cock might be the same size as Tam’s but they were
not the same. Tam had used his body for his pleasure since he was little, that
was true, but it was not the same as what Masema was doing. Tam had loved him,
Masema only wanted an outlet for his anger. Tam had never insulted him while he
took him, the way Masema had, Tam had never pulled his hair, the way Masema now
was. Tam had never hated him for being Aiel, the way ... No. I’m not an Aiel.
No matter how many people say otherwise. He tossed his head in denial, which
brought a pleased grunt from Masema, who tightened his grip in Rand’s hair and
fucked him even faster.
Abruptly, the man stopped his rapid thrusting and shoved himself all the way
into Rand’s bowels. A hissed out breath and a groan of what might almost have
been pain was his only warning before something hot and wet began spurting
inside him.
Rand’s cheeks coloured again. You have your punishment, al’Thor. Do you feel
absolved now? Are you cleansed of man’s sin? The mocking voice was his own, and
the answer plain. The One Power was still there, still almost within his reach,
still hopelessly tainted by the Shadow. He knelt before the Dragon banner,
flushed and used and feeling every bit as hopeless as he had before.
Throughout it all, he had not stiffened. Not that Masema was like to care about
that.
The Shienaran behind him was breathing deeply. He pulled himself out of Rand
with a grunt and fell back to his knees. Rand remained on his hands and knees
for a time, his soiled ass on display, but eventually he heaved himself over
with a morose sigh and sat in the dirt, his breeches still around his knees.
Masema took his soft, dark cock in hand and stuffed it back into his
breechclout before doing up his laces. He kept glancing at Rand, and then
pulling his eyes away again. He had a hard face, made for scowls, not
apologies, but Rand thought he almost looked guilty. He had no words of his own
to say. He could have stopped it if he wanted, after all. Probably. Already,
regret was seeping into his thoughts. He should have stopped it. This was
foolish. Madness. What use did I imagine this would serve?
Morose youth and angry man, they stared at each other in silence for a long
minute, neither quite understanding the other.
Masema climbed to his feet and stood over Rand, stiff-backed. “You’re a good
fuck,” he said awkwardly.
“Thanks,” Rand sighed, though he didn’t feel particularly grateful. “I won’t
tell anyone if you don’t.”
Masema nodded curtly. “Right.” He turned and stalked off back the way he had
come, leaving Rand alone with his dark thoughts. Well, I hope there are no
further consequences from this, besides feeling disgusted with myself.
When he returned to the camp sometime later, washed and dressed and solemn-
faced, he carried the banner wrapped in canvas once more, tied with knots less
neat than Moiraine’s had been.
The light had begun to fail and the shadow of the rim covered half the hollow.
The soldiers were settling in, all with their horses by their sides, lances
propped to hand. He could not see Masema among their number, and did not look
very hard. Anna and Perrin were still on watch, up in their chosen trees. Rand
gave them a sad look, then fetched Red, standing where he had been left with
his reins dangling, and went to the other side of the hollow, where Hurin had
joined Loial. The Ogier had given over reading and was examining the half-
buried stone on which he had been sitting, tracing something on the stone with
the long stem of his pipe.
Hurin stood and gave Rand something just short of a bow. “Hope you don’t mind
me making my bed here, Lord—uh—Rand. I was just listening to the Builder here.”
“There you are, Rand,” Loial said. “You know, I think this stone was worked
once. See, it’s weathered, but it looks as if it was a column of some kind. And
there are markings, also. I can’t quite make them out, but they look familiar,
somehow.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to see them better in the morning,” Rand said. He pulled
the saddlebags from Red. “I’ll be glad of your company, Hurin.” I’m glad of
anybody’s company who isn’t afraid of me. No matter how little they care. How
much longer can I have it, though?
He shifted everything into one side of the saddlebags—spare shirts and breeches
and woollen stockings, sewing kit, tinder box, tin plate and cup, a greenwood
box with knife and fork and spoon, a packet of dried meat and flatbread for
emergency rations, and all the other traveller’s necessaries— then stuffed the
canvas-wrapped banner into the empty pocket. It bulged, the straps barely
reaching the buckles, but then, the other side bulged now, too. It would do.
Loial and Hurin seemed to sense his mood, leaving him in silence while he
stripped saddle and bridle from Red, rubbed the big bay down with tufts of
grass torn from the ground, then resaddled him. Rand refused their offer of
food; he did not think he could have stomached the best meal he had ever seen
just then. All three of them made their beds there beside the stone, a simple
matter of a blanket folded for a pillow and cloak to cover.
The camp was silent now, but Rand lay awake past the fall of full dark. His
mind darted back and forth. The banner. What is she trying to make me do? The
village. What could kill a Fade like that? Worst of all, the house in the
village. Did it really happen? Am I going mad already? Do I run, or do I stay?
Or should I just kill myself and get it over with?
An exhausted sleep finally came, and with sleep, unbidden, the void surrounded
him, flickering with an uneasy glow that disturbed his dreams.
 
                                     * * *
 
Padan Fain stared northward out into the night, past the only fire in his camp,
smiling a fixed smile that never touched his eyes. He still thought of himself
as Padan Fain—Padan Fain was the core of him—but he had been changed, and he
knew it. He knew many things, now, more than any of his old masters could
suspect. He had been a Darkfriend long years before Ba’alzamon summoned him and
set him on the track of the three young men from Emond’s Field, distilling what
he knew of them, distilling him, and feeding the essence back so that he could
feel them, smell where they had been, follow wherever they ran. Especially the
one. A part of him still cringed, remembering what Ba’alzamon had done to him,
but it was a small part, hidden, suppressed. He was changed. Following the
three had led him into Shadar Logoth. He had not wanted to go, but he had had
to obey. Then. And in Shadar Logoth ...
Fain drew a deep breath and fingered the dagger at his belt, wishing it was
another dagger, the ruby-hilted one he had seen the Cauthon boy carrying. That
had come from Shadar Logoth too, and it felt like a part of him. He was not
whole within himself while the boy kept his dagger. But that would have to
wait.
He cast a glance to either side of his fire. The twelve Darkfriends who were
left, their once-fine clothes now rumpled and dirty, huddled in the darkness to
one side, staring not at the fire, but at him. On the other squatted his
Trollocs, twenty in number, the all-too-human eyes in those animal-twisted
men’s faces following his every move like mice watching a cat.
It had been a struggle at first, waking each morning to find himself not
completely whole, to find the Myrddraal back in command, raging and demanding
they go north, to the Blight, to Shayol Ghul. But bit by bit those mornings of
weakness grew shorter, until ... He remembered the feel of the hammer in his
hand, driving the spikes in, and he smiled; this time it did touch his eyes,
with the joy of sweet memory.
Weeping from the dark caught his ear, and his smile faded. I should never have
let the Trollocs take so many. An entire village to slow them down. If those
few houses at the ferry had not been deserted, perhaps ... But Trollocs were
greedy by nature, and in the euphoria of watching the Myrddraal die, he had not
paid attention as he should.
He glanced at the Trollocs. Any one of them was nearly twice as tall as he,
strong enough to break him to flinders with one hand, yet they edged back,
still crouching. “Kill them. All. You may feed, but then make a pile of
everything that remains—for our friends to find. Put the heads on top. Neatly,
now.” He laughed, and cut it off short. “Go!”
The Trollocs scrambled away, drawing scythe-like swords and raising spiked
axes. In moments shrieks and bellows rose from where the villagers were bound.
Pleas for mercy and children’s screams were cut off by solid thuds and
unpleasant squishing noises, like melons being broken.
Fain turned his back on the cacophony to look at his Darkfriends. They were
his, too, body and soul. Such souls as they had left. Every one of them was
mired as deeply as he had been, before he found his way out. Every one with
nowhere to go except to follow him. Their eyes clung to fearful, pleading. “You
think they will grow hungry again before we find another village or a farm?
They may. You think I will be letting them have some more of you? Well, perhaps
one or two. There aren’t any more horses to spare.”
“The others were only commoners,” one woman managed in an unsteady voice. Dirt
streaked her face above a finely cut dress that marked her as a merchant, and
wealthy. Smears stained the good grey cloth, and a long tear marred her skirt.
“They were peasants. We have served—I have served—” Fain cut her off, his easy
tone making his words all the harder. “What are you, to me? Less than peasants.
Herd cattle for the Trollocs, perhaps? If you want to live, cattle, you must be
useful.”
The woman’s face broke. She sobbed, and suddenly all the rest were babbling,
telling him how useful they were, men and women who had had influence and
position before they were called to fulfil their oaths at Fal Dara. They
spilled out the names of important, powerful people whom they knew in the
Borderlands, in Cairhien, and other lands. They babbled of the knowledge they
alone had of this land or that, of political situations, alliances, intrigues,
all the things they could tell him if he let them serve him. The noise of them
blended with the sounds of the Trollocs’ slaughter and fit right in.
Fain ignored all of it—he had no fear of turning his back on them, not since
they had seen the Fade dealt with—and went to his prize. Kneeling, he ran his
hands over the ornate, golden chest, feeling the power locked inside. He had to
have a Trolloc carry it—he did not trust the humans enough to load it on a
horse and packsaddle; some dreams of power might be strong enough to overcome
even fear of him, but Trollocs never dreamed of anything except killing—and he
had not yet puzzled out how to open it. But that would come. Everything would
come. Everything.
The woman who had given it to him had known what was inside. Known and not
cared. She had claimed to be one of the Chosen and as impossible as it might
have once seemed, Fain had believed her. Who else could have so much power that
they could throw away a prize such as the Horn of Valere and wear so mocking a
smile as they did it? She was using him of course, just like Ba’alzamon used
him. Fain had been careful to avoid meeting her eye. But that too would change.
He settled himself down beside the chest. Lying there in his blankets, he
stared northward. He could not feel al’Thor, now; the distance between them was
too great. Or perhaps al’Thor was doing his vanishing trick. Sometimes, in the
keep, the boy had suddenly vanished from Fain’s senses. He did not know how,
but always al’Thor came back, just as suddenly as he had gone. He would come
back this time, too.
“This time you come to me, Rand al’Thor. Before, I followed you like a dog
driven on the trail but now you follow me.” His laughter was a cackle that even
he knew was mad, but he did not care. Madness was a part of him, too. “Come to
me, al’Thor. The dance is not even begun yet. We’ll dance on Toman Head, and
I’ll be free of you. I’ll see you dead at last.”
***** Kinslayer *****
CHAPTER 19: Kinslayer
 
But by nightfall, there was still no sign of the Darkfriends, and Hurin said
the trail was fainter still. The sniffer kept muttering to himself about
“remembering”.
There had been no sign. Really no sign. Rand was not as good a tracker as Uno,
but any boy in the Theren was expected to track well enough to find a lost
sheep, or a rabbit for dinner. He had seen nothing. It was as if no living
thing had ever disturbed the land before they came. There should have been
something if the Darkfriends were ahead of them. But Hurin kept following the
trail he said he smelled.
As the sun touched the horizon they made camp in a stand of trees untouched by
the burn, eating from their saddlebags. Flatbread and dried meat washed down
with flat-tasting water; hardly a filling meal, tough and far from tasty. Rand
thought they might have enough for a week. After that ... Hurin ate slowly,
determinedly, but Loial gulped his down with a grimace and settled back with
his pipe, the big quarterstaff close at hand. Rand kept their fire small and
well hidden in the trees. Fain and his Darkfriends and Trollocs might be close
enough to see a fire, for all of Hurin’s worries about the oddness of their
trail.
It seemed odd to him that he had begun to think of them as Fain’s Darkfriends,
Fain’s Trollocs. Fain was just a madman. Then why did they rescue him? Fain had
been part of the Dark One’s scheme to find him. Perhaps it had something to do
with that. Then why is he running instead of chasing me? And what killed that
Fade? What happened in that room full of flies? And those eyes watching me in
Fal Dara. And that wind, catching me like a beetle in pine sap.
It’s never over, al’Thor.
The voice was like a thin breeze whispering in the back of his head, a thin,
icy murmur working its way into the crevices of his mind. He almost sought the
void to escape it, but remembering what waited for him there, he pushed down
the desire.
In the half dark of twilight, he worked the forms with his sword, the way Lan
had taught, though without the void. Parting the Silk. Hummingbird Kisses the
Honeyrose. Heron Wading in the Rushes for balance. Losing himself in the swift,
sure movements, forgetting for a time where he was, he worked until sweat
covered him. Yet when he was done, it all came back; nothing was changed. The
weather was not cold, but he shivered and pulled his cloak around him as he
hunched by the fire. The others caught his mood, and they finished eating
quickly and in silence. No-one complained when he kicked dirt over the last
fitful flames.
Rand took the first watch himself, walking the edges of the copse with his bow,
sometimes easing his sword in its scabbard. The chill moon was almost full,
standing high in the blackness, and the night was as silent as the day had
been, as empty. Empty was the right word. The land was as empty as a dusty milk
crock. It was hard to believe there was anyone in the whole world, in this
world, except for the three of them, hard to believe even the Darkfriends were
there, somewhere ahead.
To keep himself company, he unwrapped Thom Merrilin’s cloak, exposing the harp
and flute in their hard leather cases atop the many-coloured patches. He took
the gold-and-silver flute from its case, remembering the gleeman teaching him
as he fingered it, and played a few notes of “The Wind That Shakes the Willow”,
softly so as not to wake the others. Even soft, the sad sound was too loud in
that place, too real. With a sigh he replaced the flute and did up the bundle
again.
He held the watch long into the night, letting the others sleep. But eventually
exhaustion forced him to shake Loial from his slumber to take his place. No
sooner had his head hit the bundled cloak that served as his pillow than a fog
rose around them. Close to the ground it lay, thick, making Hurin and Loial
indistinct shapes seeming to hump out of clouds. Thinner higher up, it still
shrouded the land around them, hiding everything except the nearest trees. The
moon seemed viewed through watered silk. Anything at all could come right up to
them unseen. He sat up and touched his sword.
“Swords do no good against me, Lews Therin. You should know that.”
The fog swirled around Rand’s feet as he spun, the sword coming into his hands,
heron-mark blade upright before him. The void leaped up inside him; for the
first time, he barely noticed the tainted light of saidin.
A shadowy figure drew nearer through the mist, walking with a tall staff.
Behind it, as if the shadow’s shadow were vast, the fog darkened till it was
blacker than night. Rand’s skin crawled. Closer the figure came, until it
resolved into the shape of a man, clothed and gloved in black, and the shadow
came with it. His staff was black, too, as if the wood had been charred, yet
smooth and shining like water by moonlight. His face was all-too familiar, an
aristocratically handsome man of middle years with two orbs of purest darkness
where his eyes should have been.
“Ba’alzamon,” he breathed. “This is a dream. It has to be. I fell asleep, and—”
Ba’alzamon laughed like the roar of an open furnace. “You always try to deny
what is, Lews Therin. If I stretch out my hand, I can touch you, Kinslayer. I
can always touch you. Always and everywhere.”
“I am not the Dragon! My name is Rand al’—!” Rand clamped his teeth shut to
stop himself.
“Oh, I know the name you use now, Lews Therin. I know every name you have used,
through Age after Age, long before you were even the Kinslayer.” Ba’alzamon’s
voice began to rise in intensity. “I know you, know your blood and your line
back to the first spark of life that ever was, back to the First Moment. You
can never hide from me. Never! We are tied together as surely as two sides of
the same coin. Ordinary men may hide in the sweep of the Pattern, but ta’veren
stand out like beacon fires on a hill, and you, you stand out as if ten
thousand shining arrows stood in the sky to point you out! You are mine, and
ever in reach of my hand!”
“Father of Lies!” Rand managed. Despite the void, his tongue wanted to cleave
to the roof of his mouth. Light, please let it be a dream. The thought
skittered outside the emptiness. Even one of those dreams that isn’t a dream.
He can’t really be standing in front of me. “You’re well named! If you could
just take me, why haven’t you? Because you cannot. I walk in the Light, and you
cannot touch me!”
Ba’alzamon leaned on his staff and looked at Rand a moment. “An interesting
choice of words. But I have already told you, I am not Shai’tan.”
With the utterance of that name, the air seemed to thicken. The darkness behind
Ba’alzamon swelled and grew, threatening to swallow everything. Rand felt it
engulfing him, colder than ice and hotter than coals both at the same time,
blacker than death, sucking him into the depths of it, overwhelming the world.
He gripped his sword hilt till his knuckles hurt. “I deny you, and I deny your
power. I walk in the Light. The Light preserves us, and we shelter in the palm
of the Creator’s hand.” He blinked. Ba’alzamon—or Ishamael as he was also
called—still stood there, and the great darkness still hung behind him, but it
was as if all the rest had been illusion.
Ignoring Rand’s sword, the dark man moved to stand over Loial and Hurin,
peering down at them. The vast shadow moved with him. He did not disturb the
fog, Rand saw—he moved, the staff swung with his steps, but the grey mist did
not swirl and eddy around his feet as it did around Rand’s. That gave him
heart. Perhaps Ba’alzamon really was not there. Perhaps it was just a dream.
“You find odd followers,” Ba’alzamon mused. “You always did. These two. The
girl who tries to watch over you. A poor guardian and weak, Kinslayer. If she
had a lifetime to grow, she would never grow strong enough for you to hide
behind.”
Girl? Who? Moiraine is surely not a girl. Does he mean Nynaeve? The thought
that Ba’alzamon even knew Nynaeve existed was horrifying. I won’t let him hurt
her, or anyone else. “I don’t know what girl you are talking about, Father of
Lies.”
“Do I lie, Lews Therin? You know what you are, who you are. I have told you.
And so have those women of Tar Valon.” Rand shifted, and Ba’alzamon gave a
laugh, like a small thunderclap. “They think themselves safe in their White
Tower, but my followers number even some of their own. The Aes Sedai called
Moiraine told you who you are, did she not? Did she lie? Or is she one of mine?
The White Tower means to use you like a hound on a leash. Do I lie about that?
Do I lie when I say you seek the Horn of Valere?” He laughed again; calm of the
void or no, it was all Rand could do not to cover his ears. “Sometimes old
enemies fight so long that they become allies and never realize it. They think
they strike at you, but they have become so closely linked it is as if you
guided the blow yourself.”
“You don’t guide me,” Rand said. “I deny you.”
“I have a thousand strings tied to you, Kinslayer, each one finer than silk and
stronger than steel. Time has tied a thousand cords between us. The battle we
two have fought—do you remember any part of that? Do you have any glimmering
that we have fought before, battles without number back to the beginning of
Time? I know much that you do not! That battle will soon end. The Last Battle
is coming. The last, Lews Therin. I will make sure of it this time. This time
when you die, you will be destroyed utterly. This time the Wheel will be broken
whatever you do, and the world remade to a new mould.”
Ba’alzamon’s eyes were like bottomless pits. Looking at them, Rand suddenly
felt as though he had fallen from a cliff. “Let me show you.”
He tumbled down into darkness and was lost.
He had no eyes to see but that did not stop them. He could feel their greedy
hands fumbling at his flesh, pinching, pulling, trying to take little pieces of
him for themselves. He existed to serve them, to protect them. He knew that
somehow. And just as surely he knew that they would use him until there was
nothing left to use, then discard him in favour of the next protector. Except,
the next one would be him as well. Again and again and again. He existed only
to be used. One of his tormentors proved stronger than the others. He pushed
them aside and took Rand’s face between his hands. They were cruel hands, but
their long fingers stroked Rand’s cheeks lovingly.
“Serve the many and they will tear you apart. But serve me alone and I will
give you the freedom you have long desired. The freedom you don’t even know you
want,” purred Ba’alzamon.
Rand’s jaw hung lax. He wanted to close it but somehow he could not. A rod
slipped over his lips and into his mouth. It was a warm thing, stiff yet soft
and fleshy. A man’s cock.
“Suckle upon me, Lews Therin,” Ba’alzamon whispered. “Accept my truth and it
will all be over. We can rest at last.”
Rand denied him. Or tried to, but with his tongue held down by the shaft of
meat resting upon it he could manage no more than a mumbled groan. Ba’alzamon
matched it with one of his own as Rand’s lips perforce worked their magic upon
him.
This is just a dream, Rand told himself. It isn’t happening. I won’t believe
it!
Abruptly he felt his surroundings change. Between one heartbeat and the next
his vision returned and he found himself back in the Theren. The familiar
furnishings of his small house in the Westwood were all around him. Outside the
window it was a pleasant spring day. Home at last. But no sooner had he felt
the surge of relief than a voice whispered from behind, “You cannot escape from
me so easily, Dragon. It is not over between us. It will not be over until the
end of time.”
Rand spun to face the voice. Ba’alzamon stood in the doorway, inside Rand’s
house with the door closed snugly behind him. The intrusion infuriated him.
“Get out! You are not welcome here,” he growled. “Leave me alone. I will not
serve you. I will not fight for the Shadow.”
“Then don’t. Fight for yourself. What Shai’tan wants is not truly the issue.
Whether what he wants will also give us our desires is. And it will.” He cast a
contemptuous glance around them. “Is this where you flee for comfort, Lews
Therin. It is a rustic and crude place, even by the standards of this broken
Age. Why here? What could it and its benighted denizens possibly have done for
you? Did the farmer who raised you have some supposedly wise insights into the
nature of humanity that he liked to share with you? I promise, such earthy
wisdoms never survive the scrutiny of an evolved mind.”
“What would an insane monster like you know of wisdom?” scoffed Rand.
Ba’alzamon chuckled. “Madness and wisdom are but two sides of the same coin. If
you would seek to understand what the common man does not, you must allow your
thoughts to roam in places that others would not dare venture.”
Tam had taught him much Rand recalled. He had taught him how to focus his mind,
to become one with the flame and the void. Desperately he sought that
stillness, hoping to banish Ba’alzamon from his dream.
The farmhouse shimmered around him. Nothing changed, and yet everything did.
The mad Forsaken with the many names was gone and in his place stood the
familiar, stolid countenance of Tam al’Thor, bluff and greying but still
strong.
Rand’s father stretched his arms above his head with a loud groan. They had
spent almost the entire day working at that tree stump. Tam was even more tired
and frustrated than Rand was. He wasn’t getting any younger after all. The day
had dragged on so long that now, thinking back on it, it seemed to Rand that it
had been many years since they had finally cleared the field, rather than mere
hours. But that was a foolish thought and he quickly dismissed it.
Rand went upstairs to his room to change out of his soiled clothes. He was all
the way down to his drawers when he heard the floorboards creak as someone
approached his door.
Tam wore that chagrined, almost ashamed smile he sometimes did when he was
feeling the urge. Rand stared up at him from his seat on the bed.
“It’s been a long day,” Tam sighed. “Be a good lad and help me relax would
you?”
Rand’s cheeks coloured of their own accord, though it was far from the first
time he had been asked to help Tam relax. “Yes sir,” he said dutifully. Without
preamble he pulled down his underwear and added them to the pile of dirty
clothes. Then he turned around, lay down on his belly and spread his long legs.
With his pale young bottom exposed, Rand hugged his pillow and waited for his
father to do with him as he pleased.
The sound of a belt being unbuckled and a rustle of cloth heralded Tam’s
arrival. He took hold of Rand’s hips and guided his thick cock into the
familiar sheathe of his son’s butt, sighing loudly as he entered. It still hurt
a little as Tam pushed inside but Rand relaxed himself and did not complain.
Once his cock was all the way in Tam began riding him in earnest, grunting with
each hard thrust.
Tam’s weight pressed Rand down onto the soft mattress. Rand’s butt felt almost
numb from the fierce fucking he was getting. He closed his eyes and took it
bravely, his breath coming faster and faster. Tam ran his fingers through
Rand’s hair and turned his head to the side, the better to look on his son’s
face as he made love to him.
“The earthiest of wisdoms then,” Tam chuckled, while his cock still pumped in
and out of Rand. “Rustic is too kind a term. Even animals know the urge to
procreate ... Rand. Is it to this that you are a slave? Sex is a pleasant
distraction but we must concern ourselves with higher things you and I.”
Rand’s eyes snapped open and he looked back over his shoulder. Tam was gone and
in his place lay Ba’alzamon. On Rand. In Rand. The Forsaken ran his tongue
across Rand’s shoulder, bringing his unblinking, pure black orbs horrifyingly
close to Rand’s face. He stared right into Rand’s eyes as he pumped away at
him.
“Get off me!” Rand shouted. He grasped at saidin, willingly for once, and
sought fire. He wanted Ba’alzamon to burn, he wanted everything to burn. And
burn it did.
Rand woke from the nightmare with a wordless yell. The moon still shone in the
clear night and he fell back to his bed with a long sigh. Just a dream. The
memory of it faded quickly, though the night’s chill felt a pleasant relief on
his skin after the searing heat he vaguely recalled.
Even in the middle of the night the city did not truly sleep. The sounds the
moonlight carried into his sanctuary gave promise of the morrow’s work. There
would be more petitions brought before his throne, more fools begging him to
solve problems they should have been able to solve themselves, more smug
diplomats whose insincere promises he would have to meet with the same. It
never changed. And it never ended.
Elan stirred in the bed beside him. The moonlight kissed his milky white skin
and somehow the mere glimpse of him was enough to make Rand instantly hard. He
pushed the silk sheets aside and rose up onto his knees with his cock jutting
out before him. He didn’t bother waking the boy, just turned him onto his back
and spread his slender legs, exposing his small, hairless parts and tight
little bottom. Rand positioned his son and began forcing his large cock into
the boy’s too-small hole. Elan didn’t protest. Why would he? He had seen so
much worse.
A frantic voice at the back of his head mumbled nonsense. This isn’t right.
This isn’t me! He ignored it and began fucking Elan hard.
“Do you prefer having a catamite to being one?” Elan whispered as he lay pliant
beneath him. “If you think that changes anything of import then you lack
vision.” Darkness suited him. The moonlight blended with his white skin and
black hair. Even his eyes, when at last he opened them, belonged to the
darkness. The pretty little boy smiled a sharp smile as Rand fucked him. He
took hold of Rand’s hands and though Rand was by far the stronger of them he
felt powerless to stop himself from moving.
Elan brought Rand’s hands to his throat and wrapped them around his soft little
neck. “These powers are callow and transient,” he whispered as Rand’s fingers
began to tighten of their own accord. “A million empires have risen and fallen
in the Wheel’s long turning. How many can you name? Can you be so foolish as to
imagine that what exists now, or might be built in the years to come, will fare
any better?”
Rand kept fucking Elan while the boy’s moonlit face turned from white to black.
With his last breath Elan whispered, “Free me.”
Fluid shot forth from Rand’s body, but not of the sort his tormentor might
expect.
Abruptly the bedroom was gone and there was darkness all around him once more.
He knelt naked in a pool of rancid slime. His own vomit lay warm upon his chest
and the stench of carrion was all around him. As he shifted his weight his leg
bumped against what felt like a bone. There were pieces of flesh still attached
to it and some remained stuck to Rand’s skin when he pulled away. A flickering,
sourceless light showed him glimpses of what lay around him. Corpses. Human
corpses in various stages of rot. Some of them looked horribly familiar.
Rand shook his head angrily. “None of this is real!” he shouted. “You are doing
this, Ba’alzamon, I know it! This is all just another dream.”
“It is,” the Forsaken said. Between one flicker of light and the next he was
there beside him. Naked as Rand was naked, and standing in the pool of corpses.
“It is all a dream. Nothing matters. In this world or in any other. You must
see that now. You must! We have lain in this grave so many times, you and I.
But I know the path that leads out. Together we can walk that path, Lews
Therin, as no-one else in all Creation can. Join me, and I will show you the
way.”
Alone in that cold, vile place, Rand set his jaw and faced the Forsaken
squarely, armed with nothing but his innate stubbornness. “I will not serve the
Shadow. Ever.”
Ba’alzamon lashed a hand through the rancid water, splashing them both in
foulness. “What had serving the Light ever gotten you save an eternity of
torment, fool! I offer you freedom and you are too ignorant to reach for it!”
Abruptly the gravepit was gone and they were back in the stand of trees where
Rand and the others had made camp. Both men were blessedly clothed again and
Rand’s sword was at his side. He snatched it from its sheathe and held it up
between them. It offered little protection he knew, but it was all he had.
Ba’alzamon’s anger was palpable. “Bah! You do not listen. But you will. You
will learn. I know the paths to great power, Lews Therin. Untrained it will
burn you like a moth flying into a furnace.”
“I will not touch it!” Rand felt the void around him, felt saidin. “I won’t.”
 “You cannot stop yourself.”
“Leave—me—ALONE!”
“Power.” Ba’alzamon’s voice became soft, insinuating. “You can have power
again, Lews Therin. You are linked to it now, this moment. I know it. I can see
it. Feel it, Lews Therin. Feel the glow inside you. Feel the power that could
be yours. All you must do is reach out for it. But the Shadow is there between
you and it. Madness and death. I can shield you from that too. You need not
die, Lews Therin, need not rot and go mad. Not ever again.”
“No,” Rand said, but the voice went on, burrowing into him.
“I can teach you to control that power so that it does not destroy you. No-one
else lives who can teach you that. Do you care for these wretched mortals?
Knowing you the answer will be yes. I can save them from you. There need never
be another Ilyena Sunhair. The Great Lord of the Dark can shelter you from the
madness. The power can be yours and you can live forever. Forever! All you must
do in return is serve. Only serve. Simple words—I am yours, Great Lord—and
power will be yours. Power beyond anything those women of Tar Valon dream of,
and life eternal, if you will only offer yourself up and serve.”
Rand licked his lips. Not to go mad. Not to die. “Never! I walk in the Light,”
he grated hoarsely, “and you can never touch me!”
The Forsaken glared balefully at him. “Touch you, Lews Therin? Have I not
already tasted your depths? Touch you? I can consume you! Taste the flame and
know that truth! The first of many.”
Suddenly Rand’s sword glowed as if just drawn from the forge. He cried out as
the hilt burned his hands, screamed and dropped the sword. And the fog caught
fire, fire that leaped, fire that burned everything.
Yelling, Rand beat at his clothes as they smoked and charred and fell in ashes,
beat with hands that blackened and shrivelled as naked flesh cracked and peeled
away in the flames. He screamed. Pain beat at the void inside him, and he tried
to crawl deeper into the emptiness. The glow was there, the tainted light just
out of sight. Half mad, no longer caring what it was, he reached for saidin,
tried to wrap it around him, tried to hide in it from the burning and the pain.
As suddenly as the fire began, it was gone. Rand’s eyes snapped open and he
raised his head from his blanket to stare around the clearing. Loial’s hulking
figure sat on a rocking outcropping nearby, keeping watch. I imagined it all.
Frantically, he looked around. Hurin shifted in his sleep. Ba’alzamon was gone.
It was just a nightmare.
Before relief had a chance to grow, pain stabbed his right hand, and he turned
it up to look. There across the palm was branded a heron. The heron from the
hilt of his sword, angry and red, as neatly done as though drawn with an
artist’s skill.
Fumbling a kerchief from his pocket, he wrapped it around his hand. It was not
the first time he had been wounded while having a nightmare. Dreams were deadly
now. His hand throbbed. The void would help with that—he was aware of pain in
the void, but he did not feel it—but he put the thought out of his head. Twice
now, unknowing—and once on purpose; he could not forget that—he had tried to
channel the One Power while he was in the void. It was what Ba’alzamon, what
Moiraine and the Amyrlin Seat wanted him to do. He would not.
***** Pieces of the Pattern *****
CHAPTER 33: Pieces of the Pattern
 
Elayne’s fair skin reddened from the exertion, and sweat darkened her hair. Min
stuffed her hands in her pockets and shifted her feet uncomfortably. Watching
her friend work while she stood idle made her feel guilty, but the last time
she had pitched in to help Laras had come at her with a spoon that was nearly
long enough to be a shortsword. She liked the Mistress of the Kitchens—she
laughed loud and often—but when it came to the Novices here in the Tower she
could be nearly as strict as Sheriam. Or three Sheriams; Laras was a ... big
woman. And no-one Min wanted to get on the wrong side of.
“Just a dozen more turns, Elayne, and you’ll be the hero of a story,” Min said
with an encouraging grin. “Build that character!”
Elayne was all poise. Usually. But as she turned the handle on the spit, sweat
dripping from her chin to further dampen the once-white dress that now clung to
her body, she shot a fierce glare at the spit dog lounging nearby.
The brindled hound wagged his tail when she looked his way, seemingly convinced
he had made a new friend. The wicker wheel he would normally have been running
on lay idle at his side. The Aes Sedai thought work built character, so Novices
and Accepted alike were set chores all throughout the Tower. Even if it meant
displacing those whose job it would normally be.
“I doubt Birgitte Silverbow ever had to do a hound’s work for it,” Elayne said,
voice sharp with outrage. And a touch breathless. She was remarkably friendly
and tolerant for someone raised in a palace, dutiful and not at all snobbish;
but physical labour had definitely not been something required of the Daughter-
Heir.
“If she did they neglected to make a song of it for some strange reason. How
would that go?” She put on her best gleeman voice. “ ‘Run back to your puppies,
faithful mutt! I will track these villains’, said the legendary archer as she
bent low to sniff the trail, her hips wagging heroically.”
She won a laugh from Elayne, and felt a little less useless. I can at least
cheer her up. It’s not much, but it’s something.
The smell of good beef roasting on the roaring fire filled the room and made
Min’s stomach grumble.
“I’m hungry too,” Elayne said politely.
“That’s hard to miss,” someone muttered.
Min looked askance at the Domani Accepted who bustled by, her mop scrubbing
along a floor that already gleamed. Daniele was never shy of speaking her mind,
and like most of the Accepted she didn’t seem to know what to make of Min. She
wasn’t an initiate of the Tower, but she was of an age with those who were. She
wandered the halls with seemingly no work to do or reason for being there. But
she had been personally escorted to the city by an Aes Sedai. Other than
Elayne, none of the young women seemed interested in making her feel welcome,
though Daniele at least limited herself to the occasional barbed comment.
“Anyway,” Min said. “Do you want to meet up in the library again after your
class? Assuming you aren’t so tired you don’t just crawl straight into bed.”
Elayne kept turning the spit, breathing heavily now. “I fear I might do just
that. But I will try to meet you there, and apologise in advance if I do not.”
Min waved her hand dismissively. “No need for apologies. Any time you feel up
for it is fine with me.”
Daniele grunted softly. Min tried to ignore her.
Elayne was flagging visibly. Min turned slowly, and took a sneaky peek at
Laras. The cook’s wide frame was blocking several stoves and her back was to
Min and Elayne. Now’s my chance.
With a cheeky grin, she waved Elayne away from the handle and took hold of it.
Min had worked as a tavern maid, a dyer, a weaver, a stablegirl and a cook’s
helper; she might not be allowed to do the job for Elayne but she could at
least do it long enough for her to rest her arms.
“Thank you,” Elayne whispered with a small smile. She let her arms swing at her
sides, opening and closing her hands to try and limber them. “It is
surprisingly hard on one’s arms for such a simple task.”
Min nodded. This close to the fire she could already feel sweat starting to
prick her forehead. “It is. But you get used to it after a while. Your arms
will be sore for days after, then the next time they’ll be sore for hours, then
minutes, then not at all.”
“I will persist,” Elayne said solemnly, “and grow stronger.”
Min couldn’t help herself. “Of course, you’ll have shoulders about three times
the size of the rest of your body combined. But since Aes Sedai don’t marry
anyway, what’s the harm?”
Elayne cocked her head and stared at nothing for a moment, before giggling. “I
can’t even picture it. I should look like a Trolloc with long hair.”
“You might even start a fashion trend among Trollocs. They’d be a lot less
trouble if they spent more time competing to see who was the prettiest and less
time raiding the Borderlands. Or the Theren. Maybe that’s what the Aes Sedai
are planning with all this ‘character building’ they’re giving you.”
Elayne’s laughter tapered off. A small frown marred her brow. “I still can’t
quite believe it. To think Trollocs could raid on Andoran soil without the Lion
Throne knowing of it. Or responding. It is an outrage. And a shame to my House.
If I ever see Rand al’Thor again I shall have words for him. This matter should
have been brought to Mother’s attention when he was brought before her.”
Min turned the spit. Careful, careful. That topic was one she had given a lot
of thought on how best to broach. And come up with not a single plan that
didn’t sound crazy, even to her. “I’m ... sure you’ll have a chance to bend his
ear about that someday,” she said slowly.
Elayne was watching her carefully. The girl knew too much already. And Min had
never been good at deceiving people. “Hmmm. I suspect Nynaeve holds me
accountable for the neglect of her region. And properly so. As an Andoran
citizen she has a perfect right to bring a grievance against the throne over
this matter.”
Min had sought out Nynaeve a few times since she had arrived in the White
Tower. She knew the woman was tied up in the same mad web that she and Elayne
were. She’d seen proof of that in Baerlon. So she figured, since they were
likely to see quite a bit of each other, they might as well find a way to get
along. But Nynaeve had not proved an easy woman to get along with, even before
she passed the Accepted test. A great accomplishment, to be coveted and worked
towards, the girls around here often said, but Nynaeve seemed to have no joy of
it, nor of the golden ring, a serpent eating its own tail, that she now wore to
mark her level. The few times Min had seen her in the past week Nynaeve’s eyes
had looked shadowed, as if she had seen things she wished with all her heart
not to have seen. And she’d been even more snappish than usual.
Maybe she’ll mellow once that Mat fellow wakes up. She did say he’d been asleep
for more than a week. That’s definitely not normal. No doubt she’s worried
about him. But if he hadn’t woken up by now, how long might it take? She knew
he would wake eventually, she’d had viewings of him that couldn’t have happened
yet, and her viewings always came true. Maybe I should tell Nynaeve about what
I saw. Rand and the others might even have mentioned my ability to her already.
“I don’t think she blames you,” she told Elayne comfortingly. “She’s grouchy
with almost everyone, from what I can tell. And besides, no-one from the Theren
considers themselves Andoran citizens. Even in Baerlon your mother’s writ runs
pretty thin, if you tried to tell anyone south of the Taren that they’re
actually Andorans they’d probably think you were drunk.”
Elayne was far from comforted. “Well ... they are. In Baerlon and the Theren
both.”
Min shrugged. “As you will. I don’t really care, myself. One flag flaps much
like the next. I’m just saying she probably doesn’t blame you or Andor for the
troubles down south.”
Elayne pondered that in silence for a time. She was so immersed in thought that
she didn’t look up until a dark shadow fell upon them both. Its flickering,
fire-cast bulk set the spit hound to whimpering softly.
Looking over Min’s shoulder, Elayne squeaked in a very unprincess-like way.
Min had no time to react. The steel weapon arced out and struck the back of her
hand, right on the bone. She cursed and pulled her hand away from the spit
handle. Her language won her another smack, this time right on the top of her
head. She hopped away, trying to rub at both wounds at once.
Laras slapped the end of her spoon into one meaty hand. “I’ve warned you before
about interfering with my girls, Min Farshaw,” she said angrily. She advanced
like a great, billowing warship, and Min fled behind a table. She had the
advantage of a slender body and sensible breeches; at least she could outrun
the woman.
“I was only helping, Laras.” she moaned, rubbing her head furiously.
Around the kitchen, Novices, Accepted and the real cooks had stopped to watch.
Only the cooks, Elayne and, surprisingly, Daniele looked sympathetic to Min’s
plight.
“That’s no excuse. If the Sisters just wanted the work done fast and well, we
wouldn’t be using Novices in the first place.”
Min smiled in mock sadness. “No character building for me then? Awww.”
A sniff that could have blown the Spray upriver issued from Laras’ nostrils.
“Enough of your jokes, girl. Off with you. And don’t let me catch you in here
again. At least not when this Novice is at her chores.”
“Alright, I’m going. Just ... stand clear with that oar you call a spoon.” Min
kept a wary eye on the cook as she sidled towards the exit. A chagrined-looking
Elayne gave her a small wave before she left.
Much as Min regretted being exiled from Elayne’s company she had an appointment
of her own to keep, and would have had to excuse herself soon anyway. Whatever
the Accepted thought, she did not just wander the halls for her own amusement.
The Amyrlin Seat insisted she report to her every second day and describe every
viewing she had had, along with their meanings. She insisted on it with a
firmness that made Laras or Sheriam seem pushovers. Only Elaida had ever made
Min feel as wrung out as the Amyrlin did, and that one could probably break
down walls with her face.
Min’s shirt clung to her from the heat of the kitchen, just as it had when she
was finally released from Elaida’s interrogation, though it had been a nice,
breezy day then.
She still didn’t know how Elaida had known that Moiraine had summoned her. Min
had been sure that was a secret known only to her, Moiraine, Dynahir, Sheriam
and the Amyrlin Seat. And all those questions about Rand. It had not been easy
keeping a smooth face and a steady eye while telling an Aes Sedai to her face
that she had never heard of him and knew nothing of him. What does she want
with him? Light, what does Moiraine want with him? What is he? Light, I don’t
want to fall in love with a man I’ve only met once, and a farmboy at that.
The section of the Tower where the Amyrlin had her rooms was much more spacious
than the Novice Quarters. The corridors there were wide enough for a wagon to
pass down easily, and taller than they were wide. Colourful tapestries hung on
the walls, of floral designs and forest scenes, of heroic deeds and intricate
patterns, some so old they looked as if they might break if handled. The tiles
she walked on were diamond-shaped and showed the colours of the seven Ajahs.
Very few men came into that part of the Tower, and Min saw only two: Warders
walking side by side in conversation, one with his sword on his hip, the other
with his on his back. One was short and slender, even slight, the other almost
as wide as he was tall, yet both moved with a dangerous grace. Arinvar and
Ogrin. They were bonded to Sheriam and Falion respectively. She was required to
remember as many names as she could as part of her spying duties but there were
so many people here that she found herself struggling to recall even half. The
colour-shifting Warder cloaks made them queasy-making to watch for long, parts
of them sometimes seeming to fade into the walls beyond. For once she was glad
to focus her sight on the images and auras that floated around the men.
To her eyes alone Arinvar appeared to be surrounded by dark, faceless figures.
He raged in their midst, sword in his hand. No meaning came to her, and Min
refused to speculate. She had learned how dangerous that could be years ago.
A sickly green aura followed Ogrin, and from within it a multitude of sharp
needles stabbed at his back. Min snorted softly to herself. Threatening as the
image appeared, its meaning came to her instinctually, as the meanings
sometimes did. Ogrin would have a head-splitting hangover soon.
The antechamber of the Amyrlin Seat’s study was grand enough for any palace,
though the chairs scattered about for those who might wait were plain. And
empty. The only people around today were the Amyrlin’s tall, grey-haired
Warder, Alric, standing sentry at her door, and the ever-present Keeper, Leane.
Leane looked somewhat like Daniele, but even taller and leaner and kept her
hair cut short. She was used to Min’s visits by now, and waved her through with
a perfunctory gesture.
The Amyrlin Seat sat behind the table, examining papers. She glanced at Min,
briefly and only once. “Report. What have you seen since your last visit.” She
pushed a note aside and pulled another one to her.
Nice to meet you too. She sighed and launched into it. “I saw Arinvar
surrounded by dark, faceless figures. He was angry and wielding a sword.”
The Amyrlin snorted. “A Warder in a fight. Tell me something useful, girl.”
Min scowled to herself. She didn’t bother explaining that the images weren’t
always literal; they’d already had that conversation. I should tell her about
Ogrin, she did insist on knowing everything I see, after all. Serve her right.
But why start trouble over nothing. And besides, it wasn’t as if she wasn’t
keeping some things back. She hadn’t told and wouldn’t tell the Amyrlin
anything about Elayne, or Rand, or their friends and families. Most of them
didn’t even know her, but they would one day, and she wasn’t about to betray
their secrets.
“Useful. Right. Laras is sheltering a fishbowl between her breasts ...”
“Girl,” the Amyrlin interrupted, in a deadly soft voice. “If you play your
games with me you will howl for it.”
Min, mouth open mid-recitation, let her teeth click together and sighed in
exasperation. “I’m not playing. You asked to know what I see around people. I
told you at the time that it doesn’t always make sense. Rarely, in fact, makes
sense. Laras has a fishbowl down her dress. I have no idea why, or what it’s
supposed to mean.”
The Amyrlin gave a grunt and waved for Min to continue.
“Alanna Mosvani is trying to put a saddle on an angry lion and it’s not going
well for her. Her Warder, the Andoran one, Owein is it? Anyway, he’s squinting
against the sun but it’s too bright for him to see. I don’t know what either
viewing means. But I do know that Sarene Nemdahl is going to meet a man and
have a tempestuous love affair with him.” Min grimaced. It felt wrong,
revealing intimate details of a stranger’s life like that. Sarene was no friend
of hers, she only knew the woman’s name because she’d been required to learn
it, but still ...
The Amyrlin wasn’t troubled by such things. “Sarene? With a man?” She snorted.
“I’ll believe that when silverpike learn to climb the docks.”
Min was bewildered. Sarene was easily one of the most beautiful women she had
ever seen, why would it be a surprise that there would be a lover in her
future? She would have thought the woman would have a dozen men competing for
her attention. And more importantly ... “No. No, Mother, that is. Ah, the
meaning came to me with that one, as it sometimes does. It will happen.”
The Amyrlin shook her head, a small smile on her lips. “Sarene ... Well, it’s a
small matter. Go on. What else have you seen.”
“I saw Elaida a’Roihan standing at the bottom of a sheer cliff. She was trying
to climb it by punching holes into the rock for her hands and feet, but far
above her the landslide was starting and her every blow just made it come
faster.” She didn’t know the meaning of that one, but privately she hoped it
would be unpleasant. Elaida gave her the creeps, even if she was Elayne’s
teacher.
“Poor Elaida,” said the Amyrlin dryly. “And?”
“Danelle Marris was wearing an Accepted’s dress and looked surprised, only she
was really wearing brown wool and looked distracted.” That could not have been
literal, since Danelle was an Aes Sedai already and, so far as she knew, they
never got demoted. “Tarna Feir was standing next to an empty shell painted to
look like her, its face frozen in horror. She was fighting it, but it was
winning. I saw Merilille Caendevin hop down onto a boat, but the boat quickly
sunk under her. She drowned, but not drowned, drowned, you know? It didn’t feel
threatening, exactly, that viewing, is what I’m saying. I don’t know about the
other two.”
Min hesitated, wondering how best to say it. Aes Sedai didn’t like to talk
about the topic, as she’d quickly learned. The good news first. “There were two
others I was certain of. I saw the Flame of Tar Valon on Sareitha Tomares’
back, only it was brown instead of white. She will pass her test and become Aes
Sedai soon. And she will choose the Brown Ajah.”
“Good,” said the Amyrlin with a firm nod, still intent on her reading. “And the
other?”
“Sashalle Anderly will be Stilled. I don’t know when, or what for, just that it
will happen.”
Cold blue eyes pierced Min. The Amyrlin stared at her, unblinking, for what
felt like a long time. At last she spoke, in a voice that grew progressively
harder. “Sashalle. A Red. Stilled. I see. You will say nothing of this. Or of
the rest. Do you understand me, girl? Nothing.”
“I understand,” she said hastily. “I wouldn’t tell at all, usually. But here we
are.”
She snorted, frowning once more at the papers on her desk. “Good work. You can
go now. Report back at week’s end with your new viewings.”
Min sighed. “Yes, Mother.” She left the Amyrlin to brood and slipped out into
the antechamber.
She decided to head to the library. If Elayne met up with her there after her
classes, great, but if not then at least she would have something to read. The
Aes Sedai hadn’t denied her the right to leave the Tower. Perhaps the city—she
hadn’t tried to leave yet, so she couldn’t be certain—but not the Tower.
The Great Library of Tar Valon was not actually inside the White Tower, for all
that most people called it the Tower Library. Instead it was housed in a nearby
building, the second-tallest in the city. It was very beautiful, all carved
from pale stone heavily streaked with blue. It was everything its reputation
said it would be. The Library and Elayne were more than enough to make the trip
to Tar Valon worth it to Min, even if she did have to play the spy for the
Amyrlin.
It was a pleasantly sunny day outside, fitting for Amadaine, the first month of
summer. She stretched her back as she strolled across the paving stones towards
the library, letting the light breeze cool her down. It made her glad she had
left her coat behind.
The Library was divided into twelve depositories, each given over to a specific
kind of text, from maths to history to philosophy and so on. Min made her way
to the tall wooden doors that led to the sixth depository, philosophy. Elayne
had said she was taking history lessons today, but she hardly needed to study
that topic at all; as the Daughter-Heir of Andor her knowledge of history
already surpassed that of most people. And Min had developed a peculiar
fascination with the books in the sixth. They were hard reading, but she liked
to think of them as puzzles in written form. It was fun trying to figure out
their meaning.
There was always a Brown sister on duty at the library doors and today it was
stick-thin Phaedrine with her perpetual frown. That frown deepened when she saw
Min approach but the Aes Sedai did not prevent her from entering. The Sisters
were there to ensure no books left the library and took their jobs seriously,
as Min had learned when she tried to take a few back to her room. She gave the
woman a friendly smile and got a sniff in return.
Inside was a large chamber, a long oval with a flattened dome for a ceiling,
filled with row on row of tall wooden shelves, each surrounded by a narrow
walkway four paces above the seven-coloured floor tiles. Tall ladders stood
alongside the shelves, on wheels so they could be moved easily, both on the
floor and on the walkways, and mirrored brass stand-lamps with heavy bases. The
stand-lamps all burned brightly, but were tightly shuttered to avoid the risk
of fire.
The library was not empty. Several Aes Sedai, all but one of the Brown Ajah,
and a handful of Accepted waited within, perusing the shelves or sitting at the
long tables, reading quietly. And there was a man, a rare visitor to the Tower
Library. Most men preferred to avoid anything to do with Aes Sedai. This fellow
drew eyes, and not just because of his gender.
Galadedrid Mantear was Elayne’s half-brother, but did not stand very high in
her regard. Min wasn’t entirely certain why. The fellow seemed polite enough,
if a bit full of himself. But Elayne doubtless knew him a lot better than she
did. Galad was also about as pretty as it was possible for a man to be, and
even the vaunted reserve of the Aes Sedai had been known to crack at the sight
of him. Min wasn’t moved by his looks, not really; she’d never much cared for
pretty boys. Which was part of what made it so exasperating that the Pattern
had decided to match her with Rand, who looked a bit like a more muscular,
fairer-skinned, paler-eyed, red-haired version of Galad, come to think of it.
He was replacing a copy of Lothair Mantelar’s The Way of the Light on the shelf
when she approached. She’d read that one already, but hadn’t liked it. Far too
preachy. As he turned towards her his lifeblood suddenly spurted from a hole in
the left side of his neck. A silver sword with flapping wings attached to its
blade was lodged in his flesh.
She stopped dead and her mouth fell open.
Galad smiled down on her kindly. He wasn’t hurt of course, it was just a
viewing. He wasn’t surprised by her reaction either, in fact he looked quite
used to it.
Min felt her cheeks colour. For the love of ...! The bloody man thinks I was
ogling him. Burn these viewings!
“Miss Farshaw,” he said with a polite tip of his head. “I trust you are well.
Have you seen my lady sister lately? How is she?”
“They are working her like a dog,” Min growled. The viewing had not come with a
meaning attached, but it was no less ominous for that.
Galad looked troubled. “Is that so?”
Min waved her hand dismissively, trying to recover her balance. “Ah, I’m
probably exaggerating. She is doing the same work as the other Novices. Never
mind me. Elayne’s fine, and she’ll be fine.”
“I hope so. If you will excuse me.” He strolled past her without waiting for a
response, moving with a cat-like grace that would have suited a Warder.
Min turned her attention back to the books, but she seemed to be one of the
few. A great many pairs of female eyes watched Galad leave. She smiled wryly.
The Aes Sedai in the muted yellow dress, Yuna she thought the name was, stood
by a shelf examining the titles of the books, head slightly lowered and her
hands folded before her, the very picture of solemn dignity. But once Galad was
far enough away that he couldn’t notice her, she turned her head slightly
towards him and took a sneaky peek. Min’s smile became a grin.
She sought outThe Limitations of Pure Reason, the book she had been reading
when she last visited. While looking through the shelf she couldn’t help but
notice Pieces of the Pattern, the book Juilaine Madome had written about her
viewings a few years ago. She’d never read it, and didn’t want to read it ...
Mostly, she didn’t. She was, perhaps, a little curious. It was what had first
drawn her to this section of the library. Just to see if it was there, mind.
The book didn’t mention her by name, Juilaine had promised it wouldn’t, and Aes
Sedai couldn’t lie. She wondered briefly why it was kept in the philosophy
section as she resolutely marched past it and took The Limitations of Pure
Reason from its place. Resolutely refusing to look back, she went to find a
comfortable, private spot to read.
***** Destiny's Daughter *****
CHAPTER 34: Destiny’s Daughter
 
The hours drifted by as Min lost herself in the words, curled up on a cushioned
window seat. She barely noticed the comings and goings of Aes Sedai, Accepted
or Novices all. And she had no more viewings. That was one of the great things
about books, she never knew what was going to happen in them.
“You looked quite engrossed. Should I leave you to it? I’m sure my studies
could be well served in the first depository.”
Elayne’s voice snapped Min out of her trance. She looked up from the book with
a welcoming smile. “History? There doesn’t seem to be much you don’t know about
that already.”
“On the contrary. There is a great deal I have yet to learn,” said Elayne
modestly.
Min swung her booted feet down from the bench and shifted the book into her
lap, making a mental note of the page number for later. “I’m glad you came. You
look a bit tired.”
Elayne plopped down onto the vacated space with a low sigh. “I admit I am
trifle weary.”
“I’m sorry if I got you into trouble with Laras.”
“You didn’t. And I would not have minded if you had. I was glad you tried to
help me. You are a good friend.” Elayne let her eyes drift shut as she leaned
back against the window frame. She still managed to look elegant and beautiful,
even work-weary and wearing a dirty dress. Min wished she could do that.
She bit her lip. Then decided to confess it. “I’m glad to hear that. I never
really had a friend before. Back in Baerlon people tended to avoid me because
of that thing we talked about. You’re the first real friend I’ve made.”
Elayne’s eyes popped open. “Really? But you’re so nice and friendly. Warm and
fun. I imagined you would have a veritable horde of friends missing you.” She
sounded flatteringly shocked.
Min shrugged, feeling suddenly shy. “Ha. I guess not everyone’s as tolerant as
you are.”
The Daughter-Heir sniffed, chin raised as though passing judgement on some
criminal. “Well they should be. These fools who mistreated you should consider
themselves fortunate they are not in my reach this instant, or I should send
the Queen’s Guards to have words with them.”
“You’re exaggerating?” Min asked, just a little bit doubtfully.
Elayne’s chin came back to its normal height. “Yes,” she said, with a chagrined
smile. “It would actually be illegal to send the Guards to give a drubbing to
some malcontent citizens. Even if they had been mean to my friend.”
Min laughed. “Well, I appreciate the thought at least.”
Elayne studied her, looking a little hesitant. “We seem to make a habit of
sharing confessions, you and I,” she said at last. “As it happens, you are the
only friend I have ever had as well. Other than Gawyn, of course.”
“Really? Was no-one allowed to visit the Daughter-Heir at all? Cause that’s the
only explanation that I can think of.”
Elayne gave her a small smile of acknowledgement. “I met many people, including
the sons and daughters of the noble Houses of Andor, some of whom were close to
my own age. They might even have become friends if I had been allowed to treat
them as such. But Mother insisted I keep my distance and treat everyone
equally, showing no favour to any one family, lest it be seen as a snub by
another. And, naturally, I obeyed. This is the first time I have been free to
make any friends of my own.” Her smile turned tremulous. “I’m quite glad of it,
as it happens.”
Min took hold of Elayne’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. How could she not at
a time like that? “I’m glad too. It all worked out just fine as far as I’m
concerned,” she said with a wide grin. Elayne returned both the gesture and the
smile.
It seemed as good a time as any to bring it up. “You might want to be careful
of all this sharing though. You might end up sharing your husband with another
woman. Or two of them even! And what a nightmare that would be, right?”
Elayne shook her head. “Oh, now you’re just being silly, Min. I would never put
up with that sort of thing.”
She laughed hollowly. “It was never my idea of how to run things either.”
“You know,” said Elayne, too innocently. “Since we are here I might just have a
look at this sage tome that was written about you.”
That wiped the smile from Min’s face. “Don’t you dare. I’m sure it’s awful and
cringe-worthy and not at all accurate.”
“Come now. It cannot be that bad. Aren’t you curious?”
Min looked away. “Maybe a little bit, but—”
Elayne hopped to her feet. “That settles it then.” She seized Min’s hand and
dragged her to her feet. She barely managed to rescue The Limitations of Pure
Reason with her free hand as Elayne led her off towards the shelves.
“I should never have told you about that book,” she muttered as the Daughter-
Heir dragged her through the wooden maze.
“The Wheel of Time turns only forwards,” said Elayne portentously. Then she
giggled. “Besides, you want to read it too. I can tell.”
She was still giggling as she led Min around the next corner. The laughter, and
her steps, ended abruptly, and Min bumped into her from behind.
She peered over Elayne’s shoulder, wondering what had caught her attention,
then found herself blinking rapidly as her mouth fell open.
Daniele was leaning against one of the shelves, her head thrown back and her
eyes squeezed shut. Her long face seemed longer, and her wide cheekbones wider,
when she had her mouth stretched open in a silent cry like that. She was
wearing her Accepted dress, but it was bunched up around her hips and her long,
dark legs were bare. As bare as the dark-hair than covered her sex and the
girl’s mouth that was pressed against it. That girl’s big, blue eyes glared at
the intruders balefully.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Elayne squeaked, her voice higher than normal.
Daniele’s eyes snapped open, and quickly found the intruders. “What are you
doing here?” she gasped, her already dark cheeks darkening more.
“I ... we were just ...” Min began.
“Are you blind, or simply stupid?” asked the kneeling girl, in the accents of
Volsung. Her hair was a pale yellow colour, long and straight, and she looked a
little like Elayne, but with a rounder, meaner face. “Raja Soblas was laying
down.”
“I saw no-one ...” said Elayne confusedly. Her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes
had gone very wide.
The unfamiliar girl, an Accepted by her dress, rose to her feet, wiping the
back of her hand across her mouth. Despite what she had been caught doing, she
managed to look quite fierce, and the least ruffled of everyone present.
“Stupid it is then. Find another spot, or wait your turn.”
Daniele dropped her skirts back down, and smoothed them angrily. “I know these
girls, Ilyena,” she said through gritted teeth. “One’s a new Novice and the
other is ... Well, no-one is sure exactly. A guest of the Aes Sedai for some
reason. They might not have known the rules.”
This Ilyena was unmoved. “Forgiveness is the Creator’s. Which is why those who
do it too often, meet Her so soon.” It had the sound of a quote to Min’s ears,
perhaps some Volsuni saying.
“I doubt we need fear dying over this, dearest,” said Daniele dryly.
Elayne licked her lips. “We were only looking for a book,” she said, still
sounding very high-pitched.
Daniele advanced on her. “Keep your voice down, would you? Just because it’s
expected doesn’t mean you’re supposed to flaunt it before the whole Tower.”
Min stepped up beside Elayne. “Hey, you stay back now. Whatever you’re about,
we won’t be having it. I’ll call for the librarians, don’t think I won’t.”
Daniele rolled her eyes extravagantly. “Oh don’t flatter yourself. You’re cute,
you both are, but I daresay I can resist the temptation.”
“Temptation to do what?” asked Elayne, in a slightly more normal tone.
The two Accepted exchanged a look. “She cannot be serious, surely,” said the
Volsuni.
“With Andorans? I could see it being so,” mused the Domani.
Elayne recovered her poise quickly at that. “I will hear no insults towards
Andor,” she proclaimed.
Daniele planted her fists on her narrow hips. “How about truths? Ilyena and I
are pillow-friends. There is a book at the far end of the previous shelf
written by Raja Soblas. It is currently laying on its side, one of the twelve
signs known Tower-wide that call for privacy. Which you ignored. Or didn’t know
about, for some reason.”
“No-one told me about these signs,” said Elayne, just as Min said, “ ‘Pillow-
friends?’ ”
The two exchanged that look again.
“Like you two, obviously,” Daniele said, with fraying patience. “It’s just a
polite way of saying lovers, here in the Tower.”
Min’s mouth had gone very dry. “But we aren’t ... lovers ...” she whispered.
They weren’t. She had never even thought about it. Until now. Images blossomed
in her mind and she blushed hot.
Daniele sniffed. “If you were trying to keep it a secret, you did a really poor
job of it. Everyone has noticed the way you two look at each other. It’s fine,
just have some consideration for others the next time you fancy a tryst.”
Elayne stared at the Domani, standing very still and saying not a word. At her
side, Min stood just as stiffly, eyes fixed straight ahead. Neither girl dared
to so much as glance to her side. Is that true? Does Elayne want to ...? I
never thought we ... Don’t look! Is she looking? She isn’t. She wouldn’t be. Is
she? Does she think I want to ... do such things ... to her? ... Do I?
The Accepted waited for a response that never came. At last Ilyena tossed her
head scornfully. “Well this is quite ruined. Let’s go, Dani.” She brushed past
them all and stalked off down the aisle.
Daniele looked back and forth between the two girls one last time, then shook
her head and set off after her friend. Her pillow-friend. Her lover.
That left Min standing stiffly beside her friend. Her ... dear friend. They
stood there together in silence for what felt like a long time.
I should say something, she thought. But her tongue wasn’t working right.
Ilyena’s tongue seemed to be working just fine, her treacherous mind pointed
out, before providing some lewd fancies of Elayne with her skirt bunched up and
face wracked with pleasure. Don’t think about that! Despite her best efforts,
Min’s cheeks darkened.
When she finally worked up the nerve to look Elayne’s way, she found the
Daughter-Heir still staring straight ahead, wide eyed and red cheeked.
“Perhaps we should leave,” Min suggested in a tight voice.
The blush spread to the rest of Elayne’s face. “Yes,” was all she said.
Min led the way out of the shelves. She was acutely aware, as she had not been
until now, that the breeches she had put on this morning were her tightest
pair. She had thought nothing of it, but now she found herself wondering if
Elayne was watching her walk as she trailed along silently.
They remained silent as Min replaced her book on the shelf—in the wrong place,
but she wasn’t about to worry about that just then—and they exited the Great
Library into a cool Amadaine evening. The sun was just starting to dip below
the horizon, half its bright warmth consumed by Dragonmount’s looming presence.
Min said nothing, but thought a great deal as they returned to the Tower. They
soon came to a cross-corridor. Down one hallway was the Novice Quarters, down
the other the guest rooms where Min slept. By some unspoken agreement the girls
stopped there and turned to face one another.
Elayne’s bright blue eyes looked even bigger than usual. Her skin was as white
as milk.
“Where should we go?” Min whispered. She had no idea why she was whispering,
there was no-one nearby.
Elayne stared at her. “Where do you want to go?” she whispered.
She gave a little shrug. “Wherever you want to go.”
They looked at each other in an awkward silence for a while, until some
perverse part of Min dragged a breathless snicker from her lips. Before she
knew it she was laughing. She covered her mouth with her hand to try and
smother the sound.
Elayne gaped at her at first, but she was soon giggling into her palm too.
“Can you believe the things that Domani said about you?” tittered Elayne, once
the laughing fit had run its course.
“Um. I was shocked she would think you were interested in me that way,” Min
responded, not meeting her eyes.
“I...” Footsteps sounded in the corridor, coming from the guest rooms and
heading their way. Elayne tugged at Min’s sleeve and they set off towards the
Novice Quarters.
“I could not believe what I saw,” Elayne whispered. She sent furtive glances at
every door and hallway they passed, as though expecting her mother to leap out
and lambast her for even speaking of it. “What was that Ilyena doing? And why?”
Min had to stare. “Uh, wasn’t that obvious? I mean, not that I’ve ever done
anything like that, but I can imagine—” she cut off, blushing again. “That is,
haven’t you ...” Her mouth hung open but no more words would come out. How
could she ask the Daughter-Heir of Andor if she had ever played with herself at
night?
“Haven’t I what?” Elayne asked, but then she raised her hand imperiously,
calling for silence.
The Novice Quarters always seemed a little empty to Min, it had been built to
house a great many more students than the Tower had these days. But there were
still several white-clad young women wandering the halls or leaning on the high
balustrades when they arrived. Elayne eyed them for a moment, then hastened
towards the room that Sheriam had assigned her.
She darted inside and let out a relieved sigh, as though she had escaped some
imaginary pursuer. Min hesitated at the door. She had visited Elayne’s room
before, many times, but somehow it seemed a foreign place that evening.
Elayne saw her hesitation. “Do come in, Min. You are most welcome,” she said
with her usual politeness. But then her tongue darted out to wet her lips and
her voice become more nervous. “That is, if you’d like. If you’d rather leave,
you—”
Min stepped forward into Elayne’s bedchamber and shut the door firmly behind
her. As though a dam had been broke and a river set loose onto a new course, a
familiar tingle started to spread through her lower body.
The room was small and windowless. White plaster coated the walls and a plain
chest, a small table with a three-legged stool, a washstand and mirror, and a
single narrow bed were the only furnishings. It seemed a cell to Min, far too
small and spare for a girl like Elayne.
But it was also a private, sheltering space. And the silence between the two
girls was no longer uncomfortable.
Min blew out a sigh. “What a day.”
“I must say, everything was going quite normally for me. Until that incident in
the library. I still don’t quite understand ...”
“Didn’t your mother ... or a nurse, perhaps, ever teach you about, uh, sex?”
Min asked, shooting her friend and apologetic grin even as she said it.
Elayne’s back stiffened. “I know what sex is. It is how children are made. I
just ... Well, I am not overly familiar with the details. And I wasn’t
expecting two women to ... I mean, surely they cannot have children that way?”
That there was even the hint of a question in her voice set Min’s head to
shaking. Whatever nurse had been charged with educating Elayne on this matter
had not done a good job, not at all. As fussy as her aunts could be, they had
been perfectly blunt with Min when that time came.
“No, no children. But they can still make each other feel good. Like when you
... you know?” She hesitated again and bit her lip. She suspected she knew the
answer already. “Don’t you?”
“Don’t I what?” asked Elayne, with perfect, trusting innocence.
Min smiled, feeling her cheeks warm again. “Well, touch yourself. When you’re
alone, and feeling frustrated and, ah, lusty. Touch yourself down there, I
mean.”
Elayne’s brows rose and she pursed her rosebud mouth. “Oh.”
“You never have, have you? Not even once,” she said wonderingly, and Elayne
blushed in embarrassment. “You’re adorable.”
“Well, thank you. But why do I feel lacking all of a sudden? Is this a thing
most people do? Have you done it?”
Nervousness broadened Min’s smile. She developed a sudden interest in the white
ceiling of the room. “I might have. A time or twenty. I’m not saying.”
Truthfully, it wouldn’t even be the first time she’d found herself thinking
about another woman while aroused. She had been shocked when Juilaine had tried
it on with her, shocked and more than a little frightened. The woman had been
an Aes Sedai after all. When those stableboys got too handsy she had been able
to fight them off with a knee in one boy’s crotch and an elbow in the other’s
mouth, but what could she do against an Aes Sedai? As it happened her fears had
been exaggerated. A simple “please stop” had been all it took. In the years
since, she had sometimes felt guilty about her reaction; she had, in her
nervousness, treated Juilaine as if the woman was about to assault her. She had
also, in the dark of night, when she was alone with a pillow to hug and a
wandering hand, sometimes wondered what it would have been like if Juilaine
hadn’t grimaced in embarrassment and pulled her hand out of Min’s trousers;
what it would have felt like if she had held her silence, and let the woman
push her back onto the bed, and have her way with her.
“You have so done it,” accused Elayne, watching her intently.
She laughed. “Only by myself. Never like Daniele and Ilyena.”
Elayne stared at her with those big, blue eyes. Her blush showed easily on her
fair skin and somehow brought out the gold in her hair. She was altogether
beautiful. And she spoke to Min with a voice like a summer breeze. “Would you
show me?”
Such a question! Light! This wasn’t what I expected when I saw myself in her
future. There was only really one answer Min could give. That it was the only
one she wanted to give was a rare blessing.
“I’d be happy to,” she said huskily.
She stepped close to Elayne and took her hands in hers, laughing nervously. The
Daughter-Heir was several years younger than she, but still taller. She had to
go on tiptoe to brush their lips together. So soft. Impossibly soft.
It was a brief, experimental kiss. Elayne let out a delightful giggle when they
parted. “I feel tingles all over,” she whispered.
“Me too,” Min said with a fond smile, knowing it was her first kiss.
She held Elayne’s hands up between them. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t
want to. Friends or pillow-friends, I’ll always care for you,” she said kindly.
“I could go if you like.” Elayne’s grip tightened. “You said you were tired
...”
She shook her red-gold curls, bright-eyed and excited. “I was. But no longer.
Not even a little bit.” This time it was her who leant in for the kiss, soft
and probing. Min closed her eyes and let the thrill of it wash over her.
Soon their lips parted again and they walked together to the lone bed, laughing
softly.
They sat on the hard mattress, wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders
and kissed some more, with slowly-building passion.
Is this what my viewing meant about sharing? It might not be nearly as bad as
she had feared.
Her body seemed to know what to do, even when Min herself was uncertain. She
brushed her hands through Elayne’s hair, trailed her fingers down her soft
cheek, pressed towards her more firmly until their breasts touched through the
fabric of their clothes.
When her tongue quested timidly out to seek its mate, Elayne pulled back
slightly, surprise in her eyes.
Min stared at her. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “Light,” she whispered,
“that was ...”
Elayne flashed her dimples. “It certainly was,” she breathed.
Min swallowed, fingers playing with the buttons on her shirt. “Should I ...
take this off?”
A moment’s pause, then. “If you like. Actually, yes. I think I would like to
see you, if you don’t mind.” Elayne bit her lip. Her chest rose and fell with
her deep breaths and Min found herself wanting to see her too.
She undid her buttons with trembling fingers. “You might be disappointed. I’m
nowhere near as beautiful as you.”
“Nonsense,” Elayne said firmly. “You are lovely, Min. Your eyes alone could
break anyone’s heart. So big, so dark, so full of life.”
She found herself grinning as she undid the last of her buttons. She sat up
straight and pushed her shirt back, letting it fall to the bed behind her and
baring her breasts to her friend’s eyes.
They weren’t the biggest, she knew, but they were of a respectable size;
naturally tan like the rest of her and tipped with large, brownish nipples.
Despite Elayne’s kind words, she couldn’t help but feel a little nervous as she
exposed herself and awaited judgement.
Elayne looked flatteringly entranced as she leaned towards her. One graceful
hand reached out to cup Min’s breast and give it the lightest of squeezes. Even
that was enough to send a thrill of pleasure through her body and stiffen her
nipple against her friend’s palm.
“You are beautiful, Min,” she murmured. Her lips on Min’s were less timid now,
and there was a hunger growing in her kisses to match Min’s own.
She took Elayne’s breast in her hand, winning a light yelp from the Daughter-
Heir, and began to knead it gently through the fabric of her novice dress.
Elayne broke their kiss and stood. She stood and reached down to grab the hem
of her dress and yanked it up over her head, swiftly and artlessly. Red-
cheeked, she sat right back down again and went back to exploring Min’s lips,
giving her barely enough time to take in the sight of her pale, round breasts,
tipped in light pink. They had looked only a little bigger than Min’s, and so
very kissable. Her hands sought them out again, and kneaded them more firmly
this time.
Elayne moaned against Min’s lips, then sucked in a breath and pulled her face
back as though shocked by the sound she had made.
“Now that was a lovely thing to hear,” Min murmured, smiling brightly at her.
“You made me do it,” Elayne said in breathless accusation.
Min’s smile deepened. “Good.” She chased her princess’s lips across the bed and
bore her down, stroking her breast all the while.
She lay beside Elayne on the narrow bed, kissing her deeply, one arm around her
shoulder and a hand tangled in her hair, the other massaging her silky soft
flesh. She could feel the nipple become harder under her ministrations and
wondered what other signs of arousal she might find if she dared to venture
farther down the Daughter-Heir’s body.
Elayne wrapped her arms around Min, and her sweet moans came freely now.
“You asked me to show you what it was like,” Min said huskily. “To touch
yourself. Would you still like me to?”
“Is that not dirty? I wouldn’t want you to do anything you thought dirty,”
Elayne gasped.
“It isn’t,” she insisted. “But I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”
“Alright,” Elayne breathed, staring earnestly up at her. “But we have to share.
It is only fair that I touch you as well.”
“Oh, you impossibly wonderful thing you.” Min kissed her again, hard and deep.
This time, when her tongue snuck out to explore Elayne’s mouth, the girl met
and matched her.
Novices in the Tower were all given the same kind of clothes to wear, plainly
cut and all in white. Elayne still wore her white leather shoes, her knee-
length white stockings and a pair of plain white shorts with buttons of white
ash.
Min did not feel nervous any more. Her heart was racing, and her breath came
hard, but it was not from nervousness. It wasn’t nerves that made her hand
shake as she undid the buttons on Elayne’s underwear either. I think I might
love this girl. It was a heady thing, that realisation. She felt like she was
falling, even though she was laying down.
She slid her hand down the front of Elayne’s underwear, brushing through the
stiff curls and bringing a loud gasp from their owner’s lips. Her legs inched
apart, ever so slightly. It was enough for Min to touch a single, testing
finger to her lower lips. She found them warm, and wet, oh so wet, so
thrillingly, gratifyingly, welcomingly wet.
She grinned down at Elayne as they explored her body together, softly and
slowly. Min touched where she liked to be touched, stroked where she liked to
stroke and soon probed where she sometimes probed. She hoped Elayne would like
it as much as she did, and from the moans she loosed and the hand that clutched
at her forearm, not to pull it away but to hold it in place, she suspected she
did.
Elayne’s eyes were squeezed shut and she squirmed helplessly on the bed. Her
nipples were very stiff now, a darker pink thrusting proudly up from her
beautiful breasts. Down below, her secret nub emerged; Min brushed it with her
thumb as she slid a single finger in and out of the girl’s hot, tight hole.
“Oh Light. Min. It feels so good,” cried Elayne as she tossed her gloriously
bright curls against the white sheets.
Min drank in the sight of her, lost in the throes of pleasure. It was the
finest thing she had ever seen in her life. The White Tower, the Great Library,
grim, solitary Dragonmount; they were nothing compared to this. She lowered her
head, took one of Elayne’s stiff nipples into her mouth, and sucked on it
adoringly.
Elayne thrashed on the bed and let out a high-pitched scream. Her back arched,
pressing her breast against Min’s face and her nails dug into her forearm
painfully. She held her pose for a long while, then collapsed bonelessly to the
bed.
She lay flushed and sweaty in Min’s arms. With each panted breath came a soft
little moan as the surging pleasure of the first orgasm of her young life
coursed through her body.
“You are so beautiful, Elayne,” she whispered.
Slender arms reached out to embrace her, and pulled her close. “Thank you.
Thank you ... for everything.”
Min still had her hand down Elayne’s shorts. She kept it there, cupping her
pulsing warmth against her palm as she rested her head on her lover’s—her
pillow-friend’s—shoulder.
They lay together for a time, sharing their warmth and basking in the aftermath
of Elayne’s orgasm. When her breathing had settled, Elayne planted a little
kiss on Min’s brow, then wriggled her way down the bed, seeking and finding her
lips, kissing them softly.
“Are you, what was it? Feeling frustrated and lusty, Min?” she asked with wide-
eyed innocence.
Burn me! She just straight up asks! “I did get a little excited, watching you,”
she said. That was an understatement. Min was surprised her smallclothes
weren’t trying to swim for shore.
“Should I touch you with my finger now?” Elayne whispered. “How did you do
that, exactly?”
“Well, I don’t want to describe it,” Min said with an embarrassed laugh. “You
just ... do what comes naturally.”
“Oh.” Elayne bit her lip. “Well, what if I, naturally, wanted to try what those
other girls were doing?”
Min blinked at her. “You ... you don’t have to. I haven’t even had a bath
today.”
“I am sure it will be fine. I would like to make you feel what I just felt.”
Elayne pushed herself up on one elbow. Min’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to
her breasts.
She didn’t fail to notice the look, and whatever she saw on Min’s face brought
her dimpled smile back in force. She clambered energetically from the bed, took
Min’s hands in hers and hauled her into a sitting position.
“You will have to take off your breeches,” she said brightly.
Min laughed. “But you haven’t even brought me flowers.”
“Flowers? I could get some from the garden ...”
“Never mind me. One of these days I’m going to have to learn to take things
seriously,” Min said with a wry smile. She bent forward to take off her boots,
conscious of the way her breasts pressed against her knees, and of Elayne’s
gaze.
Depositing the boots at the foot of Elayne’s bed, she stood and undid the waist
of her breeches. In the tight quarters of the novice’s chamber she had to turn
to the side so she could bend over and shed the last of her clothes. When she
stood to her full height once more, she was as naked as the day she was born.
Elayne had watched her intently all the while. “You are beautiful, Min. And you
have such a pretty bottom; so curvy! I had the mad urge to bite it just now; I
was quite beside myself.”
She blushed and grinned both. “Flatterer! You’re making me blush.”
“Good. I hope to do more of that,” Elayne tapped a finger to her lips and
considered Min’s naked form. “Now. How were they doing it again ...”
She gave Min a light push to sit her back down on the bed, then knelt before
her and put her hands upon the other girl’s knees. Gently she parted Min’s
thighs, exposing her darkly glistening sex.
Elayne pursed her lips as she arranged her hands under Min’s legs and around
her waist. Plainly she was trying to mimic the couple, the other couple, they
had so shockingly disturbed earlier.
Min didn’t try to correct her, or ask her to do anything in particular.
Whatever she did would be completely Elayne and that was more than enough for
her. But the anticipation had grown so maddening that she feared she would
burst as soon as Elayne touched her; and that slow, careful positioning only
made her frustration—and, yes, lustiness!—worse.
Once she had them arranged to her satisfaction, Elayne bent low until her face
was inches from Min’s private parts. She sniffed loudly, then smiled up at her.
“You smell nice.”
She blushed even hotter this time, and Elayne’s smile grew.
The Daughter-Heir pursed her lips and leaned forward. She gave Min’s sex the
slightest of kisses and even that was enough to force a moan from her lips.
Elayne grinned. Emboldened by the noise, she bent to the task with a new
ardour.
Every timid, experimental touch of Elayne’s tongue on her loins was sweet
torture for Min. Knowing Elayne liked the noises she drew from her lips, she
made no effort to conceal her pleasure, her wanton moans sounding loud in the
small room. She had to fight the urge to tangle her hands in Elayne’s beautiful
red-gold curls and demand more; instead she tangled them in the sheets and
stared down beseeching at the girl between her thighs. Elayne’s big blue eyes
stared back up at her lovingly over the stiff black hairs that crowned Min’s
sex.
It was coming. It was right there, like a storm on the horizon. She wanted
desperately to tell Elayne to move her tongue just a little higher, just a
little, but she refused to say it, refused to tell her to be or do anything.
In the end she didn’t have to, Elayne found it on her own. One brush of her
sweet little tongue against that most sensitive spot was all it took to bring
the storm crashing down on them. “Elayne!” Min cried loudly, throwing her head
back. Her hands betrayed her and tangled themselves in her lover’s hair,
pressing her beautiful face against her sopping-wet slit as she came harder
than she ever had before.
She fell back on the bed, groaning in pleasure. And when it proved too narrow
to contain her she slid forwards until she almost fell off, her muscles
suddenly too weak to support her.
Soft laughter from Elayne, soft hands on her body, pushing her up, bundling her
onto the bed. She was too lost in pleasure to pay them much heed. “Elayne,” she
whispered again.
Shoes clattered to the floor. There came the whisper of stockings being shed.
And a warm, smooth body pressed up against her back on a bed barely big enough
for one. Slender arms wrapped around her. Min reached for and found Elayne’s
hand, and clutched it between hers.
“Elayne,” she whispered. “I think I love you.”
The girl’s grip tightened. Her breath tickled Min’s ear, her softly spoken
words touched her heart. “I think I love you too, Min.”
Min had always found it hard to accept the inevitability of fate, despite being
better positioned than anyone to know just how little say mere mortals had in
what the Wheel decreed for them; perhaps because of it even. But sometimes she
had to pause and wonder if destiny was really so terrible a thing. As she
drifted off to sleep in that narrow bed, with the woman she was destined to
share everything in her life with, she couldn’t help but allow that
sometimes—only sometimes!—destiny was actually quite wonderful.
***** Seanchan *****
CHAPTER 35: Seanchan
 
It still rankled days later. That she, Ryma Galfrey, an Aes Sedai on the
business of the Amyrlin Seat herself, could be denied passage over the border.
The audacity of it. The Valreio officer in charge of the blockade had looked
appropriately apologetic when he turned her away and urged her to seek an
audience with his Riela, but the sight of that smug snake of a Whitecloak,
Carridin, smirking at the man’s shoulder had lingered with her all the way to
Orlay and back.
Carridin had looked rather less smug when she returned with a letter of
authorisation written in Selene’s own hand, but as satisfying as it had been to
stare him down, she still regretted the lost time.
She did not know how the Amyrlin had learned of these strange invaders whilst
in Fal Dara, almost as far away from Falme as it was possible to be whilst
still remaining on the continent, but she was certain now that they were more
than mere rumour. She and Zabac had heard talk of little else as they rode
through Falmerden, and that little else was nearly as troubling as the wild
tales of Artur Hawkwing’s descendants returning. Hatred of the invaders burned
hot, but it had not kindled loyalty to the throne. There had been rebellious
mutters in the common room of almost every inn they had stayed in these past
days, calling into question the response of the King and the army, darkly
hinting at traitors in their midst.
Ryma had seen some truth to that herself when she passed through Calranell.
King Kaelan and General Surtir had invited her to table of course, and there
she had opportunity to witness their crass argument. The general was convinced
that Valreis was bracing for an attack and that the invaders were their
catspaws; mercenaries, or Valreio soldiers wearing false colours perhaps. He
had spoken with fury of murders and ambushes done by agents bought and paid
for, he claimed, by the Winged Throne, loyal men and women killed before they
could even come to grips with these so-called Seanchan. If their enemy had come
from the other side of the Aryth Ocean how had they managed to place so many
assassins in their midst, he had asked his king, angrily stabbing the table
with his finger. If it was a true invasion, he demanded, why did they advance
so slowly? Why take Falme and a few surrounding settlements and then stop? What
were they waiting for? For Valreis, he answered himself, for them to be foolish
enough to move the bulk of their forces inland and allow the real enemy to
advance. He pointed to the army amassing on the other side of the mountains and
opined that it would be madness to leave the eastern border undefended. To all
this the King responded simply that the capital must be retaken and the Queen
avenged. Their argument had been long and loud and so very ... mannish.
When asked for her input on the matter, Ryma had simple responded that the
Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. The truth was she didn’t know what was
happening on Toman Head, ascertaining the truth of the matter was the task the
Amyrlin had assigned her, after all, and she had only just arrived. Not that
she would admit that of course. So far as the uninitiated were concerned, the
White Tower must be all knowing. Hopefully she could make contact with Sheraine
Caminelle, Queen Nora’s Aes Sedai advisor, soon.
Privately she suspected Surtir’s suspicions were closer to the truth. He was
accounted one of the great captains of their time, whilst Kaelan ... Well, he
was a handsome man still, tall and broad-shouldered, but Queen Nora had not
chosen him for his brains.
Ryma glanced to her side, where the ever-watchful Zabac rode, his tall stallion
seeming almost a pony beneath him. Kaelan and Surtir had both been tall men,
but neither could match her towering Warder. She would never admit it, but his
height had been part of why she chose him. She had been a short, skinny child
and had grown into a short, slender woman; and whilst being Aes Sedai and
commanding the One Power was more than enough to overcome such a disadvantage,
she could still remember how intimidating it had been having to look up at
everyone. It pleased her to make people look up at her Warder instead.
She frowned as something passed into the bright clouds beyond Zabac’s head. A
bird? But that is too far away for it to have looked so big. A Draghkar,
perhaps?
She did not feel the presence of Shadowspawn however, and it was exceedingly
unlikely that any could come this far south.
“Volward,” she said, for that was his family name and she believed in keeping
an appropriate degree of professionalism between them, “do you feel any hint of
danger from the Shadow?”
He glanced at her, then shook his head once. His expression did not shift but
she felt his surprise through the bond. The Shadow was not the threat he
guarded against today. Perhaps my eyes deceived me.
They were only a few days travel from Falme now. She would have to be cautious
and ready to bring saidar to bear against any who offered threat. Even an Aes
Sedai was not invulnerable to an arrow in the back, not if she was foolish
enough to neglect to defend herself.
The sun was just beginning to set when they approached the village. It looked a
poor place, but she was sure they would have space for an Aes Sedai and her
Warder to sleep, and if they did not recall the appropriate courtesies she
would simply have to bully them until they did. It saddened her how often that
was necessary.
Ryma saw the attack coming, but it was no arrow that flew at her, it was saidar
itself. Surprised, she hesitated just a moment, but a moment was all it took
for the shield to slam into place around her, cutting her off from the Source.
She pushed against it, but whoever had spun and held the shield was not weak
and she could not break it that way.
Zabac felt her alarm. He unlimbered the huge sword that slanted across his
back. “Where?” he asked. By his standards that was a conversation, it was not
unheard of for him to go days without speaking at all.
“I am shielded,” she said with more calmness than she felt. “By a woman, not a
man.”
A dozen men scuttled over the unmortared stone walls on either side of the
road. Their armour seemed almost black in the light of the setting sun; that
and their strange helmets made them look like nothing so much as man-sized
insects. Swords hung at the waists of some and the shoulders of others but it
was with loaded crossbows that they menaced the travellers. Beyond them, near
the outskirts of the village, five women in strange dresses emerged, two in
plain grey and three in red and blue. The sunlight glinted on their silver
jewellery. One of the women in grey, a stout, almost matronly woman with
strangely guileless eyes was surrounded by the nimbus of saidar.
“Surrender,” called one of the men. “Drop your sword and reswear your oaths to
the Empress, may she live forever, and you will be forgiven your ancestor’s
crimes.”
He spoke to Zabac, but it was Ryma who answered. “How dare you accost me?” she
said in her most regal tone. “Know that I am here on the business of the
Amyrlin Seat herself, before whom even thrones tremble.” She fixed the stout
wilder with an imperious glare. “I shall allow you a moment to release this
shield. Force me to break it, and you may spend the rest of your days weeping
at your folly.”
Something in the woman’s unblinking eyes disturbed Ryma, and she was thankful
for the years of training that allowed her to keep her expression smooth. The
shield remained in place.
“Bethamin. Silence this marath’damane,” said the man. His slurred accent was
such that she could not make out the last word, though it had the ring of the
Old Tongue to it. “That she is allowed to speak to humans disgusts me.”
“As you say, Captain Bakuun,” a tall, dark-skinned woman responded calmly, as
though the man she addressed was not the lunatic he plainly was. She advanced
on Ryma, uncoiling a silvery rope as she walked.
Zabac placed his horse between them, almost seven feet of leather and muscle,
wielding in one hand a sword that most men would need two to even lift, he was
a sight to intimidate even the most stalwart hearts.
Or excite the most eager fools. One of the soldiers pulled off his helmet and
tossed it aside, revealing a youthfully handsome, sun-dark face and a mop of
sandy hair; he stepped forward, twirling two shortswords in his hands. “You had
your chance oath-breaker, come down off that horse and face me. In the Empress’
name, I challenge you.”
Zabac barely glanced at him. She felt him searching for a target among the
ambushers. She knew, as he did, what he would have to do. There were too many
for even him to defeat, but if he could just get to the wilder ... if Ryma
could gain access to saidar again ...
“Get back in formation, Van,” barked Bakuun.
Even as he spoke Ryma called out, “The fat woman in grey; take her down,
Volward!”
Zabac granted the boy his challenge, if challenge you could call it. He leapt
from his horse with a speed that was ever shocking on a man his size and ran
the boy through with a single sure thrust of his sword. The other soldiers
aimed their crossbows at her Warder but hesitated to fire lest they hit their
own man. That moment’s hesitation was all Zabac needed. He spun on his heel,
using his sword and the groaning corpse impaled on it like some macabre sling,
and threw the ruin of young Van at the stout woman.
Crossbows thrummed and she felt the echo of her Warder’s pain, but Ryma held
her nerve. Zabac’s aim was true, the woman went down under the gory missile,
her line of sight on Ryma broken, and surely her concentration with it.
Desperately she battered at the shield that held her, trying to reach saidar,
but no matter how hard she tried it would not budge. The woman could not be
maintaining the shield, not in those conditions. Wilders always thought you
needed to see something to be able to use the One Power on it, and even an Aes
Sedai would have difficulty mustering the concentration needed to channel with
a dying man on top of her.
A slender, yellow-haired woman stood over the fallen pair, the silvery cord
that ran from the stout woman to a bracelet on her wrist writhing with the
wilder’s panicked thrashes. She frowned intently at Ryma, her single-minded
concentration such that it might have seemed she was the one holding the
shield, except that no tell-tale light surrounded her.
A man’s scream brought her attention to the brawl in time to see Zabac send
another soldier flying, she could not tell if invader’s armour had stopped the
blade from cutting his flesh but she suspected it would make little difference,
the impact alone should have been enough to shatter his ribs. Zabac redirected
his blade towards the neck of another of their foes but this one ducked under
its arc and rolled away, discarding his spent crossbow and dragging a long,
slightly-curved and single-edged sword from its sheathe on his back. Three
bolts were already lodged in her Warder’s flesh, in his right leg, his right
shoulder and his thick gut. She could feel his pain through the bond, but his
broad face showed only fierce determination. Three men lay dead already. He
charged at the crossbowmen as they struggled to reload; a hulking, silent hero.
A girl in a red-and-blue dress whispered something to the slight, red-haired
woman at her side. The glow of saidar suddenly surrounded the grey-robed,
jittery-looking woman and she glanced at the charging Warder. Ryma saw the
threads being spun, knew what they formed, but could do nothing; no matter how
she strained, saidar remained beyond her reach.
“Zabac!” she cried, the first time she had every called him aloud by his given
name.
And the last time. A bolt of lightning erupted from the redhead’s upraised
hand. Fast as he was, Zabac could no more than twitch before it struck him.
Strong as he was, he was catapulted backwards by the impact. Brave as he was,
he was dead before he hit the dirt of that little Falmeran road. Ryma felt his
death, she felt the bond snap, and none of her training and discipline could
stop the hot tears that spilled down her cheeks.
She was barely aware of the dark woman’s renewed approach and the silvery
collar she held open in her hands. But when the officer shoved her aside, gaze
fixed on the corpses of his men, the naked anger on his face demanded Ryma’s
attention. He was very tall and very strange, and suddenly she was very small
and alone.
“Marath’damane scum,” he snarled. Ryma blinked as the translation came to her.
Those Who Must Be Leashed? What a bizarre term. Then his gauntleted fist
connected with her jaw, and she saw and thought no more.
 
                                     * * *
 
The long swells of the Aryth Ocean made Spray roll, but Bayle Domon’s spread
feet balanced him as he held the long tube of the looking glass to his eye and
studied the large vessel that pursued them. Pursued, and was slowly overtaking.
The wind where Spray ran was not the best or the strongest, but where the other
ship smashed the swells into mountains of foam with its bluff bow, it could not
have blown better. The coastline of Toman Head loomed to the north, dark cliffs
and narrow strips of sand, with few landings large enough to welcome more than
a dinghy. He had not cared to take Spray too far out, and now he feared he
might pay for it.
“Strangers, Captain?” Yarin had the sound of sweat in his voice. “Is it a
strangers’ ship?”
Bayle lowered the looking glass, but his eye still seemed filled by that tall,
square-looking ship with its odd ribbed sails. “Seanchan,” he said, and heard
Yarin groan. He drummed his thick fingers on the rail, then told the helmsman,
“Take her closer in. That ship will no dare enter the shallow waters Spray can
sail.”
Yarin shouted commands, and crewmen ran to haul in booms as the helmsman put
the tiller over, pointing the bow more toward the shoreline. Spray moved more
slowly, heading so far into the wind, but Domon was sure he could reach shoal
waters before the other vessel came up on him. Did her holds be full, she could
still take shallower water than ever that great hull can.
His ship rode a little higher in the water than she had on sailing from
Tanchico. A third of the cargo of fireworks he had taken on there was gone,
sold in the fishing villages on the Domani coast, but with the silver that
flowed for the fireworks had come disturbing reports. The people spoke of
visits from the tall, boxy ships of the invaders. When Seanchan ships anchored
off the coast, the villagers who drew up to defend their homes were rent by
lightning from the sky while small boats were still ferrying the invaders
ashore, and the earth erupted in fire under their feet. Bayle had thought he
was hearing nonsense until he was shown the blackened ground, and he had seen
it in too many villages to doubt any longer. Monsters fought beside the
Seanchan soldiers, not that there was ever much resistance left, the villagers
said, and some even claimed that the Seanchan themselves were monsters, with
heads like huge insects.
In Tanchico, no-one had even known what they called themselves, and the
Taraboners spoke confidently of their soldiers driving the raiders into the
sea. But in every coastal town, it was different. The Seanchan told astonished
people they must swear again oaths they had forsaken, though never deigning to
explain when they had forsaken them, or what the oaths meant. The young women
were taken away one by one to be examined, and some were carried aboard the
ships and never seen again. A few older women had also vanished, some of the
Guides and Medicine Women. New mayors were chosen by the Seanchan, and new
Councils, and any who protested the disappearances of the women or having no
voice in the choosing might be hung, or burst suddenly into flame, or be
brushed aside like yapping dogs. There was no way of telling which it would be
until it was too late.
And when the people had been thoroughly cowed, when they had been made to kneel
and swear, bewildered, to obey the Forerunners, await the Return, and serve
Those Who Come Home with their lives, the Seanchan sailed away and usually
never returned. Falme, it was said, was the only city they held fast.
In some of the villages they had left, men and women crept back toward their
former lives, to the extent of talking about electing their Councils again, but
most eyed the sea nervously and made pale-cheeked protests that they meant to
hold to the oaths they had been made to swear even if they did not understand
them.
The Valreio he had spoken to in Orlay had been dismissive of his tales, but he
could not help but notice that there were more soldiers in the city than there
had been on his previous visits.
Bayle had no intention of meeting any Seanchan, if he could avoid it. I should
have turned back after Orlay. I should have made for Illian instead of
Northport, burn my eyes.
He was raising the glass to see what he could make out on the nearing Seanchan
decks, when, with a roar, the surface of the sea broke into fountaining water
and flame not a hundred paces from his larboard side. Before he had even begun
to gape, another column of flame split the sea on the other side, and as he was
spinning to stare at that, another burst up ahead. The eruptions died as
quickly as they were born, spray from them blown across the deck. Where they
had been, the sea bubbled and steamed as if boiling.
“We ... we’ll reach shallow water before they can close with us,” Yarin said
slowly. He seemed to be trying not to look at the water roiling under clouds of
mist.
Bayle shook his head. “Whatever they did, they can shatter us, even do I take
her into the breakers.” He shivered, thinking of the flame inside the fountains
of water, and his holds full of fireworks. “Fortune prick me, we might no live
to drown.” He tugged at his beard and rubbed his bare upper lip, reluctant to
give the order—the vessel and what it contained were all he had in the
world—but finally he made himself speak. “Bring her into the wind, Yarin, and
down sail. Quickly, man, quickly! Before they do think we still try to escape.”
As crewmen ran to lower the triangular sails, Bayle turned to watch the
Seanchan ship approach. Spray lost headway and pitched in the swells. The other
vessel stood taller above the water than Domon’s ship, with wooden towers at
bow and stern. Men were in the rigging, raising those strange sails, and
armoured figures stood atop the towers. A longboat was put over the side, and
sped toward Spray under ten oars. It carried armoured shapes, and—Bayle frowned
in surprise—two women crouched in the stern. The longboat thumped against
Spray’s hull.
 The first to climb up was one of the armoured men, and Bayle saw immediately
why some of the villagers claimed the Seanchan themselves were monsters. The
helmet looked very much like some monstrous insect’s head, with thin red plumes
like feelers; the wearer seemed to be peering out through mandibles. It was
painted and gilded to increase the effect, and the rest of the man’s armour was
also worked with paint and gold. Overlapping plates in black and red outlined
with gold covered his chest and ran down the outsides of his arms and the
fronts of his thighs. Even the steel backs of his gauntlets were red and gold.
Where he did not wear metal, his clothes were dark leather. The two-handed
sword on his back, with its curved blade, was scabbarded and hilted in black-
and-red leather.
Then the armoured figure removed his helmet, and Bayle stared. He was a woman.
Her dark hair was cut short, and her face was hard, but there was no mistaking
it. Just as disconcerting was the fact that her face did not look as different
as he had expected of a Seanchan. Her eyes were blue, it was true, and her skin
exceedingly fair, but he had seen both before. If this woman wore a dress, no-
one would look at her twice. He eyed her and revised his opinion, that cold
stare and those hard cheeks would make her remarked anywhere. The last woman he
had seen dressed so atypically had still seemed girlish to him, despite her
garb. There was nothing girlish about this one.
The other soldiers followed the woman onto the deck. Bayle was relieved to see,
when some of them removed their strange helmets, that they, at least, were men;
men with black eyes, or brown, who could have gone unnoticed in Tanchico or
Illian. He had begun to have visions of armies of blue-eyed women with swords.
Aes Sedai with swords, he thought, remembering the sea erupting.
The Seanchan woman surveyed the ship arrogantly, then picked Bayle out as
captain—it had to be him or Yarin, by their clothes; the way Yarin had his eyes
closed and was muttering prayers under his breath pointed to Bayle—and fixed
him with a stare like a spike.
“Are there any women among your crew or passengers?” She spoke with a soft
slurring that made her hard to understand, but there was a snap in her voice
that said she was used to getting answers. “Speak up, man, if you are the
captain. If not, wake that other fool and tell him to speak.”
“I do be captain, my Lady,” Bayle said cautiously. He had no idea how to
address her, and he did not want to put a foot wrong. “I have no passengers,
and there be no women in my crew.” He thought of the girls and women who had
been carried off, and, not for the first time, wondered what these folk wanted
with them.
The two women dressed as women were coming up from the longboat, one drawing
the other— Bayle blinked—by a leash of silvery metal as she climbed aboard. The
leash went from a bracelet worn by the first woman to a collar around the neck
of the second. He could not tell whether it was woven or jointed—it seemed
somehow to be both—but it was clearly of a piece with both bracelet and collar.
The first woman gathered the leash in coils as the other came onto the deck.
The collared woman wore plain dark grey and stood with her hands folded and her
eyes on the planks under her feet. The other had red panels bearing forked,
silver lightning bolts on the breast of her blue dress and on the sides of her
skirts, which ended short of the ankles of her boots. Bayle eyed the women
uneasily.
“Speak slowly, man,” the blue-eyed woman demanded in her slurred speech. She
came across the deck to confront him, staring up at him and in some way seeming
taller and larger than he. “You are even harder to understand than the rest in
this Light-forsaken land. And I make no claim to be of the Blood. Not yet.
After Corenne ... I am Captain Egeanin Sarna of the Fearless.”
Bayle repeated himself, trying to speak slowly, and added, “I do be a peaceful
trader, Captain. I mean no harm to you, and I have no part in your war.” He
could not help eyeing the two women connected by the leash again.
“A peaceful trader?” Egeanin mused. “In that case, you will be free to go once
you have sworn fealty again.” She noticed his glances and turned to smile at
the women with the pride of ownership. “You admire my damane? She cost me dear,
but she was worth every coin. Few but nobles own a damane, and most are
property of the throne. She is strong, trader. She could have broken your ship
to splinters, had I wished it so.”
Domon stared at the women and the silver leash. He had connected the one
wearing the lightning with the fiery fountains in the sea, and assumed she was
an Aes Sedai. Egeanin had just set his head whirling. No-one could do that to
... “She is Aes Sedai?” he said disbelievingly.
He never saw the casual backhand blow coming. He staggered as her steel-backed
gauntlet split his lip.
“That name is never spoken,” Egeanin said with a dangerous softness. “There are
only the damane, the Leashed Ones, and now they serve in truth as well as
name.” Her eyes made ice seem warm.
Bayle swallowed blood and kept his hand clenched at his sides. If he had had a
sword to hand, he would not have led his crew to slaughter against a dozen
armoured soldiers, but it was an effort to make his voice humble. “I meant no
disrespect, Captain. I know nothing of you or your ways. If I do offend, it is
ignorance, no intention.”
She looked at him, then said, “You are all ignorant, Captain, but you will pay
the debt of your forefathers. This land was ours, and it will be ours again.
With the Return, it will be ours again.” Bayle did not know what to say—Surely
she can no mean that nattering about Artur Hawkwing be true?—so he kept his
mouth shut. “You will sail your vessel to Falme”—he tried to protest, but her
glare silenced him—“where you and your ship will be examined. If you are no
more than a peaceful trader, as you claim, you will be allowed to go your way
when you have sworn the oaths.”
“Oaths, Captain? What oaths?”
“To obey, to await, and to serve. Your ancestors should have remembered.”
She gathered her people—except for a single man in plain armour, which marked
him of low rank as much as the depth of his bow to Captain Egeanin—and their
longboat pulled away toward the larger ship. The remaining Seanchan gave no
orders, only sat cross-legged on the deck and began sharpening his sword while
the crew put sail on and got under way. He seemed to have no fear at being
alone, and Bayle would have personally thrown overboard any crewman who raised
a hand to him, for as Spray made her way along the coast, the Seanchan ship
followed, out in deeper water. There was a mile between the two vessels, but
Domon knew there was no hope of escape, and he meant to deliver the man back to
Captain Egeanin as safely as if he had been cradled in his mother’s arms.
It was a long passage to Falme, and Bayle finally persuaded the Seanchan to
talk, a little. A dark-eyed man in his middle years, with an old scar above his
eyes and another nicking his chin, his name was Caban, and he had nothing but
contempt for anyone this side of the Aryth Ocean. That gave Bayle a moment’s
pause. Maybe they truly do be ... No, that do be madness. Caban’s speech had
the same slur as Egeanin’s, but where hers was silk sliding across iron, his
was leather rasping on rock, and mostly he wanted to talk about battles,
drinking, and women he had known. Half the time, Bayle was not certain if he
were speaking of here and now, or of wherever he had come from. The man was
certainly not forthcoming about anything Bayle wanted to know.
Once Bayle asked about the damane. Caban reached up from where he sat in front
of the helmsman and put the point of his sword to Bayle’s throat. “Watch what
your tongue touches, or you will lose it. That’s the business of the Blood, not
your kind. Or mine.” He grinned while he said it and as soon as he was done, he
went back to sliding a stone along his heavy, curved blade.
Bayle touched the point of blood welling above his collar and resolved not to
ask that again, at least.
The closer the two vessels came to Falme, the more of the tall, square-looking
Seanchan ships they passed, some under sail, but more anchored. Every one was
bluff-bowed and towered, as big as anything Bayle had ever seen, even among the
Sea Folk. A few local craft, he saw, with their sharp bows and slanted sails,
darted across the green swells. The sight gave him confidence that Egeanin had
spoken the truth about letting him go free.
When Spray came up on the headland where Falme stood, Bayle gaped at the
numbers of the Seanchan ships anchored off the harbour. He tried counting them
and gave up at a hundred, less than halfway done. He had seen as many ships in
one place before—in Illian, and Tear, and even Tanchico —but those vessels had
included many smaller craft. Muttering glumly to himself, he took Spray into
the harbour, shepherded by her great Seanchan watchdog.
Falme stood on a spit of land at the very tip of Toman Head, with nothing
further west of it except the Sea Folk islands and the Aryth Ocean. High cliffs
ran to the harbour mouth on both sides. Atop the northern cliffs loomed the
Divalaird, its familiar beacon fire not quite so comforting without the
Warhounds flying near; in their place there was what appeared, at a distance,
to be a golden bird on a white banner. A hawk? On the isolated southern cliffs,
where every ship running into the harbour had to pass under them, stood the
towers of the Watchers Over the Waves. A cage hung over the side of one of the
towers, with a man sitting in it despondently, legs dangling through the bars.
“Who is that?” Bayle asked.
Caban had finally given over sharpening his sword, after Bayle had begun to
wonder if he meant to shave with it. The Seanchan glanced up to where Bayle
pointed. “Oh. That is the First Watcher. Not the one who sat in the chair when
we first came, of course. Every time he dies, they choose another, and we put
him in the cage.”
“But why?” Bayle demanded.
Caban’s grin showed too many teeth. “They watched for the wrong thing, and
forgot when they should have been remembering.”
Bayle tore his eyes away from the Seanchan. Spray slid down the last real sea
swell and into the quieter waters of the harbour. I do be a trader, and it is
none of my business.
Falme rose from stone docks up the slopes of the hollow that made the harbour.
Its outer walls, which began a hundred feet from the coast and stretched in a
great arc, ending abruptly at the cliffs of the northern coast, were made from
the same dark granite as the buildings within. Few of those stood taller than
two stories and none were as stylized as even the meanest palace in Illian.
Falme was a young city, though the Divalaird, the towerfort around which it had
been built, was much older. It was there that the Queen of Falmerden sat her
throne. Or used to sit it.
He guided Spray to a place at one of the docks, and wondered, while the crew
tied the ship fast, if the Seanchan might buy some of the fireworks in his
hold. None of my business.
To his surprise, Egeanin had herself rowed to the dock with her damane. There
was another woman wearing the bracelet this time, with the red panels and
forked lightning on her dress, but the damane was the same sad-faced woman who
never looked up unless the other spoke to her. Egeanin had Bayle and his crew
herded off the ship to sit on the dock under the eyes of a pair of her soldiers
—she seemed to think no more were needed, and Bayle was not about to argue with
her—while others searched Spray under her direction. The damane was part of the
search.
Down the dock, a thing appeared. Bayle could think of no other way to describe
it. A hulking creature with a leathery, grey-green hide and a beak of a mouth
in a wedge-shaped head. And three eyes. It lumbered along beside a man whose
armour bore three painted eyes, just like those of the creature. The local
people, dockmen and sailors in roughly embroidered shirts and long vests to
their knees, shied away as the pair passed, but no Seanchan gave them a second
glance. The man with the beast seemed to be directing it with hand signals.
Man and creature turned in among the buildings, leaving Bayle staring and his
crew muttering to themselves. The two Seanchan guards sneered at them silently.
No my business, Bayle reminded himself. His business was his ship.
The air had a familiar smell of salt water and pitch. He shifted uneasily on
the stone, hot from the sun, and wondered what the Seanchan were searching for.
What the damane was searching for. Wondered what that thing had been. Gulls
cried, wheeling above the harbour. He thought of the sounds a caged man might
make. It is no my business.
Eventually Egeanin led the others back onto the dock. The Seanchan captain had
something wrapped in a piece of yellow silk, Bayle noted warily. Something
small enough to carry in one hand, but which she held carefully in both.
He got to his feet—slowly, for the soldiers’ sake, though their eyes held the
same contempt Caban’s did. “You see, Captain? I do be only a peaceful trader.
Perhaps your people would care to buy some fireworks?”
“Perhaps, trader.” There was an air of suppressed excitement about her that
made him uneasy, and her next words increased the feeling. “You will come with
me.”
She told two soldiers to come along, and one of them gave Bayle a push to get
him started. I was not a rough shove; Bayle had seen farmers push a cow in the
same way to make it move. Setting his teeth, he followed Egeanin.
The cobblestone street climbed the slope, leaving the smell of the harbour
behind. They passed through a gateway and he noted the freshness of the wooden
planks on the gate. Inside the walls the slate-roofed houses grew larger and
taller as the street climbed. Surprisingly for a city held by invaders, the
streets held more local people than Seanchan soldiers, and now and again a
curtained palanquin was borne past by bare-chested men. The Falmerans seemed to
be going about their business as if the Seanchan were not there. Or almost not
there. When palanquin or soldier passed, both poor folk, and the richer, with
shirts, vests, and dresses decorated with rich furs, bowed and remained bent
until the Seanchan were gone. They did the same for Bayle and his guard.
Neither Egeanin nor the soldiers so much as glanced at them.
Bayle frowned uneasily. This was not what he would have expected of Falmerans.
They were famed for their fierce independence, for their wars with Valreis and
the victories they had won against their richer, more populous neighbour. When
he heard that yet another invasion had come to their lands he had expected them
to meet it with the same defiance. But these men looked ... cowed.
Bayle realized with a sudden shock that some of the local people they passed
wore daggers at their belts, and in a few cases swords. He was so surprised
that he spoke without thinking. “Some of them be on your side?”
Egeanin frowned over her shoulder at him, obviously puzzled. Without slowing,
she looked at the people and nodded to herself. “You mean the swords. They are
our people, now, trader; they have sworn the oaths.” She stopped abruptly,
pointing at a tall, heavy-shouldered man with a heavily embroidered vest and a
sword swinging on a plain leather baldric. “You.”
The man halted in mid-step, one foot in the air and a frightened look suddenly
on his face. It was a hard face, but he looked as if he wanted to run. Instead,
he turned to her and bowed, hands on knees, eyes fixed on her boots. “How may
this one serve the captain?” he asked in a tight voice.
“You are a merchant?” Egeanin said. “You have sworn the oaths?”
“Yes, Captain. Yes.” He did not take his eyes from her feet.
“What do you tell the people when you take your wagons inland?”
“That they must obey the Forerunners, Captain, await the Return, and serve
Those Who Come Home.”
“And do you never think to use that sword against us?”
The man’s hands went white-knuckled gripping his knees, and there was suddenly
sweat in his voice. “I have sworn the oaths, Captain. I obey, await, and
serve.”
“You see?” Egeanin said, turning to Bayle. “There is no reason to forbid them
weapons. There must be trade, and merchants must protect themselves from
bandits. We allow the people to come and go as they will, so long as they obey,
await, and serve. Their forefathers broke their oaths, but these have learned
better.” She started back up the hill, and the soldiers pushed Bayle after her.
He looked back at the merchant. The man stayed bent as he was till Egeanin was
ten paces up the street, then he straightened and hurried the other way,
leaping down the sloping street.
Egeanin and his guards did not look around, either, when a mounted Seanchan
troop passed them, climbing the street. The soldiers rode creatures that looked
almost like cats the size of horses, but with lizards’ scales rippling bronze
beneath their saddles. Clawed feet grasped the cobblestones. A three-eyed head
turned to regard Bayle as the troop climbed by; aside from everything else, it
seemed too—knowing—for Bayle’s peace of mind. He stumbled and almost fell. All
along the street, the Falmerans were pressing themselves back against the
fronts of the buildings, some closing their eyes. The Seanchan paid them no
heed.
Bayle understood why the Seanchan could allow the people as much freedom as
they did. He wondered if he would have had nerve enough to resist. Damane.
Monsters. He wondered if there was anything to stop the Seanchan from marching
all the way to the Spine of the World. No my business, he reminded himself
roughly, and considered whether there was any way to avoid the Seanchan in his
future trading.
They reached the top of the incline, where the town gave way to hills. Ahead
were the inns that served merchants who traded inland, and wagon yards and
stables. Here, the houses would have made respectable manors for the minor
lords in Illian.
Beyond was the Divalaird, the thick, well-fitted, grey stone of the fortress at
its base tapering away until they came to a narrow point upon which a signal
fire burnt day and night to warn passing ships of the cliffs nearby. A blue-
edged banner bearing a golden, spread-winged hawk rippled above it. The studded
gates were closed and an honour guard of Seanchan soldiers stood out front.
On the paved square that fronted the main gates to the Divalaird was a sight
than Bayle had to struggle to make sense of. On an isolated spot, central to
the square, a thick stone base had been raised to support a long, wooden stake,
and on that stake there hung a piece of meat. Meat with a human shape and a few
hanks of golden hair still remaining on its head.
He swallowed noisily. “Do that be ...?”
Egeanin nodded, indifferent to the sight. “The so-called Queen of these lands.
A traitor who refused to reswear the oaths, and was duly punished. Death by
slow impalement. Many other fools followed her example. Though fewer in recent
weeks.”
Bayle’s blood ran cold. He had never met Queen Nora in person, but he had seen
her in passing, during his other visits to Falme. She had been a beautiful
woman, strong and proud. He wondered if her children had shared her fate. No my
business!
The stake ran from the corpse’s crotch through the trunk before emerging at the
neck, he noticed, before ripping his gaze away. I would no wish such a fate on
my worst enemy.
Egeanin surrendered her sword and dagger before taking Bayle inside. Her two
soldiers remained in the street. Bayle began to sweat. He smelled a noble in
this; it was never good to do business with a noble on the noble’s own ground.
In the front hall Egeanin left Bayle at the door and spoke to a servant. A
local man, judging by the fur-trimmed boots and wide trousers; Bayle believed
he caught the words “High Lord.” The servant hurried away, returning finally to
lead them, not to the throne room, as Bayle had expected, but to a large solar.
Every stick of furniture had been cleared out of it, even the rugs, and the
stone floor was polished to a bright gleam. Folding screens painted with
strange birds hid walls and windows.
Egeanin stopped just inside the room. When Bayle tried to ask where they were
and why, she silenced him with a savage glare and a wordless growl. She did not
move, but she seemed on the point of bouncing on her toes. She held whatever it
was she had taken from his ship as if it were precious. He tried to imagine
what it could be.
Suddenly a gong sounded softly, and the Seanchan woman dropped to her knees,
setting the silk-wrapped something carefully beside her. At a look from her,
Bayle got down as well. Lords had strange ways, and he suspected Seanchan lords
might have stranger ones than he knew.
Two men appeared in the doorway at the far end of the room. One had the left
side of his scalp shaved, his remaining pale golden hair braided and hanging
down over his ear to his shoulder. His deep yellow robe was just long enough to
let the toes of yellow slippers peek out when he walked. The other wore a blue
silk robe, brocaded with birds and long enough to trail along the floor behind
him. His head was shaved bald, and his fingernails were at least an inch long,
those on the first two fingers of each hand lacquered blue. Domon’s mouth
dropped open.
“You are in the presence of the High Lord Turak Aladon,” the yellow-haired man
intoned, “who leads Those Who Come Before, and succours the Return.”
Egeanin prostrated herself with her hands at her sides. Bayle imitated her with
alacrity. Even the High Lords of Tear would no demand this, he thought. Out of
the corner of his eye, he saw Egeanin kissing the floor. With a grimace, he
decided there was a limit to imitation. They can no see whether I do or no
anyway.
Egeanin suddenly stood. He started to rise as well, and made it as far as one
knee before a growl in her throat and a scandalized look on the face of the man
with the braid put him back down, face to the floor and muttering under his
breath. I would no do this for the Queen of Illian and the Council of Nine
together.
“Your name is Egeanin?” It had to be the voice of the man in the blue robe. His
slurring speech had a rhythm almost like singing.
“I was so named on my sword-day, High Lord,” she replied humbly.
“This is a fine specimen, Egeanin. Quite rare. Do you wish a payment?”
“That the High Lord is pleased is payment enough. I live to serve, High Lord.”
“I will mention your name to the Empress, Egeanin. After the Return, new names
will be called to the Blood. Show yourself fit, and you may shed the name
Egeanin for a higher.”
“The High Lord honours me.”
“Yes. You may leave me.”
Bayle could see nothing but her boots backing out of the room, pausing at
intervals for bows. The door closed behind her. There was a long silence. He
was watching sweat from his forehead drip onto the floor when Turak spoke
again.
“You may rise, trader.”
Bayle got to his feet, and saw what Turak held in his long-nailed fingers. A
little statue of a bird he had found for sale in Ebou Dar on his last visit, it
was finely made and all of polished red stone. Very old, but without a single
chip or scratch.
“Do you know what this is, trader?” There was no animosity in the High Lord’s
dark eyes only a slight curiosity, but Bayle did not trust lords.
“No, High Lord.” Bayle’s reply was as steady as a rock; no trader lasted long
who couldn’t lie with a straight face and an easy voice.
“And yet you kept it in a secret place.”
“I do collect old things, High Lord, from times past. There do be those who
would steal such did they lay easy to hand.”
Turak regarded the red bird for a moment. “This is cuendillar, trader—do you
know that name?—and older than you perhaps know. Come with me.”
Bayle followed the man cautiously, feeling a little more sure of himself. With
any lord of the lands he knew, if guards were going to be summoned, they
already would have been. But the little he had seen of Seanchan told him they
did not do things as other men did. He schooled his face to stillness.
He was led into another room. He thought the furniture here had to have been
brought by Turak. It seemed to be made of curves, with no straight lines at
all, and the wood was polished to bring out strange graining. There was one
chair, on a silk carpet woven in birds and flowers, and one large cabinet made
in a circle. Folding screens made new walls.
The man with the braid opened the doors of the cabinet to reveal shelves
holding an odd assortment of figurines, cups, bowls, vases, fifty different
things, no two alike in size or shape. Bayle’s breath caught at the sight.
“Cuendillar,” Turak said. “That is what I collect, trader. Only the Empress
herself has a finer collection.”
Bayle’s eyes almost popped out of his head. If everything on those shelves was
truly cuendillar, it was enough to buy a country, or at the least to found a
great House. Even a king might beggar himself to buy so much of it, if he even
knew where to find so much. He put on a smile.
Turak set the little bird down beside another piece, a thick disk the size of a
man’s hand, half white and half black, a sinuous line separating the colours.
Bayle recognised the design, it was the ancient symbol of Aes Sedai from before
the Breaking of the World, but he was nowhere near foolish enough to mention
that in front of the Seanchan lord.
“High Lord, please accept this piece as a gift.” He did not want to let it go,
but that was better than angering this Seanchan. “I do be but a simple trader.
I want only to trade. Let me sail, and I do promise that—”
Turak’s expression never changed, but the man with the braid cut Bayle off with
a snapped, “Unshaven dog! You speak of giving the High Lord what Captain
Egeanin has already given. You bargain, as if the High Lord were a—a merchant!
You will be flayed alive over nine days, dog, and—” The barest motion of
Turak’s finger silenced him.
“I cannot allow you to leave me, trader,” the High Lord said. “In this shadowed
land of oath-breakers, I find none who can converse with a man of
sensibilities. But you are a collector. Perhaps your conversation will be
interesting.” He took the chair, lolling back in its curves to study Bayle.
Bayle put on what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. “High Lord, I do be a
simple trader, a simple man. I do no have the way of talking with great Lords.”
The man with the braid glared at him, but Turak seemed not to hear. From behind
one of the screens, a slim, pretty young woman appeared on quick feet to kneel
beside the High Lord, offering a lacquered tray bearing a single cup, thin and
handleless, of some steaming black liquid. Her dark, round face was vaguely
reminiscent of the Sea Folk. Turak took the cup carefully in his long-nailed
fingers, never looking at the young woman, and inhaled the fumes. Bayle took
one look at the girl and pulled his eyes away with a strangled gasp; her white
silk robe was embroidered with flowers, but so sheer he could see right through
it, and there was nothing beneath but her own slimness.
“The aroma of kaf,” Turak said, “is almost as enjoyable as the flavour. Now,
trader. I have learned that cuendillar is even more rare here than in Seanchan.
Tell me how a simple trader came to possess a piece.” He sipped his kaf and
waited.
Bayle Domon took a deep breath and set about trying to lie his way out of
Falme.
***** Blending In *****
CHAPTER 38: Blending In
 
Lord Barthanes’ manor crouched like a huge toad in the night, covering as much
ground as a fortress, with all its walls and outbuildings. It was no fortress,
though, with tall windows everywhere, and lights, and the sounds of music and
laughter drifting out, yet Rand saw guards moving on the tower tops and along
the roofwalks, and none of the windows were close to the ground. He got down
from Red’s back and smoothed his coat, adjusted his sword belt. The others
dismounted around him, at the foot of broad, white stone stairs leading up to
the wide, heavily carved doors of the manor.
Ten Shienarans, under Uno, made an escort. The one-eyed man exchanged small
nods with Ingtar before taking his men to join the other escorts, where ale had
been provided and a whole ox was roasting on a spit by a big fire.
The other ten Shienarans—Masema among them to Rand’s relief; it would have been
especially difficult to act the lord with that one around—had been left behind;
except for Areku, who was not at all happy to have been invited.
“This is humiliating,” she muttered as she clambered down from her horse. The
dress she wore was of a sombre, dark grey. Cairhienin cut, but in Shinowa
colours. Verin had picked it out for her, but getting the woman into it had
required quite a bit of persuading, even for the Aes Sedai.
“Think of it as pretending,” Rand said quietly. “I’m no lord, but I’ll try to
act the part if that’s what is needed to get closer to Fain and the Horn.
Besides, she’s not totally wrong. Having a fighter inside who the Cairhienin
think is just a servant could be a great help if it turns out to be a trap.”
“I know,” Areku said glumly. “I just hate being in a dress. All my life I’ve
wanted to be a soldier. Nothing more, nothing less. It hasn’t been easy winning
my place, but I’ve done it. Now?” She shook her head. “The rest of my column
won’t soon forget seeing me like this.”
Privately Rand had to agree that the dress did not suit her. Well-muscled, with
a very modest bust, and a mostly-shaven head; she had looked exotic, impressive
and, yes, quite attractive in her armoured uniform. In that dress she looked a
little silly.
“It looks quite pretty on you,” he lied politely.
Her dark eyes narrowed. “Now there’s a lordly courtesy.”
Rand gave a chagrined smile. “Okay. More honestly, you are quite pretty, but
the dress doesn’t suit you. The armour just seems more ... you, somehow.”
She gave a soft grunt. “Well. Thanks.”
Areku wasn’t the only unhappy woman in their company. Anna had been assigned
the role of Rand’s maid, a plain brown dress to suit the role, and a selection
of hidden knives to hide on her person. She had been five feet of stocky,
short-haired, and surprisingly pretty glowers ever since. She wasn’t doing a
very good job of acting the servant. None of the servants Rand had seen in Fal
Dara or here in Cairhien ever glared at their “masters” like that. He very
conscientiously refrained from teasing her over it.
While the women would provide support in case of a fight, it would be for
Hurin, also posing as Ingtar’s bodyservant, to sniff out the Darkfriends and
Trollocs if he could; the Horn of Valere should not be far from them. He and
Loial exchanged words as they dismounted. Perrin had been left behind with the
other half of Ingtar’s soldiers, in part because they had no ready excuse to
smuggle him in, and in part because his eyes would attract too much attention.
Every one of them had to be there for a purpose, Verin had said. An escort was
necessary for dignity in Cairhienin eyes, but more than ten would seem
suspicious. Rand was there because he had received the invitation. Ingtar had
come to lend the prestige of his title, while Loial was there because Ogier
were sought after in the upper reaches of the Cairhienin nobility. And the
others were there because no Lord would be seen without at least a few
attendants.
When Rand had asked Verin why she and Tomas were there, she had only smiled and
said, “To keep the rest of you out of trouble.” But later she had taken him
aside and told him that there was a Red Sister in the city. She had cautioned
him to avoid any “displays” while they were here, and ignored Rand’s glowers. I
will not be used.
As they mounted the stairs, Anna muttered, “I’m warning you, Rand. One ‘fetch
me this’, or ‘hold my cloak, minion’ and I will bust your nose for you, just
you see if I don’t.”
Rand grinned at her but Verin was less amused. “A servant,” the Aes Sedai said,
“should not walk at her master’s side but follow at least a full step behind if
she does not want to be confused with something else. A servant can also go
many places another cannot, and many nobles will not even see her. You three
will blend into the walls as easily as a cloaked Warder would. You know your
tasks.”
Anna’s lips tightened, but she fell back to heel Rand. He turned his head to
give her an apologetic smile.
“Be quiet now.” Ingtar put in. They were approaching the doors, where half a
dozen guards stood with the Tree and Crown of House Damodred on their chests,
and an equal number of men in dark green livery with Tree and Crown on the
sleeve.
Taking a deep breath, Rand proffered the invitation. “I am Lord Rand of House
al’Thor,” he said all in a rush, to get it over with. “And these are my guests.
Verin Aes Sedai of the Brown Ajah. Tomas Gaidin. Lord Ingtar of House Shinowa,
in Shienar. Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, from Stedding Shangtai.” Loial
had asked that his stedding be left out of it, but Verin insisted they needed
every bit of formality they could offer.
The servant who had reached for the invitation with a perfunctory bow gave a
little jerk at each additional name; his eyes popped at Verin’s. In a strangled
voice he said, “Be welcome in House Damodred, my lords. Be welcome, Aes Sedai.
Be welcome, friend Ogier.” He waved the other servants to open the doors wide,
and bowed Rand and the others inside, where he hurriedly passed the invitation
to another liveried man and whispered in his ear.
This man had the Tree and Crown large on the chest of his green coat. “Aes
Sedai,” he said using his long staff to make a bow, almost bending his head to
his knees, to each of them in turn. “My lords. Friend Ogier. I am called Ashin.
Please to follow me.”
The outer hall held only servants, but Ashin led them to a great room filled
with nobles, with a juggler performing at one end and tumblers at the other.
Voices and music coming from elsewhere said these were not the only guests, or
the only entertainments. The nobles stood in twos, and threes and fours,
sometimes men and women together, sometimes only one or the other, always with
careful space between so no-one could overhear what was said. The guests wore
the dark Cairhienin colours, each with bright stripes at least halfway down his
or her chest, and some had them all the way to their waists. The women had
their hair piled high in elaborate towers of curls, every one different, and
their dark skirts were so wide they would have had to turn sideways to pass
through any doorway narrower than those of the manor. None of the men had the
shaved heads of soldiers—they all wore dark velvet hats over long hair, some
shaped like bells, others flat—and as with the women, lace ruffles like dark
ivory almost hid their hands.
Ashin rapped his staff and announced them in a loud voice, Verin first.
They drew every eye. Verin wore her brown-fringed shawl, embroidered in grape
vines; the announcement of an Aes Sedai sent a murmur through the lords and
ladies, and made the juggler drop one of his hoops, though no-one was watching
him any longer. Loial received almost as many looks, even before Ashin spoke
his name. Despite the silver embroidery on collar and sleeves, the otherwise
unrelieved black of Rand’s coat made him seem almost stark beside the
Cairhienin, and his and Ingtar’s swords drew many glances. None of the lords
appeared to be armed. Rand heard the words “heron-mark blade” more than once.
Some of the glances he was receiving looked like frowns; he suspected they came
from men or women he had insulted by burning their invitations.
A slim, handsome man approached. He had long, greying hair, and multihued
stripes crossed the front of his deep grey coat from his neck almost to the hem
just above his knees. He was extremely tall for a Cairhienin, no more than half
a head shorter than Rand, and he had a way of standing that made him seem even
taller, with his chin up so he seemed to be looking down at everyone else. His
eyes were black pebbles. He looked warily at Verin, though.
“Grace honours me with your presence, Aes Sedai.” Barthanes Damodred’s voice
was deep and sure. His gaze swept across the others. “I did not expect so
distinguished a company. Lord Ingtar. Friend Ogier.” His bow to each was little
more than a nod of the head; Barthanes knew exactly how powerful he was. “And
you, my young Lord Rand. You excite much comment in the city, and in the
Houses. Perhaps we will have a chance to talk this night.” His tone said that
he would not miss it if the chance never came, that he had not been excited to
any comment, but his eyes slid a fraction before he caught them, to Ingtar and
Loial, and to Verin. “Be welcome.” He let himself be drawn away by a handsome
woman in a dark dress with red, yellow and silver stripes to her knees who laid
a beringed hand buried in lace on his arm, but his gaze drifted back to Rand as
he walked away.
The murmur of conversation picked up once more, and the juggler spun his hoops
again in a narrow loop that almost reached the worked plaster ceiling, a good
twenty feet or more up. The tumblers had never stopped; a woman leaped into the
air from the cupped hands of one of her compatriots, her oiled skin shining
golden in the light of a hundred lamps as she spun, and landed on her feet on
the hands of a man who was already standing atop another’s shoulders. He lifted
her up on outstretched arms as the man below raised him in the same way, and
she spread her arms as if for applause. None of the Cairhienin seemed to
notice.
Rand put his hands together lightly, but it was a soft and lonely sound and he
soon stopped, feeling embarrassed. Verin and Ingtar drifted away into the
crowd. The Shienaran received a few wary looks; some looked at the Aes Sedai
with wide eyes, others with the worried frowns of those finding a rabid wolf
within arm’s reach. The latter came from men more often than women, and some of
the women spoke to her. Tomas, heeling his Aes Sedai, eyed all of the guests
with equal suspicion.
Rand realized that Anna, Areku and Hurin had already disappeared to the
kitchens, where all the servants who had come with the guests would be
gathering until sent for. He hoped they would not have trouble sneaking away.
Loial bent down to speak for his ear alone. “Rand, there is a Waygate nearby. I
can feel it.”
“You mean this was an Ogier grove?” Rand said softly, and Loial nodded.
“Stedding Tsofu had not been found again when it was planted, or the Ogier who
helped build Al’cair’rahienallen would not have needed a grove to remind them
of the stedding. This was all forest when I came through Cairhien before, and
belonged to the Queen.”
“Barthanes probably took it away in some plot.” Rand looked around the room
nervously. Everyone was still talking, but more than a few were watching the
Ogier and him. He could not see Ingtar. Verin stood at the centre of a knot of
women. “I wish we could stay together.”
“Verin says not, Rand. She says it would make them all suspicious and angry,
thinking we were holding ourselves aloof. We have to allay suspicion until
Hurin finds whatever he finds.”
“I heard what she said as well as you, Loial. But I still say, if Barthanes is
a Darkfriend, then he must know why we’re here. Going off by ourselves is just
asking to be knocked on the head. Or worse”
“Verin says he won’t do anything until he finds out whether he can make use of
us. Just do what she told us, Rand. Aes Sedai know what they are about.” Loial
walked into the crowd, gathering a circle of lords and ladies before he had
gone ten steps.
Others started toward Rand, now that he was alone, but he turned in the other
direction and hurried away. Aes Sedai may know what they’re about, but I wish I
did. I don’t like this. Light, but I wish I knew if she was telling the truth.
Aes Sedai never lie, but the truth you hear may not be the truth you think it
is. The things they told me in Fal Dara were definitely lies, after all.
He kept moving to avoid talking with the nobles. There were many other rooms,
all filled with lords and ladies, all with entertainers: three different
gleemen in their cloaks, more jugglers and tumblers, and musicians playing
flutes, bitterns, dulcimers, and lutes, plus five different sizes of fiddle,
six kinds of horn, straight or curved or curled, and ten sizes of drum from
tambour to kettle. He gave some of the horn players a second look, those with
curled horns, but the instruments were all plain brass.
They wouldn’t have the Horn of Valere out here, fool, he thought. Not unless
Barthanes means to have dead heroes come as part of the entertainment.
There was even a bard in silver-worked Tairen boots and a yellow coat,
strolling through the rooms plucking his harp and sometimes stopping to declaim
in High Chant. He glared contemptuously at the gleemen and did not linger in
the rooms where they were, but Rand saw little difference between him and them
except for their clothes.
Suddenly Barthanes was walking by Rand’s side. A liveried servant immediately
offered his silver tray with a bow. Barthanes took a blown-glass goblet of
wine. Walking backwards ahead of them still bowing, the servant held the tray
toward Rand until Rand shook his head, then melted into the crowd.
“You seem restless,” Barthanes said, sipping.
“I like to walk.” Rand wondered how to follow Verin’s advice, and remembering
what she had said about his visit to the Amyrlin, he settled into Cat Crosses
the Courtyard. He knew no more arrogant way to walk than that. Barthanes’ mouth
tightened, and Rand thought perhaps the lord found it too arrogant, but Verin’s
advice was all he had to go by, so he did not stop. To take some of the edge
off, he said pleasantly, “This is a fine party. You have many friends, and I’ve
never seen so many entertainers.”
“Many friends,” Barthanes agreed. “You can tell Galldria how many, and who.
Some of the names might surprise her. You will recall Lady Michaine Maravin I
am sure.” He waved a graceful hand in the direction of a beautiful, mature
woman whose dark dress had stripes of colour across the front, falling to below
her waist. She was chatting with a collection of noblemen, and at her side
stood a bored-looking girl with the exact same dress, who Rand took for her
daughter. He had gotten a letter from a Lady Maravin, and burned it of course.
He recalled Hurin saying something about Queen Galldria’s late husband having
been a member of that House.
“I have never met Lady Maravin. Or the Queen, Lord Barthanes, and I don’t
expect I ever will,” Rand said.
“Of course. You just happened to be in that flyspeck village. You were not
checking on the progress of retrieving that statue. A great undertaking, that.”
“Yes.” He had begun thinking of Verin again, wishing she had given him some
advice on how to talk with a man who assumed he was lying. He added without
thinking, “It’s dangerous to meddle with things from the Age of Legends if you
don’t know what you are doing.”
Barthanes peered into his wine, musing as if Rand had just said something
profound. “Are you saying you do not support Galldria in this?” he asked
finally.
“I told you, I’ve never met the Queen.”
“Yes, of course. I did not know Andormen played at the Great Game so well. We
do not see many here in Cairhien.”
Rand took a deep breath to stop from telling the man angrily that he was not
playing their Game. “There are many grain barges from Andor in the river.”
“Merchants and traders. Who notices such as they? As well notice the beetles on
the leaves.” Barthanes’ voice carried equal contempt for both beetles and
merchants, but once again he frowned as if Rand had hinted at something. “Not
many men travel in company with Aes Sedai. You seem too young to be a Warder.”
“I am not a Warder,” Rand said, and grimaced. Light forbid. Aes Sedai are bad
enough without that.
Barthanes was studying Rand’s face almost openly. “Young. Young to carry a
heron-mark blade.”
“I am less than a year old,” Rand said automatically, and immediately wished he
had it back. It sounded foolish, to his ear, but Verin had said act as he had
with the Amyrlin Seat, and that was the answer Lan had given him. A Borderman
considered the day he was given his sword to be his nameday.
“So. An Andorman, and yet Borderland-trained. Or is it Warder-trained?”
Barthanes’ eyes narrowed, studying Rand. “I understand Morgase has only one
son. Named Gawyn, I have heard. You must be much like him in age.”
“I have met him,” Rand said cautiously.
“Those eyes. That hair. I have heard the Andoran royal line has almost Aiel
colouring in their hair and eyes.”
Rand stumbled, though the floor was smooth marble. “I’m not Aiel, Lord
Barthanes, and I’m not of the royal line, either.”
“As you say. You have given me much to think on. I believe we may find common
ground when we talk again.” Barthanes nodded and raised his glass in a small
salute, then turned to speak to a thin, grey-haired man with many stripes of
white, black and gold down his coat.
Rand shook his head and moved on, away from more conversation. It had been bad
enough talking to one Cairhienin lord; he did not want to risk two. Barthanes
appeared to find deep meanings in the most trivial comments. Rand realized he
had just now learned enough of Daes Dae’mar to know he had no idea at all how
it was played. Hurin, find something fast, so we can get out of here. These
people are crazy.
And then he entered another room, and the gleeman at the end of it, strumming
his harp and reciting a tale from The Great Hunt of the Horn, was Thom
Merrilin. Rand stopped dead. Thom did not seem to see him, though the gleeman’s
gaze passed over him twice. It seemed that Thom had meant what he said. A clean
break. It was for the best.
Rand turned to go, but a pretty woman stepped smoothly in front of him and put
a hand on his chest, the lace falling back from a soft wrist. Her head did not
quite come to his shoulder, but her tall array of dark curls easily reached as
high as his eyes. The high neck of her gown put lace ruffles under her chin,
and stripes covered the front of her dark blue dress below her breasts. “I am
Alaine Chuliandred, and you are the famous Rand al’Thor. In Barthanes’ own
manor, I suppose he has the right to speak to you first, but we are all
fascinated by what we hear of you. I even hear that you play the flute. Can it
be true?”
“I play the flute.” How did she ...? Caldevwin. Light, everybody does hear
everything in Cairhien. “If you will excuse—”
“I have heard that some outland lords play music, but I never believed it. I
would like very much to hear you play. Perhaps you will talk with me, of this
and that. Barthanes seemed to find your conversation fascinating. My husband
spends his days sampling his own vineyards, and leaves me quite alone. He is
never there to talk with me.”
“You must miss him,” Rand said, trying to edge around her and her wide skirts.
She gave a tinkling laugh as if he had said the funniest thing in the world.
Another woman sidled in beside the first, and another hand was laid on his
chest. She wore as many stripes as Alaine, and they were of an age, a good ten
years older than he. “Do you think to keep him to yourself, Alaine?” The two
women smiled at each other while their eyes threw daggers. The second turned
her smile on Rand. “I am Belevaere Osiellin. Are all Andormen so tall? And so
handsome?”
He cleared his throat. “Ah ... some are as tall. Pardon me, but if you will—”
“I saw you talking with Barthanes. They say you know Galldria, as well. You
must come to see me, and talk. My husband is visiting our estates in the
south.”
“You have the subtlety of a tavern wench,” Alaine hissed at her, and
immediately was smiling up at Rand. “She has no polish. No man could like a
woman with a manner so rough. Bring your flute to my manor, and we will talk.
Perhaps you will teach me to play?”
“What Alaine thinks of as subtlety,” Belevaere said sweetly, “is but lack of
courage. A man who wears a heron-mark sword must be brave. That truly is a
heron-mark blade, is it not?”
Wide-eyed, Rand tried backing away from them. Blood and ashes. I thought
Cairhienin were a repressed and serious lot. “If you will just excuse me, I—”
They followed step for step until his back hit the wall; the width of their
skirts together made another wall in front of him.
He jumped as a third woman crowded in beside the other two, her skirts joining
theirs to the wall on that side, blocking the polished wooden door he had been
about to escape through. She was older than they, but just as pretty, with an
amused smile that did not lessen the sharpness of her eyes. She wore half again
as many stripes as Alaine and Belevaere; they made tiny curtsies and glared at
her sullenly.
“Are these two spiders trying to toil you in their webs?” The older woman
laughed. “Half the time they tangle themselves more firmly than anyone else.
Come with me, my fine young Andoran, and I will tell you some of the troubles
they would give you. For one thing, I have no husband to worry about. Husbands
always make trouble.”
Over Alaine’s head he could see Thom, straightening from a bow to no applause
or notice whatsoever. With a grimace the gleeman snatched a goblet from the
tray of a startled servant. He considered evading the women’s hints by seeking
out the gleeman but was wary of being seen with him, of dragging him back into
Rand’s troubles. Enough friends had suffered for their involvement already.
“Discretion works well when it comes to husbands,” Rand said. He’d known other
men’s wives before. He liked to tell himself that any blame for the affairs
should belong to the wayward spouse; the lover had sworn no vows.
“Discretion works well when it comes to most things,” agreed the elder of the
three. “I am Breane Taborwin by the way.”
“Rand al’Thor. Pleased to meet you.”
“Yes, we know. There has been much talk of the bold young outland Lord who
visits our city. Many wonder why you have come, and what it will mean for Queen
Galldria’s reign.”
Rand shook his head vigorously. “I’d rather it meant nothing. If I had my way
Cairhien would never even know I’d been here.”
“Oh, that is such a relief to hear,” purred Alaine, fingers trailing lightly
along his chest.
Belevaere shot her an annoyed look. “Oh, but I think you will leave quite the
impression, my lord,” she said, turning an eager smile on Rand.
He let out a small sigh. Well, I’m supposed to be fitting in. And from the way
they are going on it seems this sort of thing is common at these parties. I’d
best do my part. The problem, again, was one of numbers. How was he supposed to
avoid offending one or the other? He could think of one solution. Not very
subtle, not very Daes Dae’mar, but maybe it would work. Who knew what they
would read into it though.
“Alright,” he said, resolved now. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
Breane raised an eyebrow at him as he took her by the elbow and steered her out
of the way of the door. She came with him when he left though, and the other
two ladies trailed along after them.
Inside was a richly furnished sitting room, unoccupied save for them. The soft
carpets and panelled walls were lit by half a dozen mirrored stand lamps.
Several comfortable-looking sofas, low tables and drinkstands were arranged as
though for discreet conversation.
He left Breane in the middle of the room and went to latch the door. Alaine
stood near it, watching him with pursed lips and raised brows.
“What are you about,” she said as he reached past her to work the latch.
“Just trying to give you what you wanted,” he said honestly. Then he cupped her
face in his hands and leaned down to kiss her.
Her lips were lax beneath his at first, but soon she was kissing him back.
Conscious of the other women who wanted his attention, Rand broke the kiss
after a scant few heartbeats and turned to Belevaere.
She looked much like Alaine, but with a rounder face and a bolder smile. That
smile didn’t completely hide her shock when he turned from her flushed rival
and bent to kiss her too. He heard Alaine gasp behind him.
“Well, well,” said Breane. “You are a bold one.”
He reached an arm around Alaine and pulled her into his embrace right alongside
Belevaere. The two Cairhienin ladies glared at each other as Rand tried to
alternate kisses between them.
“There’s no need to fight, you two,” he murmured. “You’re both beautiful, and
I’ll make it my business to see you both get your satisfaction.”
“That’s hardly ...” Alaine tried to say between kisses.
“I don’t care what she ...” Belevaere began to say, before he captured her lips
and interrupted her.
Soon their protests had dwindled to vexed murmurs, issued as he turned from one
to the other and silenced when he turned back. He heard Breane laughing softly.
He tried to fondle their bottoms but found himself defeated by their strange
dresses. It wasn’t all fabric that gave the lower halves those bell-like
shapes; there was some kind of wooden frame underneath.
Since Alaine had been the first to approach him, he felt it was only fair to
attend to her first. He gave Belevaere a last, lingering kiss before taking the
other woman by the hand and leading her to a low, warmly polished table. There
he sat her down, knelt before her and began pushing up the many layers of her
skirts.
“Aren’t you going to show me your flute first?” laughed Alaine.
Rand paused for a moment, then shrugged. “As you wish.” He unbuckled his belt
and set his sword aside as the three ladies watched and tittered. Despite
everything, he didn’t find himself feeling nervous at all. Rand had seen enough
cocks in his life to know he was bigger than average. When he pushed his
breeches down over his waist and freed his hardening length, a trio of
flattering gasps sounded.
“I’m sure you’ve made many a woman sing with that instrument,” said Alaine with
a laugh.
“Tall and strong indeed,” murmured Belevaere.
“Grace has favoured you. That might test even my limits,” mused Breane.
Rand blushed, grinning widely. He set back to working on Alaine’s dress,
reaching and pulling down her lacy drawers to expose her neatly-groomed sex.
Then he knelt down and kissed it firmly.
“Such an attentive man,” gasped Alaine. “If only my drunkard of a husband would
attend to his duties so diligently.” Urged on by her words, Rand started using
his tongue on her, just the way Marin had taught him.
He couldn’t attend to her long though. Belevaere started tutting in
frustration, and since he was looking to avoid getting into even more trouble
with the Houses he was forced to rise and turn his attention to her.
Thankfully, Breane seemed content to just watch the whole thing, smiling over
from the sofa she had perched herself on. He didn’t know how he would go about
pleasing all three at once. It seemed impossible to imagine.
Belevaere avoided his kisses now that Alaine’s juices were on his lips. So,
struck by a sudden inspiration, he turned her around and picked her up by the
waist. It was easy. All three of the Cairhienin ladies were short and slender.
A whoop of surprise sounded from the Osiellin woman as he carried her to the
narrow table, positioned her above her Chuliandred countrywoman and lowered her
back to her feet.
“What do you plan Andoran?” she laughed. “If it’s what I suspect you are beyond
bold.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted me to be?” He lifted her skirts and lowered her
drawers. The hoops that helped hold the dress’ shape vexed him, but Belevaere
seemed to expect that. She obligingly leant forward, pushing her pale bottom
back towards him and presenting her glistening sex.
Rand positioned himself behind her. He now had easy access to both women’s
pussies.
“I do not like you looking down at me like this Belevaere,” sniffed Alaine, as
she lay on the table with the other woman leaning over her, supporting her
weight with hands on either side of her head.
“I would think you were used to it by now, Alaine,” sighed Belevaere mockingly.
Rand moved quickly to douse that fire. He took hold of his cock and guided it
to Belevaere’s wet hole, then wasted no time before pushing it in. Her cry
drowned out Alaine’s response to her barb.
“Ha! For all your arrogance you moan like a Foregate tavern wench,” crowed
Alaine. “What would Amondrid think if he could hear you now?”
Rand gave her several long thrusts before pulling out. Swiftly he located
Alaine’s pussy amidst the tangle of spread legs, exposed crevices, ruffled
skirts and bizarre wooden hoops. He guided himself to it and rammed home.
It was Alaine’s turn to cry out, and Belevaere’s turn to crow. “A tavern wench
is it? You bark like a dog in heat. Poor Doressin must be appalled at how far
beneath him he married.”
Increasingly alarmed, Rand gave her an equal number of hard strokes before
switching back to the other woman. He alternated between them, fucking them
hard, not even really savouring the feel of their bodies as he tried to disarm
the situation. He didn’t really like doing it with strangers. Well, he did, he
supposed; how not? But he found it nowhere near as wonderful as when it was
with someone he knew and cared about. And this was especially unsatisfying.
“I would wager my estates at Maerone that your loose—UH!” He went back to
Belevaere before she could continue.
Once Alaine had caught her breath she scoffed anew, “Do you think the cut of
that dress makes them look big—AH!”
Blood and ashes, thought Rand. I don’t know how long I can keep this up.
He took it for progress when moans gradually replaced taunts from the warring
ladies.
He was giving Alaine her fiftieth session when she suddenly clenched herself
around his cock and moaned even louder than normal. He knew the meaning and
didn’t linger inside her, but transferred his cock to Belevaere and increased
his pace even more, hoping to forestall whatever pithy comment she would make
about the other woman.
It worked, thank the Light. Alaine was too busy moaning incoherently—and
Belevaere too busy gasping for breath—to continue their feud. Under his
relentless pounding the second lady soon stiffened and cried out as well. Rand
let his head fall back and breathed a sigh of relief at the sound.
Under the throes of her orgasm, Belevaere’s arms gave out and she collapsed to
lay against Alaine, breast to breast. He wasn’t sure if it was happenstance or
design that brought their lips together, but neither woman pulled away. In
fact, they wrapped their arms around each other as they kissed languidly.
Breane’s laughter was a loud, throaty thing.
“The mystery is solved,” she said, with an amused smile. “You have been sent to
play peacemaker between the warring factions. Is it to be Galldria and
Barthanes next?” For the first time he realised she had taken off her
underwear. Her hand openly toyed with the darkly furred folds of her sex as she
leaned back on the sofa.
For all their feuding, her joke—he hoped it was a joke—brought matching,
breathless laughter from the two women on the table.
Rand pulled his slick cock out of Belevaere and tried to catch his breath. “I
hope not,” he said honestly as he sank onto the nearby sofa.
Breane laughed again. She rose from her own perch and crossed the room to sit
beside him.
“Young and strong as you are, could it be you have reached the limits of your
stamina?” she asked, brushing his lips with hers, and his hard cock with her
slick fingers. He twitched beneath her touch and kissed her back, harder. “Or
perhaps not. No matter. A reward for you, my young Lord, for a most amusing
show.”
Breane slid from the sofa to kneel between Rand’s legs. She was pale skinned
and dark-haired, like most Cairhienin noblewomen, maturely beautiful with a
hard confidence in her slightly slanted eyes. The sight of her kneeling before
him and taking his cock into her mouth dispelled Rand’s nervousness and woke
his lust. She held his gaze as she engulfed as much of his length as she could,
then closed her eyes and started bobbing her head up and down.
As thrilling as the feel of her mouth on his manhood was, that tower of
carefully-curled hair kept batting distractingly against his chest. Rand let
his eyes drift shut in order to savour Breane’s attentions. He was dimly aware
of the other ladies taking seats to either side of him as they watched Breane
work.
After his efforts with the other two he doubted he would have lasted long, even
if Breane was not as skilled as she was. And she was, indeed, skilled. She
cupped his balls gently in one hand as the other worked his shaft firmly; all
the while her tongue licked along his most sensitive places. It was too much
for Rand. Slumped on the sofa, he moaned loudly as he began spurting in her
mouth.
“Swallowing it all, Lady Breane?” said Alaine. “How decadent.”
Belevaere sniffed. “I would have been more impressed if she had managed to fit
the whole length inside. But still, a worthy showing.” Rude as their words
were, their tones were at least a little mellower than before.
“Are all Cairhienin parties like this?” Rand asked drowsily.
“Hardly,” drawled Alaine.
Breane wiped her mouth with a kerchief. “This is actually timid in comparison
to some affairs I have heard tell of. Not that I was ever present for any of
those, naturally. No more than I was here.”
The other two ladies, if they could really be called that, laughed softly.
“How long have we been in here?” asked Alaine.
Belevaere pursed her lips. “Too long.” She rose and started fixing her clothes.
They all took her example. Rand put himself away and fetched his sword from the
carpet, buckling it on again.
Belevaere and Alaine located a small mirror on the mantelpiece and jostled each
other as they tried to put their elaborate towers of hair back in order. He
doubted he’d made any peace between them, no matter what Breane had said, but
at least they didn’t seem to hold any enmity towards him. He hoped the others
were managing to blend in as well, and that Hurin had managed to track down
their quarry.
***** A Sharp Cadenza *****
CHAPTER 40: A Sharp Cadenza
 
The first light of morning was still a long way off when Thom Merrilin found
himself trudging back to The Bunch of Grapes. Even where the halls and taverns
lay thickest, there was a brief time when the Foregate lay quiet, gathering its
breath. In his present mood, Thom would not have noticed if the empty street
had been on fire.
Some of Barthanes’ guests had insisted on keeping him long after most had gone,
long after Barthanes had taken himself to bed. It had been his own fault for
leaving The Great Hunt of the Horn, changing to the sort of tales he told and
songs he sang in the villages, Mara and the Three Foolish Kings and How Susa
Tamed Jain Farstrider and stories of Anla the Wise Councillor. He had meant the
choices to be a private comment on their stupidity, never dreaming any of them
might listen, much less be intrigued. Intrigued in a way. They had demanded
more of the same, but they had laughed in the wrong places, at the wrong
things. They had laughed at him, too, apparently thinking he would not notice,
or else that a full purse stuffed in his pocket would heal any wounds. He had
almost thrown it away twice already.
The heavy purse burning his pocket and pride was not the only reason for his
mood, nor even the nobles’ contempt. They had asked questions about Rand, not
even bothering to be subtle with a mere gleeman. Why was Rand in Cairhien? Why
had an Andoran lord taken him, a gleeman, aside? Too many questions. He was not
sure his answers had been clever enough. His reflexes for the Great Game were
rusty. The boy’s warning lingered in his mind, so he had made what excuses he
could and left the party while several guests still lingered.
Arriving at The Bunch of Grapes he strode through the common room, empty as it
seldom was, and took the steps two at a time. At least, he tried to; his right
leg did not bend well, and he nearly fell. Muttering to himself, he climbed the
rest of the way at a slower pace, and opened the door to his room softly, so as
not to wake Dena.
Despite himself, he smiled when he saw her lying on the bed with her face
turned to the wall, still in her dress. Fell asleep waiting for me. Fool girl.
But it was a kindly thought; he was not sure there was anything she would do
that he would not forgive or excuse. Deciding on the spur of the moment that
tonight was the night he’d let her perform for the first time, he lowered his
harp case to the floor and put a hand on her shoulder, to wake her and tell
her.
She rolled limply onto her back and for a horrifying moment he thought she was
dead. But then she mumbled incoherently and stretched like a little cat.
“Thom,” she said sleepily, “Is that you?” She rubbed at her eyes.
“Of course it’s me, lass. Who else?” He was getting old. Rand had him jumping
at shadows.
He had only the creaking of the door for warning. He spun, knives coming out of
his sleeves and into his hands with practiced ease.
A fat, balding man with a dagger in his hand led the way, moving with
surprising quiet for one of his bulk; behind him a heavily-muscled man with
scars on his face, similarly armed.
The paused when they saw Thom armed, and studied him with the careful, narrowed
eyes of experienced killers. Not experienced enough though. They saw only a
white-haired old man with a bad leg and a tattered gleeman’s cloak. They didn’t
see what he had been, and the things he had done.
“Put those nail-trimmers away old man,” said the muscular one, “before you hurt
yourself.”
“We just want to ask you a few question,” said the fat one, with what he
imagined was a friendly smile.
Dena sat up in the bed. She frowned at the intruders, and at Thom, too. “Who
are these men, Thom?”
Thom had already made his mind up, but if he had not, the way they looked at
Dena—so young and pretty, with her hair tousled from sleep—would have been
enough to decide him. The fat one licked his lips and in so doing drew Thom’s
focus.
“Would-be assassins, dear. Nothing you need concern yourself over,” he said
smoothly.
The men turned incredulous looks his way and the first of his blades took the
throat of the fat man; he stumbled back, blood bubbling around his clutching
fingers as he tried to cry out.
Spinning on his bad leg threw Thom’s other blade off, though; the knife stuck
in the right shoulder of the muscled intruder. The big man’s knife dropped from
a hand that suddenly would not do what he wanted; he gasped once and lumbered
for the door.
Before he could take a second step, Thom produced another knife and slashed him
across the back of his leg. The big man yelled and stumbled, and Thom seized a
handful of greasy hair, slamming his face against the wall beside the door; the
man screamed again as the knife hilt sticking out of his shoulder hit the door.
Thom thrust the blade in his hand to within an inch of the man’s dark eye. The
scars on the big man’s face gave him a hard look, but he stared at the point
without blinking and did not move a muscle. The fat man, lying half in the
wardrobe, kicked a last kick and was still.
A wide-eyed Dena muffled a scream behind her hand.
“Before I kill you,” Thom whispered in the man’s ear, “tell me. Why?” His voice
was quiet, numb.
“The Great Game,” the man said quickly. His accent was of the streets, and his
clothes as well but they were a shade too fine, too unworn; he had more coin to
spend than any Foregater should. “Nothing against you personal, you see? It is
just the Game.”
“The Game? I’m not mixed up in Daes Dae’mar! Who would want to kill me for the
Great Game?” The man hesitated. Thom moved his blade closer. If the fellow
blinked, his eyelashes would brush the point. “Who?”
“Barthanes,” came the hoarse answer. “Lord Barthanes. We would not have killed
you. Barthanes wants information. We just wanted to find out what you know.
There can be gold in it for you. A nice, fat golden crown for what you know.
Maybe two.”
“Liar! I was in Barthanes’ manor last night, as close to him as I am to you. If
he wanted anything of me, I’d never have left alive.”
“I tell you, we have been looking for you, or anyone who knows about this
Andoran lord, for days. I never heard your name until last night, downstairs.
Lord Barthanes is generous. It could be five crowns.”
The man tried to pull his head away from the knife in Thom’s hand, and Thom
pushed him harder against the wall. “What Andoran lord?” But he knew. The Light
help him, he knew.
“Rand. Of House al’Thor. Tall. Young. A blademaster, or at least he wears the
sword. I know he came to see you. Him and an Ogier, and you talked. Tell me
what you know. I might even throw in a crown or two, myself.”
“You fool,” Thom breathed. “The boy’s a shepherd.” A shepherd in a fancy coat,
with Aes Sedai around him like bees around honeyroses. “Just a shepherd.” And
if I hadn’t heeded his warning? If I hadn’t left the party early. What would
have happened if these men came to my room while Dena was alone and asleep?He
felt cold all over, cold inside. He tightened his grip in the man’s hair.
“Wait! Wait! You can make more than any five crowns, or even ten. A hundred,
more like. Every House wants to know about this Rand al’Thor. Two or three have
approached me. With what you know, and my knowing who wants to know it, we
could both fill our pockets. And there has been a woman, a lady, I have seen
more than once while asking after him. If we can find out who she is ... why,
we could sell that, too.”
“You’ve made one real mistake in it all,” Thom said.
“Mistake?” The man’s far hand was beginning to slide down toward his belt. No
doubt he had another dagger there. Thom ignored it.
“You should never have threatened the girl.”
The man’s hand darted for his belt, then he gave one convulsive start as Thom’s
knife went home.
Dena gasped again.
Thom let the scar-faced man fall over away from the door and stood a moment
before bending tiredly to tug his blades free. He hadn’t wanted to show the
girl this side of him. But perhaps it was for the best. She needed to know what
he was like; she needed to know what the world was like. Dena was no sheltered
princess, but she was still very young.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. “But it was necessary.”
“I ... I understand,” she said faintly. She turned her pale face away from the
bodies, unable to look at them for long. “But I think they were lying to you. I
recognise these men. I don’t know their names, but I’ve seen the scarred one
taking coin from Jenri. And the other ... It’s the worst kept secret in
Cairhien that he works for House Riatin. For Galldria.”
“Galldria,” he said flatly. What has that bloody shepherd gotten me into? What
have the Aes Sedai gotten us both into? But it was Galldria’s men who had tried
to murder him and, worse, had tried to murder Dena.
There must have been something of his thoughts on his face. Dena said sharply,
“You can’t be thinking of going after the Queen! You try to kill her, and
you’ll be dead before you get within a hundred feet, if you come that close!”
“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. Much as he might like to answer this
with a quiet knife or a poisoned goblet, it would be a mad risk. “No, but ...”
Before he could say more the door banged open, and he whirled with a snarl on
his face.
Zera jerked back, a hand to her throat, staring at him. “I heard a ruckus ...
and not the good kind.” Her eyes dropped from his face and widened as they took
in the bodies of the two men, she gave a loud gasp. He looked at her
inquiringly; as long as he had known her, she had never been one to go faint
over blood. Hastily she stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her.
“This is bad, Thom. One of those men works for Galldria. You’ll have to leave
Cairhien.” Her gaze touched Dena and softened slightly. “You both will.”
“I know,” they said in unison.
Dena took a deep breath and hopped from the bed. She avoided looking down as
she stepped nimbly over the corpse on the floor and went to fetch her
belongings and the saddlebags he had bought her.
As Thom was attending to his own packing a roar came from the city walls, as if
half of Cairhien were shouting. Frowning, Thom peered from his window. Beyond
the top of the grey walls above the rooftops of the Foregate, a thick column of
smoke was rising into the sky. Far beyond the walls. Beside the first black
pillar, a few grey tendrils quickly grew into another, and more wisps appeared
further on. He estimated the distance and took a deep breath.
“Perhaps you had better think about leaving too, Zera. It looks as if someone
is firing the granaries.”
“I have lived through riots before,” she said. “I’ll just have to hire a few
extra shoulder-thumpers. Safe journeys you two.” She bustled from the room,
muttering about the mess.
Thom fetched his third spare coin purse from behind the wardrobe and went to
gather the fourth from its hiding place. You could never be too careful. He had
learned that years ago, but somehow in Dena’s sweet company he had forgotten.
And it had almost cost them both dearly. Never again.
“Where will we go, Thom?” the girl asked as she carefully packed her barely-
used harp. “I think downriver would be best. It’s faster, assuming we can find
a trustworthy captain.”
Thom found himself moved, and only then realised he had been half-expecting her
to turn away from him after what she had seen him do to those men. He smiled
fondly. “That’s good thinking, lass. Down to Tear first, I’d say. And from
there, well, the world awaits.”
***** Secrets Revealed *****
CHAPTER 42: Secrets Revealed
 
The room was as oversized as everything else in the cottage. Though the Ogier
of Stedding Tsofu had made a polite effort to accommodate their human visitors.
Fine pewter cups and a pitcher of water waited to quench their thirst, and a
covered tray proved to hide warm bread, a crock of butter and some thick slices
of ham. Very thick slices, cut for an Ogier’s appetite. Rand snatched one up
and bit into it happily.
Perrin stood at the foot of the bed. He was a big man, over six feet of solid
muscle, but standing beside the huge Ogier bed he almost looked like a little
boy.
Rand laughed. “Everything’s so big here. I feel like it’s ten years ago and I
should be plotting to filch one of Mistress al’Vere’s pies.” Then he
remembered. Or stealing a home that wasn’t mine. His smile turned to a grimace.
“Anna was right,” Perrin said quietly. “The Theren is still your home, whatever
your blood.”
Rand nodded gratefully.
Perrin turned his gaze from the bed to Rand. “Why did you want to talk in
private?” he asked warily.
“I just wanted to ask you about something that keeps coming up.”
“Oh. I think I know what you mean.” Perrin sounded tired, and maybe a bit
disappointed.
“It’s this wolfbrother thing. I keep hearing about it, and about you being a
sort of sniffer. And I can’t help but notice how sharp your senses have gotten
lately. Or the change in your eye colour. What’s going on, Perrin?”
His old friend let out a heavy sigh and sat on the bed, shoulders slumped. “I
know your dark secret. I suppose it’s only right to tell you mine. It started
after Shadar Logoth, when we met a man named Elyas ...”
Rand listened with mounting incredulity to a tale of wolves who could talk like
people. And without words even, but directly into someone’s mind from any
distance. But only to certain people it seemed; a strange new—or old—magic come
into the world. Wolfbrothers and wolfsisters they were called, the humans who
could talk to wolves. Their eyes changed colour and their senses became
enhanced. It sounded incredible to him, but Perrin was far from thrilled to
find himself among the wolfkin’s numbers.
“I feel like I’m becoming an animal. There are little changes, like meat
tasting so much better than vegetables now. And there are big changes. Terrible
changes. A murderous fury I never would have thought was in me hides in my
heart, ready to pounce at any moment.”
Rand was sympathetic. He knew what it was like to fear yourself, and to worry
about hurting the people you cared about. He was also a little incredulous.
“You hide the fury well then, Perrin. I noticed the eyes, but I never once
thought that anybody should be afraid of you going wild on them. Are you sure
you’re not exaggerating?”
“I’m sure,” Perrin sighed.
“Well, if you say so,” Rand said dubiously. “Even if it’s true, though, I won’t
hold it against you. I can’t, being what I am. And I like to think I wouldn’t
even if I could not ... do what I can do. If this wolfbrother thing is
something you’re just born with, then no-one in their right mind could blame
you for being one.” And me, can they not blame me? That’s different, he told
himself, though he was hard-pressed to explain why.
“That’s nice of you to say, but you don’t understand, and I can’t explain it,”
said Perrin morosely.
Rand grimaced at the echo of his own thoughts. It made so much more sense when
he was saying it about himself, in the privacy of his own mind.
He sighed and took a seat beside his friend. “We’re our own worst enemies
sometimes,” he mused. He patted Perrin on the shoulder. “Look, man. I don’t
think you’ve changed as much, or as badly, as you seem to think. You’re still
you, and you’re still my friend. Mat’s and Anna’s too. They haven’t run
screaming from you, now have they?”
Perrin grimaced. “No. But Anna ... Well, we’re still friends, but she’s seen
more of the wolf side of me than you have, and she wisely decided to keep her
distance.”
Rand eyed him carefully. Was he implying that he and Anna had been more than
friends at some point? He refused to ask. Secrets came in many types, and that
particular type of secret was no business of anyone’s but the people involved.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rand said softly. “But I like the distance between us
just fine the way it is. Nothing’s changed for me.”
“Oh.”
They sat in together in a tense silence, there on the edge of the huge bed.
Perrin held his hands together, rubbing his own knuckles, not looking at Rand.
He seemed frustrated, and Rand recalled that he had been travelling alone with
Anna for quite some time, a distant Anna.
Rand’s heart was beating faster. He leant over and whispered in Perrin’s ear.
“I could prove it, if you like. I trust you. Nothing you did could frighten me.
Nothing you wanted to do, right now, to me, would make me hate you.”
Perrin clasped his hands together hard. “It’s been a long time,” he grated,
nostrils flaring.
Rand smiled. “Use some of that butter first. Then you can be as wild as you
want.”
The big wolfbrother let out a shuddering breath. “How do I keep letting you
talk me into this?” he muttered. But for all his quibbling, he climbed from the
bed, shed his coat and reached the covered tray in several quick strides.
Rand grinned and started undressing. He kicked off his boots while Perrin was
removing his heavy belt and setting his axe on the wooden floor. He set his
sword aside while Perrin was fishing in his trousers, his broad back turned to
Rand. Coat and shirt were quickly discarded as Perrin smeared himself in the
soft butter. He must be dying for it, he thought. He didn’t even have to get
himself hard first. By the time Perrin had kicked off his boots and dropped his
trousers, revealing his hairy and muscular buttocks, Rand was stark naked. When
the young blacksmith turned around, he found his old friend and lover sitting
cross-legged in the middle of the over-sized bed, waiting for him. Perrin’s
thick cock jutted hungrily out from beneath his loose white shirt.
He took in the sight of Rand and his golden eyes took on a new gleam.
Perrin threw off his shirt as he advanced. He climbed up onto the bed, crawled
towards Rand and kissed his lips passionately. More so than usual, in fact. He
and Rand and Mat had been playing with each other’s bodies since they had been
only children, and had thought such things only a game, but of the three Perrin
had always been the most reluctant, the slowest to warm up to the fun. Now he
pushed Rand back onto the soft mattress and wrapped his strong arms around his
shoulders, capturing his lips and shoving his tongue into the other boy’s
mouth.
Rand’s long legs were already parted from the position he had been sitting in.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap them around his friend’s
waist. The sight of Perrin’s thickly muscled body and the intensity of his
kisses was making him hard. His growing erection pressed against the
wolfbrother’s hairy belly. He could feel Perrin’s own hard cock pressing too,
but lower down.
Perrin broke their kiss and looked Rand straight in the eyes as he reached down
to take hold of his slickened cock and aim it at Rand’s smooth hole.
Rand stared right back at him, meeting his inhuman wolf-like eyes openly. He
felt no fear at all. “Wolfbrother, Perrin,” he whispered. “Nothing’s changed.
I’m yours, take me.”
And so he did. Perrin did not break eye contact as he slid inside Rand,
groaning low all the while. His thick cock filled Rand’s body well, and filled
it with pleasure too.
Perrin started slow but soon sped up, sliding in and out of Rand, breathing
heavy through his nose. They kissed as the coupled at first, but as his passion
mounted Perrin levered himself up, supporting himself on his thickly-muscled
arms as he pounded Rand’s ass. Rand lay back and took it, rocking his hips to
match Perrin’s thrusts, marvelling at his friend’s broad chest and the dark
hair that coated it, gasping softly each time Perrin’s cock was pushed into
him.
It occurred to him that he was often on the bottom when it was another male he
found himself involved with. He had been ever since he had lost his virginity
when he was young. He didn’t mind really. Actually, if he was honest, he quite
liked being taken every once in a while. Depending on who it was doing the
taking. What had happened with Masema before he got lost in the Portal Stone,
and the nightmare that followed, those were not at all the same as this. Not at
all. He reached up and stroked Perrin’s arms encouragingly as his old friend
ravaged his body. He wrapped his legs around the wolfbrother’s bucking hips as
though he were a woman spurring on her lover.
He almost felt a child again as they cavorted on the Ogier-made bed. Everything
was too big for him, except Perrin. It was a heady feeling. He didn’t know if
it was his friend’s lovemaking, being inside a stedding, or the enchanting
scale of the furnishing, but he felt more light-hearted than he had in months.
The muscles on the sides of Perrin’s neck corded. His eyes snapped open and he
stared down at the other man beneath him. “Rand,” he hissed. He collapsed
forward; his full weight fell upon Rand as he began spurting inside his ass.
Rand wrapped his arms around Perrin’s neck and kissed him.
“Just like old times,” Rand whispered, stroking Perrin’s curly brown hair as
the other youth lay in his arms, gasping for breath as his orgasm ran through
him and into Rand.
Conscientious as ever, Perrin did not rest his weight on Rand for long. He
pushed himself up and sat back on his heels, Rand’s legs still wrapped around
him, his softening cock still nestled inside. “I needed that,” he breathed.
“Burn me but I did.”
Rand smiled. “Always happy to help.”
Perrin smiled back, and opened his mouth to respond ...
The latch on the door rattled and set Rand’s heart to thumping. They would have
to dress quickly ... but then the door started creeping open and in horror he
realised they had forgotten to lock it. He hadn’t been planning a tryst when he
brought Perrin here ...
Perrin’s yellow eyes went very wide. He froze in place as though he thought he
would pass unseen if only he was still enough.
A shadowed figure stood in the open doorway. “Are you two done ye ...” a
familiar voice began to say, then cut off with a sharp gasp.
“Would you like some of this wine, Anna? It’s very good. I didn’t know the
Ogier had such fine vineyards,” called Ingtar, from down the hall.
“No thank you, Lord Ingtar,” squeaked Anna. Her eyes darted to the common room
where Loial and Shienarans waited, then back to the bedroom and its shockingly
naked inhabitants.
“Lord Ingtar is right. I’ve never tasted anything so good,” called Hurin.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she called, and hopped into the room, slamming the door
shut behind her, setting the latch, and pressing her back to the planks as
though afraid someone might try to break it down. Her cheeks were
uncharacteristically red and her brown eyes seemed suddenly huge.
“What ... what ... I don’t,” Anna stared at Rand and Perrin. She looked as if
she had been poleaxed.
Rand blushed hot. It was small wonder Anna was at a loss for words, considering
the sight she had been ambushed with. He lay there as naked as a newborn, pale
and flushed, with his engorged and unattended cock pushing up against his
belly. Between his spread legs knelt Perrin, equally naked, sweat darkening the
hair on head and body both, and his cock only now slipping out from between
Rand’s cheeks.
“Anna,” Perrin breathed. Then he said no more. If anything, he looked even more
stunned than she did.
“W-why ... why are you n-naked?” Anna said. She shook her head slowly. Her eyes
were unfocused.
Perrin shook his head in time with her and did not answer.
Rand’s mouth was very dry. Anna had been his friend for as long as he could
remember, as long as Mat or Perrin. But they had never tried to involve her in
this type of play. She was a girl, and girls were inherently more chaste than
boys, as befitted the better sex.
He disentangled himself from Perrin and scrambled into a sitting position. His
movement brought Anna’s stunned gaze his way. Her eyes drifted down his body to
where his hard cock strained upwards from its red-thatched roots. Her blush
darkened so much that her cheeks were almost purple.
“I’m sorry,” Rand gasped. “I didn’t think to lock the door. You weren’t
supposed to see this.”
“See what?” she managed.
“Uh ... us. Like this.”
She shook her head some more. “But why are you ... I mean ... you’re boys ...
and ... I didn’t know boys ... did stuff, like this.” She tore her gaze away
from their nakedness. “Has this happened before?”
Perrin hung his head. His cheeks were nearly as red as hers.
It fell to Rand to speak. He took a deep breath first. “Yes. Since we were
young. It started as a kind of game. An ... exploration, an experiment.
Whatever you want to call it. It was ... fun. More than fun.”
She blinked and spoke in a still-stunned voice. “Just you two, or Mat as well?”
Rand pursed his lips. It wasn’t his place to tell her about Mat’s involvement,
but he didn’t want to lie to her either. “I ... don’t think that’s anyone’s
business,” he dodged.
He didn’t dodge well enough. “Mat too. How many of the other boys were involved
in these ... games? Lem and Bandry? Dav and Elam? Were any of the girls? Was
Egwene? Larine Ayellin? Calle Coplin no doubt.” The more she spoke the more of
her wits Anna seemed to recover. She scowled. “Not me, of course. Even the boys
are prettier than me.”
That last she said with a bitterness Rand had never imagined he would hear from
her. Anna was short even by Theren standards, and stockily muscled, she cut her
hair even shorter than most males and she dressed in a boys shirt and breeches
in defiance of all tradition. She didn’t care even a little bit about what folk
thought of her ... or so he’d always imagined. Did she think she was ugly? She
wasn’t, not even close. Perhaps she was not the kind of beauty that gleemen
told tales of, with her strong, square face and her body strengthened from
farmwork, but she had a beauty all her own.
“Nonsense!” he said. He had always thought of her as a sister. Suddenly,
disturbingly, he found himself thinking of her as something else. He shook his
head and covered his nakedness as best he could, feeling more vulnerable now
than he had when she walked in and found him being mounted by Perrin.
“Of course it’s true. I have mirrors,” she looked on the verge of tears.
“It’s not,” whispered Perrin, still unable to look her in the face. “You know
what I think of you.”
“You’re a beautiful girl, Anna,” Rand added. “Don’t ever let anyone say
otherwise. Not even you.” He shook his head confusedly. “I mean, I’d punch a
man who said that about you, but what am I supposed to do when you say it about
yourself?”
Her smile was a tremulous thing, and she did not meet his eyes.
“What Perrin and I—and anyone else who might or might not have been
involved—get up to ... Well we didn’t want anyone to know. It’s private. We
didn’t tell you because we didn’t tell anyone.” He rolled his shoulders. “And
obviously we weren’t going to insult you by inviting you to join in.”
She was quiet for a long time. “What if,” she began, almost too softly to hear.
“What if I hadn’t been insulted ... What if I had wanted someone to play with
too?”
He blinked repeatedly and felt his mouth fall open.
“I ... I can’t imagine ...” except suddenly he could imagine. Suddenly he was
recalling all those times he and his friends had slipped away somewhere
private, and imagining what it would have been like if a laughing Anna had
sneaked off with them. How would it have gone? How would she have ... fit? He
blushed again and swallowed, trying to work moisture into a throat gone
parchment dry.
“You and ...” Perrin was unable to finish, but his well-slickened cock had
begun to stir again.
“That would have been exciting to say the least,” Rand answered honestly, in a
whispery-soft voice.
Anna clasped her hands together and shifted her feet. She still would not meet
their eyes. A little pink tongue darted out to lick her lips. “It still could
be,” she breathed.
“Yes it could ... if you wanted it to be,” he said softly. He waited. And so
did Perrin, wide-eyed and fully erect once more.
Anna took a hesitant step, then another, faster one. She looked them in the
eyes again at last and found both men smiling welcomingly. Her answering smile
was a little stiff still, but it woke the dimples in her cheeks.
Short as she was, she looked almost childish when she reached the foot of the
huge Ogier’s bed. Perrin took her hand and helped haul her up onto the soft
mattress.
“We won’t hurt you,” he said.
“I know that,” said Anna. She rested a hand on his chest and leaned in to kiss
him. It was a hesitant kiss at first, no more than a peck on the lips. But when
Perrin met her with passion she responded in kind. By the time they broke for
air she was grinning.
Anna turned her gaze to Rand and her smile became wry. “So here we are. You
know, you really shouldn’t be getting all excited like that with your ‘sister’
in the room.” She darted a glance at his hard cock and bit her lip.
He leant over and cupped her face gently between his hands. “I can’t help it,
with a lovely sister like you.” He kissed her then, deeply and fully. And this
time she melted into his embrace.
There was open wonder on her face when they parted. Rand began undoing the
buttons on her coat and she made no move to stop him. Perrin knelt beside them,
cock jutting out, and helped Anna out of her coat.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Anna breathed.
As Perrin reached around to loosen her shirt, Rand undid the buckle of her belt
and slid a hand down the front of her breeches. He looked her right in the eye
as he did it, this girl who had been the closest thing to a sister he had ever
known. Her pretty, brown eyes went very wide and she let out a shuddering
breath as his fingers caressed her sex. She did not pull away. He smiled
brightly and got a matching grin in return.
Perrin tugged her shirt up over her head and Anna, surprisingly pliant, let
him. But once she was topless she quickly made to cover her breasts with her
hands. She had pretty breasts, judging by the brief glimpse he had gotten; they
would have been modestly sized on some, but on her frame they looked large.
Rand didn’t try to pull her hands away, he was too busy ridding her of her
breeches and her smallclothes. He pushed both down over her hips, drinking in
the sight of her nakedness as it was unveiled to him. She had narrow hips, and
only the slightest hint of a woman’s curve at the waist. Her stomach was flat
and strong, her thighs thick with muscle. The tangled hair on her sex was a
darker brown than that on her head.
Perrin was kissing the side of her neck as Rand worked. He guided her down onto
the bed so Rand could finished undressing her. As he rid Anna of her boots and
stockings his two friends began kissing hungrily. Perrin’s probing hands moved
slowly over her body. Rand pulled her breeches down over her feet and tossed
them to the floor and at last Anna was naked before him.
He wasted no time. He caressed one leg with his hand as he kissed his way up
the inside of the other. Her legs parted as if by instinct. She didn’t look
down, she was too busy kissing Perrin, who now kneaded one of her bared
breasts, stiffening her nipple. With Perrin occupying her upper lips, Rand
decided to lay claim to her lower ones.
Anna moaned loudly when his lips touched hers.
Perrin shushed her urgently. “You need to be quiet when you do this sort of
thing,” he said. “Someone might hear.”
“Alright. Alright. I can be quiet,” said Anna breathlessly.
Rand licked up and down her slit. “I think I can, anyway,” she whimpered.
Anna lounged between them as they explored her body, making small encouraging
sounds. Perrin combed his fingers through her hair as he kissed her. Rand
reached around and took two handfuls of her ample buttocks as he licked her
sopping wet sex.
He was already stirred up from his time with Perrin and having Anna naked
before him was making it even worse. He was painfully hard now, and wanted
desperately to plunge himself into her dark, earthy depths. But more than that
he wanted his dear friend to be happy, so he lay there and caressed her body,
and ground himself mindlessly against the soft bedsheets.
After a time, Anna reached down and found Perrin’s cock with her hand. She
began stroking him, and not gently.
Rand came to his knees and studied her in an almost predatorial way. She was
flushed and breathless and her eyes were filled with lust. When she saw him
kneeling before her she quickly reached to take his hard cock in her small,
strong hand and stroke it for him just as she was stroking Perrin’s. It felt so
good to have her touching him, but he wanted even more.
“Anna,” he groaned. “I want to put it in you. Are you ready?”
“Oh Light, yes,” she gasped. She sat up and kissed him hungrily.
They wrapped their arms around each other, her soft breasts crushed against his
chest. He picked her up by the waist and positioned her. With the last shreds
of his self-control he made himself wait until she looked him in the eye and
gave a little nod of her head before he impaled her upon his engorged cock.
Anna slapped a hand across her mouth to muffle her yells as he hilted himself
inside her tight little pussy. Satisfaction washed over Rand. So much that he
wondered if he had been wanting this more, and for longer than, he ever
admitted to himself.
“Rand,” she moaned. She shivered as she adjusted to his presence inside her and
wrapped her strong legs around him. “But what about ...?” She threw a longing
gaze over her shoulder.
Perrin moved up behind her and reached down to knead her buttocks.
“Oh. What you two were ...” She bit her lip. “I’ve never ... does it hurt?”
Rand kissed her cheek. “It can at first, if you aren’t ready and don’t relax
into it. It gets less painful as it goes on though. It’s all about trust, I
think. Trust the person, give yourself over to them, submit, and it won’t
hurt.”
Anna looked back and Perrin. “I trust you,” she said sweetly.
Perrin smiled wanly. “I’ll try not to hurt you,” he said, “but I want you so
much right now that I’m not sure I can restrain myself.”
Rand put his mouth to her ear and whispered. “He said much the same to me
earlier, but I came through fine. I think he exaggerates.”
She smiled at him teasingly. “You are such a bad boy, Rand. I never imagined
you would be liked this.”
“Um, given the current situation, are you really about to lecture me?”
She laughed softly and blushed. “I suppose not.”
By then Perrin had taken his place behind her. He parted her fleshy cheeks with
his strong hands and aimed his slick cock at her virgin hole, ready to claim
his second ass of the day.
“Relax yourself,” Rand whispered. “Let us take care of you, my dear, dear
friend.”
She nodded once and rested her head on his shoulder. He felt her go limp in his
arms.
She let out a little yelp as Perrin started poking her hole, but she did not
tense, or try to get away. He worked his way into her slowly, each shallow
thrust taking him a little farther inside and bringing another small whimper
from her lips. When at last Perrin was fully inside her, his hairy balls
pressing up against her flesh in a way that Rand knew well, she let out a long,
shuddering breath.
The wolfbrother growled low. “Finally ...”
“I’m so full,” Anna groaned. “You’re both so big.”
Rand smiled down at her open face. He wondered if the strangely-proportioned
house was making her feel as young as it did him. She was acting so sweetly. He
wanted to stir her lust, to make her cry out some more, to leave her a
twitching, pleasure-addled mess. He moved his hips and slid partially out of
her, then thrust slowly forward once more. She moaned encouragingly, he smiled
again, and they began in earnest.
The two kneeling men held Anna suspended in the air between them. She was
sandwiched front and back by their bodies, her breasts crushed against Rand’s
smooth chest and her back sheltered by Perrin’s hairy bulk. Their hands
clutched her legs and buttocks as they supported her weight, holding her in
place to receive their fiercely pumping cocks.
Rand was overcome with need. He pounded in and out of her sweet warmth. Perrin
matched his pace. Such was their lust that it was hard to maintain their
balance. Rand found himself pushing back against Anna, as Perrin’s hard thrusts
threatened to knock him backwards, and then Perrin had to push back too, lest
he be knocked on his butt.
Anna writhed between them, but pinned as she was her wiggling couldn’t take her
far. She had clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as they started fucking her
and she held it there still, breathing hard through her nose as she desperately
muffled her cries. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she tossed her head in
futile denial of the pleasure that filled her.
She tensed herself, squeezing hard around Rand’s cock, and even harder around
Perrin’s judging from the wolfbrother’s gritted teeth and strangled groan. Even
muffled by her hand, her cry was loud. She dug her trimmed nails into Rand’s
shoulder and scrunched up her face as she came between them.
It was sweet to see, sweeter to feel, but neither Rand nor Perrin stopped their
thrusting. Anna hung helplessly in the air as she rode out her orgasm.
They picked a side each and began kissing up and down her neck as they fucked
her. It wasn’t very long before she was tensing again and letting loose with
her muffled cry.
Rand felt the storm building within him and started thrusting with desperate
speed. He whispered her name as he exploded within her, filling her womb with
his seed. She opened her eyes and watched his face with incredulous wonder as
he came inside her for the first time.
He had almost overbalanced them again in the throes of his orgasm, and Perrin
pushed back, but this time, wracked with pleasure, limbs trembling, Rand was
unable to resist. He fell back, pulling Anna with him, and Perrin followed them
to the bed.
Now he lay on his back with Anna cradled against his chest. Perrin knelt above
them, lust shining in his golden eyes. He took firm hold of the girl’s hips and
rose to a crouching position. Then he began pounding her ass mercilessly with
his thick cock.
Anna whimpered as she rested her cheek against Rand. He petted her short, and
now sweat-damp, hair comfortingly. She had such a pretty smile.
His cock was still hard within her, a gentle, unmoving presence now, filling
her pussy. Stark contrast to the fierce pounding that Perrin was giving her
butt.
Soon Anna tensed for a third time. By now a familiar feeling, Rand took her
face in his hands and raised her lips to his, muffling her cries for her.
Her clenching seemed to push Perrin over the edge. “Anna,” he hissed and bared
his teeth in a snarl. Eyes shut, muscles tensed and head thrown back, he pumped
her ass full of his milky seed.
Soft little moans escaped Anna as she felt herself being flooded once more. She
lay between them, sweaty, limp and sated, breathing heavily.
Perrin was the first to disengage. He abandoned Anna’s now-gaping ass with an
exhausted sigh and sprawled beside them on the sheets of the huge bed.
Rand savoured the feeling of Anna resting naked against him. All too soon she
was pushing herself up off him and his softening cock was slipping out of her
comforting warmth. She let out a long sigh as she rolled over to rest between
the two men.
“Of all the things I imagined I’d find or do in a stedding ...” she mumbled.
Rand laughed softly. “You said I should stay here earlier. You’re doing a good
job of convincing me so far.”
A lackadaisical elbow in the ribs was his answer.
“I’m still mad at you both though.”
Perrin sighed. “I know.”
She shook her head. “Not for that. That’s a whole different thing. I’m not mad
at you over that. I just don’t agree with it.”
Perrin grunted.
“Is this more stuff I don’t know?” Rand said wryly. “Well, never mind. What did
we do to make you mad, Anna?”
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “We could have started doing this
years ago, and you never even asked me! What a waste,” she sniffed.
Rand and Perrin laughed, and soon Anna laughed with them.
They lay together on the oversized bed for some time, chatting about the past,
naked and sweaty and altogether comfortable. Rand felt young again. He tried
not to think about what awaited him outside this room, or outside the stedding.
He worked instead on burning this memory into his mind. It would sustain him in
the days to come.
When Hurin called to announce through the—sensibly!—locked door that dinner had
arrived, the three Thereners rose from the Ogier bed with a chorus of sighs and
went to fetch their clothes. It took quite a bit of sorting to find who owned
what. Rand laughed loudly when Perrin tried to squeeze into Anna’s breeches by
mistake.
He watched her openly as they dressed. There was a lovely contrast between the
hard muscles on her upper back, the result of years of practice with a longbow,
and the soft, round globes of her bottom. He liked her breasts and the small,
hard nipples that tipped them. And the thick brown triangle of hair between her
thighs. Anna noticed his scrutiny. At first she tried to quell it with a
warning glower, but by the time she was fetching her coat from the floor she
was grinning unabashedly. She looked more confident somehow. He wanted very
much to have her again, but knew he couldn’t. Not now, perhaps not ever. After
all, who knew what the future held for them?
***** Traps *****
CHAPTER 44: Traps
 
Padan Fain reined in his horse atop a hill above Falme, in one of the few
sparse thickets remaining on the hills outside the city. The pack horse bearing
his precious burden bumped his leg, and he kicked it in the ribs without
looking; the animal snorted and jerked back to the end of the lead he had tied
to his saddle. The woman had not wanted to give up her horse, no more than any
of the Darkfriends who had followed him had wanted to be left alone in the
hills with the Trollocs, without Fain’s protecting presence. He had solved both
problems easily. Meat in a Trolloc cookpot had no need of a horse. The woman’s
companions had been shaken by the journey along the Ways, to a Waygate outside
a long-abandoned stedding only a short ride from Falme, and watching the
Trollocs prepare their dinner had made the surviving Darkfriends extremely
biddable.
From the edge of the trees, Fain studied the city and sneered. One short
merchant train was rumbling in among the stables and horse lots and wagon yards
that bordered the town, while another rumbled out, raising little dust from
dirt packed by many years of such traffic. The men driving the wagons and the
few riding beside them were all local men by their clothing, yet the mounted
men, at least, had swords on baldrics, and even a few spears and bows. The
soldiers he saw, and there were few, did not seem to be watching the armed men
they had supposedly conquered.
He had learned something of these people, these Seanchan, in his day and a
night on Toman Head. At least, as much as the defeated folk knew. It was never
hard to find someone alone, and they always answered questions properly put.
Men gathered more information on the invaders, as if they actually believed
they would eventually do something with what they knew, but they sometimes
tried to hold back. Women, by and large, seemed interested in going on with
their lives whoever their rulers were, yet they noted details men did not, and
they talked more quickly once they stopped screaming. Children talked the
quickest of all, but they seldom said much that was worthwhile.
He had discarded three quarters of what he had heard as nonsense and rumours
growing into fables, but he took some of those conclusions back, now. Anyone at
all could enter Falme it appeared. With a start, he saw the truth of a little
more “nonsense” as twenty soldiers rode out of the town. He could not make out
their mounts clearly, but they were certainly not horses. They ran with a fluid
grace, and their dark skins seemed to have a glint in the morning sun, as of
scales. He craned his neck to watch them disappear inland, then booted his
horse toward the town.
The local folk among the stables and parked wagons and fenced horse lots gave
him no more than a glance or two. He had no interest in them, either; he rode
on into the town, onto its cobblestone streets sloping down to the harbour. He
could see the harbour clearly, and the large, oddly shaped Seanchan ships
anchored there. No-one bothered him as he searched streets that were neither
crowded nor empty. There were more Seanchan soldiers here. The people hurried
about their business with eyes down, bowing whenever soldiers passed, but the
Seanchan paid them no mind. It all seemed peaceful on the surface, despite the
armoured Seanchan in the streets and the ships in the harbour, but Fain could
sense the tension underneath. He always did well where men were tense and
afraid.
He came to the fortress that dominated the city, standing as it did nearly four
times the height of the next tallest building. He sneered again and wondered
why even a land ruled by a matriarchy would favour buildings shaped like a
cock. Fain spared no more than a glance for the skeletal corpse of the Falmeran
queen displayed in the square he now rode across. The people he had questioned
had been horrified by their queen’s fate, and terrified of sharing it, but Fain
had seen and done much worse. More than a dozen soldiers stood guard before the
fortress gates. He doubted he would pass unchallenged here. Fain stopped and
dismounted. Except for one obvious officer, most wore armour of unrelieved
black, and their helmets made him think of locusts’ heads. Two leathery-skinned
beasts with three eyes and horny beaks instead of mouths flanked the front
door, squatting like crouching frogs; the soldier standing by each of the
creatures had three eyes painted on the breast of his armour. Fain eyed the
blue-bordered banner flapping above the roof, the spread-winged hawk clutching
lightning bolts, and chortled inside himself.
Women went in and out of a house across the street, women linked by silver
leashes, but he ignored them. He knew about damane from the villagers. They
might be of some use later, but not now.
The soldiers were looking at him, especially the officer, whose armour was all
gold and red and green.
Forcing an ingratiating smile onto his face, Fain made himself bow deeply. “My
lords, I have something here that will interest your Great Lord. I assure you,
he will want to see it, and me personally.” He gestured to the squarish shape
on his packhorse, still wrapped in the huge, striped blanket in which his
people had found it.
The officer stared him up and down. “You sound a foreigner to this land. Have
you taken the oaths?”
“I obey, await, and will serve,” Fain replied smoothly. Everyone he had
questioned spoke of the oaths, though none had understood what they meant. If
these people wanted oaths, he was prepared to swear anything. He had long since
lost count of the oaths he had taken.
The officer motioned two of his men to see what was under the blanket.
Surprised grunts at the weight as they lifted it down from the packsaddle
turned to gasps when they stripped the blanket away. The officer stared with no
expression on his face at the silver-worked golden chest resting on the
cobblestones, then looked at Fain. “A gift fit for the Empress herself. You
will come with me.”
One of the soldiers searched Fain roughly, but he endured it in silence, noting
that the officer and the two soldiers who took up the chest surrendered their
swords and daggers before going inside. Anything he could learn of these
people, however small, might help, though he was confident of his plan already.
He was always confident, but never more than where lords feared an assassin’s
knife from their own followers.
As they went through the gates, the officer frowned at him, and for a moment
Fain wondered why. Of course. The beasts. Whatever they were, they were
certainly no worse than Trollocs, nothing at all beside a Myrddraal, and he had
not given them a second look. It was too late to pretend to be afraid of them
now. But the Seanchan said nothing, only led him deeper into the fort.
And so Fain found himself with his face pressed to the rough stone floor of a
throne room that had been stripped of the trappings of power. The throne
itself—a simple wooden thing—remained, but the High Lord did not sit in it, and
the rest of the chamber was almost completely devoid of furnishings. Folding
screens hid the walls and the attending servants, powerful or venal, stood or
knelt as required. While the officer told the High Lord Turak of him and his
offering, servants brought a table on which to set the chest so the High Lord
would have no need to stoop; all Fain saw of them were scurrying slippers. He
bided his time impatiently. Eventually there would come a time when he was not
the one to bow.
When at last Fain was told to rise, he did so slowly, studying all. The High
Lord, with his shaven head and his long fingernails and his blue silk robe
brocaded with blossoms, was arrogant, that was plain. An easy flaw to exploit.
Fain was sure the fellow in green who stood beside him, with the unshaven half
of his pale hair in a long braid, was only a servant, but servants could be
useful, especially if they stood high in their master’s sight. The short,
bosomy girl with the pale hair and paler robe, was beautiful enough to be the
High Lord’s bedtoy, but carried herself too proudly for that to be her role. A
lesser lady, she waited for Turak to speak. Ambitious perhaps? He was no
seducer, but there were other ways to tempt someone. There was no denying the
other noblewoman’s ambition. The crest of black hair that ran from her
partially shaven head to the small of her back was a bizarre sight, but the
intent way she watched Turak’s every move was delightfully familiar. The
greying man stood only a little taller than the girl and Fain noticed that the
little fingers on his hand were lacquered, not unlike the High Lord’s, though
the man had the rough-hewn look of a soldier. Several officers, and two women
in red-and-blue dresses decorated with forked lightning bolts, hovered at his
back. A high-ranking officer. Perhaps raised from the ranks? Out of his depth
... that could be useful. Half a dozen men in armour lacquered dark-green and
red stood watch around the chamber, and unlike the captain from the gates,
these men went armed. Two displayed the heron on their black-tasselled blades.
Fain felt his lips try to peel back from his teeth and fought them to
stillness. That sign always reminded him of al’Thor now. Soon. He will be here
soon, and these great warriors will be his doom, he thought gleefully.
Ba’alzamon thought to use them, had ordered them protected and their invasion
supported from the shadows, but Fain could use them too, for his own goals. He
had learned the date from his prisoners after arriving on Toman Head and knew
that his journey through the Ways and across the continent had only taken four
days in the real world. Al’Thor would be right behind him. It was the first of
Tammaz now, and the last week of the boy’s life. Would the beasts eat him
alive? The damane cook him where he stood? Fain hoped he would be near enough
to see it happen ...
A voice disturbed his pleasant imaginings. “A marvellous gift.” Turak’s eyes
lifted from the chest to Fain. A scent of roses wafted from the High Lord. “Yet
the question asks itself; how did one like you come by a chest many lesser
lords could not afford? Are you a thief?”
Fain tugged at his worn, none-too-clean coat. “It is sometimes necessary for a
man to appear less than he is, High Lord. My present shabbiness allowed me to
bring this to you unmolested. This chest is old, High Lord—as old as the Age of
Legends—and within it lies a treasure such as few eyes have ever seen.
Soon—very soon, High Lord—I will be able to open it, and give you that which
will enable you to take this land as far as you wish, to the Spine of the
World, the Aiel Waste, the lands beyond. Nothing will stand against you, High
Lord, once I—” He cut off as Turak began running his long-nailed fingers over
the chest.
“I have seen chests such as this, chests from the Age of Legends,” the High
Lord said, “though none so fine. They are meant to be opened only by those who
know the pattern, but I—ah!” He pressed among the ornate whorls and bosses,
there was a sharp click, and he lifted back the lid. A flicker of what might
have been disappointment passed across his face.
Fain bit the inside of his mouth till blood came to keep from snarling. It
lessened his bargaining position that he was not the one who had opened the
chest. Still, all the rest could go as he had planned if he could only make
himself be patient. But he had been patient so long.
“This is a treasure from the Age of Legends?” Turak said, lifting out the
curled Horn in one hand. “The Age of Legends,” Turak repeated softly, tracing
the silver script inlaid around the golden bell of the Horn with the tip of a
finger. His brows rose in startlement, the first open expression Fain had seen
from him, and a rustle went through the room, but in the next instant Turak’s
face was as smooth as ever. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
“The Horn of Valere, High Lord,” Fain said smoothly, pleased to see the mouth
of the man with the braid drop open. It amused him to watch the great and
mighty fools assembled there struggle to hide their thoughts. The little lady’s
mouth popped open and then snapped shut again. The officers tried to hide their
shock and awe and failed, even the high-ranked one. Only the darkly-armoured
guards showed no reaction. Turak nodded as if to himself.
The High Lord turned away. Fain blinked and opened his mouth, then, at a sharp
gesture from the yellow-haired man, followed without speaking. Two of the armed
guardsmen followed, watching Fain carefully. The rest remained in the former
throne room with the dignitaries, who struck up a frantic whisper as soon as
the High Lord passed beyond their sight.
He was led to another room with all the original furnishings gone, replaced by
folding screens and a single chair facing a tall round cabinet. Still holding
the Horn, Turak looked at the cabinet, then away. He said nothing, but the
other Seanchan snapped quick orders, and in moments men in plain woollen robes
appeared through a door behind the screens bearing another small table. A young
woman with hair so pale it was almost white came behind them, her arms full of
small stands of polished wood in various sizes and shapes. Her garment was
white silk, and so thin that Fain could see her body clearly through it, but he
had eyes only for High Lord, and the revenge he could use him to gain.
Turak briefly touched one of the wooden stands the girl held, and she placed it
on the centre of the table. The men turned the chair to face it under the
direction of the man with the braid. The lower servants’ hair hung to their
shoulders. They scurried out with bows that almost put their heads on their
knees.
Placing the Horn on the stand so that it stood upright, Turak went to sit in
the chair. “Before all else, you will answer me a question. Why have you
brought the Horn of Valere to me?”
Fain bowed. “That you may sound it, High Lord. Then you may take all of this
land, if you wish. All of the world. You may break the White Tower and grind
the Aes Sedai to dust, for even their powers cannot stop heroes come back from
the dead.”
“I am to sound it.” Turak’s tone was flat. “And break the White Tower. Again,
why? You claim to obey, await, and serve, but this is a land of oath-breakers.
Why do you give your land to me? Do you have some private quarrel with these
... women?”
Fain tried to make his voice convincing. Patient, like a worm boring from
within. “High Lord, my family has passed down a tradition, generation upon
generation. We served the High King, Artur Paendrag Tanreall, and when he was
murdered by the witches of Tar Valon, we did not abandon our oaths. When others
warred and tore apart what Artur Hawkwing had made, we held to our swearing,
and suffered for it, but held to it still. This is our tradition, High Lord,
handed father to son, and mother to daughter, down all the years since the High
King was murdered. That we await the return of the armies Artur Hawkwing sent
across the Aryth Ocean, that we await the return of Artur Hawkwing’s blood to
destroy the White Tower and take back what was the High King’s. And when the
Hawkwing’s blood returns, we will serve and advise, as we did for the High
King. High Lord, except for its border, the banner that flies over this roof is
the banner of Luthair, the son Artur Paendrag Tanreall sent with his armies
across the ocean.” Fain dropped to his knees, giving a good imitation of being
overwhelmed. “High Lord, I wish only to serve and advise the blood of the High
King.”
Turak was silent so long that Fain began to wonder if he needed further
convincing; he was ready with more, as much as was required. Finally, though,
the High Lord spoke. “You seem to know what none, neither the high nor the low,
has spoken since sighting this land. The people here speak it as one rumour
among ten, but you know. I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. I
could almost think you were sent to entangle me in a trap. But who, possessing
the Horn of Valere, would use it so? None of those of the Blood who came with
the Hailene could have had the Horn, for the legend says it was hidden in this
land. And surely any lord of this land would use it against me rather than put
it in my hands. How did you come to possess the Horn of Valere? Do you claim to
be a hero, as in the legend? Have you done valorous deeds?”
“I am no hero, High Lord.” Fain ventured a self-deprecating smile, but Turak’s
face did not alter, and he let it go. “The Horn was found by an ancestor of
mine during the turmoil after the High King’s death. He knew how to open the
chest, but that secret died with him in the War of the Hundred Years, that rent
Artur Hawkwing’s empire, so that all we who followed him knew was that the Horn
lay within and we must keep it safe until the High King’s blood returned.”
“Almost could I believe you.”
“Believe, High Lord. Once you sound the Horn—”
“Do not ruin what convincing you have managed to do. I shall not sound the Horn
of Valere. When I return to Seanchan, I shall present it to the Empress as the
chiefest of my trophies. Perhaps the Empress will sound it herself.”
“But, High Lord,” Fain protested, “you must—” He found himself lying on his
side, his head ringing. Only when his eyes cleared did he see the man with the
pale braid rubbing his knuckles and realize what had happened.
“Some words,” the fellow said softly, “are never used to the High Lord.” Fain
decided how the man was going to die.
Neither of the soldiers had moved, they watched Fain intently but without
alarm, confident they could deal with any threat he presented.
Turak looked from Fain to the Horn as placidly as if he had seen nothing.
“Perhaps I will give you to the Empress along with the Horn of Valere. She
might find you amusing, a man who claims his family held true where all others
broke their oaths or forgot them.”
Fain hid his sudden elation in the act of climbing back to his feet. He had not
even known of the existence of an Empress until Turak mentioned her, but access
to a ruler again ... that opened new paths, new plans. Access to a ruler with
the might of the Seanchan beneath her and the Horn of Valere in her hands. Much
better than making this Turak a Great King. He could wait for some parts of his
plan. Softly. Mustn’t let him know how much you want it. After so long, a
little more patience will not hurt. “As the High Lord wishes,” he said, trying
to sound like a man who only wanted to serve.
“You seem almost eager,” Turak said, and Fain barely suppressed a wince. “I
will tell you why I will not sound the Horn of Valere, or even keep it, and
perhaps that will cure your eagerness. I do not wish a gift of mine to offend
the Empress by his actions; if your eagerness cannot be cured, it will never be
satisfied, for you will never leave these shores. Do you know that whoever
blows the Horn of Valere is linked to it thereafter? That so long as he or she
lives, it is no more than a horn to any other?” He did not sound as if he
expected answers, and in any case, he did not pause for them. “I stand twelfth
in line of succession to the Crystal Throne. If I kept the Horn of Valere, all
between myself and the throne would think I meant to be first hereafter, and
while the Empress, of course, wishes that we contend with one another so that
the strongest and most cunning will follow her, she currently favours her
second daughter, and she would not look well on any threat to Tuon. If I
sounded it, even if I then laid this land at her feet, and every woman in the
White Tower leashed, the Empress, may she live forever, would surely believe I
meant to be more than merely her heir.”
Fain stopped himself short of suggesting how possible that would be with the
aid of the Horn. Something in the High Lord’s voice suggested—as hard as Fain
found it to believe—that he actually meant his wish for her to live forever. I
must be patient. A worm in the root.
“The Empress’ Listeners may be anywhere,” Turak continued. “They may be anyone.
Huan was born and raised in the House of Aladon, and his family for eleven
generations before him, yet even he could be a Listener.” The man with the
braid half made a protesting gesture, before jerking himself back to stillness.
“Even a high lord or a high lady can find their deepest secrets known to
Listeners, can wake to find themselves already handed over to the Seekers for
Truth. Truth is always difficult to find, but the Seekers spare no pain in
their search, and they will search as long as they think there is need. They
make great efforts not to allow a high lord or high lady to die in their care,
of course, for no man’s hand may slay one in whose veins flows the blood of
Artur Hawkwing. If the Empress must order such a death, the unfortunate one is
placed alive in a silken bag, and that bag hung over the side of the Tower of
the Ravens and left there until it rots away. No such care would be taken for
one such as you. At the Court of the Nine Moons, in Seandar, one such as you
could be given to the Seekers for a shift of your eye, for a misspoken word,
for a whim. Are you still eager?”
Fain managed a tremble in his knees. “I wish only to serve and advise, High
Lord. I know much that may be useful.” This court of Seandar sounded a place
where his plans and skills would find fertile soil.
“Until I sail back to Seanchan, you will amuse me with your tales of your
family and its tradition. It is a relief to find a second man in this Light-
forsaken land who can amuse me, even if you both tell lies, as I suspect. You
may leave me.” No other word was spoken, but the girl with the nearly white
hair and the almost-transparent robe appeared on quick feet to kneel with
downcast head beside the High Lord, offering a single steaming cup on a
lacquered tray.
“High Lord,” Fain said. The man with the braid, Huan, took hold of his arm, but
he pulled loose. Huan’s mouth tightened angrily as Fain made his deepest bow
yet. I will kill him slowly, yes. “High Lord, there are those who follow me.
They mean to take the Horn of Valere. Darkfriends and worse High Lord, and they
cannot be more than a day or two behind me.”
Turak took a sip of black liquid from the thin cup balanced on long-nailed
fingertips. “Few Darkfriends remain in Seanchan. Those who survive the Seekers
for Truth meet the axe of the headsman. It might be amusing to meet a
Darkfriend.”
“High Lord, they are dangerous. They have Trollocs with them. They are led by
one who calls himself Rand al’Thor. A young man, but vile in the Shadow beyond
belief, with a lying, devious tongue. In many places he has claimed to be many
things, but always the Trollocs come when he is there, High Lord. Always the
Trollocs come ... and kill.”
“Trollocs,” Turak mused. “There were no Trollocs in Seanchan. But the Armies of
the Night had other allies. Other things. I have often wondered if a grolm
could kill a Trolloc. I will have watch kept for your Trollocs and your
Darkfriends, if they are not another lie. This land wearies me with boredom.”
He sighed and inhaled the fumes from his cup.
Fain let the grimacing Huan pull him out of the room, hardly even listening to
the snarled lecture on what would happen if he ever again failed to leave Lord
Turak’s presence when given permission to do so. He barely noticed when he was
pushed into the street with a coin and instructions to return on the morrow.
Rand al’Thor was his, now. I will see him dead at last. And then the world will
pay for what was done to me.
Giggling under his breath, he led his horses down into the town in search of an
inn.
 
                                     * * *
 
Nafanyel had always liked the summer forests. Chaffinchs, blackbirds, warblers,
their songs overlapped each other and mingled with the warm wind that rustled
through the leaves. It was almost enough to drown out the complaints of his
conscious. Almost.
Jak Denam and the twenty veterans who accompanied them had set up camp in an
open clearing. The sound of their laughter and the smell of good venison
cooking on an open fire drifted over to the rock on the edge of the treeline
where Nafanyel sat brooding. The camp had the look of innocence to it, of
trusting men who waited for trusted friends to arrive. It was not the first
such camp he had seen in recent times. He had seen what happened to those who
came to meet them too. Enemies, his father had called them. Rivals. Just do
your duty and stop complaining. Nafanyel had done his duty, but it was a bitter
thing.
The Seanchan still squatted in Falme, slowly expanding their influence over
Falmerden. And the King still lingered in Calranell, guarding the mountain
passes against a second invasion that had not come. They waited to see who
would blink first. Nafanyel wished he knew whose side he was on, and what his
father hoped to gain by committing their Houses to it. Whoever they worked for,
he could be certain General Surtir was not involved. The officer they had been
sent to meet with belonged to him, after all.
He heard the whicker of their horses long before they arrived in the clearing.
Nafanyel knew he should go and greet his guest, represent the family, but he
remained rooted on his rock. He had no taste for making niceties, knowing what
would soon happen.
A dozen men in the dark grey platemail and red surcoats of the royal army rode
into camp at an easy walk. Denam greeted them with a friendly smile, one that
grew wider when he realised the captain who led them was a woman. Female
soldiers were a rarity in Falmerden, as in most nations, but not unheard of.
Nafanyel recalled Lady Oriana’s fate with a bitter twist to his mouth. I could
shoot him from here, he thought traitorously as he watched through the
branches. But he set no arrow to the bow in his hand.
The officer was tall for a woman, and the open front of her helmet showed a
face that would have been handsome if it were not frozen in a hard, stern mask.
She offered Denam her hand, and when he took it, shook his firmly.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Alix,” said Denam. “A real pleasure. You’ll
forgive me, but when I heard the name I thought it was a man we were supposed
to join forces with against these bloody invaders. I wasn’t expected such a
beauty.” His friendly grin showed too many teeth.
Alix didn’t seem to notice. “Captain. Not Lady,” she said flatly. “Is that
venison for share? My men have been on the march since sunup.”
“Help yourselves, friends,” Denam said with a welcoming wave of his arm. The
patrol dismounted and set to hobbling their horses before joining Nafanyel’s
men by the fire. I should join them, he though. But Denam seemed to have
everything in hand. I should warn them, he thought. But that would mean
betraying his father and his House. He would hate himself for that, so he did
nothing, and hated himself anyway.
The general’s men and his own sat around the fire and talked grimly of things
Nafanyel could not hear over their mingled voices. Denam leaned close to Alix,
smiling and laughing as he spoke, but she did not return his smiles and
Nafanyel watched the guardsman’s irritation grow. As he sat there with his bow
in his hand he saw the exact moment Denam decided. Alix, who seemed to like her
meat crispy, speared a chunk of venison on an old knife and leaned over to hold
it in the fire, ignoring Denam’s latest attempt to flirt. He scowled and shot a
glance at the grey-haired sergeant Gerd, who nodded once and let a hand drift
down to his boot, where he always kept a spare knife.
Shoot him, a voice said, as Denam slid a knife from his belt and put a hand on
Alix’s shoulder.
When the arrows sprouted from his men’s bodies, Nafanyel thought, for one mad
moment, that it was he that had fired them.
Captain Alix dropped her dinner on the grass and seized Denam by the wrist,
slipping around behind him and kicking the back of his knee, forcing him down.
She twisted the guardsman’s knife from his hand and rammed it into his side
with the first expression he had seen on her face: satisfaction. “The General
was right again,” she said, as she twisted the knife in Denam’s body and made
him howl in pain.
All throughout the camp men were shouting and screaming. The sounds were all-
too familiar to Nafanyel now, but this time it was his own men who were dying
in the ambush. The worst thing was how relieved he felt.
His bow was in his hand, and he had nocked an arrow instinctually once the
fighting started. He raised it and sighted on the enemy captain as she shouted
into the trees, calling for her hidden archers to join the butchery. He did not
aim at her long. Nafanyel shook his head grimly, lowered his bow, turned and
fled into the familiar forest. He just wished he knew where he was running, and
what he was running from.
***** News From Cairhien *****
CHAPTER 45: News From Cairhien
 
Life in the White Tower was every bit as gruelling as her mother had warned.
She attended to every duty they assigned her with proper diligence, and did not
complain where any Aes Sedai, Accepted, or even fellow Novice could hear. But
privately Elayne Trakand wondered if they were not being especially hard on
her. If they were expecting her to complain or plead for respite like some
coddled princess, however, they would have a long wait ahead of them.
Only to her brother Gawyn—her only real brother so far as she was concerned—and
her beloved Min, did she allow herself to ... express her concerns about the
tasks she was given, and the quality of the instructors who gave them.
Daily, after one meal or another, she scrubbed dirty pots with coarse salt and
a stiff brush in the workroom off the main kitchen. From time to time Laras
would put her head in to check on her. She never used her long spoon, even when
Elayne was massaging the small of her back, aching from being head-down in a
large kettle, rather than scrubbing. She dealt no justice to the scullions and
under-cooks who delighted in playing pranks on Elayne either, mores the pity.
Novices were always given chores. Often it was make-work, since the Tower had
well over a thousand serving men and women without counting labourers, but
physical work helped build character, so the Tower had always believed. Plus,
it helped keep the Novices too tired to think of men, supposedly.
Elayne could not follow their logic in that. Exhausted as she almost always was
now, she still thought of Min constantly, and savoured every moment she could
find to be with her, regardless of whether it was in company or in private.
Well, perhaps not completely regardless. Private was ... quite a bit better, if
she were honest. Still, though she had never known any male suitors in Caemlyn,
she imagined the excitement and tenderness would be much the same as she felt
for Min. But perhaps the Aes Sedai knew something on the matter that no-one had
thought to tell her.
Daily, after lessons, she hauled water in buckets hanging from the ends of a
pole balanced across her shoulders, to the kitchen, to the Novice Quarters, to
the Accepted’s Quarters, all the way up to the Ajah’s Quarters. She carried
meals to sisters in their rooms, raked garden paths, pulled weeds, ran errands
for sisters, attended Sitters, swept floors, mopped floors, scrubbed floors on
her hands and knees, and that was only a partial list.
Visiting the nine-tiered well surrounding a small garden that formed the
Accepted’s Quarters gave her a chance to see Daniele and her pillow-friend with
the unfortunate name. Aside from Min, those two were the closest she had come
to befriending. Daniele had immediately seen through her efforts to keep her
relationship with Min a secret, and though she was quite stern, she was
supportive too. Elayne felt comfortable going to her for advice.
Daniele was nowise near as stern as the newest Accepted in the Tower, and a lot
easier to talk to. Nynaeve al’Meara had made few friends since coming to Tar
Valon. No friends, in fact. And had only herself to blame for it so far as
Elayne was concerned. Min had tried repeatedly to befriend her, and been most
rudely rebuffed. Min took it with no more than a shrug and a wry smile, but
Elayne had been outraged on her behalf.
Nynaeve’s attitude was not endearing her to the Sisters either. In the two
months since she passed her test she had spent more time in the Mistress of
Novices chamber than all of the other Accepted combined.
Thinking of the Mistress of Novices, and the humiliating things that could
happen to one who was sent to visit her, quickened Elayne’s steps. She did not
like to be late at the best of times, and she certainly did not wish to be late
with Sheriam and her slipper lurking just a few floors down.
The day’s first class, in a plain, windowless room where ten Novices occupied
benches for thirty or more, went poorly. The instructor was Idrelle Menford, a
lanky, hard-eyed Andorwoman. Sadly, Idrelle was acutely aware of Elayne’s
status in their native land and took every opportunity to try and cut her down
to size. Elayne answered each question promptly and politely and performed all
the required exercises, but it never seemed to lessen Idrelle’s scowl.
She had been foolish to hope to keep her title a secret here, she knew that
now. The Andoran initiates all knew that Elayne was Daughter-Heir now. It won
her resentment from some, like Idrelle, but the regard it won from others was
nearly as bad. Elayne was nowise near so sheltered that she could not see when
someone was angling for an advantage; little as she liked the Game, she had
been taught Daes Dae’mar practically from birth. She supposed she should not
villainize them. Girls like Paege or Lucilde would be pleasant enough company,
even knowing they were ever mindful of the advantage they hoped to gain by
befriending her. She could expand her social circle to include them with no
more than a carefully-timed smile ... but having tasted real friendship from
Min, true affection, she had little interest in the careful, conditional
companionship such alliances offered.
Standing on a small dais at the front of the room, Idrelle looked down her long
nose at the assembled Novices. The frown she wore was not a sign of
displeasure, with her it was a permanent fixture. “You have all gone beyond
making simple balls of fire,” she told the class, “but let’s see what our new
girl is capable of. She used to think a great deal of herself, you know.”
Several of the Novices tittered. “Make a ball of fire, Elayne. Go on, child.” A
ball of fire? That was one of the earliest things Novices learned. What is she
about?
Opening herself to the Source, Elayne embraced saidar, let it rush into her,
bringing with it a surge of joy and a heightened awareness of herself and the
room around her. With careful precision, she channelled Fire and Air to produce
a small ball of green fire that floated in front of her.
“Very good,” Idrelle said sarcastically. “Release saidar.” Elayne complied with
as much grace as she could muster.
“Now, class—”
It was nearly time for dinner when Idrelle finally found a question she could
trip Elayne up with and by then the other Novices, far from being sympathetic
to the pestering she had received, had started glaring at Elayne as though it
was her fault that the Accepted was not properly dividing her attention.
“Wrong,” Idrelle announced happily, as Elayne tried to conceal her annoyance
with herself. “Who can tell me the correct answer?” She cast her frown about
the room and let it come to rest on a bored-looking Arafellin, with her yellow
hair—uncommon in that nation—in two long braids. “Ashara! Pay attention. Or
better yet, enlighten us. But I warn you, if I have to repeat the question,
Sheriam Sedai is going to have another visitor ...”
Ashara sounded as disinterested as she looked. “An angreal, or sa’angreal,
magnifies the amount of Power that an individual can channel, it does not add a
set amount but varies depending on the innate strength of the woman who draws
through it.”
“Good,” said Idrelle, though her lips thinned.
The loud boom of the gong was a welcome sound. Elayne gathered herself and made
haste to the door along with all the other Novices as Idrelle threw a last few
remonstrance’s their way.
“You’re very smart, Elayne,” said Marah, as they made their way down a curving
ramp. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Novice who knew as much as you so soon
after arriving.” Elayne studied her carefully. The stocky Murandian’s words
were kind, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes. She could almost hear
her mother’s voice. Answer every question twice, Elayne. And the first time in
your head, where only you can know how foolish it sounds. The Queen had laughed
ruefully afterwards. There have been many times I wishedI had done as much.
“You are most kind to say so, Marah,” she answered, after a pause. “But I fear
intelligence has little to do with it. I merely echo what my tutors taught. The
wisdom, if there is any, belongs to them. Now, if you will excuse me ...”
The dining hall where novices ate lay on the lowest level of the Tower, to one
side of the main kitchen. It was a large white-walled chamber, plain though the
floor tiles showed all the Ajah colours, and filled with tables, each of which
could accommodate six or eight women on small benches. No more than ten of the
tables were occupied with chatting white-clad young women.
Halfway to the kitchen door, a short slim novice with long dark hair suddenly
stuck out a foot and tripped her. Catching her balance just short of falling on
her face, she turned in a fury. The young woman had the pale look of a
Cairhienin noble, like the father Elayne barely recalled. “How dare you?” she
demanded. Her temper flared even hotter when she heard her own high-pitched
voice. She had never had a voice suited for roaring, much to her regret. “What
is your name?”
“Alvistere Malevin,” the young woman replied, smiling in an insultingly knowing
way. Her accent confirmed her as Cairhienin, but commonborn rather than noble.
“Why do you want to know? So you can carry tales to Sheriam? It will do you no
good. Everyone will say they saw nothing.”
“Will they? You are certain there is no way I could convince them to do
otherwise? No resource at my disposal?” Alvistere blinked in surprise. Elayne
had endured everything that had been thrown at her thus far and had managed to
keep her temper in check, but there were limits. And this silly little ...
Buttered onion sniffing ... goat-jumper ... had the audacity to threaten harm
to her person!? It was ... it was a bugger is what it was!
Alvistere’s face reddened from the heat of Elayne’s fury. “There is a limit to
what I will endure, Cairhienin,” she declared in her best imitation of her
mother’s voice. “And you are walking dangerously close to it. Be mindful of
where you set your feet in future.”
She stalked towards the kitchen, all her carefully-practiced poise abandoned.
She wanted to kick something, or better yet, someone.
The kitchen was a large, high-ceilinged room with grey-tiled floors, where the
roasting spits in the long stone fireplace were still but the iron stoves and
ovens radiated enough heat that she began perspiring immediately, which only
served to worsen her mood. She had laboured in this kitchen often enough, and
it seemed certain she would again in the days and weeks and months—years
even?—to come. Dining halls surrounded it on three sides, for the Accepted and
for Aes Sedai as well as Novices. Laras, the Mistress of the Kitchens was
bustling about; her spotless white apron no true indication of the amount of
work she did here. She waved her long wooden spoon like a sceptre as she
directed the cooks and under-cooks and scullions who scurried about.
Elayne growled out her frustration, balling her fists and stamping her feet.
Laras gave her one long look, drawing in her chin until she had a fourth, then
pointed imperiously at the covered trays waiting on a table near the door.
“Take a moment to steady yourself, girl,” she said kindly. “Then get some warm
food into you.” She shook her head. “You’d think they’d feed you better in a
palace, you’re as slender as a reed.”
To her surprise and horror, tears stung Elayne’s eyes. She turned away from the
woman and drew several deep breaths to compose herself.
“Thank you, Mistress Laras,” she said when she felt she could trust her voice.
“I am a little peckish, in truth.”
Laras wandered over, cradling her spoon under her arm. “They’re always toughest
on the new girls. It will get better, you’ll see,” she said in a voice pitched
for Elayne’s ears alone.
Elayne nodded gratefully. She hoped it was so ... but if it was not, she would
not flinch from it. She vowed that on the Lion Throne itself.
A great deal of the food seemed to be going onto trays, sometimes worked
silver, sometimes carved wood and perhaps gilded, that women carried away
through the door to the sisters’ main dining hall. Not kitchen serving women
with the white Flame of Tar Valon on their bosoms, but dignified women in well-
cut woollens with an occasional touch of embroidery, sisters’ personal servants
who would make the long climb back to the Ajah Quarters.
Any Aes Sedai could eat in her own rooms if she wished, though it meant
channelling to warm the food again, yet most enjoyed company at meals.
Elaida, she knew from long association, was changeable in such matters. In
Caemlyn she had been as like to seclude herself for several days in a row as
she was to dine with the Queen and her court. None had ever rebuked her for her
absences of course, but it had been marked. Today, the Red sister seemed to be
in a sociable mood.
Six sisters in scarlet splendour were arranged around the dining table,
confident, hard-faced women one and all, but it was Elaida who spoke and the
others who listened. Elayne recognised three of the others: the spare, sharp-
faced Javindhra Doraille; the curly-haired Andoran, Sashalle Anderly; and the
stocky Taraboner, Amira Moselle, who had been Mistress of Novices during the
reign of Sierin Vayu and was now a Sitter for the Red Ajah in the Hall of the
Tower.
Elaida was gesturing emphatically as she gave forth on whatever topic had so
enraptured her. Her dark eyes fixed on Elayne, watching from the kitchen, and
she paused mid-gesture. Elayne did not flinch from Elaida’s look. Severe as the
Aes Sedai often was, she was a familiar—if not comforting—presence.
The Red sister beckoned for Elayne to join her, an act that perforce raised the
girl’s brow. Novices did not often enter the Aes Sedai’s private dining hall.
But of course, having been summoned, she could not refuse.
Her approach garnered many a cool glance from the Aes Sedai in the chamber, but
none forbade her entrance.
She stopped before Elaida’s table and made a carefully-measured curtsy. It had
been made plain to her that whatever Elaida had been to she and her family in
Caemlyn, here Elayne was to treat her with all the deference an Aes Sedai
deserved. She tried not to let that rankle. “Elaida Sedai. Do you wish to speak
to me?”
“Yes. There is a matter that you should know of.”
“I take it this is your Daughter-Heir, Elaida?” said plump, round-faced woman
with long black hair. Her eyes darted over Elayne’s body in a somewhat alarming
way. “The talk was true for once.”
Elaida turned her gaze on the other Aes Sedai. They did not channel the Power,
naturally, or do anything so crass as strike each other, but nonetheless there
was an atmosphere of struggle in the air. “Her fate has been written, Galina,”
said Elaida in a quiet voice. “It does not involve you.”
Galina sniffed. She quite deliberately refused to drop her eyes. “Have you had
a Foretelling?”
“Many. But I do not choose to speak of them.” Elaida turned back to Elayne, but
there was nothing of intimidation in the way she broke Galina’s stare.
There was nothing of kindness in the way she broke the news either. “Your uncle
is dead.”
Elayne blinked in momentary confusion. Her mother had no siblings, and the
other members of House Trakand were all very distant cousins, none close enough
to be called an uncle. On her father’s side she had only aunts. Who did Elaida
speak of? Then realisation struck. Her paternal grandfather had had two
siblings, one was the infamous Queen Laina Damodred and the other the man who
had commanded her armies, Prince Aldecain. Both had died in the Aiel War, of
course, but Aldecain had left behind a grown son and a young daughter. In the
aftermath of the war the son had clawed his way to the position of High Seat of
his much-diminished House.
“Do you mean Lord Barthanes?” she ask, mind whirling. If Barthanes was dead who
would take over as High Seat of House Damodred? Lady Caraline? Or one of her
own aunts? Innlione, Anvaere or Moiraine? The latter was an Aes Sedai of the
Blue Ajah, Elayne knew. Would Cairhien accept an Aes Sedai Queen? What would it
mean for the political situation there, and more importantly in Andor? Her
people had been growing less enamoured of the Tower lately.
“I do indeed,” Elaida was saying. “He was found murdered. Quite gruesomely,
according to the report.”
Elayne was not grieved, though it occurred to her that perhaps she should be.
Barthanes had been her kinsman, after all. But she had never met him, or any
other member of her father’s House. The alliance that the marriage had been
intended to foster had proven dissatisfying to both nations. The land that
first Queen Mordrellen and later Queen Morgase had hoped to gain on the western
bank of the River Alguenya—planned site of a fine new trading town—had never
been secured. And House Damodred’s hopes of gaining influence, or control, over
the Lion Throne had been firmly quashed. Relations between the Houses had
soured since.
“Worse,” Elaida continued, hard-faced and implacable. “Galldria su Riatin Rie
was assassinated by persons unknown on the very day that Lord Barthanes’ body
was found.”
“No doubt by Damodred loyalists, as revenge for his death,” said Javindhra in
her harsh voice.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps there is something subtler and more sinister at work,”
said Elaida. “Our eyes and ears report that a certain young man was in Cairhien
when the murders occurred. A dangerous youth who also visited Caemlyn not long
ago. A boy known to associate with, and to be sheltered by, your own aunt,
Elayne. Moiraine, of the Blue Ajah. Moiraine ... of House Damodred.”
“Rand al’Thor,” she whispered. What was he doing in Cairhien? He certainly
travels far and wide for a shepherd boy. She was almost jealous. But whatever
Elaida believed, she could not imagine that he had anything to do with the
murders of her uncle Barthanes and Queen Galldria. She didn’t say that of
course, it would be pointless to argue the topic with Elaida. Pointless and
possibly painful.
Elaida nodded. “War has erupted throughout Cairhien. Damodred and Riatin turn
upon one another like rabid dogs and the rest of the Houses grasp and claw for
every advantage they can gain from this shift in power. And in all this, the
position of High Seat of House Damodred has been left open ...”
“Do you suggest Moiraine thinks to claim it herself?” The speaker was unknown
to Elayne. A handsome woman with hair of a very pale yellow.
“I suggest nothing, Tarna,” said Elaida harshly. “I tell you that she is
dangerous, and that she does not act in the Tower’s best interests. And that
this ta’veren she associates with is perhaps as dangerous as she.” She fixed
Elayne with a hard stare. “She might try to contact you, to play off your
familial connection. She might even use the boy as her proxy in this. If she
does you are to come to me immediately. Do you understand? Immediately.”
Elayne found herself feeling uncommonly nervous of a sudden. “I understand,
Elaida Sedai.”
The Red sister nodded. “Good. I will deal with Moiraine myself. That is all I
have to say to you Novice. Return to your work.”
Elayne curtsied before returning to the appropriate dining hall. She was
hungry, but she picked at her food slowly, scarcely tasting what she ate,
responding monosyllabically to the few queries her fellow Novices directed
towards her. Murder and war in Cairhien. Rand and her aunt, if not involved,
then at least present. She hoped he was unharmed. She hoped he had the sense to
flee Cairhien and the madness that now consumed it.
With no further classes today she made her way to the guest quarters on swift,
eager feet.
Elayne did not trouble to knock on Min’s door. What part of one another had
they not already seen? And in close detail at that. She did not dare even
imagine what her mother might say—or, worse, Lini!—if they knew the things she
and Min had done to one another. They certainly would not have approved of what
she had done last night, kneeling on her bed with her bare bottom in the air.
Min saw every inch of my private parts then. And kissed them so sweetly. It had
been a naughty thing to do, she knew that. But it had been even more thrilling
than it was embarrassing.
Min was lying on her bed when Elayne burst in. Sadly she was not waiting for
her wearing nothing but a cloak and a saucy smile this time. Instead she was
wearing a loose white shirt and plain brown trousers and had her nose firmly
lodged in a book. She looked up at the banging of the door and gave Elayne a
welcoming, if distracted, smile.
“I just heard,” Elayne said. “The rumours are true. Queen Galldria is dead.
That makes it a war of succession.”
Min snorted. “Civil war. War of succession. A lot of silly names for the same
thing. Do you mind if we don’t talk about it? That’s all we hear lately. War in
Falmerden. War on Almoth Plain. Now war in Cairhien. A new false Dragon making
war in Saldaea. Most of it is just rumours, anyway. Yesterday, I heard one of
the cooks saying she’d heard Artur Hawkwing was marching on Orlay. Artur
Hawkwing!”
“Happier news then,” she said as she plopped down on the bed. “Our mysteriously
mutual friend, Rand, is alive and well. He was apparently in Cairhien just
before the conflict began.”
Min closed her book with a thump. “I see.”
“Do you?” Elayne asked with a raised brow.
Min took her meaning. “Nothing about Cairhien. At least nothing that I
understood to be about Cairhien. You know how it is. Idrelle is a cow, by the
way.”
“How do ... never mind. But, yes, she is most certainly of the bovine
persuasion.”
Min smiled wickedly. “You poor girl. Do you need a hug?”
Elayne laughed. “A hug? Is that what you are angling for, Miss Farshaw? Or
could it be you are trying to seduce me?”
“I’ve never tried to seduce anyone in my life!” Min objected. “It just seems to
happen on its own. Why, there I was one day just reading a nice book, and some
wanton beauty bursts into my room ready to tear my clothes off and have her way
with me.”
Elayne gasped in mock-outrage. “Wanton!? I’ll thank you for the other part, but
wanton!? I am grievously offended. You shall have to find a way to apologise to
me if you hope to continue in my good graces.”
“Maay-be,” Min said, drawing out the word teasingly. Her big, dark eyes were
alight with mischief. “What would you ask of me?”
Elayne blushed. “You could start be taking off those trousers.”
Min laughed softly and climbed from the bed. She turned her back to Elayne,
unbuckled her belt and bent slightly to push down her trousers and underwear
both.
She really did have a lovely bottom; such pronounced curves were particularly
eye-catching when paired with her slender body. Elayne had told her as much
before, and Min, despite her girlish objections, had taken the words to heart.
She wiggled her bum from side to side as she undressed and then looked over her
shoulder at Elayne, a finger pressed coquettishly to her lips.
Elayne giggled. Min was simply too cute to resist. She hopped from the bed and
threw her arms around her, not sure herself if it was a hug or a kiss she was
aiming for. It ended up being a bit of both. Min’s lips on hers were playful at
first, but it didn’t take long for that now-familiar hunger to infuse them.
Min’s hand was on her bottom, squeezing her, sending delightful shivers through
her body. Soon she had Elayne’s novice dress bunched up around her hips and
together the two girls worked to rid her of her underwear.
Their passions grew swiftly and demanded release. In moments they were back on
the bed, still clad in shirt and dress, but hips and legs bared to eager sight.
And touch. They spread their legs around each other and pressed their private
parts together. Twin moans sounded as each girl began rubbing herself against
the other.
Elayne pursued her release with wanton abandon, despite her objections to the
word. She drank in the sight of Min’s pretty face and the passion and love that
was written there. She savoured too the contrast of Min’s healthily tan legs
and her own pale ones, of Min’s glistening black curls tangled with her own
reddish bush. Their juices flowed from them and mixed together. Elayne had
never been wetter outside of her bath.
She came quickly and she came hard. Waves of pleasure surged through her body
taking all the day’s pains and petty troubles and carrying them off, leaving
her stretched out on the bed, moaning softly with a glad smile on her lips.
Min was watching her face and grinning. Elayne smiled back at her lovingly as
the other girl continued rubbing herself against Elayne’s slack body.
It took Min somewhat longer to reach her peak, but that was no hardship. Elayne
enjoyed watching her. She trailed her fingers back and forth along Min’s legs
and whispered sweet encouragements to her lover. And when at last Min cried out
Elayne’s name and came against her sex she grinned at her and told her,
truthfully, that she loved her.
There were only a few weeks of Maighdal left before autumn officially started,
but as she fell asleep in Min’s arms that night it seemed to Elayne that the
summer would never end.
***** Talents *****
CHAPTER 46: Talents
 
The Amyrlin Seat helped immensely with Nynaeve’s training. Just having been in
the same room as the woman kept her angry enough to channel for hours
afterward. Two months Mat had been in a coma. Two months! And all the while
Nynaeve worried herself sick over him, and asked herself daily whether she
could have done better if only she knew who to use her ability to channel. She
threw herself into her studies, and even tried not to snap at the Aes Sedai, or
clout those annoying Accepted on their ears. She had been model student, though
that hadn’t stopped the Light-cursed sisters from sending her to that wretched
Sheriam on a regular basis. And now this.
“Delve first!” snapped a high-pitched voice.
“I know,” Nynaeve growled.
Dagdara Finchey reminded her of Alsbet Luhhan, but without Alsbet’s endearing
personality. She glared at Nynaeve. “Is it to be the Mistress of Novices again
then?”
Nynaeve swallowed her ire and muttered a gracious apology.
“We really must find a way to break your block, child,” said Joyce. “Until we
do this need to be angry will colour all your actions here.”
The plump Shienaran, Berenicia Morsad, nodded. “It is an unfortunate situation.
Calm and grace are every bit as much the hallmarks of Aes Sedai as our ability
to channel. Yet if you cannot channel without being angry ...”
The man lying on the table, there in that sparse, white-walled room, looked
back and forth between the three Yellow sisters and the furious Accepted. His
eyes showed white all the way around. A Tar Valoni dock-worker, Noam had
twisted his leg in an accident and come to the Tower to ask for Healing so he
could get back to work quicker. She doubted he had expected to be used for
practice.
She put her hand on his leg and Delved him. She had learned to tell the
difference between the Five Powers, to feel and even see how distinct they
were. Channelling the One Power involved taking those elements and weaving them
together in various ways. Delving was a weave that allowed her to tell the
physical condition of whoever she touched, the better to know how to Heal them.
If she could Heal. Not all channelers could, some specific weaves you needed to
have a certain Talent to form, and those you were either born with or not.
Nynaeve dearly hoped Healing was among hers, or all of this would have been
practically for nothing. Delving was not a Talent; it was a relatively simple
thing, involving the use of Spirit alone, and through it she could see that
Noam was as healthy as an ox, except for the painfully twisted muscles in his
leg.
“Very good,” said Joyce. She watched Nynaeve carefully, and the glow of saidar
surrounded her. If she did anything to endanger the man’s life, Joyce would
intervene. Nynaeve would never have admitted it, but that was a comforting
thought. “Now, meld the flows, exactly as you were shown.”
She let the One Power course through her, a frighteningly thrilling sensation,
and wove Water, Air and Spirit together, just so. The flows melded seamlessly,
and Nynaeve felt a wonderful sense of completeness. Had she not had the Talent,
the weave simply would not have formed no matter how much effort or Power she
poured into it. I am a Healer, thank the Light. Noam jerked on the table and
gasped loudly as his body reacted to the sudden realignment of its damaged
parts. She had the feeling that she could do more, the feeling that there was
something wrong with the weave she had formed, but Dagdara interrupted.
“Release the Source, Accepted. It seems you have a Talent for Healing, and a
not-insignificant one.”
“An understatement, perhaps,” murmured Joyce, with a small smile on her softly-
wrinkled face. The white-haired woman had all the kindness that Dagdara lacked,
though the bigger, younger Aes Sedai was reputedly the better Healer.
Nynaeve did not need to release the Source as Dagdara had instructed. She was
so pleased by the discovery of her Talent that she had forgotten to be angry.
The One Power winked out, leaving behind that disturbing sense of hunger. She
hated that feeling, and tried her best to ignore it. It was entirely too
reminiscent of a drunkard’s need for his next tankard of ale. Still though,
much as she might want to rail at anyone, herself included, who channelled the
One Power, it was difficult to find the ire when faced with such a wonder.
Noam sat up and flexed his leg, his perfectly repaired. “It feels as good as
new! Thank you Sisters. The Light shine on the White Tower, and on the Aes
Sedai,” he said, bobbing his head between the three Yellows and Nynaeve. No
herb could have done that, Nynaeve was forced to admit.
The Aes Sedai received his praise with slight nods that said it was no more
than was due. A male servant appeared and offered Noam a shoulder to lean on as
the man shuffled from the sickroom. “I feel so hungry,” she heard him whisper.
That was the price of a Healing, she had been taught. The body used up its own
reserves to replace whatever had been damaged.
“Perhaps there will be a place for you in the Yellow Ajah someday, Nynaeve,”
Berenicia said.
Nynaeve’s mouth opened and closed. It would have been more than ungracious to
tell the woman she wanted nothing to do with Aes Sedai, even as she asked them
to teach her more. In the end she could manage no more than a gruff, “Maybe.”
It wasn’t the Yellow sisters who truly deserved her ire she thought, as she
made her way back across the walled compound that contained the White Tower and
its supporting buildings. The situation with Mat was bad enough, but when she
had asked the Amyrlin for news of Rand, Perrin and Anna she had been sent from
the room with harsh orders not to speak of them again. That worried her. She
had no idea what had become of them after they visited Cairhien more than a
month ago. That they had even been there she knew only because of Min. The
Amyrlin would tell her nothing and, worse, Nynaeve was starting to wonder if
even she knew where Rand and the others were, or if they were still alive.
Min was a strange one. Nynaeve didn’t understand why she had taken it into her
head to befriend her, but the girl seemed to make a point of visiting her at
least once a week. She was perfectly pleasant, shrugging off all Nynaeve’s
barbs with no more than a wry smile. And then showing up again later, acting as
if it were inevitable that Nynaeve would welcome her. Truthfully she had
nothing against Min ... it was just strange.
Or maybe I’m the strange one. It wasn’t that implausible, sadly. She had lost
touch with almost all the friends of her girlhood after becoming Wisdom of
Emond’s Field. Nela Thane was the only one who still had kind words for her,
and even Nela had the sense to keep them private.
It would be nice to have someone here to talk to. Someone who won’t go running
to tell tales to Sheriam.
She knew where Min stayed, but once she arrived at the nondescript door she
hesitated. It would be quite embarrassing if she knocked on the door only to
find that the girl had finally gotten sick of her. She still thought of her as
a girl, though in truth she was only two years her junior. Start by thinking of
her as a grown woman at least. She drew a deep breath and rapped her knuckles
on the smooth planks.
When she found Nynaeve waiting on her doorstep, Min’s brows rose in surprise.
“What can I do for you, Nynaeve?” She shrugged in her easy way. “Come on in if
you like.”
Her room was bigger than those given to Novices, but smaller than the room
Nynaeve had been granted once she had been raised to the Accepted. Books
littered the cramped space, but there were no dirty dishes or discarded clothes
scattered around. She might dress like a boy, but Min had at least that much of
a woman’s sense.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Nynaeve said stiffly.
Min laughed lightly, a knowing glint in her dark eyes. “Any time. How’s the
training going? Are the Aes Sedai treating you well?”
“Well enough.”
“Rather you than me, I have to admit. I don’t think I could put up with what
I’ve seen the Novices here put up with. I’d be stowing away on the first ship
to anywhere not named Tar Valon.”
“You could handle it, if you wanted to,” Nynaeve allowed. “You have a lot of
patience. Probably even more than me.”
“High praise,” Min drawled. “Though I suppose it’s true that accepting the
inevitable is very like me.” She wore that wry, knowing smile again.
“It isn’t so easy for some.”
Min eyed her shrewdly. “I’ll tell you what. If you ever feel the need to vent
about the Sisters you can come here. I promise I won’t tell any of them what
you say.”
Gratitude washed over Nynaeve. Much more than she had expected to feel. “Thank
you. I ... I think I would like that. Actually.”
She began pacing the short length of the room. Min sat down on her bed and
tucked her legs under her, watching Nynaeve, waiting.
“Do you know what they say about Mat?” she asked at last. “They say there’s no
way of knowing. That Delving him reveals no sign of injury. He will simply wake
when he wakes. If he wakes, I say. Who knows what damage they might have done
to him? He might spend the rest of his life in that sickbed, wasting away while
servants dribble soup down his neck.”
“He won’t,” Min muttered. She rubbed her chin with her hand, trying and failing
to hide her grimace.
“Kind words. But kind words don’t heal head injuries.”
Min slumped forward and let out a long sigh. “This is going to sound crazy,”
she said slowly, after a long pause, “but bear with me. You don’t need to fear
for Mat’s life. I can’t say he won’t have taken injury from what’s happened,
but I can tell you for a fact that he will wake from his coma eventually. I’ve
had a viewing of it.”
Nynaeve stopped pacing and frowned down at the woman. What kind of talk is
that? “You can say for a fact? Because of a ... viewing? Is this some kind of
joke?”
“I’ve sometimes wondered that myself,” Min said softly. “But if it is, it’s the
Pattern that’s playing the prank, not me.” She looked Nynaeve right in the eyes
and said, “I can see the future. Other people’s futures anyway, parts of them.
When I look at folk there are sometimes images and auras swirling around them
that only I can see. They represent things that will happen, will inevitably
happen, no matter what I or they or anyone tries to do to stop it. Sometimes I
even know the meaning of the images, though not often.”
Nynaeve eyed the woman dubiously. What she was saying seemed insane, and half a
year ago she would probably have held her down and dosed her for her own good
... But half a year ago she would not have known she could channel the One
Power, would not have travelled the Ways or met the Green Man. “Where did you
learn this supposed ability,” she asked cautiously.
Min sighed again. “I didn’t. I started seeing the images when I was still a
little girl. And, stupidly, I told people what I knew. They laughed at first,
thinking it was just a child’s fancy. But when the things I predicted came true
... Well, it got a little ugly. I prefer it if people don’t know about my
ability now.”
“I can understand that,” Nynaeve said slowly. “But why tell me?”
“Because when you passed through Baerlon Moiraine asked me to take a look at
your party and tell her what I saw. And the things I saw around Mat haven’t
happened yet,” Min shrugged. “My viewings have never failed before. Maybe it’s
arrogant of me to think they never will, but short of the Dark One getting free
and destroying the entire Pattern I can’t think of anything that could prevent
Mat’s destiny from being fulfilled. He will wake up, I promise you.”
Nynaeve was quiet for a time. “I want to believe you. I want to trust you,” she
said at last.
Min smiled that wry, knowing smile. “You will.”
***** A Cunning Plan *****
CHAPTER 49: A Cunning Plan
 
Their staffs clacked together in a rapid beat. Despite the brisk autumn wind,
both men were sweating heavily. Jan had several inches of height on him, ten
years more experience, and a great deal more muscle, but Mat was resolved not
to lose this time. He side-stepped, levelled out and feinted for the Warder’s
chin before jabbing the butt of his quarterstaff at the man’s foot.
Jan was quicker than you’d think he’d be, given his size. But then, most
Warders were faster than normal. Unnaturally so, Mat had come to suspect. That
Warder bond does things to you, things the Aes Sedai don’t like to talk about.
He told himself that trick would have been the match against anyone but a
Warder, but Jan’s foot slipped out of the way of his attack and his counter
slammed Mat right in the ribs. Quick-handed as he was, he was able to avoid the
Warder’s attempt to crack his knuckles but that meant partially releasing his
grip on the staff. From there it was a simple thing for Jan to disarm him.
Again, burn me for a poxy goat. He cursed aloud as he watched his stick spin
away.
Jan grounded his practice staff. The long spear he usually carried was waiting
on the rack nearby, along with his coat, shirt and that eye-wrenching cloak.
“Well fought, Mat. You’re getting faster by the day.”
Mat stooped to retrieve his staff. He had rebuilt much of the fitness the Aes
Sedai’s Healing had cost him, but that just meant he was as wiry as usual. No
amount of work, and no matter what Nynaeve and the rest of the women around
Emond’s Field liked to say, Mat Cauthon did work, but no amount of it ever
seemed to put the kind of bulk on him that Perrin, or even Rand built up. He
was as fit as he’d ever been. But not fit enough for the Aes Sedai to let him
go. They persisted with the excuse that he was ill and needed watching, but he
knew that for a lie. Aes Sedai couldn’t lie, but somehow they still did. All
his attempts to escape Tar Valon had ended in failure.
“Not fast enough,” he muttered.
“But much, much better than when I first met you, honey,” said Jan cheerfully.
“You’re looking as fit as a fiddle now.”
“Thanks,” said Mat, uninvitingly. He knew Jan fancied him, and had briefly
considered indulging with him. The man was fine-featured despite his bulk, and
one of the few Warders with the sense to realise a sword wasn’t the only type
of weapon worth wielding. But he was also firmly in the camp that thought the
Aes Sedai were the Creator’s personal emissaries, and that sort of talk got
right on Mat’s nerves. He might have been able to tolerate it in small doses,
but in the month he’d been trapped here he’d heard almost nothing but praise
for the sisters and constant advice about how best to please them. It all
boiled down to doing whatever they said and bending double when one walked by.
Mat was sick of it. Oh thank you my wondrous, beauteous Aes Sedai Lady. Thank
you for locking me up for no bloody reason. Thank you for whatever it is you’re
plotting to use me for. I’m ever so pleased to serve.
Sour-faced, he stalked over to the bench and retrieved his shirt. Choren wasn’t
even over yet, but it was getting cold already. He had a feeling it would be
another hard winter.
Jan gave a little sigh, sensing his mood. “Well, Nesune Sedai is expecting me.
Same time tomorrow?”
Mat blew out a breath and tried to find his manners. “Sure. Looking forward to
it.”
He trailed Jan across the practice yard but the Warder soon outpaced him. Mat
had nowhere he needed to be after all and no reason not to drag his feet. I
could try the docks again. But that would mean finding a way past the guards on
the inner gates. The Amyrlin had given orders that Mat was to prevented from
speaking to any more ship captain, in case one proved less respectful of the
Tower’s decrees than the native Tar Valoni were. It was a damn shame too, that
Illianer fellow had looked a prospect. But by now he’d probably be several days
sailing downriver.
Scattered knots of fighters sparred on the field, which was the case almost
every hour of the day. Ihvon and Owein, Valreio and Andoran respectively,
looked evenly matched. They were bonded to the same Aes Sedai too from what
he’d gathered. A Green sister. Only the Greens were allowed to have more than
one Warder at a time. And the Reds weren’t allowed any.
Beyond them Marlesh was having a hard time of it against Lan Kai, who shared a
name if not a temperament with Moiraine’s grim protector. The slender, black-
haired man smiled toothily as his practice sword struck Marlesh on knee and
neck in quick succession.
He passed Gawyn Trakand on his way but didn’t pause to speak. He would have if
his sister Elayne had been there with him. He’d seen her hanging around with
Nynaeve a time or two and she was undoubtedly a pretty one, even if she did
have her nose in the air half the time. They hadn’t spoken much, but he had
made certain to refuse to call her “my Lady”. Not that she had demanded it,
actually, but still.
Else should be out of her class soon. A lengthy tumble was just what he needed
to cheer him up. He’d been setting her plump bottom and ample breasts to
jiggling nearly every night of the last month. It was the only good thing about
his enforced stay here.
Else preferred to visit him in the room he stayed in, the same room he’d woken
up in after his illness. He couldn’t blame her, having seen the cramped cells
the Novices were kept in. He made his way back there to wait for her. As usual,
a tray of food had been left on the dresser. Else and Nynaeve were expected to
go down to the kitchens and fetch their own food, but Mat Cauthon, the
prisoner, got his delivered by servants. It was weird. But then, it was Aes
Sedai work.
They hadn’t told him when his father had come looking for him. It was only
because of Else’s love of gossip that Mat had even heard his da had been here.
According to her a man named Abell Candwin and another named Tam al’Thor had
come to the Tower a while back and made nuisances of themselves until they
gained an audience with the Amyrlin Seat. Apparently they had quickly been sent
packing by the Sanche woman, and all their questions about a certain group of
missing youths had gone unanswered. For all Mat knew, his da might think he was
dead. If he knew Mat was in the very Tower he had just visited there was no way
he would have left so soon.
“Bloody Aes Sedai,” he muttered.
He juggled his dice while he waited, whistling a tune and looking, still, for
an angle. He waited a long time, bored, restless, frustrated. He was still
waiting when the city outside his windows grew dark. Eventually he realise that
she wouldn’t be coming tonight.
“Blood and ashes,” he cursed, snatching his dice from the air and stuffing them
into their cups. Maybe the Aes Sedai had worked her particularly hard and she’d
been too exhausted to make the climb. He knew she hadn’t grown bored with him
... Else wasn’t shy about what she wanted.
He didn’t see Else anywhere the next day either. Though he spied several wagons
rolling down the Ostrein Bridge, bound for Braem Pass and Andor. The guards
looked inside each wagon bed, but not underneath. He wondered how hard it would
be to cling to the underside of a wagon bed for the time it would take to
approach the gate, endure the inspection, and trundle down that long bridge.
Maybe if I tied myself to it somehow ...
He went to bed alone, but hopeful.
The next day he visited the Alindaer Bridge instead and watched with mounting
dismay as the guards checked over every wagon, inside and underneath. As he was
making his way back to the White Tower he felt his skin prickle every time
someone glanced his way. They must be having me followed. That or the Aes Sedai
really can read a man’s mind.
When Else didn’t visit him that night he began to grow concerned.
“It is not your, or any man’s, business what passes between the Aes Sedai and
their students, boy,” said the Amyrlin when he approached her in the morning.
He had chosen his moment carefully, waiting until there was no-one in earshot
except the ever-present Keeper. He knew enough to know she would never let him
get a word in if there was anyone around to see it. Even so Leane had looked
ready to take his head off, with the Power or with that staff she carried, when
he stepped into their path.
“I’m not looking to interrupt anyone’s chores, Mother,” he said with his most
charming grim. “They might decide to fob them off on me, after all. I’m just
wondering where Miss Grinwell has gotten to. I haven’t seen her about these
last few days.”
“You dare question the Amyrlin Seat? Even queens on their thrones and generals
surrounded by their armies are not so bold, or so foolish,” declared Leane
haughtily.
The Amyrlin grunted. She looked at Mat with her cold, knowing eyes. “This once
I will allow it. Else Grinwell is no longer in the White Tower, my son. She
could have learned, had she applied herself, but all she wanted was to smile at
the men at the Warders’ practice yard. She did not have the makings of an Aes
Sedai. She could not meet the standards we expect of our initiates. Else
Grinwell was put on a trading vessel and sent back to her mother five days
ago.”
Mat gaped in confusion. “I see,” he said, slowly. “Well. I’m sure her parents
will be glad to see her.” He gave himself a shake and essayed a small laugh.
“Thank you, Mother. I’m half surprised my own parents have not come looking for
me. My da’s the kind of man who would.” He was not sure, but he thought there
was a small hesitation before the Amyrlin answered.
“He did come. Leane spoke to him.”
The Keeper took it up immediately. “We did not know where you were then, Mat. I
told him so, and he left before the weather could turn. I gave him some gold to
make the journey home easier.”
“No doubt,” the Amyrlin said, “he will be pleased to hear from you. And your
mother will, certainly. Give me the letter when you have written it, and I will
see to its delivery.” That she would read it herself first was pretty certain
in Mat’s estimation.
They had told him, but he had had to ask. And they didn’t mention Rand’s da.
Maybe because they didn’t think I would care, and maybe because ... Burn me, I
don’t know. Who can tell with Aes Sedai? He wished he had thought to ask Else
exactly when his da had visited. She had been pretty vague about it and Mat
wasn’t sure he believed Leane’s claim of not knowing where Mat was at the time.
She had come to Fal Dara with the Amyrlin and met Mat there, so she’d have had
to have met his da before she left for Shienar. Could his da have reached Tar
Valon so quickly, and with Tam al’Thor for company too? The last Mat had heard,
Tam had been at death’s door after the Trolloc attack and wasn’t fit to be
riding anywhere ...
Frustration drove Mat to poke at his friendly jailor. “I was travelling with a
friend, Mother. Rand al’Thor. You remember him. Do you know if he is all right?
I’ll bet his da is worried, too.”
“As far as I know,” the Amyrlin said smoothly, “the boy is well enough, but who
can say? I have seen him only once, when I met you in Fal Dara.” She turned on
her heel and walked away.
Mat trudged back to his room, scowling. Obviously it would take more than a
plea from his parents to get him out of this mess. Not that he’d been hoping
for his da to rescue him of course. Mat Cauthon could deal with his own
problems. It would just have speeded things up in a welcome manner, that’s all.
They sent Else away for what? Looking at boys? Sleeping with Mat maybe? He
hadn’t exactly been hiding what they were up to. He slammed the door shut, not
caring who heard, and flopped onto his bed. He’d grown a bit fond of Else; she
was fun and uncomplicated. Now she was gone, and he hadn’t even had the chance
to say goodbye. He didn’t understand it. The Aes Sedai had seemed happy enough
to have her. She’d told him there was a shortage of women who could learn to
channel nowadays, so why would the Aes Sedai throw away a girl who could? Just
because of an interest in men? Was that so terrible a thing that it could rule
you out of becoming Aes Sedai?
Mat turned the idea around in his head, looking at it from every angle. A
cunning smile slowly grew on his face. If he could not escape from the White
Tower, then perhaps he could make the White Tower desperate to be rid of him
...
Abell Candwin, his father, had always claimed that a smart trader had to know
the person he was selling to. The same rule could be applied to all sorts of
things. Mat applied it well over the next few days. The Novices and Accepted in
the White Tower did not often cross his path; his meals were brought up to his
room, and he certainly wasn’t attending any of their classes. Training with the
odd Warder like Jan was the sum of Mat’s education. But that didn’t mean he was
forbidden from wandering about the Tower, at least on the lower levels. Since
he had nothing better to do, he spent his time watching the pretty girls in
their sadly plain dresses, living their sadly controlled lives, and refined his
plan.
He saw a lot during his wanderings. There was plenty of frustration among the
students here, and plenty of jealousy too. Plump, blue-eyed Mair was jealous of
the slender Taraboner Asseil. Lanky Lucilde was jealous of tiny Alvistere who
was in turn jealous of pretty little Shimoku. Yellow-haired Paege was jealous
of everyone, and everyone was jealous of Elayne, a fact she seemed very aware
of, from the way she walked around with her nose in the air.
Some, like Pedra, Coride and Kossete, seemed painfully sheltered; he worried
they might faint if he were to goose them. Others such as Marah from Murandy or
the tall Domani Namene, had a mischievous look about then, as though they might
goose him right back.
He saw frustrated boredom in the braided Arafellin, Ashara. Marith, also from
Murandy, might have felt the same once, but she’d turned her frustrations into
a habit of making cutting remarks about her fellow students; a habit that had
left her isolated and perhaps lonely.
Ilyena had a tongue as sharp as Marith’s but was more popular, in no small part
due to her friendship with the tough-looking Daniele. Somehow he didn’t fancy
his chances with those two.
Faolain and Theodrin looked challenging too, if for very different reasons.
Theodrin seemed quite at home in the Tower and accepted the demands the Aes
Sedai placed on her with quiet grace. Dark Faolain, on the other hand, seemed
to meet everything in life with the same glower. Neither seemed likely to
welcome his advances, at least not at first.
From what he could tell none of them seemed able to decide what they thought of
Nynaeve. He heard little that was complimentary about her. And saw little of
her, for that matter. She didn’t seem to like being seen in that white dress
and went out of her way to avoid him when they happened upon each other. Mat
doubted she would have been willing to help him escape anyway.
He spotted an opening on the fifth day of his scouting mission. Lucile was
commiserating with Alvistere over something that Shimoku had said during their
class, but the pale little Cairhienin girl was not responding. Eventually
Lucilde wandered off, leaving Alvistere to sulk on a cold stone bench in the
very garden where Mat lounged.
He picked a flower, a pretty pink one, and made his approach. “Is Shimoku still
picking on you?” Mat asked with a sympathetic smile.
Alvistere gave a start. Sitting very stiffly, she watched him out of the
corners of her dark, slightly-tilted eyes.
“Try not to let it get to you. Where she came from she was used to being the
prettiest girl in the room. It can’t be easy for her,” Mat added with a small,
knowing sigh. He strolled by her bench, turning the flower by its stem and made
his way slowly towards the arched exit.
“What do you mean?” a shy voice said, well before he had reached the door. He
turned back, well-pleased with the result.
“Well. You know. How could she not be jealous of you, given how lovely you
look? She probably doesn’t intend to be mean, she just can’t help herself.”
A smile slowly spread across Alvistere’s face. She didn’t seem to know how to
respond but she was obviously enjoying the compliments.
“Shimoku is jealous of me?” she repeated, fishing for more. He gave her what
she wanted.
Mat grinned his best grin. “Of course. Just look at that pretty blush. Why,
it’s almost the same colour as this flower.” Boldly he leant in and tucked the
smooth stem of the flower behind her ear. Alvistere blinked rapidly and gave a
promising little shiver.
He wondered how often, if at all, she had the chance to interact with boys here
in the Tower. Best not to push too hard. “Try not to let it get you down. It’s
a crying shame to see you being sad.” With a final smile he left the garden and
made it a point to avoid Alvistere for the rest of the day.
He found her in the same garden the next afternoon. She tried to pretend she
hadn’t been waiting for him, and Mat pretended to be fooled. She shared her
opinions on the many shortcomings of her fellow Novices and he agreed with
every one of them while flattering her shamelessly. She got a flower for her
other ear before he left, and he got a pretty smile.
He stole his first kiss on the week’s “anniversary” of their meeting. She went
limp in his arms and he decided to be forceful. By the time he came up for air
she was red-faced and stunned-looking.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he claimed the next day, when he tracked her
down in one of the Tower’s many marbled hallways.
She looked troubled, and more distracted than usual. “I ... I can’t stop
thinking about you either,” she confessed.
“I’m so relieved to hear that,” he sighed. He looked around them dramatically,
then pulled her into the nearest alcove for a good canoodle. She kissed him
back more energetically this time. All throughout that day he made a point of
happening upon her whenever she had a free moment ... and whenever there was a
quiet spot nearby.
Three days later he told her, with a glum face, that he wished he could see her
more often, and asked what it was she did when they were apart. And where she
stayed at night. She stared at him for a long while, her mouth hanging slightly
open and that dazed look in her eyes. Then she showed him.
He had her for the first time the next night. As it turned out, it was her
first time too.
Alvistere lay on her back on the narrow bed, naked save for her white
stockings, as Mat slid his cock in and out of her sweet little pussy. He ran
his fingers through the hair—as straight, black and glossy as that on her
head—that covered her sex and made sure to give her a good rubbing as he fucked
her. He needed to make sure she enjoyed herself if he was to escape. Her
breasts were small and firm and tipped by little brown nipples, and they barely
moved, even under his hardest thrusts. Neither did the girl they belonged to.
She lay with her arms raised as if in surrender and made surprised little
yelping sounds, as though she wasn’t sure what was happening or what to do. He
held her by her narrow hips and grinned at the way her slender legs kicked at
nothing every time he pushed his cock into her.
It didn’t take very long before she was clamping her hands over her mouth and
trying to muffle a surprised wail. She jerked on the bed and her sex clamped
around him almost painfully. After a long pause Alvistere went limp. Or limper
than she had been. Else wouldn’t have just lain there, he couldn’t help but
think. But that was done now. Mat, his work finished, increased the pace of his
thrusts until at last he was ready to fill the Novice with his seed.
Alvistere stared down at herself when she felt him spurting within her. “What
... what was?” she began breathlessly. “What did you do?”
Mat grinned and shook his head. He patted her on the cheek and settled himself
down on the bed beside her. He wasn’t about to explain the birds and the bees.
Though, if she and the rest of the Novices were truly that sheltered, then the
Amyrlin Seat would soon have ample reason to want to see the back of Matrim
Cauthon.
***** Decisions Made *****
CHAPTER 50: Decisions Made
 
“You should know better than to intrude where you aren’t welcome,” growled
Marah.
“Oh, I was welcome. Very welcome as it happens,” replied Namene, thrusting out
her chin as best she could, weak thing that it was.
Marah’s lips thinned and her cheeks went white with fury. “Not by me.”
“So?”
Elayne strode by the other Novices with her chin raised, studiously not looking
their way. Marah thought herself funny and had a cutting remark ready at almost
all times, and Namene had a habit of giggling at everything, no matter how
inane, a habit that passed from quirky to maddening when you were forced to
live with her for months at a time. She was not friends with either girl, but
she would have welcomed their usual smirks and titters if it would end this
bickering.
She left the Novice Quarters at a fast walk and shut the door behind her with
perhaps a little more force than was needed. She trusted Marah and Namene would
not be so foolish as to actually strike one another, certainly not over
something so silly as a boy. Especially that boy.
Name the Dark One and he will appear, she thought.
In a secluded corner of the garden, Mat Cauthon was leaning in to whisper
something in Anemara’s ear, one hand supporting his weight against the wall and
the other resting lightly on her hip. Whatever he said, it brought a nervous
laugh from the plump Ghealdanin Novice. Who, come to think of it, bore a
certain resemblance to a plump Arafellin Accepted named Mair who had, for
reasons unknown, been sent to do penance on a remote farm last week.
Elayne sniffed. She supposed Mat had a certain roguish charm, though he was
hardly the most eye-catching of men. More important than that, and much more
damning, was his utter lack of sincerity. She could not believe that the same
Novices and Accepted who saw fit to prod and test her at every turn, convinced
she was too naive and sheltered to meet their challenges, could fail so utterly
to see through his plot. I may not know much of men, but I knowDaes Dae’marwhen
I see it.
She shook her head and set off towards the guest quarters, wondering if she
should interfere before someone’s feelings got too badly hurt.
Her own studies were proceeding excellently, unhindered by such drama, with
Min’s comforting presence ever at her back. She smiled to herself. Often
literally at her back. She had fallen asleep the night before with her shift
bunched up and Min cuddled against her, having just stirred her passions with
her clever fingers. Exhausted from her day’s work, her last memory before sleep
stole up on her was of protesting sleepily of the need to reciprocate Min’s
efforts, and her dearest friend’s laughing denial of the debt. I’ll make it up
to her, no matter what she says.
Being gifted with Min’s love was the best thing that had ever happened to
Elayne. Even Nynaeve’s addition to their social circle had not been as onerous
as Elayne had first feared when Min finally won her over. Oh the woman could
certainly be abrasive, she had a terrible temper and a rough tongue. But there
was a core of decency to her, a passionate drive to help and heal that made it
easy—or easier, at least—to overlook her frequent outbursts. She and Mat didn’t
seem particularly friendly, but she still worried ceaselessly for him, claiming
that he could never stand being cooped up for long and that his captivity here
in the Tower would not be good for him. That he was a captive was hard to deny.
It had been more than two months since he awoke from his coma but, despite his
obvious desire to leave, the bridges and docks remained barred to him.
Daniele and Ilyena were getting along with Nynaeve rather less easily than
Elayne and Min did. Daniele was every bit as strong willed as her, and whilst
Ilyena was even-tempered for the most part, her tongue was perhaps even more
cutting than Nynaeve’s, and she look a wicked delight in using it.
Gawyn was quite taken with the Volsuni. She would have to be careful in guiding
him clear of that pitfall. Whilst Daniele had stolen many a glance at Galad
when she thought no-one was looking, her pillow-friend seemed to have no
interest in men at all. She had been concerned enough—and perhaps, if she was
honest with herself, nosey enough—to ask Min if she’d had any viewings of their
new friends. She’d regretted asking once Min sighed glumly and began describing
Daniele atop a winged horse and holding a lance of all things; Ilyena pulling a
sword out of her own heart but somehow surviving; and Nynaeve with a man’s ring
of heavy gold. Min didn’t like to talk about what she saw, and so Elayne tried
not to pester her with questions, no matter how curious she was. It was such a
unique and fascinating ability though, like the girl who possessed it.
She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice anyone approaching.
She came to an abrupt halt when she felt a light pinch on her bottom and jumped
involuntarily. Shocked and embarrassed, she spun around.
Her assailant, their dark eyes alight with mischief and short hair in need of a
brush, grinned at her reaction.
“I’m sorry,” they lied, “but you just looked so lovely wandering by like that,
and I knew your reaction would be every bit as cute as it was. I couldn’t help
myself. Can you forgive me? I’ll do anything I can to make it up to you.”
She raised her chin and made her voice cold. “I do not believe I can. Forgive
you, that is, Master Cauthon. How dare you lay hands upon my person!?”
Mat grinned. “A beautiful girl like you must have been fighting them off
constantly back in Caemlyn. Or were the boys there not bold enough? If I’d been
around I’d have had to fight a constant battle with myself to keep from kissing
you.” He leaned in as he spoke and his gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips;
he bit his own in an admittedly fetching manner. “I was thinking. Per—”
“You may stop thinking right now, Master Cauthon,” she interrupted. Fetching?
Perhaps. Slightly. But Offensive? Absolutely! Did he think her stupid enough to
become another one of his conquests? “And if you do not step back this instant,
or ever presume to touch me without my leave again, I do believe I shall have
you gelded.”
His grin curled up and died. He stepped back, hands spread wide. “There’s no
need to get upset. I just thought you were pretty, that’s all.”
“It is not all,” she said coldly. “You thought I was foolish enough to allow
you to use me in your plot to make the Amyrlin Seat throw you out of the Tower.
And you cared not one whit for any consequences there might have been for me if
I had in fact been that foolish.” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that not so?”
He adopted a look of innocence. “I have no idea what you are talking about.
Can’t a man just flirt with a pretty woman?”
“No. Leave me.”
He left, looking sulky and aggrieved. Only when he turned the corner of the
hall and passed from sight did she let out her pent breath. Elayne trembled
with emotions she had no name for. She let out a vexingly high-pitched growl as
she stalked down the hall. That outrageous cad! How dare he? No man had ever
presumed to lay hands on her before. And Mat bloody Cauthon just saunters up
and acts like he could do whatever he wanted to her. She was still trembling
with outrage when she arrived at Nynaeve’s room.
Nynaeve glared at her when the door banged open but she did not stop striding
up and down in front of the small fireplace, or say anything beyond asking,
rather oddly, if Elayne had been born in a barn. She wore the Serpent ring
given to the Accepted, and her white dress had the coloured rings encircling
the hem, but unlike the other Accepted she was not allowed to try to teach
anyone yet and so often found herself with idle time. More often than not she
spent that time in Min’s company, as now. Her brothers were there as well. They
would have more than words for Mat Cauthon if she told them of her encounter
with him, but Elayne didn’t want to make a fuss. She was perfectly capable of
settling her own problems, and needed no-one’s protection.
As it would not do to say the things she wanted to say about Mat in front of
his fellow Therener, or Gawyn and Galad, Elayne was forced to swallow her ire.
Min was sitting on the three-legged stool watching Nynaeve pace. She looked
glum, but she perked up at the sight of Elayne.
“There you are,” she said, rising from her stool. For a moment Elayne thought
she would rush over and kiss her, but she shot a glance towards the others and,
quite properly, settled for a welcoming smile instead. “How have you been?”
“Well enough. I saw Logain earlier this morning,” Elayne said, since she was
denied the rant she wanted. “He was sitting on a bench in the Inner Court,
crying. He ran when he saw me. I cannot help feeling sorry for him.”
Min shrugged. “Better he cries than the rest of us,” she said.
Galad shook his head is disapproval. Which was something Elayne had already
been too used to seeing by the time she was six. “Setting aside the matter of
his channelling, consider the lives that were lost in Ghealdan as a result of
his actions. Throughout Andoran history queens have hanged men for lesser
crimes. Logain Ablar has been afforded a gentler fate that he deserved.”
“I know what he is,” Elayne snapped. “Or rather, what he was. He isn’t anymore,
and I can feel sorry for him if I want.”
Nynaeve shuddered at her words, though the tiny fire on the narrow hearth
handily kept the Sholdine chill at bay. Elayne was not sure it would serve so
well when winter came. She was glad she would have Min to warm her bed. And
glad too that they could visit this early. Novices were usually kept too busy
to spend much time visiting friends, but today was a freeday, only the third
since she had come to the White Tower.
“I hope you aren’t saying you’d have let him get away with it, Elayne,” Gawyn
said. “Mother certainly would not.”
She had no doubt that he was right about that. “I would not repeal his
sentence, of course,” she clarified. “I simply don’t like to see him suffer.”
Nynaeve kept pacing. And shivering.
“You raise an interesting point, Elayne,” Galad said in that insufferably
superior way of his. “Is it cruelty to Gentle men like Ablar, but then leave
them alive? A noose might well be the cleaner solution to them.”
“Enough,” Nynaeve said growled. Galad and Gawyn opened their mouths. She raised
her voice. “I said enough!” She glared at them until it was clear their silence
would hold, then went on. “I’m tired of listening to your gossip. Now, this is
my room, not the common room of an inn, and I want you out of it.”
“But, Nynaeve—” Gawyn began.
Nynaeve spoke loudly enough to drown him out. “I doubt you asked permission to
enter the Accepted’s quarters.” He and Galad stared at her, looking surprised.
“I thought not. You will be out of my room, out of my sight, before I count
three, or I will write a note to the Master of Arms about this. Coulin Gaidin
has a much stronger arm than Sheriam Sedai, and you may be assured that I will
be there to see he makes a proper job of it.”
“Nynaeve, you wouldn’t—” Gawyn began worriedly, but Galad motioned him to
silence and stepped closer to Nynaeve.
Her face kept its stern expression, but she unconsciously smoothed the front of
her dress as he smiled down at her. Elayne was sadly unsurprised.
“I apologize, Nynaeve, for our forcing ourselves on you unwanted,” he said
smoothly. “We will go, of course. But remember that we are here if you need
us.”
Nynaeve returned his smile. “One,” she said.
Galad blinked, his smile fading. Calmly, he turned to Elayne. Gawyn got up and
started for the door. “Elayne,” Galad said, “you know that you, especially, can
call on me at any time, for anything. I hope you know that.” Elayne folded her
arms under her breasts and raised her chin at him. He dares say that after all
the times he snitched on me to Mother?
“Two,” Nynaeve said.
Galad gave her an irritated look. “We will talk again,” he told Elayne, bowing.
With a last smile, he took an unhurried step toward the door.
“Thrrrrrrrrr”—Gawyn darted through the door, and even Galad’s graceful stride
quickened markedly—“ree,” Nynaeve finished as the door banged shut behind them.
Elayne clapped her hands delightedly. “Oh, well done,” she said. “Very well
done. I did not even know men were forbidden the Accepted’s quarters, too.”
“They aren’t,” Nynaeve said dryly, “but those louts did not know it, either.”
Elayne clapped her hands again and laughed. “I’d have let them just leave,”
Nynaeve added, “if Galad had not made such a show of taking his time about it.
That young man has too fair a face for his own good.” Even as she said that,
Nynaeve straightened her dress self-consciously again.
Min was grinning about something. “Speaking of Galad. Mayam was making calf
eyes at him today while he was working with the Warders,” she said. She sat
back down, rocked the stool on two legs and waited.
Nynaeve refused to be baited. “She can look at whoever she wants. I can’t
imagine why I would be interested.”
“No reason, I suppose. Though she’s risking being held back even longer.” Mayam
Colona was known to be the most experienced of the Accepted. So experienced
that Novices had come to the Tower and been raised Aes Sedai in the time she
had spent wearing the banded dress. Elayne had learned how to tell the
strength, and potential future strength of any woman who stood near her and had
been somewhat surprised to find than Mayam was, if not as strong as her or
Nynaeve, well above average. She didn’t know why the woman was being held back,
but she had the, perhaps unworthy, suspicion that it would be best if Mat
Cauthon was kept far away from her.
“I guess it’s understandable,” Min continued. “He is awfully handsome, if you
don’t mind him being so rigid. Very nice to look at, especially with his shirt
off. Wouldn’t you say, Nynaeve?”
Nynaeve scowled. “I have no desire to look at Galad, with or without his
shirt.”
“I shouldn’t tease you,” Min said contritely. “I’m sorry for that. But you do
like to look at him—don’t grimace at me like that—and so does nearly every
woman in the White Tower who isn’t a Red. I’ve seen Aes Sedai down at the
practice yards when he’s working forms, especially Greens. Checking on their
Warders, they say, but I don’t see so many when Galad isn’t there. Even the
cooks and maids come out to watch him. It’s like they can’t help themselves. I
can’t either, sometimes,” Min added with a laugh, “and I can see what he is
like.”
Elayne felt a little stab of jealousy. “Galad is so good he’d make you tear
your hair out. He’d hurt a person because he had to serve a greater good. He
wouldn’t even notice who was hurt, because he’d be so intent on the other, but
if he did, he would expect them to understand and think it was all well and
right.”
“I suppose you would know,” Min said.
Elayne sat down on the bed, tucking her feet up under her. “If you are mooning
over Galad, Nynaeve, you will have no sympathy from me. I may even dose you
with one of those horrible concoctions you’re always talking about.” She
frowned at Nynaeve when the woman did not bristle as expected. “What is the
matter with her?”
Min leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “That skinny Accepted Idrelle told
her she was as clumsy as a cow and had half the Talents, and Nynaeve clouted
her ear.” Elayne winced. “Exactly,” Min murmured. “They had her up to Sheriam’s
study before you could blink, and she hasn’t been fit to live with since.”
Apparently Min had not dropped her voice enough, for there was a growl from
Nynaeve. Suddenly the door whipped open once more, and a gale howled into the
room. It did not ruffle the blankets on the bed, but Min and the stool toppled,
to roll against the wall. Immediately the wind died, and Nynaeve stood with a
stricken look on her face.
Elayne hurried to her friend and was relieved to find her unhurt, if a little
pop-eyed. Nynaeve came to help Min to her feet.
“I’m sorry, Min,” Nynaeve said in a tight voice. “Sometimes my temper ... I
can’t ask you to forgive me, not for this.” She took a deep breath. “If you
want to report me to Sheriam, I will understand. I deserve it.”
Instinctually, Elayne had opened herself to saidar when Min fell. The One Power
filled her with life. She smelled the faint rose aroma of the soap she had used
in her morning bath. She could feel the smooth stones of the floor, as well as
she could the bed when she sat down again. She could hear Min and Nynaeve
breathe, much less their quiet words. She did not release it.
Three tiny glowing spheres of red, white and green appeared above her hands.
She began to juggle them in an increasingly intricate pattern. As always now
there was that feeling of relief when she filled herself with saidar, as though
a hunger was being sated. Strictly speaking she shouldn’t be channelling
outside the supervision of an Aes Sedai or an Accepted, but surely Nynaeve’s
presence qualified.
 “If it comes to forgiving,” Min was saying, “maybe you should forgive me. You
have a temper, and I have a big mouth. I will forgive you if you forgive me.”
With murmurs of “forgiven” that sounded meant on both sides, the two women
hugged. “But if you do it again,” Min said with a laugh, “I might clout your
ear.”
“Next time,” Nynaeve replied, “I will throw something at you like a sensible
woman.” She was laughing, too, but her laughter ceased abruptly as her eye fell
on Elayne. “You stop that, or there will be someone else going to the Mistress
of Novices.”
She hastily severed all contact with saidar, but kept her face as composed as
she could. “I have to practice, Nynaeve,” she said. “They ask more and more of
me. If I did not practice on my own, I would never keep up.”
“And what happens when you draw too much,” Nynaeve asked, “and there’s no-one
there to stop you? I wish you were more afraid. I am. Don’t you think I know
what it is like for you? It’s always there, and you want to fill yourself with
it. Sometimes it is all I can do to make myself stop; I want all of it. I know
it would burn me to a crisp, and I want it anyway.” She shivered. “I just wish
you were more afraid.”
“The only thing that terrifies me,” Elayne said airily, “is washing dishes. It
seems as if I have to wash dishes every day.” Min snatched up a pillow and
threw it at her. Elayne pulled it off her head and threw it back, but then her
shoulders slumped. “Oh, very well. I am so scared I don’t know why my teeth are
not chattering. Elaida told me I’d be so frightened that I would want to run
away with the Travelling People, but I did not understand. A man who drove oxen
as hard as they drive us would be shunned. I am tired all the time. I wake up
tired and go to bed exhausted, and sometimes I’m so afraid that I will slip and
channel more of the Power than I can handle that I ...” Peering into her lap,
she let the words trail off. She would not speak, to anyone, not even Min, of
the times she had cried herself to sleep, alone in the Novice Quarters. Or of
the dreams of the Royal Palace in Caemlyn that so tempted her. I could take Min
back with me. We could live in the Palace together. Surely Mother would not
mind.
“The Travelling People are tempting,” Nynaeve agreed, “but wherever you go, it
will not change what you can do. You cannot run from saidar.” She did not sound
as if she liked what she was saying.
Elayne misliked the topic and so sought to change it. “What do you see, Min?”
she said. “Are we going to be powerful Aes Sedai, or will we spend the rest of
our lives washing dishes as Novices, or ...” Burning out was another option.
But the Sisters considered it crass to speak of it.
Min did not share the Aes Sedai’s sensibilities but she shifted on her stool
nonetheless. “I don’t like reading friends,” she muttered. “Friendship gets in
the way of the reading. It makes me try to put the best face on what I see.
That’s why I don’t do it for you two anymore. Anyway, nothing has changed about
you that I can ...” She squinted at them, and suddenly frowned. “That’s new,”
she breathed.
“What?” Nynaeve asked sharply.
Min hesitated before answering. “There’s a spider crawling on your shoulder,”
Nynaeve was peering down in alarm before Min could finish, “but the kind only I
can see. I see you holding an arrow in your hands and snapping it in two. And I
see thunderclouds. Danger. You are in some kind of danger. Or you will be, very
soon. I can’t make it out, but it is danger.”
“Did you see anything new about me?” Elayne asked, though she was not entirely
certain she wanted to know the answer.
Min’s big, nearly black eyes were positively heart-breaking when she looked at
you like that. Elayne regretted asking, but before she could withdraw the
question Min spoke. “I see a severed hand, not yours. And I see a rope of
silver moons tightening around your neck. I don’t know what either viewing
means.” Her mouth turned down. “But I don’t like how they feel.”
“You see,” Nynaeve said. “You must take care. We all must. You must promise not
to channel again without someone to guide you.”
When the door swung open once more, a dark-eyed Aes Sedai with her yellow hair
done in a multitude of braids stepped into the room. Nynaeve blinked in
surprise, but seemed to recognise her. Elayne was surprised too, Novices and
Accepted were sent for if an Aes Sedai wanted them; it could mean no good, a
sister coming herself.
The room was crowded with four women in it. The unfamiliar Sister paused to
adjust her red-fringed shawl, eyeing them. Min did not move, but Elayne rose
and curtsied alongside the Accepted, though Nynaeve barely flexed her knee.
The Aes Sedai’s eyes settled on Nynaeve. “And why are these others here, child?
I had thought to find you at study.” Her tone was ice and her accent, like her
hairstyle, spoke of Tarabon.
“I am visiting with friends,” Nynaeve said in a tight voice. After a moment she
added a belated, “Liandrin Sedai.”
“The Accepted, they can have no friends among the Novices. This you should have
learned by this time, child. You and you”—her finger stabbed at Elayne and
Min—“will go.”
“I will return later.” Min rose casually, making a great show of being in no
hurry to obey, and strolled by Liandrin with a grin, of which Liandrin took no
notice at all. Elayne gave Nynaeve a worried look before she dropped a curtsy
and left.
Elayne closed the door behind her and set off down the hallway, but she had
gone only a few steps before she realised Min wasn’t with her. When she glanced
back she found her friend leaning casually against the wall by her door, head
cocked towards the room they had just left. She shouldn’t be eavesdropping on
an Aes Sedai, Elayne thought. She was torn between annoyance at Min’s
impropriety, worry for her ... and a gnawing curiosity. She went back and,
blushing, leaned across Min to stretch her ear towards the door.
“You are from the same village as the boys who travelled with Moiraine. Is it
not so?” Liandrin was saying.
“Have you word of the missing party?” Nynaeve said, just short of a demand. The
Accepted had no rule about not speaking to an Aes Sedai until spoken to.
“You have concern for them. That is good. They are in danger, and you might be
able to help them.”
“How do you know they’re in trouble?” There was no doubt about the demand in
Nynaeve’s voice this time.
Liandrin’s tone did not change. “Though you are not aware of it, Moiraine has
sent letters to the White Tower concerning you. Moiraine Sedai, she worries
about you, and about your young ... friends. These boys, they are in danger. Do
you wish to help them, or leave them to their fate?”
“What kind of trouble? Why do you care about helping them?” Nynaeve said, there
was a pause and then, “And I thought you didn’t like Moiraine.”
“Do not presume too much, child,” Liandrin said sharply. “To be Accepted is not
to be a sister. Accepted and Novices alike listen when a sister speaks, and do
as they are told.” She drew a breath and went on; her tone was coldly serene
again. “Someday, I am sure, you will serve a cause, and you will learn then
that to serve it you must work even with those whom you dislike. I tell you I
have worked with many with whom I would not share a room if it were left to me
alone. Would you not work alongside the one you hated worst, if it would save
your friends?”
“Yes,” Nynaeve said, though she sounded reluctant. “But you still haven’t told
me what kind of danger they’re in. Liandrin Sedai.”
“The danger comes from Shayol Ghul. They are hunted, as I understand they once
before were. If you will come with me, some dangers, at least, may be
eliminated. Do not ask how, for I cannot tell you, but I tell you flatly it is
so.”
Elayne exchanged silent, shocked looks with Min. Rand and his friends were
being hunted by the Shadow? She couldn’t imagine why, though the very fact of
it set her heart to racing. Anything the Shadow wanted was to be opposed, that
went without saying. What do they want with Rand, though? He told me he was
only a shepherd, and no-one else who knows him has disputed the claim. Perhaps
if she discovered that she could also figure out why she kept catching herself
thinking about him almost half a year after they met so briefly.
“Come where?” Nynaeve said suspiciously.
“Toman Head.”
Elayne, listening in, felt her mouth fall open, and Nynaeve muttered, “There’s
a war on Toman Head. Does this danger have something to do with Artur
Hawkwing’s armies?”
“You believe rumours, child? But even if they were true, is that enough to stop
you? I thought you called these men friends.” There was a disgusted tone to the
Red sister’s words that said she would never call any man friend.
“Why me? What can I do that Moiraine—or you, Liandrin—cannot?”
Elayne winced. Nynaeve had forgotten the honorific in addressing her and
Liandrin did not seem the sort to ignore such, but what she said was, “You come
from their village. In some way I do not entirely understand, you are connected
to them. Beyond that, I cannot say. And no more of your foolish questions will
I answer. Will you come with me for their sake?” She paused for her assent.
“If they are in danger, then I have no choice,” said Nynaeve.
“Good,” Liandrin said, sounding relieved. “You will meet me at the northernmost
edge of the Ogier grove one hour before sunset with your horse and whatever you
will need for the journey. Tell no-one of this.”
“I’m not supposed to leave the Tower grounds without permission,” Nynaeve said
slowly.
“You have my permission. Tell no-one. No-one at all. The Black Ajah walks the
halls of the White Tower.”
Nynaeve gasped, and Elayne clamped a hand across her own mouth. Darkfriend Aes
Sedai? Elaida had always said that was a blasphemous lie spread by enemies of
the Tower. Nynaeve had heard the same from others. “I thought all Aes Sedai
denied the existence of—of that,” she said.
Liandrin’s mouth tightened into a sneer. “Many do, but Tarmon Gai’don
approaches, and the time leaves when denials can be made. The Black Ajah, it is
the opposite of everything for which the Tower stands, but it exists, child. It
is everywhere, any woman could belong to it, and it serves the Dark One. If
your friends are pursued by the Shadow, do you think the Black Ajah will leave
you alive and free to help them? Tell no-one—no-one!—or you may not live to
reach Toman Head.”
“What about Mat?” Nynaeve interrupted, and they actually heard Liandrin growl.
“If the Black Ajah is here then he’s in danger too.”
“Other arrangements, they are being made for him, yes? The Amyrlin Seat
herself, she is here and protecting him, yes?” Liandrin sounded disgusted. “Ask
me no more foolish questions. One hour before sunset. At the grove. Do not fail
me.”
Elayne and Min exchanged a brief, wide-eyed look before darting towards the
adjacent, unoccupied room. She discovered then that it was exceedingly awkward
to run and tiptoe at the same time, but the thought of what might happen if
Liandrin caught them spurred her on. Min eased the door closed as soon as
Elayne had slipped in.
She heard the door to Nynaeve’s room bang shut and purposeful footsteps hurry
past her hiding place. Heart thundering, she waited for the steps to pass
beyond hearing.
Min held her hand. She looked quite wary, and understandably so considering all
they had heard. Together they slipped out into the, thankfully empty, hall and
returned to Nynaeve’s room.
“She cannot know,” Nynaeve was muttering when they bustled in.
Min slammed the door behind them. “Are you really going?” she asked.
“We listened at the door,” Elayne said contritely. “We heard everything.”
Nynaeve’s lips thinned and she shook her head grimly. “You have to keep this to
yourselves,” she cautioned. “I suppose Liandrin has arranged permission from
Sheriam for me to go, but even if she hasn’t, even if they start searching the
Tower from top to bottom for me tomorrow, you mustn’t say a word.”
“Keep it to myself?” Min said. “No fear on that. I’m going with you. All I do
all day is try to explain to one Brown sister or another something I don’t
understand myself. I can’t even go for a walk without the Amyrlin herself
popping out and asking me to read whoever we see. When that woman asks you to
do something, there doesn’t seem to be any way out of it. I must have read half
the White Tower for her, but she always wants another demonstration. I’m not
going to stay locked up here any longer than I have to.” Her face wore a look
of determination that allowed no argument.
Elayne quashed her first reaction. It was unfair to Min to let herself be hurt
by that. She shouldn’t have to accept an unjust captivity just because she got
to spend it with Elayne. And she doubted Min would have an easier time
extricating herself from the Amyrlin’s hospitality than Cauthon currently was.
Besides, it was not as if they were going to be parted. Elayne would not miss
an opportunity like this for the world. To help defeat the Shadow, to rescue
her friend from their clutches. She imagined the look on his face when she
saved him, how impressed he would be, how grateful, and found herself blushing.
“I am going, too,” she announced.
Min smiled nervously at her words, but she did not look surprised.
“Elayne,” Nynaeve said gently, “You are the Daughter-Heir of Andor. If you
disappear from the White Tower, why, it—it could start a war.”
“Mother wouldn’t start a war with Tar Valon if they dried and salted me, which
they may be trying to do. If you two can go off and have an adventure, you
needn’t think I am going to stay here and wash dishes, and scrub floors, and
have some Accepted berating me because I didn’t make the fire the exact shade
of blue she wanted. Gawyn will die from envy when he finds out.” A bright laugh
burst from her lips and she could not seem to keep her feet still. She paced
the room, just as Nynaeve had done earlier. “I feel”—she hesitated, searching
for the word—“free. I’ve never had an adventure. I’ll bet we won’t cry
ourselves to sleep on an adventure. And if we do, we will make sure the gleemen
leave that part out.”
“This is foolishness,” Nynaeve said. “We are going to Toman Head. You’ve heard
the news, and the rumours. It will be dangerous. You must stay here.”
“I heard what Liandrin Sedai said about the—the Black Ajah, too.” Elayne’s
voice dropped almost to a whisper at that name. “How safe will I be here, if
they are here? If Mother even suspected the Black Ajah really existed, she
would pitch me into the middle of a battle to get me away from them.”
Nynaeve frowned. “If it’s true. She’s forestalled us asking anyone for advice,
because after that, who can we trust? The Light help us.”
“You don’t believe her?” Elayne said incredulously. “She’s an Aes Sedai.”
“She is,” Nynaeve said dryly. “I’ll wager my best silver pin against a
blueberry that every word she said was true. But I wonder if we heard what we
thought we did.”
“I heard that the Dark One’s forces were marshalling and that we were needed to
help turn them back. That’s quite enough for me,” she said firmly.
“But, Elayne—”
“There is only one way for you to stop me coming. That is to tell the Mistress
of Novices. We will make a pretty picture, the two of us lined up in her study.
All three of us. I don’t think Min would escape from something like this. So
since you are not going to tell Sheriam Sedai, I am coming, too.”
Nynaeve threw up her hands. “Perhaps you can say something to convince her,”
she told Min.
Min had been leaning against the door, squinting at Elayne, and now she shook
her head. “I think she has to come as much as the rest of us. I can see the
danger around all of you more clearly, now. Not clearly enough to make it out,
but I think it has something to do with you deciding to go. That’s why it is
clearer; because it is more certain.”
“That’s no reason for her to come,” Nynaeve said, but Min shook her head again.
“She is linked to—to those boys as much as you, or me. She’s part of it,
Nynaeve whatever it is. Part of the Pattern, I suppose an Aes Sedai would say.”
Elayne was taken aback, and excited, too. “I am? What part, Min?”
“I can’t see it clearly.” Min looked at the floor shyly. “Sometimes I wish I
couldn’t read people at all. Most people aren’t satisfied with what I see
anyway.”
“If we are all going,” Nynaeve said, “then we had best be about making plans.”
However much she might argue beforehand, once a course of action had been
decided, Nynaeve always went right to the practicalities: what they had to take
with them, and how cold it would be by the time they reached Toman Head, and
how they could get their horses from the stables without being stopped.
“There’s someone else we should bring with us,” Min said in the midst of it
all. “Mat Cauthon. He’s tied up in all this as well.”
Nynaeve frowned. “Liandrin said she he was to remain here with the Amyrlin.
Though I have to admit, I’m hard-pressed to decide which is safer for him.
Toman Head or the White Tower.”
“I suspect he’d take his chances with Toman Head, given what you’ve told me of
his antics,” Min said.
“He might. But Mat can’t be trusted to make such decisions,” said Nynaeve with
a sniff of long sufferance.
“If the Amyrlin has made arrangements for him here it would probably be best to
leave him with her,” Elayne said. And besides, she didn’t want Mat Cauthon
spoiling her adventure with his roguish ways. He’d probably spend the whole
journey leering at her, or Min for that matter.
Nynaeve nodded. “It would be best not to involve him. Better for him, and
better for us.”
Min shrugged acceptance, and the path was chosen.
***** Damane *****
CHAPTER 52: Damane
 
“Your first lesson is this,” the woman said emphatically. There was no
animosity in her voice, but what almost sounded like friendliness. “You are a
damane, a Leashed One, and I am a sul’dam, a Holder of the Leash. When damane
and sul’dam are joined, whatever hurt the sul’dam feels, the damane feels twice
over. Even to death. So you must remember that you may never strike at a
sul’dam in any way, and you must protect your sul’dam even more than yourself.
I am Renna Emain. How are you called?”
Elayne stared at her. She was a perfectly normal looking woman, with long, dark
hair and big brown eyes, pretty even, and perhaps as much as ten years older
than Nynaeve. But the words she spoke were madness.
“I am not ... what you said,” Elayne objected. She pulled at the collar again;
it gave no more than before. She thought of knocking the woman down and trying
to pry the bracelet from her wrist, but rejected it. Even if the soldiers did
not try to stop her—and so far they seemed to be ignoring her and Renna
altogether—she had the sinking feeling the woman was telling the truth.
“Liandrin Sedai? Why are you letting them do this?” Liandrin dusted her hands
together, never looking in her direction.
“The very first thing you must learn,” Renna said, “is to do exactly as you are
told, and without delay.”
Elayne gasped. Suddenly her skin burned and prickled from the soles of her feet
to her scalp. She tossed her head as the burning sensation increased.
“Many sul’dam,” Renna went on in that almost friendly tone, “do not believe
damane should be allowed names, or at least only names they are given. But I am
the one who took you, so I will be in charge of your training, and I will allow
you to keep your own name. If you do not displease me too far. I am mildly
upset with you now. Do you really wish to keep on until I am angry?”
Quivering, Elayne gritted her teeth. Her nails dug into her palms with the
effort of not scratching wildly. “Elayne,” she managed to get out. “I am Elayne
Trakand.” Instantly the burning itch was gone. She let out a long, unsteady
breath.
“Elayne,” Renna said. “That is a good name.” And to Elayne’s horror, Renna
patted her on the head as she would a dog.
That, she realized, was what she had detected in the woman’s voice—a certain
good will for a dog in training, not quite the friendliness one might have
toward another human being.
Renna chuckled. “Now you are even angrier. If you intend to strike at me,
remember to make it a small blow, for you will feel it twice as hard as I. Do
not attempt to channel; that you will never do without my express command.”
She tried to ignore Renna, as much as it was possible to ignore someone who
held a leash fastened to a collar around your neck. Her cheeks burned when the
other woman chuckled again. She wanted to go to Min, but the amount of leash
Renna had let out would not reach that far. She called softly, “Min, are you
all right?”
Sitting slowly back on her heels, Min nodded, then put a hand to her head as if
she wished she had not moved it.
Jagged lightning crackled across the clear sky, then struck among the trees
some distance off. Elayne jumped, and suddenly smiled. Nynaeve was still free.
Her smile faded into a glare for Liandrin. For whatever the reason the Aes
Sedai had betrayed them, there would be a reckoning. Someday. Somehow. The
glare did no good; Liandrin did not look away from the palanquin.
The bare-chested men knelt, lowering the palanquin to the ground, and Suroth
stepped down, carefully arranging her robe, then picked her way to Liandrin on
soft-slippered feet. The two women were much of a size. Brown eyes stared
levelly into black.
“You were to bring me one,” Suroth said. “Instead, you brought two, and the one
I was expecting runs loose, more powerful by far than I had been led to
believe. She will attract every patrol of ours within ten miles.”
“I brought her to you,” Liandrin said calmly. “If you cannot manage to hold
her, perhaps our master should find another among you to serve him. You take
fright at trifles. If patrols come, kill them.”
Lightning flashed again in the near distance, and moments later something
roared like thunder not far from where it struck; a cloud of dust rose into the
air. Neither Liandrin nor Suroth took any notice.
“I could still return to Falme with two new damane,” Suroth said. “It grieves
me to allow an ... Aes Sedai”—she twisted the words like a curse—“to walk
free.”
Liandrin’s face did not change, but Elayne saw a nimbus abruptly glow around
her. “Beware, High Lady,” Renna called. “She stands ready!”
There was a stir among the soldiers, a reaching for swords and lances, but
Suroth only steepled her hands, smiling at Liandrin over her long nails. “You
will make no move against me, Liandrin. Our master would disapprove, as I am
surely needed here more than you, and you fear him more than you fear being
made damane.”
Liandrin smiled, though white spots marked her cheeks with anger. “And you,
Suroth, fear him more than you fear me burning you to a cinder where you
stand.”
“Just so. We both fear him. Yet even our master’s needs will change with time.
All marath’damane will be leashed eventually. Perhaps I will be the one who
places the collar around your lovely throat.”
“As you say, Suroth. Our master’s needs will change. I will remind you of it on
the day when you kneel to me.”
A tall leatherleaf perhaps a mile away suddenly became a roaring torch.
“This grows tiresome,” Suroth said. “Elbar, recall them.” The hook-nosed man
produced a horn no bigger than his fist; it made a hoarse, piercing cry.
“You must find the woman Nynaeve,” Liandrin said sharply. “Elayne is of no
importance, but Nynaeve is to be broken utterly and paraded before her
countrymen in her debased state. Our master, he commands it, yes?”
Paraded before Rand and his friends, she means. Why? Why would they want him to
see such a thing? What is so important about him?
“I know very well what has been commanded, marath’damane, though I would give
much to know why.”
“However much you were told, child,” Liandrin sneered, “that is how much you
are allowed to know. Remember that you serve and obey.”
Suroth sniffed. “I will not remain here to find this Nynaeve. My usefulness to
our master will be at an end if Turak hands me over to the Seekers for Truth.”
Liandrin opened her mouth angrily, but Suroth refused to allow her a word. “The
woman will not remain free for long. When the Corenne arrives we will have
every woman on this miserable spit of land who can channel even slightly,
leashed and collared and ready to serve the Empress, may she live forever. If
you wish to remain and search for her, do so. Patrols will be here soon,
thinking to engage the rabble that still hides in the countryside. Some patrols
take damane and sul’dam with them, and they will not care what master you
serve. Should you survive the encounter, the leash and collar will teach you a
new life, and I do not believe our master will trouble to deliver one foolish
enough to let herself be taken.”
“If Nynaeve is allowed to escape,” Liandrin said tightly, “our master will
trouble himself with you, Suroth. Take her soon, or pay the price.” She strode
to the Waygate, clutching the reins of her mare. Soon it was closing behind
her.
The soldiers who had gone after Nynaeve came galloping back with the two women
linked by leash, collar, and bracelet, the damane and the sul’dam riding side
by side. Three men led horses with bodies across the saddles. Elayne felt a
surge of hope when she realized the bodies all wore armour. They had not caught
Nynaeve.
Min started to rise to her feet, but the hook-nosed man planted a boot between
her shoulder blades and drove her to the ground. Gasping for breath, she
twitched there weakly. “I beg permission to speak, High Lady,” he said. Suroth
made a small motion with her hand, and he went on. “This peasant cut me, High
Lady. If the High Lady has no use for her ...?” Suroth motioned slightly again,
already turning away, and he reached over his shoulder for the hilt of his
sword.
“No!” Elayne screamed. She heard Renna curse softly, and suddenly the burning
itch covered her skin again, worse than before, but she did not care about
that, not compared to what was about to happen. “Please! High Lady, please! She
is innocent. And she is my friend!” Pain such as she had never known wracked
her through the burning. Every muscle knotted and cramped; forcing her to her
knees. She saw Elbar’s heavy, curved blade come free of its sheath, see him
raise it with both hands. “Please! Oh, Min! I love you.”
Abruptly, the pain was gone as if it had never been; only the memory remained.
Suroth’s blue velvet slippers, dirt-stained now, appeared in front of her face,
but it was at Elbar that she stared. He stood there with his sword over his
head and all his weight on the foot that rested on Min’s back ... and he did
not move.
“This peasant is your friend?” Suroth said.
Elayne started to rise, but at a surprised arching of Suroth’s eyebrow, she
remained kneeling where she was and only raised her head. She had to save Min.
Even if it meant grovelling. “Yes, High Lady,” she said humbly.
“And if I spare her, if I allow her to visit you occasionally, you will work
hard and learn as you are taught?”
“I will, High Lady.” She would have promised much more to keep that sword from
splitting Min’s skull.
“Put the girl on her horse, Elbar,” Suroth said, to Elayne’s vast relief. “Tie
her on, if she cannot sit her saddle. If this damane proves a disappointment,
perhaps then I will let you have the head of the girl.” She was already moving
toward her palanquin.
Renna pulled Elayne roughly to her feet and pushed her toward Lioness, but
Elayne had eyes only for Min. Elbar was no gentler with Min than Renna with
her, but she thought Min was alright. At least Min shrugged off Elbar’s attempt
to tie her across her saddle and climbed onto her sorrel mare with only a
little help.
The odd party started off with Suroth leading and Elbar slightly to the rear of
her palanquin, but close enough to heed any summons immediately. Renna and
Elayne rode at the back with Min, and the other sul’dam and damane, behind the
soldiers. The yellow-haired woman who had apparently meant to collar Nynaeve
fondled the coiled silver leash she still carried and looked angry. Sparse
forest covered the rolling land, and the smoke of the burning leatherleaf was
soon only a smudge in the sky behind them. They descended from the hills where
the Ogier had once lived and rode westward, towards Falme.
“You were honoured,” Renna said after a time, “having the High Lady speak to
you. Another time, I would let you wear a ribbon to mark the honour. But since
you brought her attention on yourself ...” Elayne cried out as a switch seemed
to lash across her back, then another across her leg, her arm. From every
direction they seemed to come; she knew there was nothing to block, but she
could not help throwing her arms about as if to stop the blows. She bit her lip
to stifle her moans, but tears still rolled down her cheeks. Lioness tossed her
head angrily and danced, but Renna’s grip on the silver leash kept her from
carrying Elayne away. None of the soldiers even looked back.
“What are you doing to her?” Min shouted. “Elayne? Stop it!”
“You live on sufferance ... Min, is it?” Renna said mildly. “Let this be a
lesson for you as well. So long as you try to interfere, it will not stop.”
Min raised a fist, then let it fall. Her shoulders slumped and she looked at
Elayne sadly. “I won’t interfere. Only, please, stop it. Elayne, I’m sorry.”
The unseen blows went on for a few moments more, as if to show Min her
intervention had done nothing, then ceased, but Elayne could not stop
shuddering. The pain did not go away this time. She pushed back the sleeve of
her dress, thinking to see weals; her skin was unmarked, but the feel of them
was still there. She swallowed. “It was not your fault, Min.” Lioness tossed
her head, eyes rolling and Elayne patted the mare’s snowy neck. “It wasn’t
yours, either.”
“It was your fault, Elayne,” Renna said. She sounded so patient, dealing so
kindly with someone who was too dense to see the right, that Elayne wanted to
scream. “When a damane is punished, it is always her fault, even if she does
not know why. A damane must anticipate what her sul’dam wants. But this time,
you do know why. Damane are like furniture, or tools, always there ready to be
used, but never pushing themselves forward for attention. Especially not for
the attention of one of the Blood.”
Elayne bit her lip until she tasted blood. This is a nightmare. It can’t be
real. Why did Liandrin do this? Why is this happening?“May I ask a question?”
“Of me, you may.” Renna smiled. “Many sul’dam will wear your bracelet over the
years—there are always many more sul’dam than damane—and some would have your
hide in strips if you took your eyes off the floor or opened your mouth without
permission, but I see no reason not to let you speak, so long as you are
careful in what you say.” One of the other sul’dam snorted loudly; she was
linked to a pretty, dark-haired woman in her middle years who kept her eyes on
her hands.
“Liandrin”—Elayne would not give her the honorific, not ever again, not even if
the dark suspicion that had blossomed in her mind proved untrue—“and the High
Lady spoke of a master they both serve. Who is he? What does he want with
Nynaeve and her folk?”
“The affairs of the Blood,” Renna said, “are not for me to take notice of, and
certainly not for you. The High Lady will tell me what she wishes me to know,
and I will tell you what I wish you to know. Anything else that you hear or see
must be to you as if it never was said, as if it never happened. This way lies
safety, most especially for a damane. Damane are too valuable to be killed out
of hand, but you might find yourself not only soundly punished, but absent a
tongue to speak or hands to write. Damane can do what they must without these
things.”
Elayne shivered, but only partially in fear. In Andor even the most vile
criminal would not be punished so cruelly. And any noble who thought to rule so
tyrannically would soon find the Queen’s Guards battering down their gates.
“This is a monstrous thing. An injustice and a cruelty such as only the Shadow
could embrace. Or so I would have thought. How can you do this to anyone? What
diseased mind ever thought of it?”
The blue-eyed sul’dam with the empty leash growled, “This one could do without
her tongue already, Renna.”
Renna only smiled patiently. “How is it horrible? Could we allow anyone to run
loose who can do what a damane can? Sometimes men are born who would be
marath’damane if they were women —it is so here also, I have heard—and they
must be killed, of course, but the women do not go mad. Better for them to
become damane than make trouble contending for power. As for the mind that
first thought of the a’dam, it was the mind of a woman who called herself Aes
Sedai.”
Elayne knew incredulity must be painting her face, because Renna laughed
openly. “When Luthair Paendrag Mondwin, son of the Hawkwing, first faced the
Armies of the Night, he found many among them who called themselves Aes Sedai.
They contended for power among themselves and used the One Power on the field
of battle. One such, a woman named Deain, who thought she could do better
serving the Emperor—he was not Emperor then, of course—since he had no Aes
Sedai in his armies, came to him with a device she had made, the first a’dam,
fastened to the neck of one of her sisters. Though that woman did not want to
serve Luthair, the a’dam required her to serve. Deain made more a’dam, the
first sul’dam were found, and women captured who called themselves Aes Sedai
discovered that they were in fact only marath’damane, Those Who Must Be
Leashed. It is said that when she herself was leashed, Deain’s screams shook
the Towers of Midnight, but of course she, too, was a marath’damane, and
marath’damane cannot be allowed to run free. Perhaps you will be one of those
who has the ability to make a’dam. If so, you will be pampered, you may rest
assured.”
Elayne looked yearningly at the countryside through which they rode. But she
knew she could not outrun her captors, even if she was able to remove the leash
from her neck. Perhaps this truly is Hawkwing’s legacy. The legacy of his war
with the Aes Sedai, come back to haunt us a thousand years later.
“All this because man cannot suffer to be ruled by woman?” she sighed, not
expecting a response.
“Not men.” Renna chuckled. “All sul’dam are women. If a man put on this
bracelet, most of the time it would be no different than if it were hanging on
a peg on the wall.”
“And sometimes,” the blue-eyed sul’dam put in harshly, “you and he would both
die screaming.” The woman had sharp features and a tight, thin-lipped mouth,
and Elayne suspected that anger was her permanent expression. “From time to
time the Empress plays with lords by linking them to a damane. It makes the
lords sweat and entertains the Court of the Nine Moons. The lord never knows
until it is done whether he will live or die, and neither does the damane.” Her
laugh was vicious.
Min eyed the Seanchan askance, but she was unable to hide the fear and disgust
on her face. Not that they paid her the slightest heed.
Elayne’s back was straight as a rod. She fixed her gaze on the horizon and
tried to ignore the creatures who rode with her. “Any noblewoman of Andor who
thought to amuse themselves with such cruelties, even the queen, would soon
find herself torn from her seat and hanged by her own people. And rightly so,”
she pronounced.
Renna shook her finger at Elayne. “You speak as though you were of the High
Blood. But you are only damane now, however you were born. Even members of the
Imperial Family have lost their names and become damane. The quicker you accept
this, the less I will have to punish you.” The sul’dam pursued her lips.
“Though not in the way Alwhin describes. Only the Empress can afford to waste
damane in such a way, and I do not mean to train you only to have you thrown
away.”
“I have not seen any training at all so far, Renna,” said Alwhin. “Only a great
deal of chatter, as if you and this damane were girlhood friends.”
“Perhaps it is time to see what she can do,” Renna said, studying Elayne. “Do
you have enough control yet to channel at that distance?” She pointed to a tall
oak standing alone on a hilltop.
Elayne frowned at the tree, perhaps half a mile from the line followed by the
soldiers and Suroth’s palanquin. She had never tried anything much beyond arm’s
reach, but she thought it might be possible. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Try,” Renna told her. “Feel the tree. Feel the sap in the tree. I want you to
make it all not only hot, but so hot that every drop of sap in every branch
flashes to steam in an instant. Do it.”
Elayne had not channelled at all during their journey through the Ways, and the
desire to do so gnawed at the back of her mind. But it was far outweighed by
her repulsion at the thought of obeying these creatures. “It is too far,” she
said “And I’ve never done anything like that before.”
One of the sul’dam laughed raucously, and Alwhin said, “She never even tried.”
Renna shook her head almost sadly. “When one has been a sul’dam long enough,”
she told Egwene, “one learns to tell many things about damane even without the
bracelet, but with the bracelet one can always tell whether a damane has tried
to channel. You must never lie to me, or to any sul’dam, not even by a hair.”
Suddenly the invisible switches were back, striking at her everywhere. Yelling,
she forgot herself and tried to hit Renna, but the sul’dam casually knocked her
fist away, and Elayne felt as if Renna had hit her arm with a stick. In
desperation she dug her heels into Lioness’ flanks, but the sul’dam’s grip on
the leash nearly pulled her out of her saddle. Frantically she reached for
saidar. The sul’dam shook her head wryly; Elayne howled as her skin was
suddenly scalded. Not until she fled from saidar completely did the burn begin
to fade, and the unseen blows never ceased or slowed. She tried to shout that
she would try, if only Renna would stop, but all she could manage was to scream
and writhe.
Dimly, she was aware of Min shouting angrily and trying to ride to her side, of
Alwhin tearing Min’s reins from her hands, of another sul’dam speaking sharply
to her damane, who looked at Min. And then Min was yelling, too, arms flapping
as if trying to ward off blows or beat away stinging insects. In her own pain,
Min’s seemed distant.
Their cries together were enough to make some of the soldiers twist in their
saddles. After one look, they laughed and turned back. How sul’dam dealt with
damane was no affair of theirs.
To Elayne it seemed to go on forever, but at last there was an end. She lay
sprawled weakly across the cantle of her saddle, cheeks wet with tears, sobbing
into Lioness’ mane. The mare whickered uneasily.
“It is good that you have spirit,” Renna said calmly. “The best damane are
those who have spirit to be shaped and moulded.”
Elayne squeezed her eyes shut. She wished she could close her ears, too, to
shut out Renna’s voice. I have to escape. But how? Nynaeve, help me. Light,
somebody help me.
“You will be one of the best,” Renna said in tones of satisfaction. Her hand
stroked Elayne’s hair, much as a mistress with pet her dog’s coat to soothe it.
***** Paths *****
CHAPTER 53: Paths
 
Nynaeve leaned out of her saddle to peer around the screen of prickly leafed
shrubs. Scattered trees met her eyes, some with leaves turning colour. The
expanses of grass and brush between seemed empty. Nothing moved that she could
see except the thinning column of smoke, wavering in a breeze, from the
leatherleaf.
That had been her work, the leatherleaf, and once the lightning called from a
clear sky, and a few other things she had not thought to try until those two
women tried them on her. She thought they must work together in some way,
though she could not understand their relation to each other, apparently
leashed as they were. One wore a collar, but the other was chained as surely as
she. What Nynaeve was sure of was that one or both were Aes Sedai. She had
never had a clear enough sight of them to see the glow of channelling, but it
had to be.
I’ll certainly take pleasure in telling Sheriam about them, she thought dryly.
Aes Sedai don’t use the Power as a weapon, do they?
She certainly had. She had at least knocked the two women down with that
lightning strike, and she had seen one of the soldiers, or his body rather,
burn from the ball of fire she made and hurled at them. She did not like to
think that she had killed anyone, even people who were attacking her, but if
that was the price of freedom she would do what she must. Thankfully, she had
not seen any of the strangers at all in some time now.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, and it was not all from exertion. Her contact
with saidar was gone, and she could not bring it back. In that first fury of
knowing that Liandrin had betrayed them, saidar had been there almost before
she knew it, the One Power flooding her. It had seemed she could do anything.
And as long as they had chased her, rage at being hunted like an animal had
fuelled her. Now the chase had vanished. The longer she had gone without seeing
an enemy at whom she could strike, the more she had begun to worry that they
might be sneaking up on her somehow, and the more she had had time to worry
about what was happening to Elayne and Min. Now she was forced to admit that
what she felt most was fear. Fear for them, fear for herself. It was anger she
needed.
Something stirred behind a tree.
Her breath caught, and she fumbled for saidar, but all the exercises Sheriam
and the others had taught her, all the blossoms unfolding in her mind, all the
imagined streams that she held like riverbanks, did no good. She could feel it,
sense the Source, but she could not touch it.
The man who stepped from behind the tree did not look surprised to see her. She
glared at him, stoking her anger, still trying and failing to grasp saidar. He
did not dress like one of the strangers Liandrin was in league with. His furs
and leathers looked finely made, but they were scuffed from hard use. He was
tall, pale and gaunt with a bitter look about him, and she could not quite
place his age. His bow was shorter than those used in the Theren but he carried
it with familiarity, and she had the feeling the noise he had made had been
deliberate.
“I mean you no harm,” he said in the kind of voice gleemen tried to emulate
when recounting the words of a villain, but Nynaeve was not fool enough to
judge him on that. At the very least, he did not share an accent with Suroth
and her ilk.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”
He gave a small shrug. “Nothing really. I heard the sounds of fighting and saw
you being chased by the Seanchan. Are you an Aes Sedai?”
Nynaeve hesitated, wondering whether it would do her good or ill to flash the
Great Serpent ring and claim allegiance to the White Tower. She decided to risk
it. “I am here on Aes Sedai business,” she said slowly, watching him carefully.
Aes Sedai treachery was Aes Sedai business. Her business would be in seeing
Liandrin paid dearly for it, and in not blundering into two ambushes in one
day.
The man nodded, studying the ring she displayed. “I know some people who would
like to meet you then. Falmerans, enemies of your enemies. Friends.”
She frowned. Whatever else, she needed to find Elayne and Min and free them
from their captors. Assuming they were still alive. She smothered her worry and
weighed her options, vaguely aware that if it had it been one of her Theren
folk in danger she would likely have been unable to stop herself from rushing
to their aid. She wondered if Liandrin had been lying about Rand and the others
being in danger. Supposedly Aes Sedai could not. Supposedly. The people who had
taken her friends, the Seanchan the man had called them, were obviously
dangerous. The Falmerans had been fighting them for months if the rumours she
had heard held any truth. She would stand a much better chance of rescuing Min
and Elayne if she could find help from the locals, though she dreaded to think
of what might become of the girls while in the invaders’ hands.
She took a firm hold of her braid. “I am Nynaeve al’Meara,” she said. “Take me
to these friends of yours, stranger.”
The twist of his lips might almost have qualified as a smile. “Name’s Nafanyel.
I think my ‘friends’ will like you.”
She sniffed and watched him carefully.
He led her first to a copse of trees where his horse waited. Once he had
mounted up they turned east. She hoped that once they found Nafanyel’s friends
she could stop being afraid and start being angry. The breeze freshened, cool
and brisk with a hint of cold yet to come. She looked back towards the setting
sun as she rode. Hold on Min, Elayne. I will come for you, I promise.
 
                                     * * *
 
The closed helm made it impossible to see his face and kept even his eyes in
shadow. She had felt Lan’s disapproval when he looked at the captain and at
each of the Valreio soldiers they had passed, though his own countenance might
as well be a mask for all the expression that he showed. Moiraine shared her
Warder’s vexation, but for a different reason.
“I understand your orders, Captain Stroud, but surely you realise that Riela
Selene did not intend for these restrictions to apply to Aes Sedai. She is much
... wiser, than that,” she said coolly.
“I suspect you are right, Alys Sedai,” he said in a voice still deep despite
the muffling helmet, “but I am honour bound to obey the commands she has given
me, not the commands I think she might give. Please accept my apologies for any
inconvenience this causes you.”
Moiraine studied him in silence, her thoughts whirling through possibilities.
She could force her way through. It was unlikely that the Valreio soldiers
would actually attack her; their nation was almost as firmly tied to Tar Valon
as Andor was, though the rivalry between those two lands had soured relations
somewhat in recent times. And even if they did attack she was confident she
could deflect their blows. Stroud displayed the heron on his blade, a fact
which had been enough to win him Lan’s focus, but what did such things matter
to one who could wield the One Power?
Siuan would not thank her though. No. Thanks would be the opposite of what she
could expect if she started a conflict with Selene’s forces. The alternative
was to comply with the Riela’s orders, visit her capital and obtain permission
to pass the blockade. It would cost her several days travel, possibly force her
involvement in Valreio politics and, most egregiously of all, force her to
trumpet her activities to those whose attention she wanted to avoid.
Moiraine was intent on secrecy now more than ever. The reports her eyes and
ears had sent from Cairhien had troubled her. But far worse was the silence
that had followed Rand’s visit to Stedding Tsofu. Three months was far too long
without word. Someone should have seen them by now. She shook her head. She
refused to believe he could be dead, the Pattern would not allow it. Could not.
I have come too far for it all to fall apart now. Toman Head. All signs point
to a convergence on Toman Head.
Most men, even experienced soldiers, squirmed when she stared at them as long
as she had Stroud, but that mask hid his face so completely that for all she
knew he could have been rolling his eyes at her.
She turned her back on him without another word. Arguing would only make her,
and by extension, the Tower, look weak. So she surrounded herself in cold grace
and remounted Aldieb.
The Whitecloak Inquisitor, Jaichim Carridin stood by a distant tent surrounded
by a dozen of his men, watching her intently. She knew his thoughts and did not
deign to look at him directly. He and his ilk would give much to put their
hands on an Aes Sedai, but she did not think even they would dare attack her in
Valreis. Not openly at least. The roads could be perilous for any traveller,
even an Aes Sedai. Stroud had, quite bluntly, ordered two dozen of his men to
stand between him and the Whitecloaks when he first saw her approach and they
remained there now, nervously fingering the hilts of their swords and eyeing
the zealots in their midst.
Of greater interest than Carridin was what his presence represented. Why had
Selene allowed the Whitecloaks a presence in Valreis? She didn’t think for a
moment that the woman had converted to their views. Perhaps it had something to
do with Almoth Plain. That all-but abandoned land lay between Valreis and
Amadicia, home of the Children. If one or both nations had designs upon it ...
She was almost certain Almoth Plain was not the place spoken of in the prophecy
Verin had found, but could she be mistaken?
Lan said nothing as they rode through the large, well-established camp, though
she could guess his thoughts from what drifted through the bond they shared.
Wariness was first among them, he strove to watch everyone in the camp, from
the armoured soldiers to the farriers, teamsters and washerwoman who worked to
provide them all they needed. Curiosity came next, he wondered what path she
would set them on. Pity rose to match it when they passed a group of bedraggled
refugees, Falmerans by their dress, who were being turned back towards the
mountain pass by helmeted and armoured Valreio soldiers. The refugees pleas
only hardened the Valreio against them. None were allowed to pass into or out
of Toman Head without Selene’s direct order, and that included mothers
desperately trying to ferry their children away from the war that raged on the
other side of the mountains. Moiraine’s lips tightened. She suspected her
Damodred ancestors would have liked Selene. The woman had much in common with
them.
The camp was large and well-established. It had grown to all-but become a town
in the months since the blockade began, albeit a town of mud and tents. Several
travelling merchants had paused their travelling long enough to form a market
square of sorts. She knew without looking that their wares would be overpriced.
And that they would be eyeing the surrounding soldiers warily, ever wondering
if their clients would decide to simply take what they wanted.
“There is more than one pass through the Zandarakh Mountains. I could lead you
to one of the smaller ones,” Lan said, when they were safely outside the range
of any listeners.
“With all the conflicts that have arisen over the years between these two
nations, I would expect that none of the passes are secret, to either side. It
is likely that there will be similar camps.”
Lan said nothing. He knew she was right.
“I mislike both paths offered. I believe I shall take a third one,” she
announced, though the prospect filled her with trepidation. The last time she
had travelled the Ways had brought them much closer to disaster than she would
have liked.
Lan was no fool. “I see. The nearest steddings are along the River Ivo. Four of
them. Perhaps between the four we can find an Ogier to Guide us.”
“And if not that I will procure a book on the Guides and study them myself. The
Ways have a part to play in this, Lan. We overlooked them once and let the
Shadow steal a march on us. We cannot afford to make that mistake again.”
When they left the camp behind they rode north into the wilds. Moiraine did not
want to give any watchers a hint as to her destination. Lan doubled back often
to obscure their tracks. Only when they were far beyond sight did they turn
east again, back the way they had come. She consoled herself with the thought
that she could make up for lost time by using the Ways, but even that
reassurance was dependant on their surviving another journey through that
tainted place. Whatever was going to happen on Toman Head, she knew she had to
be there. Letting Rand believe he could run free had been necessary to dampen
his resentment, to prevent him from railing against her and thereby making her
work even more difficult. Children his age often required careful handling. But
she could not allow him to ruin all she had worked for these past decades. She
would not.
***** Training *****
CHAPTER 54: Training
 
From the narrow window of her tiny room under the eaves, one of a number
roughly walled together from whatever had been there before, Elayne could see
the garden where damane were being walked by their sul’dam. Walked in the same
manner one might walk a pet dog, for that was the Seanchan saw them as,
dangerous animals who needed to be firmly leashed.
It had been several gardens before the Seanchan knocked down the walls that
separated them and took the big houses to keep their damane. The trees were all
but leafless, but the damane were still taken out for air, whether they wanted
it or not. Elayne watched the garden because Renna was down there, talking with
another sul’dam, and as long as she could see Renna, then Renna was not going
to enter and surprise her. She had had more than enough surprises in the week
since she arrived on Toman Head.
Liandrin’s betrayal and the arrival of these invaders who flew the banner of
Artur Hawkwing and claimed to be his descendants had been shocking enough. The
very idea that something like damane could exist could shake anyone. But there
had been something else that troubled her, something she only thought to wonder
about days into her imprisonment, during one of Min’s visits.
“Do you think it was all lies, Min?” Elayne had asked after her friend’s
efforts to cheer her had lulled. “What Liandrin told us about Rand being in
danger I mean? Aes Sedai do not lie.”
Min was silent for a time, no doubt remembering all Elayne had told her of the
oaths a woman took on being raised to full Aes Sedai, oaths spoken holding a
ter’angreal that bound her to keep them. One of the Three Oaths was “To speak
no word that is not true.”
“Everyone back home in Baerlon used to say that the truth an Aes Sedai said
might not be the truth you thought you heard,” Min had said at last, in an
uncharacteristically grim voice. “He’s probably fine. It was Nynaeve they were
after. And we bundled ourselves into the trap along with her.” She lowered her
voice. “We should focus on finding a way out of it now.”
“You’re right,” Elayne had sighed, but no matter how she turned it around in
her head she could not see how Liandrin’s words had not been a direct violation
of her Oath. Or understand how that could be.
She knew watching Renna wasn’t enough to keep her safe. Some other sul’dam
might come—there were many more sul’dam than damane, and every sul’dam wanted
her turn wearing a bracelet; they called it being complete—but Renna still had
charge of her training, and it was Renna who wore her bracelet four times out
of five. If anyone came, they would find no impediment to entering. There were
no locks on the doors of damane’s rooms.
Elayne’s room held only a hard, narrow bed, a washstand with a chipped pitcher
and bowl, one chair and a small table, but it had no room for more. Damane had
no need of comfort, or privacy, or possessions. Damane were possessions. Min
had a room just like this, in another house, but Min could come and go as she
would, or almost as she would. Seanchan were great ones for rules, and enforced
them as rigidly as if they were laws; they had more rules, for everyone, than
the White Tower did for Novices, and more laws than Andor had or would ever
have.
At least she hoped so. The bones of Queen Nora no longer decorated the square
outside Elayne’s prison but the High Lord who ruled Falme in place of its
rightful Queen still squatted in the looming Divalaird. Elayne had been
outraged at the Falmerans when first she was brought to the city. They walked
the streets of their own capital mostly unmolested, yet she had not seen a
single sign of resistance during her time here. No enemy barracks burned, no
brave partisans fought in the streets to free their countrymen. The folk of the
city wandered around pretending not to notice the invaders in their midst. She
had told herself it would never have happened this way if the Seanchan had
presumed to attack Andor. A week’s imprisonment had robbed her of her righteous
indignation. How were they to fight monsters and channelers? Elayne had been
plagued by nightmares lately, horrid dreams of her mother dying by slow
impalement, screaming, weeping. Dreams of Andor suffering under Seanchan rule,
its people dragged off to be sold like cattle. Those who were lucky enough to
escape the collars. Just dreams, she told herself. The Seanchan could never
conquer Andor, or Tar Valon. Even if they did use the One Power in battle ...
Elayne made sure to stand far back from the window. She did not want any of the
women below to look up and see the glow that she knew surrounded her as she
channelled the One Power, probing delicately at the collar around her neck,
searching futilely; she could not even tell whether the band was woven or made
of links—sometimes it seemed one, sometimes the other—but it seemed all of a
piece all the time. It was only a tiny trickle of the Power, the merest drip
that she could imagine, but it still beaded sweat on her face and made her
stomach clench. That was one of the properties of the a’dam; if a damane tried
to channel without a sul’dam wearing her bracelet, she felt sick, and the more
of the Power she channelled, the sicker she became. Lighting a candle beyond
the reach of her arm would have made Elayne vomit. Once Renna had ordered her
to juggle her tiny balls of light with the bracelet lying on the table.
Remembering still made her shudder.
Now, the silver leash snaked across the bare floor and up the unpainted wooden
wall to where the bracelet hung on a peg. The sight of it hanging there made
her jaws clench with fury. A dog leashed so carelessly could have run away. If
a damane moved her bracelet as much as a foot from where it had last been
touched by a sul’dam ... Renna had made her do that, too—had made her carry her
own bracelet across the room. Or try to. She was sure it had only been minutes
before the sul’dam snapped the bracelet firmly on her own wrist, but to Elayne
the screaming and the cramps that had had her writhing on the floor had seemed
to go on for hours.
She hoped in vain for a tap on her door, for Min to poke her head in and smile
her warm, comforting smile. She had been allowed to visit every day for the
first week, but then, for no reason they could discern, her visits had been cut
back. Renna had said that Min would still be allowed to come see her, but only
once a week now. Elayne had thought it over and come to a hateful realisation.
They were going to take Min away from her forever. Oh, they would let her visit
a few more times, but only a few. A little honey to make the bitter medicine go
down easier. Until Elayne got used to being alone, used to being no-one’s
friend, no-one’s lover, used to being nothing but damane. It was all part of
her training. She watched the women outside being led around meekly by their
leashes and felt a blinding fury. One that was drowned all too soon by the
realisation that she could soon be out there with them.
Elayne had never accounted herself brave, but she had not expected to find
herself a coward. Mother had better marry Gareth Bryne and have another
daughter as soon as she can. I am not fit to take the throne. Andor would need
a strong Daughter-Heir if they were to defeat the Seanchan, someone much
stronger than Elayne Trakand.
She hoped there was such a woman. Perhaps the most horrifying thing she had
seen during her captivity had been the Aes Sedai. Two of them, leashed and
collared like so many other women.
Ryma had looked exhausted, as though she had not been allowed to sleep in days.
The sul’dam kept calling her Pura, and every time she refused to answer to the
name, every time she insisted that she was Ryma Galfrey, an Aes Sedai of the
Yellow Ajah, they had done something with the a’dam, something that set the Aes
Sedai to howling in agony and sent tears streaming down her ageless face.
Elayne had watched it happen, a white-faced, silent little girl who lacked the
courage to stand up and demand they stop, for fear they would do the same to
her.
She had seen the second Aes Sedai prisoner yesterday but had not had the chance
to speak to her. Not that she had seemed inclined to speak to anyone. A
Cairhienin by her appearance, she had stared at nothing and no-one, as though
shocked by a sudden loss. Ryma had called out to her, and mentioned the Blue
Ajah before the sul’dam turned her words to screams. The other Aes Sedai had
not responded.
There had been no sign of Nynaeve. That was one of the few comforts she could
take in her captivity. If Nynaeve had escaped then perhaps she could spread
word to those who might come to their rescue. And if not that, then at least
one of them had been spared.
Despite her best efforts to compose herself, Elayne still jumped when she heard
the door opening. Her mother would be ashamed of her she knew, her grandmother
and grandmother’s grandmother too.
Renna entered, clad in the uniform dress that all sul’dam wore. Elayne could
not believe she had ever looked at her and thought her pretty. She was a
monster. Shadowspawn in human skin. All the sul’dam were. Today she had brought
a second a’dam, though Elayne could not guess the purpose.
She studied Elayne for a moment and her face gave no sign of what she saw.
“You cannot find ores in the ground unfortunately. But I thought of something
else we could test for. It is even rarer, but perhaps ...”
Elayne watched sharply as the sul’dam took down the bracelet, opened it, and
fastened it again around her wrist. She could not see how it was done. If she
could have probed with the One Power she would have, but Renna would have known
that immediately. As the bracelet closed around Renna’s wrist a look came onto
the sul’dam’s face that made Elayne’s heart sink.
“You have been channelling.” Renna’s voice was deceptively mild; there was a
spark of anger in her eyes. “You know that is forbidden except when we are
complete.” Elayne wet her lips. “Perhaps I have been too lenient with you.”
Renna gave a little sigh, a long-suffering sigh, as of a patient teacher whose
patience was wearing thin. “First, let us see what we have in you.” She took
the chair and crossed her legs. She held the second a’dam in her hands and
studied it with intense concentration. Elayne could not tell what, if anything,
she was doing. Only the barest trickle of the One Power was flowing through
her, and it wasn’t being spun in any particular way that she could tell.
Whatever it was she did, Renna’s face lit up, and a delighted smile crawled
across her lips. “Well, well,” she purred. “Perhaps you are special after all.”
Despite herself, Elayne had to ask, “What do you mean?”
“Not many damane can make copies of the a’dam,” Renna explained cheerfully. “No
matter how hard we try to force them. But you can. You will serve the Empire
well, especially with so many damane to collar, here in these new lands.”
Elayne shuddered. They would use her to make more a’dam, then use the a’dam to
collar more women, and each time a woman was collared with an a’dam of her
making it would be partially her fault. Her stomach roiled at the horror of it.
I have to get away from these creatures somehow. Before they make me into a ...
a pet instead of a person. Or worse, use me against my people. But she didn’t
know how to escape. Every path she had tried so far had been blocked, most of
them by the simple fact of the a’dam that was always around her throat, choking
her. I wish Rand was here. Or my brothers, even Galad. Or all three, with
Gareth Bryne and the Amyrlin Seat and an army ten times the size of the
Seanchan’s. As well wish to fly. They were all far, far away, and no-one even
knew why she had left Tar Valon, much less where she had gone. How could they
ever find her? She sighed, and wondered briefly why she had thought of Rand
first when she dreamed of rescue. He did have a strange way of intruding on her
thoughts.
Renna set the spare a’dam aside and gave it a satisfied pat.
When she turned her attention back to Elayne, the look in her eyes was enough
to make her blood run cold. “Perhaps you believe that because you are valuable
now, you will be allowed license. Perhaps you believe because I have been so
kind to you, despite your behaviour, that you can channel without permission
and escape punishment. You are wrong. You have been a bad damane. I think I
made a mistake letting you keep your old name. I had a kitten called Tuli when
I was a child. From now on, your name is Tuli. I must punish you severely for
this. We will both be called to the Court of the Nine Moons—you for what you
can do; I as your sul’dam and trainer—and I will not allow you to disgrace me
in the eyes of the Empress. I will stop when you tell me how much you love
being damane and how obedient you will be after this. And, Tuli. Make me
believe every word.”
Coward that she was, Elayne trembled at the thought of what was coming. But she
found at least a smidgeon of courage, enough to say in a high-voice, “My name
is Elayne Trakand. I am a Novice at the White Tower. I am the Daughter-Heir of
Andor. I will not answer to any other name. And I will not say what you told me
to say, I will not be a damane.”
She held to that mantra for as long as she could, as her body twisted and pain
stabbed through her mind. Even as she burned without blisters she refused to
say what Renna wanted her to say, but no matter how hard she tried she could
not stop herself from weeping, nor silence the screams that turned her throat
raw. Her own screams were the last thing she heard before darkness closed in
around her.
***** The Hope of Falmerden *****
CHAPTER 55: The Hope of Falmerden
 
Nynaeve’s new companion had proven to be a man of few words. He was a bit like
Lan in that regard, but where Lan’s stern silence masked hidden depths,
Nafanyel’s dour face was simply a reflection of his mood, or perhaps his
nature. He struck her as a man awash in misery, but whatever it was that he
brooded on day after day he didn’t chose to share it with her, and she did not
ask. She was too busy worrying over her missing friends, and wondering whether
she had made a terrible mistake in trusting the strange Falmeran.
Nafanyel led her east for several days, avoiding the roads even if it meant
leading their horses over dangerously steep hills. Better to risk a broken leg
than capture by the Seanchan patrols, he claimed. When she put forward the
notion that they might outrun their pursuers—Natti Cauthon had loaned her a
fast, if ill-tempered, horse, and she had managed to escape the Seanchan once
already after all—Nafanyel shook his head grimly and recounted a wild tale of
men who rode scaled, three-eyed cats as large as horses that could outpace even
the swiftest steed. Nynaeve spent the rest of that day eyeing him askance and
wondering if the Pattern was perverse enough to place her in the company of a
second male channeler.
She saw the truth of his claims the next day, when a patrol of armoured men on
the backs of half a dozen beasts every bit as bizarre as Nafanyel had described
raced along the path below the incline where they hid. The creatures moved with
a speed and a predatory grace that sent shivers down Nynaeve’s spine. When
Nafanyel claimed that the Seanchan also controlled giant birds which their best
scouts rode on the back of she did not doubt him.
“The Seanchan control nearly half the county now,” he had told her that first
night as they huddled around their small fire eating a meagre supper.
“Everything west of the Knotwood. If the forest wasn’t so thick and my people
didn’t know it so well the invaders would control it too. Everyone who has met
them in open combat has died, including almost all the noble houses of the
western realm.” He grimaced as he recounted his countrymen’s litany of defeats.
“The Seanchan ... Well. All those who might have organised a resistance against
them have been killed,” he continued, while grinding his teeth. “All except
King Kaelan and General Surtir. They are holed up at Fortress Calranell with
the bulk of what’s left of Falmerden, including our new Queen. Though Evelin is
only seventeen, so I doubt her father or the General will be letting her do
much in the way of ruling.”
“Is that where you’re taking me?” she had asked.
Nafanyel stared into the fire morosely. “Yes,” he said at last. Then he
announced his intention to take first watch and put an end to that
conversation.
Nynaeve slept with her back to a tree or a moss-covered rock whenever possible,
propping herself up as she dozed fitfully with her cloak wrapped tight around
her shoulders. Underneath she was sure to keep a firm grip on the hilt of her
beltknife. Despite his seemingly earnest help, she wasn’t sure she could trust
this Nafanyel. The shadow of Liandrin’s betrayal lingered on her mind each
night of their journey. She dreamt of Min and Elayne in torment, and sometimes
of Rand tormented right alongside them. That last she dismissed. Rand was
probably warming his feet in front of Lord Agelmar’s fire in Fal Dara by now.
Liandrin had just told her whatever she felt would lure her into this trap. I
can’t worry about him, now. I have to think about Min and Elayne. With each
step of the journey east her conscious insisted she turn around and rush to
their aid. But she stamped it down. I can’t help them by myself, she reasoned.
Probably. There’s much more hope of success if I can persuade this king to get
off his backside and do his job.
Nafanyel was visibly relieved when they reached the outskirts of a thickly-
treed forest that reminded Nynaeve of the Waterwood back home. “Our only real
victories have come through ambushes,” he murmured. “And most of those in that
forest. It’s the only thing that has stalled the Seanchan invasion. That and
their own cautiousness. They seem content to hold Falme and wait for ... I know
not what. Regardless, we’ll be much safer once we get under that canopy.” He
put his heels to his horse’s ribs and galloped off. Nynaeve was quick to
follow.
The Knotwood proved a rich hunting ground and Nynaeve was happy to take the
opportunity to down a rabbit with her sling. When she drew rein and dismounted
to gather her supper she noticed Nafanyel staring at her with naked shock.
“I didn’t think Aes Sedai did stuff like that,” he said. Even while surprised
his voice retained a harsh growl.
“I can do a lot of things,” she cautioned him with a stern look. She tied her
rabbit to the saddle and remounted, making sure to give her guide a good glare
as she did so. She decided she would set up some snares once they made camp.
Dried rations were no proper replacement for a hot meal. And it would help show
this Falmeran that she was not a woman to be taken lightly.
“What sort of man is this Kaelan?” she asked, later that evening. “Why hasn’t
he thrown these invaders out of the country yet? That’s a king’s job surely. In
so much as they have jobs.”
Nafanyel looked amused. “I heard ... someone once say that they think of Kaelan
as much as Kaelan thinks at all. He’s a very handsome man, and that’s all Queen
Nora wanted from her consort. Though that didn’t prevent her from taking other
lovers, if you believe the rumours. Princess Evelin doesn’t bear much
resemblance to either of her parents, you understand.”
Nynaeve sniffed at that. And stared at Nafanyel in silence until the smirk
disappeared from his lips. “That doesn’t explain why he isn’t fighting back,”
she said.
Her guide sighed. “I don’t know why. If I had to guess I’d say it was the
General’s doing. Kaelan would be wise to listen to him ... usually. Syoman
Surtir is the main reason we won our most recent war against Valreis. But he
hates the Valreio with a passion. And if he leads his army west to fight the
Seanchan then he will be leaving the border undefended if Valreis decides to
invade again.” He shrugged. “Either way, he’s screwed.”
“Mind your language,” Nynaeve said distractedly. If Nafanyel’s assessment was
accurate she would have her work cut out for her budging these men. It was a
shame their Queen had not survived. A fellow woman would surely have been more
open to reason.
“I have much to think on,” she announced then. “You take first watch. Wake me
when you get too tired.” She ignored the man’s sour look as she settled herself
near the dying fire. If she told the King that she was an Aes Sedai he might be
more inclined to listen to her. She hated the thought of lying, especially
about something like that, but she would do whatever it took to save her
friends.
They had been travelling together for more than a week and were nearing the far
side of the Knotwood when she saw the lightning. It was a clear, if chilly day,
and she did not need her weather sense to know that that had been no natural
storm; the tell-tale threads of saidar woven in the air around the lightning
bolt were plain to see now. Her training in Tar Valon had been worth that much,
humiliating and frustrating as it had been.
Seanchan ... or Aes Sedai? Little as she loved the White Tower, there could be
no denying which of the two factions she would rather find nearby.
Nafanyel was scanning the woods around them. The trees had been growing sparser
with each mile they covered today. “We’ll turn back for a while,” he said.
“Wait it out in the deep woods. The Seanchan will finish their business and
march back to their outposts surrounding Falme, they never really come east in
force. We just need to wait.”
Nynaeve tugged at her braid. The spike of fear that had assailed her when the
lightning first struck had faded. And left in its place a good hot anger. She
felt saidar fill her. “I want to see who was channelling just now. If it was an
Aes Sedai they can help me. And if not ...”
The Falmeran looked at her incredulously. “Don’t be foolish. There’s probably
an army over there. With more of those leashed Aes Sedai.”
“I am never foolish,” she said, scowling at him. The silly man was probably
thinking with the hair on his chest. What else would make him say something
like that?
Nynaeve dug her heels into Muscles flanks and set off towards the dim sound of
battle. Cursing under his breath, Nafanyel followed.
When the sounds grew louder and the trees more sparse, Nynaeve dismounted and
tied Muscles’ reins to a branch, before creeping forward. She called to mind
all that her father had taught her of woodcraft and kept low and out of the
sightline of her prey while making sure to place her feet carefully. She
followed a low incline, where patches of old snow from the fall of two days
past still lingered, and came at last to a likely spot to spy from. A pair of
gnarled old leatherleafs sheltered a patch of brown and leafless brambles which
should hide her well. She crept towards them and crawled up the incline to peer
between the gaps in the foliage. She paid little heed to the dirt that got on
her dress. She had had little opportunity to bathe or change in the past week
and Elayne would likely have considered the dress beyond saving at this point.
Nynaeve would fix it when she got a chance. For now there were more important
things.
The rolling field below was littered with corpses. At a glance she could tell
that most were Falmerans, clad as they were in furs and leathers just like
Nafanyel’s, if often rougher looking. But for all their fancy lacquered armour
the Seanchan had taken quite a few casualties of their own. Those were being
dragged to a central area by the victors of the battle. The Falmeran dead were
left where they lay. It was hard to tell, but she thought there had to be at
least two hundred dead. The sight sickened Nynaeve. It was such a waste of
life, Seanchan and Falmeran both. In the sky far to the north she saw a dark
shape wheel in a long looping circle. And close by was a group of disarmed
Falmeran prisoners kneeling with their hands placed upon their heads. Armed and
armoured Seanchan soldiers watched them carefully. Two women in red and blue
dresses stood among the Seanchan, and each of them held a silvery leash around
the neck of the grey-robed woman kneeling at her feet.
Nynaeve wondered if the women could sense her holding saidar. Now that she had
managed to grasp it she had no intention of releasing. But she had to fight a
sudden urge to go back the way she had come. Coward! You should use the Power
to smash these Seanchan. And free those prisoners! A mounted man crested a rise
in the distance, riding something that was definitely not a horse. She stayed
where she was and fumed quietly. There looked to be almost a hundred Seanchan
left standing. That was far too many for her to fight. Telling herself that
didn’t make her feel better though. Not when one of the soldiers backhanded a
kneeling Falmeran across the face with his gauntleted fist and growled
something she couldn’t make out in his slurred accent. The Falmeran answered
with a look of defiance.
“Burn me,” breathed Nafanyel. Nynaeve scowled across at him and tried to
pretend she had noticed him moving to join her at her vantage point. “Is that
...? It is, Shadow take it all.”
He was staring at the prisoners. And at one in particular, Nynaeve thought as
she followed his gaze. One of the leash-holding women, pale and yellow-haired,
was fingering the garb of the sole female prisoner. The prisoner had hair of a
similar colour to Elayne’s, but that was the end of the resemblance. Even
kneeling she looked tall, and she was muscular enough that she might have been
able to overpower Alsbet Luhhan, if women were fool enough to take part in such
violent contests. Her long face and heavy jaw were stubbornly set and she met
her captor’s eyes proudly. The dark, high-necked and fur-lined dress she wore,
that the Seanchan now carefully examined, looked well-made and expensive and,
combined with her ample bosom, was enough to offset an appearance that might
unkindly have been described as “mannish”.
“The girl. That’s Princess Evelin,” Nafanyel whispered in an aside as he stared
down at the scene.
Nynaeve wondered fleetingly how he knew what the Falmeran princess looked like,
but the thought was quickly drowned beneath a pair of realisations. If she
freed the princess and took her back to her father she would have won their
gratitude, surely enough to ask them to return the favour and help her rescue
Min and Elayne. And if she brought news to the King and his general that the
Seanchan had taken their princess back to Falme with them her father would have
to go and face the invaders at last. How could he not? Nynaeve weighed her
options. The heroic thing to do would be to charge down there and free the
prisoners. It was what most men would have done. And they would probably have
gotten themselves killed in the process. The sensible thing to do would be to
go to Calranell and tell the army there what she had seen. Nynaeve nodded to
herself.
“They recognise the crest,” Nafanyel said bitterly. “The Warhounds. How could
they not? It’s the same one Queen Nora wore, before they had her impaled.” He
clutched his bow in his white-knuckled hands and sneered at something only he
could see.
“Impaled ...” Nynaeve whispered. It was a horrifying thought.
Below Seanchan soldiers were pulling Evelin clear of the group of prisoners.
The woman in the blue and red dress wore a look of immense satisfaction as she
spoke to a man in a plumed helmet.
Her satisfaction turned to surprise when several of the prisoners, red-faced
and shouting loudly, surged to their feet and lunged at the Seanchan guarding
them. They had no weapons, and their foes wore armour from head to heel but the
fools still charged. The Seanchan soldiers did not flinch. Swords flashed out
of lacquered sheathes and each of the would-be heroes was swiftly slain. Evelin
spun around, wrenching momentarily free of her captors. She raised a hand in a
forbidding gesture towards her countrymen, and though Nynaeve could not hear
her words she understood them well. Don’t throw your lives away for me.
Nynaeve glanced at Nafanyel, who was still clutched that bow of his. “She’s
right. There’s nothing we could do against so many. But if we tell her father
about what happened here, then perhaps we can free her before ...” She tailed
off, not wanting to say it. Impalement. What a horrible way to die.
“Fathers aren’t always as nice as you think,” he muttered, not meeting her
eyes. “You’ll learn that soon enough.”
Several Seanchan were leading their prize away while others kept a sharpened
vigil on the prisoners. Nynaeve thought it a good time to creep away and pushed
back from the bramble bush. She and Nafanyel made their way back to their
horses, quietly and carefully.
“How much farther is it to Calranell?” she asked as she untied Muscles’ reins.
Nafanyel had that dour, broody look on his face again. “Calranell?” he said,
distractedly. “About two days if we take the roads. They might be safe this far
east. But I wouldn’t want to risk it, a more round-about route would be best.”
She thought about it briefly, then shook her head. Impalement. “No. We’ll take
the roads from here. I don’t want to waste a minute more than I have to.”
The Falmeran stared at her with his pale eyes for a long moment. He opened his
mouth angrily, then let it drift shut again with the words unsaid. “So be it,”
he growled after a long pause.
At Nynaeve’s insistence they pressed on long after the winter sun had fallen
and most sensible travellers would have made camp. She told herself her need
was urgent enough that risking a fall by travelling in the dark was necessary,
but that didn’t stop each dip her increasingly nervous horse trotted down from
making her heart catch in her throat.
“Are you trying to break your own neck?” Nafanyel asked rudely. By then she had
no more than dim moonlight to see by and was glad he was similarly afflicted so
he could not see her blush. He was right she knew. Stopping was the sensible
thing to do. But she could hardly stop now that he had all-but demanded she do
so. Stubbornly Nynaeve pressed on into the dark for just long enough that her
guide could not think she had stopped when he told her to.
“This looks like a good spot to make camp,” she announced at last into the
pitch darkness.
She heard her companion draw rein behind her, then heard nothing save his
horse’s nervous whinnying. After a while he dismounted, muttering quietly to
himself. She could make out barely one word in three, but it was something like
“How the hell did I get myself involved in this?” She distinctly heard the word
“Madwoman” too. Nynaeve glared in his general direction and it was just his
good luck that the fool could not see her face in the gloom.
Eventually, after much more fuss than the task warranted, Nafanyel managed to
get a fire going and they settled down for the remainder of the night.
He had been wrong about their destination too. They caught sight of the
watchfires of Calranell just before sunset of the next day. Though admittedly
Nynaeve had had to ride her poor horse to near exhaustion in order to arrive so
soon.
Nafanyel stopped his horse in the middle of the road and nodded to himself in
satisfaction. “Calranell. As I promised. You’re on your own from here Aes
Sedai. I have business elsewhere.”
Nynaeve was a little surprised. “You aren’t going to join your king and
general, Falmeran? I thought, given the way you’ve spoken of the Seanchan, that
you would jump at the chance to fight back against them.”
He looked away with a bitter twist of his lips. “It’s not that simple,” he
muttered. “My father will have been expecting me back weeks ago. Good luck with
the General, Nynaeve. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we never meet
again.” With that final insult, and a wry smile, he turned his horse aside from
the road and took off over the rolling hills of Falmerden.
Nynaeve sniffed at his departing form. Just when she was starting to trust him
too. Typical man. She gathered her reins and set off towards the distant fort,
hoping the two men within would prove to be better examples of their gender.
Calranrell’s walls were not as graceful or as tall as those of Tar Valon;
instead of fused white stone they were made of massive slabs of grey rock,
piled one atop the other. No Ogier had built this stronghold, only men, and
defence had been the only thing on their minds when they did so, in her
estimation. The fortress sat on a rocky promontory near the mouth of a mountain
pass. Any traffic through the mountains would have to travel beneath the walls
of the fort, and within range of the defenders atop them. There seemed to be
only one entrance, and that was across a long, narrow bridge that spanned a
chasm on Calranrell’s western side. She made her way towards it.
The guards at the bridge called for her to halt as soon as she came into
earshot. They were a hard-bitten lot, with dull metal breastplates, dark, fur-
lined cloaks, and suspicious scowls.
“I am Nynaeve al’Meara,” she called, raising her hand and making sure they
could see the golden Great Serpent ring on her finger. “I’ve come from Tar
Valon on urgent business. Tell me where I can find your king, or this Syoman
fellow, and be quick about it.”
The men exchanged looks. The oldest of them gave a sigh and took a step
forward. “You claim you’re an Aes Sedai?” he asked.
Nynaeve pressed her lips together. I most certainly do not!she wanted to say.
“Is that not what I said?” she growled instead. “Did you not see the ring? Take
me to your leader, this is ...”—The words caught in her throat but she forced
them out. I have to help my friends—“... Tower business.” Burn her, how had it
come to this? She should be back in the Theren making sure her folk took care
of themselves and behaved properly, not running around pretending to be a
damned Aes Sedai and bullying folk with the threat of the White Tower.
“Well, you don’t talk like a Seanchan at least,” the man muttered. “Come with
me, I’ll take you to the captain.”
Nynaeve rode across the wooden bridge slowly, though she was tempted to get
down and walk. From her vantage point atop Muscles’ back she could see down
into the chasm but in the fading light it was impossible to see how far down
the bottom was. She fought her dizziness as she followed the soldier towards
Calranell proper. His plodding pace did not endear him to her. I bet he’s going
so slow in an effort to embarrass me. We’ll it won’t work! She focused her
attention ahead and studied the chains and pulleys that linked the bridge to
the walls of the fortress and allowed it to be raised if the defenders wanted
to seal the gate completely. It was not a pretty place, Calranell, but it
looked an effective stronghold. She hoped its owners would prove as effective
against the Seanchan.
On the other side of the main gate was a sprawling courtyard perhaps ten times
the size of the village green at Emond’s Field. All around it were buildings
and towers made of the same grey stone as the walls that sheltered them. One
tower, massive and round, loomed over all and from its peak flew a flag on
which two red dogs fought over white and gold squares. The Warhounds, Nafanyel
had called them. They were just what Nynaeve had hoped to see.
“Captain Cauthrien, sir,” her escort called, standing to attention. “This one
claims to be an Aes Sedai and wants to talk to the General. Says her name is
Nynaeve al’Meara.”
The soldier who turned to face them studied Nynaeve expressionlessly. She was a
little surprised to find that the captain was a woman, one perhaps ten years
her senior, with a stern and weathered face. She peered closely at the Great
Serpent ring Nynaeve displayed but showed no reaction. Nynaeve wished her own
composure was as firm. Claims? Claims!? Is he calling me a liar? I should get
down from this horse and box his ears.
“I am an Aes Sedai,” she insisted.
The other woman nodded. “Alix Cauthrien. Captain. Royal Falmerden Army,” she
said, in a voice nearly as expressionless as her face. “My pleasure, Aes Sedai.
May I ask where you are from? But for your dress and your accent you might have
passed for a local woman ...”
“I’m not. I’m from the Theren. It’s far to the east of here.”
Alix nodded again, more firmly this time. “Far to the east,” she mused. “An
Andoran district I think, and a pretty obscure one at that. I doubt the
Seanchan would even know it exists. Return to your post Owen, I’ll take it from
here.”
The guard saluted and went on his way.
“This way please,” Alix said, and led Nynaeve towards the tallest of the
towers. Nynaeve studied her surreptitiously as they walked. Alix wore metal
armour over most of her body, and carried a plumed helmet under her arm. The
armour didn’t look as heavy as that she had become accustomed to seeing in
Shienar but she still looked askance at it. It must be exhausting to walk
around carrying all that. The sword that was slung across Alix’s back resembled
those that Lan and Rand carried but didn’t seem to have any heron markings on
it.
“Are there many women in Falmerden’s army?” Nynaeve felt compelled to ask.
“No, just a few. It’s not forbidden, naturally. But most women I know prefer to
leave such work to the men. Not because they’re afraid of course. It’s just
that men have certain natural advantages when it comes to physical labour like
this, and it doesn’t do the matriarchy any favours when women decide to compete
with men on an uneven playing field. It might give the lads ideas above their
stations.” Alix smiled tightly. “Or so it has been explained to me, by many of
the great ladies of Falmerden. And by my own mother, farmwife that she was.”
Nynaeve wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I see,” was all she managed.
“It would be worse if I was a noble,” Alix continued. “Princess Evelin swings a
mean longsword, but her mother made it very clear she expected her heir to
leave such tasks to the army. If she’s going to insist on taking the field now
then it would be best if she had some training first. The battlefield isn’t a
good place to be practicing.”
Alix sounded worried. And she had more reason to be so than she knew. Nynaeve
considered sharing her news, but decided it would be best to wait until they
met with the King.
The captain led her down grey stone hallways and up narrow stone steps.
Calanrell was a lightly-furnished place, save for the racks of weapons that
seemed to sprout at every junction. Ensconced torches burned to light their
path. There didn’t seem to be many servants in comparison to Fal Dara. Instead
bearded, leather clad soldiers were tasked with maintaining the keep and
feeding its inhabitants.
More soldiers stood guard at the tall wooden doors Alix led her to but they
made no move to bar the captain’s way.
Nynaeve walked into the midst of a heated argument. Alix, having shoved the
doors open, was quick to pull them closed again and shield her male
“commanders” from the perked ears of those outside.
“... attacked by now? If they ever intended to. They must be as bored with this
stand-off as I am.” The speaker was a handsome man, clean-shaven and bright
eyed, with long golden hair that spilled to his shoulders. He sat in a chair by
the fire and rolled his eyes expansively.
“Patience is key in any strategy. The Valreio know this. And so should you.”
The second man had a voice well-suited to shouting, though he seemed to be
keeping the volume down by an effort of will. He had a face well-suited to
scowls too and he sent one across the map-laden table towards his companion.
Shorter and more muscular than the first man, he was dark of hair and eye and
had a rough-hewn look about him.
“For five months though? Come now Syoman. We are waiting for an enemy that will
never come.”
Syoman, the famed general, stabbed a finger onto the map before him. “There is
an army on the other side of this pass Kaelan. And it is not there to prevent a
few hungry refugees from fouling the streets of Orlay, I promise you,” he
growled.
“There is an army at Falme too. One that killed our Queen, my wife,” said King
Kaelan. If he was heart-broken over it, he hid his pain well.
“I am fully aware of that,” snarled the general. “In the west there is an army
that holds a fortified position and can resupply at ease, using the only major
port in this country. An army that will hold the advantage when we engage them,
though engage them we will. When the time is right. But here our foe has a
second army, one that against which we hold the advantage. Until we have dealt
with the Valreio we cannot afford to engage their catspaws.”
“Assuming the invaders are linked to the Winged Throne,” Kaelan said, raising a
brow questioningly.
“If they are not, which I doubt, then you may be sure Selene will do her
damnedest to take advantage of the opportunity they have given her.”
Nynaeve sniffed. “If there were three-eyed, half-cat, half-lizard creatures
that stand as tall as horses wandering around Valreis I’m sure I would have
heard of it. Wherever these Seanchan came from, it was somewhere very far
away.”
The men broke off their quarrel and turned their attention to their guests at
last.
Kaelan smiled in welcome. “Please forgive us for keeping you waiting, my dear.”
Syoman scowled at Alix. “Who is she, Cauthrien, and why have you brought her
here?”
Nynaeve answered for herself. “I am Nynaeve al’Meara. Aes Sedai.” She displayed
her ring yet again.
Syoman grunted. “Another one? You don’t have the face for it. Are you here with
Sheraine or Ryma? What’s your Ajah?”
She was momentarily at a loss, but managed to keep her composure. She had never
thought to pick a fake Ajah when she promoted herself to Aes Sedai. But there
could be only one real choice; she was a healer after all. “I’m of the Yellow
Ajah. And the rest is none of your business Master Surtir.” His scowl deepened,
and even Alix shot her a cool glance. Nynaeve forged on hurriedly. “What you
should have asked is why I’ve come. But even though you didn’t, I’ll tell you.
Princess Evelin has been captured by the Seanchan, along with a dozen or so of
her men. I saw them taken at the outskirts of the Knotwood, about a day and a
half ago.”
Kaelan came to his feet in a flash. Standing he proved to be tall as Rand, and
as long-legged and broad-shouldered too. “Evelin! You are certain of this?
Light, I should never have let her lead that ambush.”
“It was her right to make the decision. And to bear the consequences,” said
Syoman.
Kaelan rounded on him. “And it is your duty to assist her, General!” he
declared, with the first hint of kingliness she had seen. Syoman sat back in
his chair, and said nothing in response.
“Was she hurt?” Alix asked quietly.
Nynaeve shook her head, taking a firm grip on her braid. “No. Not yet at least.
The Seanchan recognised the crest she wore and seemed well-pleased with
themselves. They took her west, towards Falme.”
“As well they should be pleased. She’s the only female heir to the throne. We
must recover her from them at all costs,” Kaelan said.
“Without her, what authority would you have?” muttered Syoman.
“How dare you, Syoman? Whatever our differences. Evelin is my daughter, as well
as our Queen.”
A strange look crossed the general’s face. But if he was thinking of the same
rumours Nafanyel had mentioned he at least had the grace not to bring them up.
“There is still Nora’s son. The people might be more reluctant to accept a male
monarch but we can work around that.”
Nynaeve bristled. “And what of the girl? Impaled like her mother? That can’t be
allowed to happen. She, and all the other poor folk held prisoner by these
invaders, must be rescued. I came here because I thought there might be some
brave Falmerans willing to help me do it, but if you’d rather cower in fear of
Valreis then perhaps I will just have to take on the Seanchan army by myself.”
Syoman’s face darkened dangerously. “Bravery and stupidity are often confused,”
he growled. Alix was glancing back and forth between him and Nynaeve, looking
conflicted. Syoman noticed her reaction and his frown grew deeper. He studied
his thick, scarred knuckles in silence.
“Well no-one has ever accused me of being a coward,” declared Kaelan. “And I
will not let these creatures harm my Evelin. I will ride with you Nynaeve
Sedai. You will see Falmerden rise in righteous fury!”
Alix folded her hands behind her back and stood at attention, her face
studiously expressionless. Nynaeve wondered how many of the soldiers would
follow this king against the Seanchan. She had a feeling it might not be
enough. It will have to be enough. It must. Syoman seemed unlikely to budge
from his fort.
But the general surprised her. “The men would not abandon Nora’s daughter to
Nora’s fate,” he said. “Not even if I asked it of them. Which I won’t.” He
tossed his head angrily. “Burn me for a fool, we will march tomorrow. I just
pray the men I leave here will be enough to delay the Valreio until I can deal
with these Seanchan.”
Nynaeve let out a relieved sigh. There was hope yet. Hope to free Min and
Elayne. And to make sure the Seanchan couldn’t hurt anyone else.
As the King and the General discussed their plans, Nynaeve recalled the
soldiers who had thrown themselves at Evelin’s captors and died for it. How
many more would join them? Both in fighting for their Queen ... and in dying?
She wished there was another way, but she had to do what was necessary to save
her friends. Hold on just a little longer, Min. Elayne. I’m coming for you.
***** Anything *****
CHAPTER 56: Anything
 
She tapped at the door and waited for a response.
“Min?” Elayne said. She sounded sick and exhausted, the poor thing.
She put on a brave face as she slipped inside and shut the door. She had to do
what she could to keep Elayne’s spirits up. It wasn’t much, but it was all she
could think of as she searched for a way to free them both. “Here I am for my
weekly visit,” she announced cheerily.
Elayne looked drawn. Her skin, already so fair, now looked almost bloodless.
She managed a wan smile at Min’s entrance, but it was a flitting thing and soon
swallowed in misery. She looked even worse than she had last week, and last
week had been enough to bring Min to tears. That had set Elayne off and they
had ended up sobbing on each other’s shoulders. She was determined to be more
helpful this time.
Elayne blinked at her and a spark of interest returned to her eyes. “You’re
wearing a dress. I’ve never seen you in a dress before.”
“How do you like it?” Min asked. She spun in a little circle, showing off her
dark green wool dress of Seanchan cut. A heavy, matching cloak hung over her
arm. There was even a green ribbon catching up her dark hair, though her hair
was hardly long enough for it. Her knife was still in its sheath at her waist,
though. She had been surprised that they let her keep it. The Seanchan trusted
everyone. Until they broke a rule. Min was inclined to break all their rules,
but how to do it without getting caught, how to do it in such a way that would
get Elayne away from them? Those were the questions. Many a night she had
fantasised about just sticking her knife in the sul’dam that tormented Elayne,
especially that witch Renna, but after the fantasy was ended came the
inevitable question. What then?
Elayne drank in the sight of her, slowly and carefully, as if savouring a last
meal. “It’s pretty,” she said sadly. “You look very beautiful in it. But, why
the change?”
“I haven’t gone over to the enemy, if that is what you are thinking. It was
this, or else find someplace to stay out in the town, and maybe not be able to
visit you again.” She started to straddle the chair as she would have in
breeches, gave a wry shake of her head, and turned it around to sit. Skirts
were such a chore, she had never understood why so many women insisted on
wearing them. “ ‘Everyone has a place in the Pattern,’ ” she mimicked, making
her voice as nasal as she could. “ ‘and the place of everyone must be readily
apparent.’ That old hag Mulaen apparently got tired of not knowing what my
place was on sight and decided I ranked with the serving girls. She gave me the
choice. You should see some of the things Seanchan serving girls wear, the ones
who serve the lords. It might be fun, but not unless I was betrothed, or,
better yet, married. Well, there’s no going back. Not yet, anyway. Mulaen
burned my coat and breeches.” She grimaced to show what she thought of that,
but quickly restored her cheerful smile. Her captivity was a pleasant stroll in
the garden compared to what the Seanchan were trying to do to Elayne. “It isn’t
so bad,” she said with a laugh, “except that it has been so long since I wore
skirts that I keep tripping over them.”
Three weeks in the Seanchan’s company, watching how they treated Elayne, had
been more than enough to teach her to hate them. The Seanchan had burned
Elayne’s clothes too, in a manner not unlike the Aes Sedai practice of burning
their new Novice’s possessions. Elayne had been left with nothing to wear
except the dark grey dress of a damane. Damane have no possessions, it had been
explained to her. The dress a damane wears, the food she eats, the bed she
sleeps in, are all gifts from her sul’dam. If a sul’dam chooses that a damane
sleep on the floor instead of in a bed, or in a stall in a stable, it is purely
the choice of the sul’dam. Mulaen, who had charge of the damane quarters, had a
droning nasal voice, but she was sharp with any damane who did not remember
every one of her rules. She had explained the sleeping arrangements to Min
after she had found Elayne curled up on a small pile of straw in the stables,
trying to sleep while fearfully watching the nearby torm; those giant creatures
that looked like a cross between a cat and a lizard, if ever a cat or lizard
had been as tall as a horse, or had three eyes. The Seanchan called them, and
the rest of their bizarre menagerie, Exotics, and harnessed them for war. The
cat-things had watched Min with their disturbingly intelligent eyes as she went
to try and comfort Elayne. They had looked rather hungry, and the teeth they
had bared were long and sharp. It had taken all her courage to walk past them
towards her shivering friend.
“I brought you a present,” Min said now. “It’s not much, I’m afraid. Not much
at all, but it’s all I could smuggle in.” She fished the flatbread and cheese
out of her pocket and set them down on the small table, then pulled at the
bodice of her dress so she could fish out the fruits she had hidden there.
Thankfully the Seanchan hadn’t noticed how much bigger she had suddenly looked.
“Oh, oh it’s more than you know, Min. Thank you,” Elayne set upon the food like
a starving woman. Min had noticed how much thinner she was getting. Slender as
Elayne had already been, she was starting to look skeletal. Beds weren’t the
only thing that a damane must rely on the sul’dam for, food, water and the
right to sleep were parcelled out as favours by the hateful women and only
damane who obeyed and cringed in a way that pleased the sul’dam received them.
Or enough of them, at least. They would not starve Elayne so badly that she
would die; in Seanchan eyes that would be a waste of a valuable slave.
Min made a fist as she watched Elayne cram her meagre gift into her mouth as
though afraid a sul’dam would arrive at any moment to take it away. I have to
get her out of here.
“I wish Rand were here.” Elayne sighed once she had finished eating. When Min
looked at her quizzically she blushed and quickly added, “Well, he does have a
sword. I wish we had somebody with a sword. Ten of them. A hundred.”
“It would be better than nothing but I’m not sure it would be enough,” said Min
glumly. “The Falmerans have lots of swords and a reputation for knowing how to
use them, but the Seanchan seem to be winning this war pretty easily.” She
lowered her voice. “There might be a better way. Have you figured out how the
a’dam work yet? I can’t see a catch on them. They look to be all one big piece,
but that can’t be true. They open and close somehow. We need to figure out how
if we’re to escape.” She avoided looking at the collar Elayne wore, though not
drawing attention to it would hardly make Elayne forget it was there. Here in
the compound where the damane were kept such collars were a common sight. Min
had gotten her hands on a few and tried for hours to find a way to open them.
But even with the most careful examination, holding the blasted thing so close
to her face she could have kissed it, she could not find the catch or button.
She was starting to fear it was a trick of the One Power, and therefore beyond
her power to do anything about.
“I don’t think there will be any escape for me,” Elayne said, between bites of
her plums. Her words echoed Min’s thoughts in a most depressing way. “Renna
gave me a test. She wanted to know if I could make more a’dam. And it seems I
can.”
“It doesn’t seem any worse than the rest—not nearly as bad as making things
explode like fireworks—but couldn’t you have lied? Told her you couldn’t?”
“You do not understand how this works.” Elayne tugged at the collar. “When
Renna is wearing that bracelet, she knows what I am doing with the Power, and
what I am not. Sometimes she even seems to know when she isn’t wearing it; she
says sul’dam develop an affinity after a while.” She sighed. “Apparently,” she
said bitterly, “I am now too valuable to be wasted making things explode. Any
damane can do that; only a handful can make a’dam. When the ships return to
Seanchan, I am to be taken with them.”
“No,” Min breathed. But denials wouldn’t change facts. “When?”
Elayne shook her head sadly. “I don’t know. This is not the true invasion
force, only their scouts. The Hailene, it means Forerunners in the Old Tongue,
were sent to map the way for the Corenne, the Return, and if necessary to
secure a foothold for the campaign of conquest that follows. Falme is their
foothold. And when the scouts report back to their Empress, Renna and I are to
go with them.”
Min’s smiles had vanished completely. They stared at each other. Suddenly Min
slammed her fist into her open palm, wishing it was a Seanchan face. “There has
to be a way out of here. There has to be a way to take that bloody thing off
your neck!”
Elayne, her meal finished, sat on the narrow bed and leaned her head back
against the wall. She looked very forlorn. “You know the Seanchan have
collected every woman they’ve been able to find who can channel even a speck.
They come from all over, not just from here in Falme, but from the fishing
villages, and from farming towns inland. Their raiders have kidnapped Taraboner
and Domani, though no Valreio so far, which is odd. They’re taken passengers
off ships they’ve stopped. There are even two Aes Sedai among the prisoners.
None have been able to escape.”
“Aes Sedai!” Min exclaimed. By habit she looked around to make sure no Seanchan
had overheard her saying that name. As well name the Dark One, so far as the
invaders were concerned. “Elayne, if there are Aes Sedai here, they can help
us. Let me talk to them, and—”
“They can’t even help themselves, Min. I only talked to one, her name is Ryma;
the sul’dam don’t call her that, but that’s her name; she wanted to make sure I
knew it. She told me in between bouts of tears. She’s Aes Sedai, and she was
crying, Min! She has a collar on her neck, they make her answer to Pura, and
she can’t do anything more about it than I can when they call me ...”
“I know,” Min interrupted. “Don’t say it.”
Elayne nodded. “They captured her before me. She was crying because she’s
beginning to stop fighting against it, because she cannot take being punished
anymore. She was crying because she wants to take her own life, and she cannot
even do that without permission. I ... I fear that will be me soon.”
Min shifted uneasily, smoothing her dress with suddenly nervous hands. “Elayne,
you don’t want to ... Elayne, you must not think of harming yourself. I will
get you out somehow. I will!”
“I am not going to kill myself,” Elayne sighed. “Even if I could. Damane are
not permitted to touch a weapon. If I tried to pick up a knife my hand would
cramp up so badly I wouldn’t be able to lift anything. Even our meat is cut for
us. Their meat, I mean ... Our meat, Light help me. No damane is ever left
alone where she might jump from a height—that window is nailed shut—or throw
herself in a river.”
“Well, that’s a good thing. I mean ... Oh, I don’t know what I mean. If you
could jump in a river, you might escape.”
Elayne went on dully, as if the Min had not spoken. “They are training me, Min.
The sul’dam and the a’dam are training me. I cannot touch anything I even think
of as a weapon. A few weeks ago I considered hitting Renna over the head with
that pitcher, and I could not pour wash water for three days. Once I’d thought
of it that way, I not only had to stop thinking about hitting her with it, I
had to convince myself I would never, under any circumstances, hit her with it
before I could touch it again. She knew what had happened, told me what I had
to do, and would not let me wash anywhere except with that pitcher and bowl.
You are lucky it happened between your visiting days. Renna made sure I spent
those days sweating from the time I woke to the time I fell asleep, exhausted.
I am trying to fight them, but they are training me as surely as they’re
training Pura.” She clapped a hand to her mouth, moaning through her teeth.
“Her name is Ryma. I have to remember her name, not the name they’ve put on
her. She is Ryma, and she is an Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah. I don’t know the
other Sister’s name, the Cairhienin Blue, she won’t speak to anyone, but she
has a name too, and not the one these Seanchan have given her. Will you
remember us, Min? Please?”
“Stop it!” Min snapped. “You stop it right this instant!” Seeing Elayne so
close to breaking horrified her, but she didn’t know what she could do to help.
All she had were her useless viewings. Or perhaps not completely useless. “If
you get shipped off to Seanchan, I’ll be right there with you. But I don’t
think you will. You know I’ve read you, Elayne. I don’t understand most of it—I
almost never do—but I see things I am sure link you to Rand, and Andor. How can
any of that happen if the Seanchan take you off across the ocean? My viewings
always come true. Trust me on that, and don’t give up.”
Elayne looked at her with tears in her eyes. “Maybe they’re going to conquer
the whole world, Min. Your viewings could still come to pass if they conquered
Andor.”
That was disturbingly accurate, but Min didn’t want to hear it. “You ninny-
headed goose!” She seized Elayne by the shoulders, so mad at the whole horrible
situation that she was ready to shake her, as though that would solve anything.
The impulse passed swiftly. Elayne just looked back at her, sad and powerless.
Min stared at her, searching her big, blue eyes for signs of the spirited,
sheltered and inquisitive girl she had met in Tar Valon. There were hints of
her old self still, but despair was starting to consume everything. She kissed
her.
It was not a gentle kiss. For want of anything else that could help she sought
to force life and passion and spirit back into her friend by way of her body.
She stuck her tongue in Elayne’s mouth and crushed the girl’s thin shoulders in
her arms as she bore her down onto the bed.
Elayne was pliant in Min’s embrace. She lay on her back with her arms around
her lover, kissing her softly. She did nothing when Min bunched her grey dress
around her waist and pulled down her drab underwear to reveal the bright gold
that was hidden beneath. Exposed and helpless, collared like pet dog, Elayne
lay before Min and waited to be taken.
No, Min thought. Not like this.
She leaned in and kissed her tenderly. “I love you, Elayne Trakand, Daughter-
Heir of Andor and Aes Sedai in training,” she whispered. “I would do anything
for you. I will find a way to free you, or die trying. I promise.”
Min scootched down the bed until her face was close to Elayne’s sex, then took
her by the waist and urged her to lift her hips. After a brief, confused pause
Elayne complied. Min lay on her back and guided Elayne until she was crouching
above her. Only the strength of Elayne’s legs and her innate courtesy was
preventing her from sitting on Min’s face. Her sex hovered mere inches away
from the other girl’s lips.
“What are you doing, Min?” she asked breathlessly.
“Servicing my Queen,” Min answered, looking her straight in the eye. She held
her gaze as she ran her tongue up and down Elayne’s slit and made her gasp.
Elayne clamped a hand over her mouth, fearful of drawing attention from her
jailors. With her other hand she pulled the folds of her dress back out of the
way, the better to see Min’s eyes looking up at her. Min hoped her adoration
showed in them, Elayne needed to see that, she thought, needed to know how much
Min worshipped her.
She focused on Elayne’s beautiful face and bright blue eyes, ignoring, as best
she could, the silvery collar and leash that ran from her neck to the bracelet
resting on its peg on the wall.
Elayne’s free hand soon came to rest on Min’s beribboned head, urging her on as
she kissed and licked at the folds of her sex. Min thrust her tongue inside as
far as she could and brought a whimper from Elayne’s lips. The Daughter-Heir
forgot her courtesy and began to gyrate her hips, slathering her juices all
over Min’s cheeks as she rode her face.
Throughout it all, Min and Elayne maintained eye contact. Only when Min
discovered the engorged bud at the hood of her lover’s sex and began to suck
upon it insistently did Elayne stop staring down at her. She squeezed her eyes
shut and tangled both hands in Min’s hair as she bucked against her mouth. It
wasn’t very comfortable for Min, and it became hard to breathe when Elayne
clamped her thighs around Min’s face and let her juices flow all over the other
girl’s face, but she didn’t mind. She trusted Elayne not to harm her, and even
if that had not been the case she could think of far worse ways to die. Elayne
gasped and shuddered as she rode out the waves of her orgasm. There was colour
in her cheeks for the first time in weeks.
“I’m sorry,” Elayne said breathlessly, once she had come back to her senses.
She clambered off Min’s face. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
Min put on her cheeriest smile. Her nose hurt a little but she doubted it was
broken, and even if it had been Elayne would not need to know about it. “I’m
great. I’ve missed seeing you like that. So beautifully alive.”
Elayne blushed and lowered her eyes. But she essayed a tentative smile of her
own, a cheeky smile that brought her long-missing dimples back for a visit. It
eased Min’s heart to see.
Elayne sat on the bed, her dress falling back down around her legs. She reached
over to tug at Min’s skirts but, despite her arousal, Min caught her hands and
held them in a gentle but firm grip. “You don’t need to do that. Just pleasing
you is all the pleasure I need today. I’ll take a cuddle though, if you have
one to spare.”
She had. They sat together on the narrow bed, Elayne’s head resting on Min’s
shoulder. I won’t let them break you, Min promised her silently. No matter
what, I will find a way out for us.
“Thank you, Min,” Elayne whispered. “For everything.” She wrapped her arms
around Min’s waist and gave her a little squeeze.
As Min opened her mouth to reply the door swung open, and Renna stepped in.
Elayne jumped to her feet and bowed sharply, as did Min. The tiny room was
crowded for bowing, but Seanchan insisted on protocol before comfort and had
little tolerance for anyone who did not adhere to their ways.
“Your visiting day, is it?” Renna said. “I had forgotten. Well, there is
training to be done even on visiting days. You will go now, Min. Your visiting
day with Tuli is ended.” Her gaze came to rest on the bed and a frown creased
her brow.
Min hesitated only long enough for one anguished look at Elayne before leaving.
Nothing she could say or do would do anything except make matters worse.
Outside in the low-ceilinged hallway Min tidied herself up and tried to gather
her thoughts. Even if she could find a way to remove the a’dam, she would still
need to find a way out of Falmerden. The nation was cut in two at the moment,
with half under Seanchan control and the other half still loyal to their king
and the daughter he spoke for. If they rode inland they would have to avoid the
Seanchan patrols as they made their way to the loyalist forces. Min was no
woodswoman, and Elayne certainly wasn’t. She remembered the Theren folk who had
visited Baerlon teasing each other about their tracking skills. If Rand were
here ... But he wasn’t. She would have to do it herself, somehow. There would
be patrols on the sea as well, but fewer. If only she could find a ship that
was willing to risk Seanchan-controlled waters, one that was willing to offer
passage to two girls without a copper to their names. Or better yet, one that
had permission to sail from the High Lord, then patrols wouldn’t be a problem.
As well ask for a ship that could fly.
She was on the stairs when Renna caught up to her.
“You,” said the Seanchan woman. Somehow her tone turned the simple word into an
insult. “Remain where you are.”
Min looked up at her. For a brief moment a glittering snake seemed to coil
around Renna’s neck, its fangs bared to strike. But then it withdrew. Min felt
a flash of disappointment. Renna’s life would be threatened soon, but she would
survive the attack. “What’s wrong?” she asked the sul’dam, trying not to let
her dislike of the woman show.
“You are,” Renna said. “Disgustingly so. Did you think I would not notice the
smell? The discarded undergarments?” She shook her head, her lips twisting as
though she was about to be sick. “You hear tales sometimes, even in Seanchan,
but you try not to believe them. To think that anyone would do such a thing
with a damane! Must I warn the stablemasters to keep an eye out for you as
well? Will they find you some night in the stalls on your hands and knees as a
torm breeds you like the animal you are?” Min gaped at the tirade of abuse,
heart racing, torn between shock and offense. “I would say you were sei’mosiev
but I doubt you are even capable of understanding the concept. Had your parents
any honour they would strip you of your name. But I am not your mother and I
must limit myself to this: your visits with Tuli are at an end, degenerate. If
you attempt to see her again I will see that Captain Elbar gets the
satisfaction he asked for when we first met. Get out.” That last she delivered
with a broad sneer, looking down at Min from the top of the stairs. She knew
there was no point in arguing with the sul’dam, so she left the damane compound
in a daze.
Relatively few people walked the streets this close to where the damane were
housed, even Seanchan ones. The locals shunned the broad square as much as they
could, for it was there that their Queen had died her horrible, slow death.
Even farther down the hill the streets were quiet. The Seanchan had not tried
to keep the population of Falme prisoner, and once the people began to realise
that they could leave unmolested many had packed up their most prized
possessions and moved inland “to visit relatives”. Or to join up with their
countrymen and fight. Aside from a lone man trying to interest two Seanchan
soldiers in buying the picture he would draw of them with his coloured chalks,
everyone local tried to step along quickly without actually appearing to run. A
pair of sul’dam strolled by, damane trailing behind with eyes down, like well-
trained animals; the Seanchan women were talking about how many more
marath’damane they expected to find before they sailed.
No more visits. She would have to find a way to open the a’dam, find a means of
smuggling Elayne out of Falme, and then somehow break into the damane compound
to get her. She dug her nails into her palms as she made her way to the docks.
There has to be a way!
The sloping street became more crowded the further down she went. Street
peddlers rubbed elbows with merchants who had brought wagons in from the inland
villages and would not go out again until winter had come and gone, hawkers
with their trays called to the passersby, Falmerans in embroidered cloaks
brushed past farm families in heavy fleece coats. Many people had fled here
from villages further from the coast. Min saw no point to it—they had leaped
from the possibility of a visit from the Seanchan to the certainty of Seanchan
all around them—but she had heard what the Seanchan did when they first came to
a village, and she could not blame the villagers too much for fearing another
appearance. Everyone bowed when a Seanchan walked past or a curtained palanquin
was carried by up the steep street. Min bowed too, though it made her feel
sick.
She hadn’t visited the docks once since she was captured. She had been
reluctant to spend time farther from Elayne than was necessary; there was
always the fear that she would go for her allowed visit and find Elayne gone.
That didn’t seem very rational, now that she thought about it. They were, and
always had been, going to take Elayne away regardless of how close Min stayed.
Unless she found a way to stop them.
The smell of salt and pitch grew heavy in the air, and gulls cried, wheeling
overhead. Sailors appeared in the throng, many still barefoot despite the cold.
They were well into Nesan now, the last month of autumn, and winter’s chill had
already begun. Seanchan vessels occupied most of the docks, but a few Valgardan
vessels could still be seen. Min examined them carefully and felt a surge of
hope when she recognised one. The Spray had seemed a mighty vessel when it had
carried her to Tar Valon, but it was dwarfed by the Seanchan ships it was tied
up between.
She hurried towards the gangplank that led onto Spray’s deck. It was the best
fortune she’d had in ages. Domon had seemed a nice man, perhaps she might still
have a chance to save Elayne if she begged him to let them stow away on his
ship when it next sailed.
A pair of sailors sat at the top of the ramp. Their beards were uncombed and
they were bleary eyed from what looked like an excess of cheap drink. The smell
that wafted from them as she passed confirmed her suspicions. Neither man
challenged her boarding, though one did make a half-hearted effort to pinch her
bottom.
She dodged with the nimbleness of a veteran barmaid. “I’d like to speak to your
captain,” she said firmly. “Is he on board?”
The second sailor, the one who hadn’t tried to pinch her, rose from his stupor
and blinked his bloodshot eyes at her. “The captain? He be in his cabin.” He
licked his lips as he looked her up and down rudely. “Did make himself a friend
eh? Domon no can afford to pay an honest sailor for the work he did do, but he
can get himself a fancy girl. Bloody typical.” He turned his sour face away,
hawked up and spat overboard.
As she made her way to the captain’s cabin Min saw ample signs of disrepair and
dissolution. She got the impression that Spray had been moored in Falme for
quite some time. She hoped that meant the captain would be as eager to leave as
she was.
She knew from past visits that Captain Domon had a tidy cabin in the stern,
reached by climbing down a short ladder, where everything gave the impression
of being in its proper place, right down to the coats and cloaks hanging from
pegs on the back of the door. The cabin stretched the width of the ship, with a
broad bed built against one side and a heavy table built out from the other.
There was only one chair, with a high back and sturdy arms, but there were
several benches and chests that were the only other furnishings.
The cabin looked much as she remembered it, as much as she could see at least,
when Domon answered the tap on his door. The captain himself seemed grimmer
than she recalled, but just as bear-like. He sounded like a bear too, when he
brushed a hand across his odd beard and growled, “What be this now? Did the
High Lord Turak send you to fetch me girl?”
“No, Captain Domon. I was hoping you could help me actually.”
Domon frowned and peered at her more closely. “Fortune prick me. It do be young
Min. How in the name of the Light do you be here?” He looked her up and down as
well, though in a manner nowhere near as crass as his sailor had. “That dress
do look Seanchan to me. Do you be working for them now?”
“Never!” Min said fiercely, but she still glanced over her shoulder to check if
anyone was near enough to hear her words.
Domon grunted. “Best come in girl. There be eyes and ears all over these
docks.”
Min followed him into the cabin and closed the door behind them.
Domon sank into his chair with a sigh. She couldn’t help but notice that
several of his prized antiques had gone missing since she had last been here.
An image flashed into being above Domon’s left shoulder, an image of him on his
knees offering a covered parcel to another man as though it were a gift fit for
a king; an aura of green and gold surrounded him. She did not know what the
viewing meant and it winked out as quickly as it had come. She perched on one
of the benches and tried to hide her nervousness.
“So. You did say you wanted my help, girl. With what?”
Briefly, Min wondered if she should try to hide her intentions. If the captain
had gone over to the Seanchan then telling him the truth might cost her her
life. But she dismissed that worry and decided on honesty. “I want passage out
of Falme, for me and for a friend of mine. I don’t really mind where we go,
just so long as it’s somewhere the Seanchan don’t rule. Are you going to be
sailing soon?”
“I would sail today, if I could,” Domon said glumly. “Every two or three days
that Turak do send for me to tell him tales of the old things I have seen. Do I
look a gleeman to you? I did think I could spin a tale or two and be on my way,
but he did keep me here four months. Now I think he do grow bored with my
tales, and when I no entertain him any longer, I think it be an even wager
whether he do let me go or have my head cut off. The man do look soft, but he
be as hard as iron, and as coldhearted. Four months with never a sale made. All
my profits from this trip do go to paying my sailor’s wages. Wages I do have to
pay to sailors who no be sailing. This High Lord do ruin me, and no care a whit
for it so long as I do tell him stories of the places I’ve been.”
“Can your ship avoid the Seanchan?” Min asked. “If Turak doesn’t let you go, I
mean.”
“Fortune prick me, could I make it out of the harbour without a damane rips
Spray to splinters, I can. If I do no let a Seanchan ship with a damane come
too close once I do make the sea. There be shoal waters all along this coast,
and Spray do have a shallow draft. I can take her into waters those lumbering
Seanchan hulks can no risk. They must be wary of the winds close inshore this
time of year. But it no matter. These damane would sink me before I got beyond
the harbour mouth. Unless they be too busy fighting the Falmeran army but it be
reluctant to come against them. And even if they did my crew be like to mutiny
as soon as I be out of sight of the shore. I can no afford to pay them this
week, or in the weeks to come. Not unless you or your friend do have a hefty
purse. I will have to charge a hefty fee for passage this time, girl. Much more
than I normally would, more than be fair for an honest captain to ask. But I do
no have a choice. How much coin do you have?”
Min flushed in shame. “I don’t have any coin at the moment. But if you could
just get us out of here my friend and I will see that you are paid a fortune
for your trouble. I swear it.” She wondered if she should tell him that Elayne
was the Daughter-Heir of Andor and could pay any fee he might ask ten times
over. But she decided not. A woman in Elayne’s position likely had enemies even
she wasn’t aware of, people who would target her just for being born her
mother’s daughter. She didn’t want to expose her to any more danger than she
was already in.
Domon sighed. “So you’ve no money to pay your passage. I’d no let my own
brother sail with me if he could no pay his passage. Even if I were not near
beggared.”
“Maybe I could steal ...” Min cleared her throat. “Never mind. If the damane
were distracted enough for you sail out of Seanchan territory, how much would
you need to take me and another girl with you?”
Domon stroked his beard and frowned at the walls of his cabin. “I’d need to pay
my crew, and I’d need to buy cargo in the next port in order to keep being able
to pay them.” He was silent for a moment as he did the sums in his head. “Fifty
crowns, Andoran weight, or the equivalent in other coinage. That should be
enough to cover it.”
Min’s jaw dropped. She’d never had that much money in her life. “I ... don’t
know where I would get that much ...”
Domon shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “You be a pretty girl. Do you no have
any ... friend that might loan you the money?”
Min flushed. “No,” she said firmly.
The captain sighed once again. He avoided meeting her eye. “Well if there be no
coin to purchase a new cargo ... mayhap I could take a loan from a bank in
Orlay or Bandar Eban. Assuming I could reach them without having my throat cut
and being tossed overboard. There ah, there be one way I could think of. If
someone could keep my crew’s tempers in check, could distract them and give
them a way to, ah ... ease their frustrations until I could afford to pay them
...”
Min felt cold. She had a terrible feeling that she already knew what he was
implying, but she had to ask. “How could they be distracted? And by who?” Her
voice came out sounding higher-pitched than usual.
Domon still avoided her eye. “I think you do know what I mean, girl. I do be
sorry, but unless you have coin to pay your way it be the only thing I can
think of that might get us both out of this mess. You be a pretty thing,
especially now that you no dress like a boy. I’m sure the men would be happy to
have a go with you when they be no on duty.”
Min paled. It was exactly as she had feared. The sailors. All the sailors. He
wants me to let them ... “No!” she gasped. “I can’t. I won’t!”
Domon shook his head regretfully. “Well, if it be no, it be no. But Bayle Domon
no give free passage, not to his own mother. If you do change your mind, I be
likely to still be here, waiting for that Light-blasted Lord to free me.”
It was a dismissal. Min rose from the bench on suddenly shaky legs. The sudden
hope she had felt on sighting the Spray evaporated, leaving only the roughest
truth behind. There was no way out. No way she could save Elayne. Not unless an
army appeared to attack Falme and draw the damane out. Not unless she could
figure out how to unlock the a’dam. And not unless she was willing to allow
dozens of strange men to use her however they pleased.
She stopped at the door to the captain’s cabin, her back to Domon and tears in
her eyes. “If ... if an army did come, and I brought my friend here ... Would
you promise me her safety? I need to know that nothing bad would happen to her,
not from the Seanchan or anyone else.”
“She could stay in the cabin with me. I do promise not to touch her, or allow
anyone else to. But if the men were to mutiny ... my promises would no be worth
much.” Domon sounded ashamed.
Min closed her eyes, causing her tears to leak down her cheeks. So long as
Elayne is safe, so long as she is spared having to live her life as adamane...
“If the High Lord gives you permission to leave, please send someone to tell
me. And if an army comes, please wait as long as you can before sailing. I ...
I’ll do whatever I can to ... to help ...” She lost her voice and her nerve and
fled the cabin, pulling the door shut behind her.
Outside, she scrubbed the tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her Seanchan
dress. She felt utterly wretched even at the thought of what was being asked of
her. She could not imagine actually doing it. But she would have to if she
wanted to save Elayne.
Composing herself as best she could, Min made her way back to the gangplank.
She was suddenly acutely aware of the crew of the Spray. Rough-faced and
unwashed men with hard muscles and sullen expressions, they watched her as she
walked past and their eyes flickered all over her body. She felt horribly
exposed and found herself fighting the urge to cringe away. When she reached
the gangplank she all but ran down it to the solid footing of the docks.
Min drew a shaky breath. Horrible as it was to contemplate letting those men
use her like that, what Elayne was going through was even worse. And at least
Min would have the hope that it would end in escape, and that she would have
accomplished something by doing it. All Elayne, or any damane, had was the
promise of a lifetime of slavery and degradation.
I’ll do it. I’ll do it if I have to, but oh Light I wish there was another way.
She didn’t know how she would be able to look at herself in the mirror
afterwards though. Or what Elayne and Rand would think of her if they ever
found out ...
***** Time Runs Out *****
CHAPTER 57: Time Runs Out
 
“Almost five months!” Fain snarled. “Even if the coward would not dare the
Ways, he should be here by now!” Half of summer and almost the entirety of
autumn he had waited, whispering his poison among the Seanchan to distract
himself, always hoping that tomorrow would be the day al’Thor came to Falme.
But the boy had not shown. It would almost have been enough to drive him mad,
if he was not already.
“I warned him,” he hissed softly. “I told him what I would do if he ignored
me.” Padan Fain was not a man of his word. He cared as little for honour as he
did for sanity. But he hated to be balked or looked down on. He’d had a
lifetime of that. Al’Thor would pay for disregarding him, and his warning.
Al’Thor and so many others.
The stablehands were looking at him oddly. He had momentarily forgotten where
he was in his fury and said aloud what he should, perhaps, have not. It did not
matter. He’d just have to add a few more bodies to the pile.
His discovery of a Friend of the Dark among the Seanchan nobility, and such a
highly ranked one at that, had seemed a welcome thing at first. But the more he
learned the more disquieted he grew. He had thought to use the Seanchan as his
weapon against the world—after he’d used them to kill al’Thor, of course—but
from what he had gleaned from Suroth it seemed Ba’alzamon favoured the Seanchan
and was taking steps to ensure their invasion was a success. Anything
Ba’alzamon favoured was something Fain wanted to destroy. He hated that one
almost as much, perhaps even more, than he hated al’Thor. He still cringed to
remember the things that had been done to him at Shayol Ghul.
Turak and the younger lady, Morsa, were not among the Friends, and so needed to
be handled more carefully than Suroth. Turak had proven particularly
aggravating. He would have thought a man who exuded the arrogance that that one
did would have been more amenable to their powers of persuasion, but when Fain
whispered of the glory he might win, Turak only prated of his loyalty to his
Empress. It had been one more reason for Fain to fume. The girl was cut from
the same cloth, but perhaps even more irritating. She put her nose in the air
whenever Fain entered the room, no matter how well he dressed or how many
servants he surrounded himself with. He could hardly whisper poison in her ear
if she would not even allow him to speak to her. I’d do more than whisper if I
could. I’d gouge out her arrogant eyes and fuck the sockets. He did not dare
though. The Seanchan’s wrath would be more than he could handle. For now.
Movement at the entrance to the stable caught his attention and brought a smile
to his lips. If he did not dare strike at the nobles, and could not reach
al’Thor, Aybara or Cauthon, there was at least one enemy he could get his hands
on. Huan cast a disdainful glance around as he entered the stables. Someone
unfamiliar with the Seanchan might almost have mistaken him for one of their
nobles with his robe and ridiculous haircut, especially when he looked down his
nose at the workers like that. Such a proud slave you are, Fain thought.
“Welcome, my friend,” Fain said.
Huan eyed him with even more disdain than he had the two stablemen. “The
servant you were loaned claimed you had found another prize for the High Lord.
One even greater than the last you brought. A bold claim. If he was lying and
wasting the High Lord’s time he may well lose his tongue.” His expression made
it plain he would like to see Fain’s tongue join the wretched servant’s on the
grill.
Fain smiled his most welcoming smile, and Huan recoiled slightly before
recalling how very, very proud he was to be the High Lord’s property. He drew
himself up and faced Fain proudly, and oh so stupidly.
“I found a prize greater than the Horn,” said Fain, not untruthfully. “A prize
disdained by many fools.” He felt ... something ... drift through him.
Something old, so very old.
“Huan. What is the meaning of this?” demanded the High Lord.
The servants, so’jihn and stablehands alike fell to their knees and pressed
their foreheads to the dirty floor.
“High Lord,” Huan said humbly. “I apologise profusely if I have displeased you.
I was told this man who calls himself Fain had brought another gift for you and
wished to make certain if was worthy of your attention before bringing him to
you.”
“Do you think to steal from me, Huan? Did the sight of the Horn of Valere fill
you with ambition? What a disappointment you are.” Bald-headed and smooth-
cheeked, Turak had a face well-suited to contemptuous sneers.
“That my service could be so poor as to cause you to believe that of me fills
me with shame, High Lord. I beg permission to take my own life in atonement,”
said Huan. Fain thought he even meant it. He would have liked to have been a
Seanchan lord. Owning people as completely as Turak owned this one would be
most satisfying. And useful too.
Fain had other ways to make people useful though. The two stablehands did not
stop prostrating themselves when he stole up behind them. Even when he slipped
a knife under each man’s throat and freed their life’s blood to soak into the
dirt they had spent their lives grubbing in, neither did anything more than
gargle.
If Huan heard the men die, he gave no sign. Still on his knees before the High
Lord, he waited for his master’s judgement. Fain giggled softly as he walked
towards him.
“I will grant you permission to die, dog. You may die in the dirt, at the hands
of the serv ... of the man I have chosen to replace you. Padan Fain.” Turak
gestured towards Fain as he made his proclamation.
Huan turned his head far enough to follow his master’s gesture and his eyes
widened when he saw Fain approaching with his knives dripping red. Still the
fool did not rise from his knees. Fain wondered if he would stay there even if
Fain were to lift his robe and start buggering him. It was a fleetingly amusing
thought, but he was not in the mood for such revenges.
Fain seized Huan by his lone braid and yanked his head back. The so’jihn dug
his nails into the dirt of the stable as though forcing himself not to fight
back. Fain wondered whether the truth or the deception would hurt him more as
he set his knife to the man’s throat. Since Huan was accepting his “master’s”
judgement so readily, Fain decided on the truth. As he slit Huan’s throat, Fain
leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Idiot, fool, traitor. You failed as a
servant and as a bodyguard. Your master dies next.” He felt the mist leave him
and the illusion of the High Lord Turak shimmered out of existence. Huan’s eyes
went very wide, he stared at the empty space where his master had never been
and he tried to speak but nothing came out save for a stream of red blood. He
pitched forward onto the ground, dead.
Fain rubbed his hands together. It had been a swifter death than the man
deserved, but Fain had bigger fish to fry. These tricks he had learned from the
man he met in Shadar Logoth were proving very useful. He wished he knew how
al’Thor had evaded the little trap he had left in that village. He needed to
know the limits of his new abilities if he was to use them against his enemies.
And he had so many enemies.
“First the Theren. I told him I would scour that place clean of life if he did
not come to me. And he did not come. So they will suffer in his place.” He
would need new dupes though. Who, and how would he get them to attack a few
worthless villages in the backwoods of Andor?
Fain thought it over as he saddled his horse. By the time he mounted up a smile
was twisting his face. Yes, that will do nicely. And how deliciously ironic.
He left without bothering to dispose of the bodies. By the time anyone
suspected him of the murders he would be inside the Ways, beyond the reach of
any fools who thought to bring him to “justice”. “It’s never over al’Thor,” he
muttered, uncaring of the looks people gave him as he rode for the gates of
Falme. “Wherever you ran to, I can find you. You will pay for what was done to
me.”
***** The Lines of If *****
CHAPTER 58: The Lines of If
 
The invader’s strange black and red armour was not enough to turn the edge of
Tam’s power-wrought sword, though Rand had to throw all his strength behind the
blow. He yanked the red-stained blade free of the dead man’s body and tried to
make sense of the chaos around him. The Shienarans were mostly afoot now, their
cavalry charge had smashed through the enemy lines when the battle began, but
their horses had panicked and thrown their riders at the sight of those strange
beasts the invaders commanded. Ragan lay where he had fallen, his neck twisted
at an unnatural angle and his smiles stilled forever. He was not alone; the
dead were piling up around him, Shienarans and invaders alike.
Rand engaged his next opponent aggressively, knowing the numbers were not in
their favour. But the red-haired man countered the overhand blows of Striking
the Spark with a perfectly executed Two Hares Leaping, driving Rand back in the
process. The invader wore the same type of armour as his previous opponent,
darker even than the already dark armour of the first group they had engaged.
Rand wondered if the colour indicated rank of some kind, for the battle had
started turning against his allies as soon as these new enemies joined the
fray. His suspicions were strengthened when he spotted the heron etched on the
blade that now thrust towards his face. He hastily switched to a high guard and
sidestepped his opponent, The Kingfisher Circles the Pond.
He’s a blademaster. A real blademaster, not just a shepherd with a borrowed
sword, Rand thought. He fed his fear to the flame and fought to maintain his
focus.
Amidst the clamour of battle it was hard to distinguish one voice from another.
Yet the sound of a girl’s scream of pain was hard to miss, especially when it
was a voice you knew so well.
“Anna,” Rand gasped, face turning pale. The void failed and he glanced aside,
searching for her. The dark-armoured invader saw his chance and took it.
The heron-marked sword slid easily through Rand’s fancy coat and the unarmoured
chest beneath it. The pain drove all thought from Rand’s mind and his father’s
sword fell from his suddenly-limp hands. Blood flooded his mouth, and as he
sank to his knees on the battlefield and the world darkened around him, he
heard a voice whispering in his skull, you lose again, Lews Therin.
 
Flicker.
 
The iron lock spun across the farmhouse floor, and Rand dropped the hot
teakettle as a huge figure with ram’s horns on its head loomed in the doorway
with the darkness of Winternight behind it.
“Run!” Tam shouted. His sword flashed, and the Trolloc toppled, but it grappled
with Tam as it fell, pulling him down.
More crowded in at the door, black-mailed shapes with human faces distorted
with muzzles and beaks and horns, oddly curved swords stabbing at Tam as he
tried to struggle to his feet, spiked axes swinging, red blood on steel.
“Father!” Rand screamed. Clawing his belt knife from its sheath, he threw
himself over the table to help his father, and screamed again when a mailed
fist thudded into his stomach and a second clubbed the side of his head. His
vision faded.
Piercing pain brought him back to awareness. He was sprawled across the kitchen
table, his hands and feet were tied together, and something was stabbing him
from behind. Harsh voices in a language he did not know sounded from all around
and Tam was staring up at him. Tam’s head at least, blank-eyed and rolling
across the soiled floor. The rest of him was gone and a heavy pot was bubbling
over their fire. The stabbing pain repeated half a dozen times before Rand’s
sluggish mind could comprehend what was happening.
“Stop!” he cried. His rapist ignored him, preferring to shove its giant cock
into his ass again and again, hard brutal thrusts that seemed as much about
inflicting pain as they were about seeking pleasure.
The other Trollocs paid more heed to Rand’s cries. They shouted at him in their
guttural language and one stepped forward from the pack, tossing aside a bloody
bone as it did so, a bone that had a tragically familiar hand attached to it.
Tears leaked from Rand’s horror-widened eyes.
The goat-headed Trolloc saw his tears and amusement flared in its too-human
eyes. It reached into its dirty breeches and fished out a heavy pink shaft that
tapered off at its tufted end. Rand had little time to wonder at how wrong the
thing looked. The Trolloc seized him by his hair and yanked his head back
painfully. When he gasped in pain, it shoved its ugly member into his open
mouth. The foul taste made him gag which caused the Trolloc to chuckle in
pleasure. The Trolloc held Rand’s head in place as it fucked his mouth over and
over. The long hair on the end of its cock tickled the back of his throat and
he gagged again.
The one that had been busy raping his ass howled like a wolf and Rand felt warm
liquid flood his insides. It pulled itself out of him with a loud pop and
staggered away. No sooner had it taken two steps than another, beaked like a
chicken but furred like a bear was pulling its crooked thing out and moving
around to take its place behind Rand.
He couldn’t take this horror any more. Yelling internally, Rand clamped his
jaws down on the monstrous cock in his mouth, trying to bite it off and hoping
that the beast would bleed to death if he managed to. The thing roared in pain
and fury and reached down to dig its claws into the sides of his neck, tearing
the flesh there as easily as a wolf might tear the throat from a lamb.
Blood bubbled up into his mouth, and flooded out over the table. As he died, a
voice whispered inside his head, you lose again, Lews Therin.
 
Flicker.
 
Rand struggled to hold the symbol, dimly aware of Verin’s voice. “... is not
...” The Power flooded.
 
Flicker.
 
Rand was happy after he married Egwene, and tried to not let the moods take
him, the times when he thought there should have been something more, something
different. News of the world outside came into the Theren with peddlers, and
merchants come to buy wool and tabac, always news of fresh troubles, of wars
and false Dragons everywhere. There was a year when neither merchants nor
peddlers came, and when they returned the next they brought word that Artur
Hawkwing’s armies had come back, or their descendants, at least. The old
nations were broken, it was said, and the world’s new masters, who used chained
Aes Sedai in their battles, had torn down the White Tower and salted the ground
where Tar Valon had stood. There were no more Aes Sedai.
It all made little difference in the Theren. Crops still had to be planted,
sheep sheared, lambs tended. Tam had grandsons and granddaughters to dandle on
his knee before he was laid to rest beside his wife, and the old farmhouse grew
new rooms. Egwene became Wisdom, and most thought she was even better than the
old Wisdom, Nynaeve al’Meara, had been. It was as well she was, for her cures
that worked so miraculously on others were only just able to keep Rand alive
from the sickness that constantly seemed to threaten him. His moods grew worse,
blacker, and he raged that this was not what was meant to be. Egwene grew
frightened when the moods were on him, for strange things sometimes happened
when he was at his bleakest—lightning storms she had not heard listening to the
wind, wildfires in the forest—but she loved him and cared for him and kept him
sane, though some muttered that Rand al’Thor was crazy and dangerous.
When she died, he sat alone for long hours by her grave, tears soaking his
grey-flecked beard. His sickness came back, and he wasted; he lost the last two
fingers on his right hand and one on his left, his ears looked like scars, and
men muttered that he smelled of decay. His blackness deepened.
Yet when the dire news came, none refused to accept him at their side. Trollocs
and Fades and things undreamed of had burst out of the Blight, and the world’s
new masters were being thrown back, for all the powers they wielded. So Rand
took up the bow he had just fingers enough left to shoot and limped with those
who marched north to the River Taren, men from every village, farm, and corner
of the Theren, with their bows, and axes, and boarspears, and swords that had
lain rusting in attics. Rand wore a sword, too, with a heron on the blade, that
he had found after Tam died, though he knew nothing of how to use it. Women
came, too, shouldering what weapons they could find, marching alongside the
men. Some laughed, saying that they had the strange feeling they had done this
before.
And at the Taren the people of the Theren met the invaders, endless ranks of
Trollocs led by nightmare Fades beneath a dead black banner that seemed to eat
the light. Rand saw that banner and thought the madness had taken him again,
for it seemed that this was what he had been born for, to fight that banner. He
sent every arrow at it, straight as his skill and the void would serve, never
worrying about the Trollocs forcing their way across the river, or the men and
women dying to either side of him. It was one of those Trollocs that ran him
through, before it loped howling for blood deeper into the Theren. And as he
lay on the bank of the Taren, watching the sky seem to grow dark at noon,
breath coming ever slower, he heard a voice say, you lose again, Lews Therin.
 
Flicker.
 
Raye didn’t really want to marry the Mayor’s handsome young son Edwin. But
their fathers had arranged the match without bothering to ask her, as had been
customary in the Theren for as long as anyone could remember. A custom dating,
perhaps, all the way back to the end of the Age of Legends, when Louise Therin
Telachol had helped the Dark One to taint the female half of the One Power and
used it to start the Breaking of the World. The men often said that was just
the sort of thing you could expect to happen if you let a woman run things.
Edwin certainly shared that opinion. He had welcomed the match with Raye at
first. She was the only girl in the Theren with hair the colour of blood and
many a man had complimented her looks; and besides, she had no brothers to
inherit her father’s lands so they would belong to whoever married her, once
Tam passed on.
He had enjoyed himself on their wedding night too, playing with her large, pale
breasts as he pumped in and out of her sex. She had grown to enjoy the
unfamiliar sensation too after a while.
But the enjoyment was short-lived.
Raye had a stubborn streak to her, no matter how mild-mannered and tractable
she might have appeared to Edwin when they were younger. She knew the legends
of Louise Therin Kinslayer, but didn’t see why one woman’s crimes should be
used to condemn all women. She loved the Theren, but she hated spending her
days washing and cooking and cleaning Edwin’s house. She hated being expected
to spread her legs every time he was bored. And she hated the way Edwin spoke
to her. Perhaps he knew how little she liked playing her “proper” role and took
it as his civic duty to keep her in her place, or perhaps he resented her for
not being happy in their marriage. Or simply for being taller than him.
Whatever his reasons, he rarely let a chance slip by without reminding her of
how inferior women in general, and she in particular, were.
“My father always told me the best way to deal with a woman was to learn to
ride a mule. He said they have equal brains most of the time. Sometimes the
mule is smarter,” he would snort, with an exasperated shake of his head, when
she expressed an interest in anything more strenuous than housework.
Once, when she defied him and bought some books on herbalism from a visiting
peddler, Edwin sighed and took on an indulgent look. “Stopping a woman from
what she wants to do is like taking a sweet from a child,” he said, acting as
though he had known her intentions all along. “Sometimes you have to do it, but
sometimes it just isn’t worth the trouble.”
After a few years of marriage she began hearing his voice in her head even when
she was off visiting with her friends Petunia and Matti. Always the voice
insulted, belittled and mocked her, and no matter how she tried she could not
make it be silent.
When her eye started twitching uncontrollably, Edwin began to have difficulty
looking at her.
It was on a night not long after that she decided to end it. She was on her
hands and knees on the bed as Edwin held her by her curvaceous hips and pounded
away. She felt no pleasure in their copulation any more. With each thrust the
voice in her head, his voice, repeated an old insult.
“You’re just a woman. Who do you think you are? Mule-head. Don’t concern
yourself with men’s business, dear, you’ll give yourself a headache.”
The poison she brewed worked well. Her book had been worth that much, whatever
he said. When his friends missed him and came to ask where he was, Raye did not
try to hide her actions.
On the day that Mayor Brandelwyn al’Vere ordered her to be hanged, a wild-eyed
man stumbled into Emond’s Field ranting about monsters chasing him and claiming
the Borderlands had been overrun. No-one paid him much heed, they were too busy
gossiping about the mad murderess in their midst and telling of how they’d
always known there was something strange about her.
When Dan Congar kicked the stool out from under her and the noose tightened
around her soft neck, Raye heard another voice in her head, a different one but
somehow every bit as loathsome. You lose again, Louise Therin.
 
Flicker.
 
Battle raged around him, deep in the Hills of Absher. Rand fought with
desperate, but inexperienced fury. They all did, save for Moiraine and Lan.
Amidst the chaos a space remained around the Aes Sedai, whenever a Trolloc
ventured too near, fires roared. The Trollocs howls of rage and fury turned to
fear and pain as they died. Above roar and howl crashed the tolling of the
Warder’s sword against the Myrddraal’s; the air flared blue around them, flared
again. Again.
A hook caught Rand’s shoulder from behind, digging through his coat and into
the flesh beneath, jerking him backwards. He roared with pain and clutched the
pommel of his saddle to keep his seat. Cloud twisted, shrieking. Rand hung on
desperately but he could feel himself slipping, inch by inch, dragged backwards
by the hook. He saw Perrin, half out of his saddle, struggling to wrest his axe
away from three Trollocs. They had him by one arm and both legs. A hard yank on
the hook pulled Rand from Cloud’s back and then he saw nothing but snarling,
twisted, barely human bodies.
He hit the ground hard, breath whooshing out of his lungs. Gritting his teeth,
he tried to rise again. Trollocs dashed in to seize Rand’s legs and arms.
Panting, he stabbed one, but another soon took its place, and Rand’s sword was
trapped within the first. A huge hand, covered in scales like a lizard’s,
closed around Rand’s throat ... and the world began to fade away slowly.
He heard Moiraine scream, and through the tangled bodies of the Trollocs he saw
Lan speared from behind. A dozen or more of the beasts had descended on him as
he fought the Myrddraal. Moiraine’s cry of grief turned to a cry of pain as the
Shadowspawn took advantage of her distraction to press their attack. They did
not try to take her alive, as they seemed intent on doing with the Theren folk;
a wicked curved sword struck the Aes Sedai’s head from her shoulders, stilling
her screams and Rand’s hopes both.
The darkness descended upon him.
Pain woke him, his own and the pain of his friends.
The first thing he saw was Nynaeve, held aloft between two huge Trollocs like a
piece of meat being roasted above a fire. Horribly, the spit she was held by
was not made of wood, but of Shadowspawn cock. A goat-headed fiend held her
braid aloft in both its hands as it pushed its cock deep into her throat,
choking her. Tears flowed down the Wisdom’s cheeks as she struggled to get a
breath. Her bare breasts dangled well above the ground, and her hands pressed
against the Trolloc’s armoured knees, desperate to gain some purchase other
than Trolloc cock on which to support her weight. At her other end a horse-
faced thing held her dangling by the ankles, while it raped her with its horse-
like cock. The thing was too huge to fit completely inside Nynaeve’s body, but
what it had managed to force in there was enough to make blood drip steadily
down to the soiled ground.
Mat and Perrin were on their knees, hogtied and facing each other. The huge
Trollocs raping their asses brayed with inhuman laughter, and seemed to enjoy
forcing the two boys to watch each other being violated as much as they were
enjoying their tight holes.
He didn’t think they were the first to have had a go on them. Naked and half-
naked Trolloc bodies could be seen all around the camp. Many were feasting at
the cookpots, where pieces of Moiraine, Lan and Thom could still be seen,
waiting to be cooked.
Horror forced a prayer of denial from Rand’s lips, and his Trolloc captors
turned their attention his way. They laughed as they advanced on him, rubbing
their twisted, inhuman members in clawlike hands, readying themselves for what
Rand knew was coming. Instinctively he tried to get away, but he was tied as
securely as Mat and Perrin were, and his kicking and thrashing accomplished
nothing.
A scream of pain distracted him momentarily. He hadn’t even noticed that Anna
was there, so huge was the Trolloc that lay atop her. It was covered in striped
fur, lighter at the chest and stomach, darker elsewhere. Its vaguely human body
shape was belied by the snout of its face, and the long tusks that stabbed down
from its jaw. It pounded its cock mercilessly into the little girl pinned
beneath its bulk, uncaring of her pain or her struggles.
The others were equally as dismissive of Egwene’s pain. They crowded around
her, some with cocks lodged in her ass, pussy, mouth, or hands, others using
their own hands to pleasure themselves as they watched the show. Her body and
face were already covered in a thick coating of white slime.
As the Trollocs seized Rand by the ankles and flipped him over he sent up a
fervent prayer to the Light, in vain hope of deliverance. He had to wait a long
time before his prayer was answered, and when it finally was, it was
accompanied by a mocking whisper. You lose again, Lews Therin.
 
Flicker.
 
The arrow-and-circle contorted into parallel wavy lines, and he fought it back
again. Verin’s voice. “... right. Something ...”
The Power raged.
 
Flicker.
 
Tam tried to console Rand when Nynaeve died just a week before their wedding.
It had been such a stupid accident, a runaway horse kicking out at the worst
possible moment. Bitter grief strangled his throat every time he thought of it,
and he thought of it every day he lingered in the Theren. He recalled how she
had wept on his shoulder after failing to save Egwene. He himself had sat
outside Egwene’s house while she died, and there seemed to be nowhere in
Emond’s Field that you could not hear her screaming. No-one, not even Nynaeve
knew what illness had struck her.
Comfort shared had soon grown into something more. Something that some
considered improper. Nynaeve had lost her position as village Wisdom when the
Women’s Circle discovered their relationship, and Rand regretted that injustice
deeply, but he told himself he would have made her happy even so, if only the
Wheel had been kind enough to let them wed.
But it had not been so kind and he knew he could not stay. Tam gave him a sword
with a heron-mark blade, and though he explained little of how a shepherd in
the Theren had come by such a thing, he taught Rand how to use it. On the day
Rand left, Tam gave him a letter he said might get Rand taken into the army of
Illian, and hugged him, and said, “I’ve never had another son, or wanted
another. Come back with a wife like I did, if you can, boy, but come back in
any case.”
Rand had his money stolen in Baerlon, though, and his letter of introduction,
and almost his sword, and he met a woman called Min who told him such crazy
things about himself that he finally left the city to get away from her.
Eventually his wanderings brought him to Caemlyn, and there his skill with the
sword earned him a place in the Queen’s Guards. Sometimes he found himself
looking at the Daughter-Heir, Elayne, and at such times he was filled with odd
thoughts that this was not the way things were supposed to be, that there
should be something more to his life. Elayne did not look at him, of course;
she married a rich Tairen High Lord named Estean who had a face like a potato.
She did not seem happy in her marriage though, and the female servants in the
Palace took to avoiding her husband and his wandering hands as much as they
could.
Rand did not speak to Elayne often. He was just a soldier, once a shepherd from
a small village so far toward the eastern border that only lines on a map any
longer truly connected it to Andor. Besides, he had a dark reputation, as a man
of violent moods.
Some said he was mad, and in ordinary times perhaps not even his skill with the
sword would have kept him in the Guard, but these were not ordinary times.
False Dragons sprang up like weeds. Every time one was taken down, two more
proclaimed themselves, or three, till every nation was torn by war. And Rand’s
star rose, for he had learned the secret of his madness, a secret he knew he
had to keep and did. He could channel. There were always places, times, in a
battle when a little channelling, not big enough to be noticed in the
confusion, could make luck. Sometimes it worked, this channelling, and
sometimes not, but it worked often enough. He knew he was mad, and did not
care. A wasting sickness came on him, and he did not care about that, either,
and neither did anyone else, for word had come that Artur Hawkwing’s armies had
returned to reclaim the land.
Rand led a thousand men when the Queen’s Guards crossed the Hills of Kintara to
join with Pedron Niall’s army. He commanded the Guard when the shattered
remnants retreated back along the Far Madding road, leaving Lord Bryne and the
two princes dead on the field behind them. The length of Andor he fought and
fell back, amid hordes of fleeing refugees, until at last he came to Caemlyn.
Many of the people of Caemlyn had fled already, and many counselled the army to
retreat further, but Elayne was Queen, now, and vowed she would not leave
Caemlyn. She would not look at his ruined face, scarred by his sickness, but he
could not leave her, and so what was left of the Queen’s Guards prepared to
defend the Queen while her people ran.
The Power came to him during the battle for Caemlyn, and he hurled lightning
and fire among the invaders, and split the earth under their feet, yet the
feeling came again, too, that he had been born for something else. For all he
did, there were too many of the enemy to stop, and they also had those who
could channel. At last, a lightning bolt hurled Rand from the Palace wall,
broken, bleeding, and burned, and as his last breath rattled in his throat, he
heard a voice whisper, you lose again, Lews Therin.
 
Flicker.
 
The Amyrlin Seat looked her straight in the eye and said, “Because you are the
Phoenix Reborn.”
The void rocked. The world rocked. Everything seemed to spin around her. Raye
al’Thor concentrated on nothing, and the emptiness returned, the world
steadied. “No, Father. I can channel saidar, the Light help me, but I am not
Rowen Darksbane, nor Gertrin Amalasan, nor Yuria Stonebow. You can Still me, or
kill me, or let me go, but I will not be a tame false Phoenix on a Tar Valon
leash.”
She heard Varun gasp, and the Amyrlin’s eyes widened, a gaze as hard as blue
rock. It did not affect her; it slid off the void within.
“Where did you hear those names?” the Amyrlin demanded, in his deep voice. “Who
told you Tar Valon pulls the lines on any false Phoenix?”
“A friend, Father,” she said. “A travelling storyteller. Her name was Tamsin
Merrilin. She’s dead, now.” Morgan made a sound, and she glanced at him. He
claimed Tamsin was not dead, but Raye could not see how any woman, especially
one of Tamsin’s years, could survive grappling hand-to-hand with a Fade. Short
and slender as he was, she doubted Morgan could either. Though of course he had
saidin to defend himself with, and no need to worry about going mad from using
it. The thought was extraneous, and it faded away. There was only the void and
the oneness now.
“You are not a false Phoenix,” the Amyrlin said firmly. “You are the true
Phoenix Reborn.”
“I am a farmgirl from the Theren, Father,” Raye said stubbornly.
The Amyrlin leaned back in his chair, looking exasperated. “Son, tell her the
story. A true story, girl. Listen well.”
And so Morgan told her a wild tale of an invasion by fierce nomads whose hair
was as red as her own, and a Foretelling made by an elderly Aes Sedai just
before he expired from the shock of his own words. They told her that the seal
that Louise Therin Telachol had placed on the Dark One’s prison was weakening
and that only her reincarnation stood a chance of fixing it. They claimed that
Raye was that reincarnation. She didn’t want to believe it; everyone knew that
Louise Therin had murdered her husband and children. Didn’t the prophecies say
the Phoenix Reborn would do the same? Yet, as much as she wanted to deny the
Amyrlin’s claims, there was the insidious ring of truth to them.
When the Aes Sedai party left Fal Dara, Raye gave her farewells to Lord Agelmar
and the visiting King Easar along with all the rest.
They kept her in Tar Valon for a long time, but did not Still or execute her as
she might have thought. And sometimes as she might have desired, in those
moments when fear of what she might do if she went mad gripped her heart.
As stifling as her captivity in the Black Tower was there was one bright spot
in it, for it was there that she was reunited with Gawyn. The bright young
prince whose garden she had so embarrassingly fallen into could channel saidin
it seemed. He had come to Tar Valon to train to be Aes Sedai and had looked
very pleased to realise Raye would be staying there too. His elder sisters,
Elayne and the stunningly beautiful Galadriel, had come with him, apparently to
be taught the proper way of managing a household.
Raye encountered Gawyn about the Tower far too often for it to be happenstance.
Always he had a shy smile for her, one that brought out his dimples, and always
he asked if there was anything he could do to help. “Anything,” he would say,
gallantly. “Just name it and it is yours.”
He made good on his offer when the Amyrlin publically proclaimed Raye to be the
Phoenix Reborn, and marshalled an army to attack the Stone of Tear. It was in
no small part due to Gawyn’s urging that his father King Morgallen agreed to
support the campaign. Raye was placed in command, though Morgan and several
dozen Aes Sedai were never far from her side, or slow to offer “advice” that
was phrased rather like orders. Yet even as arrogant as they so often were the
Aes Sedai watched Raye warily. They had seen fit to test her strength in the
Power during her long stay in Tar Valon and quickly come to see that not even
their strongest initiate came close to matching her.
Gawyn rode with her to battle, but their friend Max they left behind in Tar
Valon. Raye had been reluctant to part, for she had begun to have secret,
sinful thoughts about the dark-eyed man. About he and Gawyn both in fact. She
almost thought that Max might have been willing to make her fantasies come
true, from the hints he kept dropping, but she very much doubted a proper
prince like Gawyn would be willing to allow such a thing. She valued his
opinion of her too much to even suggest it, and feared to ruin his friendship
with Max if she continued in their shared company.
Perhaps it was the imminence of war that spurred Gawyn to kiss her at last. His
kisses proved shy and sweet and in no time at all she was tangling her fingers
in his red-gold curls and kissing him back hungrily. Though she was only a
peasant, and cursed with the ability to channel saidar, he offered to marry her
that very day. And of course she said yes.
They wed in the Royal Palace of Caemlyn while the Tower’s army camped outside
the city. If men were reluctant to believe Raye really was the Phoenix Reborn,
they were even more reluctant to go against the Black Tower, and so the wedding
crowd proved prodigiously huge.
Naturally Gawyn’s sisters attended. Galadriel expressed her satisfaction at
seeing a woman in command of an army for the first time since the days of
Arturia Hawkwing, and her hopes for a change in the stifling patriarchy to
which they had been born. Raye agreed with her new sister-in-law’s sentiments,
though she was privately shocked by them. She’d always thought Galadriel the
traditionalist among the two, whilst Elayne, though she loved her little
brother dearly, seemed to simmer with resentment that Gawyn was heir to Andor
instead of her.
Raye’s worries over the future and fear of the fate that awaited her
disappeared when she fell into bed with Gawyn that night. They were naked
already and her prince could not seem to keep his hands off her breasts or hips
or buttocks. She revelled in his touch as she trailed kisses down his neck and
took his excited, twitching member in her gentle hands. Gawyn gazed up at her
in awe as she knelt above him and aimed his manhood toward her wet and willing
entrance. The hair that crowned her sex was as red as the blood she shed for
him that night. He cried out her name as he came inside her, his hands resting
in the hollows of her waist as she rode him fiercely, eagerly. She didn’t stop
riding until her own climax surged up in her and she fell gasping to rest her
head on his chest. Gawyn stroked her long red hair, unbraided now as it so
rarely was, and rained kisses down on her brow and cheek as he whispered those
sweetest of words: “I love you.”
Raye could scarcely stop smiling the next morning. Even when the darkly
handsome Dylan Rashamon arrived to tell her the army would be ready to march at
midday she could not seem to muster an appropriately solemn response. Elayne
sniffed at her as they sat over their breakfast in the very garden in which
they had first met, and Raye greeted her new sister’s censure with a chagrined
smile and a friendly laugh. The robe she wore was finer than anything she had
owned on her first visit to this place, but she had thrown it on with the same
casual disregard she would have shown her old woollens.
“That is not the proper way to greet a subordinate in your army,” Elayne said
tightly.
Raye shrugged. “So long as he’s doing his job, I don’t see any reason to stand
on formality.”
“No. You don’t see,” Elayne muttered. “But I would have.”
Raye leaned over to fetch a peach from the small, three-legged table beside
their bench. A sudden pain struck her, right between her shoulders, and the
fruit fell from her suddenly nerveless hand. “What?” she gasped.
Elayne’s scowl robbed her of her beauty. “It should have been me, not some
peasant girl. I would have done it properly. Instead I get passed over for the
likes of you? It’s not right.”
“But I’m only trying to help,” Raye whispered as she slipped off the marble
bench to fall once more to the soft dirt of the garden. “I never did anything
to you ...”
Elayne looked down on her resentfully. “I always wondered if the Phoenix Reborn
could live with a knife through her heart. It seems you are not so special
after all.”
As awareness faded from Raye’s mind she heard a voice whisper, you lose again,
Louise Therin.
 
Flicker.
 
Raye and Matti’s trip down the Caemlyn Road proved difficult, and not just
because of the Fades and Darkfriends that were hunting for them. Two girls
alone in a foreign land, and armed with nothing more than their knives; they
attracted a lot of unwelcome attention.
Matti got more and more suspicious as the days passed, both of strangers and
even of Raye, and never mind that they’d been friends since they were little
girls. Her brown braid lashed like a cat’s tail the time she angrily demanded
that Raye “hide them better”, but she had no answer to Raye’s demand to know
how exactly she was supposed to do that. It was not as if she was encouraging
the attention. She kept herself bundled up in a heavy, hooded cloak as often as
she could.
They had many narrow escapes, but Tamsin’s lessons carried them safely all the
way down the road to Four Kings. The village was bigger than most, but still a
scruffy town to bear a name like that. Village women, their heads covered with
scarves, kept their eyes down and walked quickly, sometimes followed by
wagoneers’ comments that made Raye blush; even Matti gave a start at some of
them. Noise hung over everything, clanging from blacksmiths, shouts from the
wagon drivers, raucous laughter from the town’s inns.
Raye swung down from the back of a merchant’s canvas-topped wagon as they came
abreast of a garishly painted inn, all greens and yellows that caught the eye
from afar among the leaden houses. The line of wagons kept moving. None of the
drivers even seemed to notice that she and Matti had gone; dusk was falling,
and they all had their eyes on unhitching the horses and reaching the inns.
“I don’t know about this place,” she said. “I don’t like it. Maybe we’d better
go on this time.”
Matti gave her a scornful look, then rolled her eyes at the sky. Dark clouds
thickened overhead. “And sleep under a hedge tonight? In that? I’m used to a
bed again.” She cocked her head to listen, then sniffed. “Maybe one of these
places doesn’t have musicians. Anyway, I’ll bet they don’t have a juggler.” She
started for the bright yellow door, studying everything through narrowed eyes.
Raye followed doubtfully towards the door of The Dancing Cartman.
A bony man with long, stringy hair to his shoulders turned to scowl at them as
they came through the door. The first slow peal of thunder rumbled across Four
Kings. “What do you want?” He was rubbing his hands on a greasy apron that hung
to his ankles. Raye wondered if more grime was coming off on the apron or on
the man’s hands. “Well? Speak up, buy a drink, or get out! Do I look like a
raree show?”
Flushing, Raye launched into the spiel she had perfected at inns before this.
“I play the flute, and my friend juggles, and you’ll not see two better in a
year. For a good room and a good meal, we’ll fill this common room of yours.
We’ll fill your inn with men who will repay the little we cost twenty times
over with the food and drink they buy.”
The innkeeper sucked his teeth thoughtfully, eyeing Raye and Matti. “Tell you
what,” he said finally. “You can have a couple of pallets in an empty storeroom
in the back. Rooms are too expensive to give away. You eat when everybody’s
gone. There ought to be something left.”
“The pallets will do if they’re clean,” Raye sighed. “And the food. But that we
can get anywhere for doing a lot less. We’ll want coin if we’re to play here.
Enough for passage on the next caravan at the least. Here. We’ll show you what
we can do.” She reached for the flute case, but Hake shook his head.
“Don’t matter. This lot’ll be satisfied with any kind of screeching so long as
it sounds something like music. I’ll pay, but if you don’t bring the crowd in,
Jak and Strom will see you out in the street.” He nodded over his shoulder at
two hard-faced men sitting against the wall. They were not drinking, and their
arms were thick enough for legs. When Hake nodded at them, their eyes shifted
to Raye and Matti, flat and expressionless.
“As long as we get what’s agreed on,” she said in a level tone.
Hake smirked dismissively. “What I said isn’t it? Well, get started. You won’t
bring anybody in just standing there.” He stalked off, scowling and shouting at
the serving maids as if there were fifty customers they were neglecting.
There was a small, raised platform at the far end of the room, near the door to
the back. They spent most of that evening sitting on a bench there, while Raye
played and Matti juggled, and they both tried to ignore the raucous calls of
the crowd below. It was far from pleasant, but it was no more than they were
used to by now.
Eventually the need to be up with the dawn began to pull men reluctantly out
into the dark. A farmer had only himself to answer to, but merchants were
notoriously unfeeling about hangovers when they were paying drivers’ wages. In
the small hours the common room slowly emptied as even those who had rooms
abovestairs staggered off to find their beds.
Hake locked the front door with a big key, then gave Raye and Matti a lingering
look. Jak and Strom stood at his shoulders.
Matti he put her hand under her cloak as she watched Hake and his toughs
approach. She kept that odd knife she’d found in Shadar Logoth hidden there,
and fingered it often.
Hake was carrying an oil lamp, and to Raye’s surprise he gave a little bow and
gestured to a side door with it. “Your pallets are this way.”
Matti raised an eyebrow at Jak and Strom. “You need those two to show us our
beds?”
“I’m a man of property,” Hake said, smoothing the front of his soiled apron,
“and men of property can’t be too careful.” A crash of thunder rattled the
windows, and he glanced significantly at the ceiling, then gave them a toothy
grin. “You want to see your beds or not?”
Raye didn’t like him, but then she hadn’t liked many of the folk they’d met
since getting separated from the rest of their friends. “Lead the way,” she
said, trying to make her voice hard. “I don’t like having anybody behind me.”
Strom snickered, but Hake nodded placidly and turned toward the side door, and
the two big men swaggered after him. She followed the innkeeper glumly. At the
side door she hesitated, and Matti crowded into her back. The reason for Hake’s
lamp was apparent. The door let into a hall as black as pitch. Only the lamp
Hake carried, silhouetting Jak and Strom, gave her the courage to keep on. The
hall ended in a rough, unpainted door. Hake lifted the lamp high and gestured
at the room.
“Here it is.”
An old storeroom, he had called it, and by the look of it not used in some
time. Weathered barrels and broken crates filled half the floor. Steady drips
fell from more than one place on the ceiling, and a broken pane in the filthy
window let the rain blow in freely. Unidentifiable odds and ends littered the
shelves, and thick dust covered almost everything. The promised pallets looked
dirty.
“It’ll do,” she said. “Leave the lamp.”
Hake grunted, but pushed the lamp onto a shelf. He hesitated for a moment,
looking at them, and then he jerked his head at the two big men. Smiles flashed
across their broad faces, and they lunged across the room towards Raye and
Matti.
Raye went for her knife, and so did Matti, but the men caught their wrists in
vicelike grips before they could draw blood. Jak grinned at the sight of the
ruby-hilted dagger Matti held.
“Well there’s a sweet bonus,” Hake smirked. “And here I thought all we’d found
was a pair of little country sluts. You can have the skinny one if you want,
Jak. I’m more interested in the red-haired bitch with the big tits.”
Jak grunted, leering at them both. “Bit plain, but I’ll fuck her. For dessert.
Tits first.”
“You take your hands off us right now,” Raye said, trying to keep her voice
calm despite the way her heart was racing, “and we won’t bring the King’s
Guards down on you. What sort of men accost innocent travellers like this?”
Hake slapped her face, and she cried out despite herself. She was still
blinking in shock when they pounced on her, pushing her down onto the dirty
pallet and tearing at her clothes. She heard Matti call her name, before a
meaty slap silenced her.
Raye tried to fight them, but they were so much stronger than her, and she had
no weapons. Not that she would have known how to use one even if she’d had it.
Strom ripped her blouse down the front and her breasts spilled free; they’d
been exposed only seconds before his rough hands were groping at the pale
globes. Hake dragged her skirts down over her legs despite her kicking, and
then immediately grabbed hold of her knickers and yanked them off too. She
tried to cover her body with her hands, but it did no good, and only made the
horrible men laugh at her.
Jak ripped Matti’s clothes from her too, ignoring the girl’s defiant curses. He
used her ripped clothes to tie her up, and stole the opportunity to grope and
pinch her small breasts and narrow butt in the process, before leaving her
laying face down on the other pallet. For later. He grinned widely as he came
to join the two who were holding Raye down, fishing his thick, hard cock out of
his trousers as he advanced.
“Get off me, burn you!” she growled, but the men only laughed.
“Keep fighting, bitch,” Hake sneered, “it only makes it better.” Raye didn’t
want to do anything that would please these men, but she wasn’t about to give
up without a fight either, so she kept struggling to the bitter end.
Her struggles were futile though. They pushed her over onto her side and Strom
lay down behind her, fumbling at his belt. Jak took hold of her leg at the
knee, his hard grip and cruel hands forcing her to open herself to him. She
screamed when he thrust his cock into her dry pussy.
Hands pawed at the fleshy globes of her ass, pushing them apart. She had only a
brief warning before another cock forced its way into her body, stretching her
tight butthole in a way that forced another, even louder scream from her lips.
Strom laughed. “Turns out she likes having someone behind her after all.”
With Raye pinned between them, the two thugs abandoned their hold on her legs
and began pawing at her breasts, and pulling on her hair as their cocks pumped
in and out of her body.
“Bet you bloody love it, don’t you, you dirty little slut? Parading around like
that, just begging to be fucked,” grunted Jak as he raped her.
“With a face and a body like that, she’s probably fucked half of Andor,”
sneered Hake. He knelt at the top of the pallet and took hold of Raye’s thick,
red braid. The innkeeper had his cock out; it was short and thin. He waited for
a particularly rough thrust from his hired bullies to force a cry from Raye’s
lips before shoving the foul thing into her mouth. He wasted no more time
before starting to fuck her face.
The men laughed as they raped all three of her holes, and Raye couldn’t stop
the tears from leaking down her cheeks. The men were, of course, unmoved by her
pain or grief. Her rage wouldn’t move them either, but as it grew inside it at
least warmed her. She fair crackled with heat in fact.
The fluids they spurted into her body were warm too. Far from quenching the
heat inside her, they only made in grow stronger, like adding oil to a flame.
Murderous fury contorted Raye’s face as Hake’s vile come dribbled over her
chin. When she felt Jak coming in her womb that fury burst out as a roar that
split the heavens themselves.
Light filled the room, flooding vision; the air roared and burned. Raye felt
herself picked up and dashed sideways against the wall. She slid down in a
heap, ears ringing and every hair on her body trying to stand on end. A warm
body cushioned her fall. Dazed, she looked down at the man beneath her. Jak
stared blankly, heedless of the burns that covered the skin of his face and
body. He’s dead, she realised. Then,and he’s still in me! Sickened, she pushed
herself off him and staggered to her feet. Her knees wobbled, and she put a
hand against the wall to steady herself. She looked around in horrified
amazement.
The lamp, lying on its side on the edge of one of the few shelves still
clinging to the walls, still burned and gave light. All the barrels and crates,
some blackened and smouldering, lay toppled where they had been hurled. The
window, bars and all, and most of the wall, too, had vanished, leaving a
splintered hole. The roof sagged, and tendrils of smoke fought the rain around
the jagged edges of the opening. The door hung off its hinges, jammed in the
doorframe at an angle slanting into the hall.
Hake and Strom were just as dead as Jak, though Raye herself was miraculously
unharmed. What happened? They almost look as though they were struck by
lightning, but that’s impossible. Isn’t it? If itwaslightning, then how am I
still alive? And where’s—?
“Matti!”
She searched through the rubble frantically until she found her friend, still
laying face down on the pallet. Raye felt a moment’s relief, but only a
moment’s. When she turned Matti over, her friend's dark eyes stared at her
emptily. They almost looked accusing.
“No! Please, Light no!” Raye’s scream was so loud it almost drowned out the
voice that seemed to issue from everywhere, and nowhere. You lose again, Louise
Therin.
 
Flicker.
 
The sudden arrival of a Forsaken in their midst would have been shocking at any
time, but for one to show up there, in the midst of the Green Man’s magical
garden was particularly stunning to Rand.
“Run!” Moiraine commanded. Her face was white with strain. “All of you run!”
For once, they were happy to heed her orders. He saw Mat and Perrin dashing
away to the east. Loial’s long legs carried him south into the trees.
Anna seized Rand’s forearm in a fear-strengthened grip. “Hurry, we need to get
out of here!” Together they ran after Loial.
They were at the edge of the woodland clearing when Rand glanced to his side
and saw that Egwene was not there. What he saw when he looked back brought him
skidding to a halt.
Anna was tugged to a stop too, her grip on his arm unyielding. “What are you
doing?” she cried.
Egwene, that brave fool, stood rigid back by the entrance to the Eye. She had
not moved a step. Her face was pale and her eyes were closed. It was not fear
that held her, he realized. She was trying to throw her puny, untrained
wielding of the Power against the Forsaken.
“Egwene! Run!” he shouted at her. Her eyes opened, staring at him, angry with
him for interfering, liquid with hate for Aginor, with fear of the Forsaken.
Rand went back to get her. He did. There was no choice. It was what he had to
do, what he always did, he somehow knew. But he made it only a single step.
Anna dug her heels into the soft earth of the Green Man’s garden, holding on to
Rand’s arm for dear life. “Don’t be a fool!” she said in an
uncharacteristically high-pitched voice. “He’ll kill you.”
“I don’t care. Egwene!” Rand said, panic raising his own pitch too.
Anna’s dark eyes were very wide. They implored him. “It’s her life, let her
fight if she wants. But if you go back there, then I have to go back too, and I
don’t fancy my chances of beating a Forsaken with my bow.”
Rand wrenched his arm out of her grip. “Just run, Anna. This is my fight.” He
sprinted back towards Egwene.
Aginor’s withered face turned from the faltering Aes Sedai to Egwene ... and
that irritated sneer returned in force.
Rand felt the flames singe his boots as he tackled Egwene out of the way. A
sudden inferno appeared in the spot where she had been standing, hot enough to
scald his skin even as he rolled desperately away from it with Egwene in his
arms. She cursed at him, calling him all sorts of names and demanding he let
her go, but he held on for dear life as he dragged her away from the Forsaken.
He didn’t get far. Aginor raised his hand towards Rand and made that hateful
gesture once more, but before the flames could rise an arrow careened off the
Forsaken’s invisible shield.
Anna hadn’t run. She stood alone with her bow in hand, nocking and loosing
arrows as quickly as she could, in a futile display of defiance. Aginor turned
his scowl her way.
“Run, Rand!” she cried, jaw clenched and cheeks pale. “Get out of here while
you can!”
Then she gave a single shriek. For an instant, a dark, girl-sized form stood
within a ball of flame. Then it frayed away, to ash, to smoke. So hot was the
fire that in heartbeats nothing remained of the girl within. Her bravery and
her beauty and her loyalty, all snuffed out with another scornful flip of the
Forsaken’s gnarled fingers.
Tears burned their way down Rand’s cheeks. He seized Egwene by the hand, and
they ran.
Rand though about Anna often in the days and years that followed. He thought
about her every time Egwene told him how worthless he was, and every time she
launched another plot against him. Sometimes he made it a point to remind
Egwene of her sacrifice, for the other Theren woman never seemed to remember
anyone from back home. It made no difference. Egwene didn’t care about it; she
didn’t seem to care about anything but the White Tower, and even that only when
it served her ambitions. Rand wondered if she ever had. She dismissed Anna as a
brave little fool; a cautionary tale that Rand should have learned from.
Rand did learn. He learned bitterness, and regret. He learned hate.
That Egwene would turn against him he considered inevitable, but the way so
many of his friends sided with her soured him on them. Nynaeve, Elayne, Perrin,
others. They embraced the traditions of the White Tower and the matriarchy, and
came to see Rand as a threat to it. Which perhaps he might have been, given all
the power and authority he had gathered to himself by the time Egwene finally
claimed the Amyrlin Seat she had so desired. Might have been, if he cared
enough to fight them. But he had no heart to struggle against people he had
once considered friends. So when she tried to usurp his command, as he knew she
would, and his friends sided with her, he simply walked away. He wondered as he
did so if Egwene would be happy at last, and a cruel smile spread across his
face. He knew her happiness would not last. And he no longer cared.
The Amyrlin Seat ruled most of Valgarda when the Shadow’s armies invaded. She
and her servants fought bravely, but Rand merely watched. He watched as they
were overrun, watched as the Borderlands, and Andor, and Tar Valon fell to the
Forsaken, he watched and he laughed.
He was there when the Forsaken called Mesaana confronted Egwene at the gates of
the White Tower, with dead Aes Sedai scattered all around them. A mad, manic
grin twisted his face as he watched from the roof of a distant building, saidin
raging inside him and bringing Egwene’s words to his ears. She prated of the
White Tower’s age and power, throwing proud defiance in the Forsaken’s face,
but the other woman only laughed. Tar Valon was the greatest city in Valgarda,
yet it was merely a quaint village in comparison to the cities of the Age of
Legends, and the Tower—the tallest building in the world—was smaller even than
the offices of most merchant companies that the Forsaken had known of. The very
idea that she would find the Tower and its so-called Aes Sedai intimidating was
laughable. Egwene did not listen, she was too busy harping on about the glories
of the Amyrlin Seat, as though simply wishing for a thing to be true could make
it so. Mesaana grew bored, and raised her hand in a way that seemed wickedly
familiar to Rand. He cackled with laughter as the flames seared through
Egwene’s shields to torch the woman behind them. No tears spilled from his eyes
as he watched her and her world die around him.
When the Forsaken came for him, Rand fought at last, but he did not expect to
win. There was nothing left worth fighting for. He turned the world to ash and
dust, neither knowing nor caring how many of the Forsaken he took down with
him. And when at last their numbers overwhelmed him, as he burned, just like
Anna and Egwene had burned, he heard a voice whisper, you lose again, Lews
Therin.
 
Flicker.
 
Rand struggled to hold the void as it quivered under the hammer blows of the
world’s flickering. He tried to hold the symbol Verin had shown him as a
thousand of them darted along the surface of the void. He struggled to hold on
to any symbol at all.
“... is wrong!” Verin screamed. The Power was everything.
 
Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker.
 
He was a soldier. He was a shepherd. He was a beggar, and a king. He was
farmer, gleeman, sailor, carpenter. He was born, lived, and died an Aiel named
Rahien. He died mad, he died rotting, he died of sickness, accident, age. He
was executed, and multitudes cheered his death. He proclaimed himself the
Dragon Reborn and flung his banner across the sky; he ran from the Power and
hid; he lived and died never knowing. She embraced the title of the Phoenix
Reborn and led a revolution; it succeeded; it failed. She held off the madness
and the sickness for years; he succumbed between two winters. Sometimes
Moiraine came and took him away from the Theren, alone or with those of his
friends who had survived Winternight; sometimes she did not. Sometimes he
wasn’t him when she arrived, and she was a man named Morgan. Sometimes other
Aes Sedai came for him, or her. Male Aes Sedai in long black coats, female ones
in colourful dresses. Sometimes the Red Ajah and whether he was Rand or Raye
they rarely survived that meeting. He settled in Shienar, winning glory in
battle and eventually the heart of Queen Kensin; and when they realised that he
could channel and she ordered him to take his own life he did so gladly, as she
watched with tears running down her cheeks. She fled the Theren a week before
her marriage to Edwin and in Baerlon she met a friendly young man named Max who
won her heart; together they wandered the land with a travelling circus, until
the Shadow came to still all the world’s laughter. Egwene, stern-faced in the
stole of the Amyrlin Seat, led the Aes Sedai who Gentled him; Edwin, with tears
in his eyes, plunged a dagger into her heart, and she thanked him as she died.
He loved other women, married other women. Elayne, Min, Nynaeve, Anna,
Bodewhin, others, women he had never seen before he lived those lives. A
hundred lives. More. So many he could not count them. And at the end of every
life, as they lay dying, as they drew their final breath, a voice whispered in
their ear. You lose again ...
 
Flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker
flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker
flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker.
***** Return *****
CHAPTER 59: Return
 
The void vanished, contact with saidin fled, and Rand fell to the earth with a
thud that would have knocked the breath out of him if he had not already been
half numb. He felt rough stone under his cheek, and his hands. It was cold.
He was aware of Verin, struggling from her back to hands and knees. He heard
someone vomit roughly, and raised his head. Uno was kneeling on the ground,
scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. Almost everyone was down, and
the horses stood stiff-legged and quivering, eyes wild and rolling. Ingtar had
his sword out, gripping the hilt so hard the blade shook, staring at nothing.
Loial sat sprawled, wide-eyed and stunned. Anna was huddled in a ball with her
arms wrapped around her head, and Perrin had his fingers dug into his face as
if he wanted to rip away whatever he had seen, or perhaps rip out the eyes that
had seen it. None of the soldiers were any better. Masema wept openly, tears
streaming down his face; Geko stood stiffly at attention but no sooner had Rand
glanced his way than the man fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings had
been cut; Ayame sat on a rock with his face in his hands, the dark eyes above
his overlapping fingers showing white all around; Areku stood with her back to
them all, her fists white-knuckled and trembling; and Hurin was looking around
as if for a place to run.
Rand waited for a sword to fall and a voice to whisper. He waited for what felt
like a long time, but no-one spoke. All around the clearing there was only the
sound of panicked breathing from man and woman alike.
“What ...?” Rand stopped to swallow. He was lying on rough, weathered stone
half buried in the dirt. “What happened?”
“A surge of the One Power.” The Aes Sedai tottered to her feet and pulled her
cloak tight with a shiver. “It was as if we were being forced ... pushed ... It
seemed to come out of nowhere. You must learn to control it. You must! That
much of the Power could burn you to a cinder.”
“Where am I?” Anna mumbled. She was still curled up tightly. “When am I? And
... who?”
The same questions were running through Rand’s mind but the sound of her
distress drove him to haul himself off his back and onto one knee. He
remembered how she had grinned on their wedding day ...
No, he thought, shaking his head. That didn’t happen, that wasn’t me. It was
... another me. I think. Is this real?He still expected the sword to fall and
the voice to whisper and the world to flicker away at any moment.
“You’re Anna,” Rand said, with what firmness he could muster. “Anna al’Tolan
from the Theren. My friend. We were searching for the Horn of Valere together.”
Ingtar let out a groan of despair. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his
teeth as though in great pain.
“I remember that,” Anna mumbled. “I remember ... so many things.”
“So do I,” Rand sighed. “Verin, I ... I lived ... I was ...” Shakily, he pushed
himself to his feet. “Verin, I lived and died, I don’t know how many times.
Every time it was different, but it was me. It was me.” Even Raye had been him,
strangely, so strangely. And perhaps the most strange thing about that had been
all the ways it hadn’t mattered. Male or female he had still felt like himself
and that flew in the face of everything he had been taught about the sexes.
He’d been the same person for the most part, he’d just had ... well, and ...
Rand felt his cheeks colour as he recalled some of the things she had done, and
allowed to be done to her.
“The Lines that join the Worlds That Might Be, laid by those who knew the
Numbers of Chaos.” Verin shuddered; she seemed to be talking to herself. “I’ve
never heard it, but there is no reason we would not be born in those worlds,
yet the lives we lived would be different lives. Of course. Different lives for
the different ways things might have happened.”
“Is that what happened? I ... we ... saw how our lives could have been?” You
lose again, Lews Therin. No! I am Rand al’Thor!
Verin gave herself a shake and looked at him. “Does it surprise you that your
life might go differently if you made different choices, or different things
happened to you? Though I never thought I —Well. The important thing is, we are
here. Though not as we hoped.”
“Where is here?” he demanded. The woods of Stedding Tsofu were gone, replaced
by rolling hills. There seemed to be a forest on the eastern horizon. It had
been near noon on a warm summer’s day when they gathered around the Stone near
the stedding but here the sun stood low toward afternoon in a grey sky that
smelled of snow. The handful of trees nearby were bare branched, or else held a
few leaves bright with colour. A cold wind gusted from the east, sending leaves
scurrying across the ground. “And ... when?”
“Toman Head,” Verin said. “This is the Stone I visited. You should not have
tried to bring us directly here. I don’t know what went wrong—I don’t suppose I
ever will—but from the trees, would say it is well into late autumn. Rand, we
haven’t gained any time by it. We’ve lost time. I would say we have easily
spent four months in coming here.”
“But I didn’t—”
“You must let me guide you in these things. I cannot teach you, it’s true, but
perhaps I can at least keep you from killing yourself—and the rest of us—by
overreaching. Even if you do not kill yourself, if the Dragon Reborn burns
himself out like a guttering candle, who will face the Dark One then?” She did
not wait for him to renew his protests, but went to Ingtar instead.
The Shienaran gave a start when she touched his arm, and looked at her with
frantic eyes. “I walk in the Light,” he said hoarsely. “I will find the Horn of
Valere and pull down Shayol Ghul’s power. I will!”
“Of course you will,” she said soothingly. She took his face in her hands, and
he drew a sudden breath, abruptly recovering from whatever had held him. Except
that memory still lay in his eyes. “There,” she said. “That will do for you. I
will see how I can help the rest. We may still recover the Horn, but our path
has not grown smoother.”
As she started around among the others, stopping briefly by each, her Warder
trailed her. He seemed to have recovered his balance faster than the rest of
them, though even he had a vaguely stunned look in his eyes. His hand darted to
the hilt of his sword when a scuffle broke out between Sar and Nengar,
seemingly over nothing.
Uno was quick to get between the two soldiers, dragging one man back by the arm
that locked around his neck and shoving the second one away. “It wasn’t him,
you goat-kissing dung-hauler! Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. Get a hold of
yourselves.”
Rand drew a deep breath and tried to take Uno’s advice. He went to his friends,
making certain to walk well clear of the weathered grey stone pillar that lay
on its side in the middle of the clearing. The markings carved into it were so
worn as to be barely visible he saw before jerking his eyes away, just in case.
“Perrin?”
The curly-haired youth dropped his hands from his face with a sigh. Red marks
scored his forehead and cheeks where his nails had dug in. His yellow eyes hid
his thoughts. “We don’t have many choices really, do we, Rand? Whatever
happens, whatever we do, some things are almost always the same.” He let out
another long breath. “Where are we? Is this one of those worlds you and Hurin
were talking about?”
“It’s Toman Head,” Rand told him. “In our world. Or so Verin says. And we’ve
lost months.”
Anna had regained her feet. “How could—?” she began, then continued in a
gruffer voice. “No, I don’t want to know how it happened. But how are we going
to find Fain and the Horn now? He could be anywhere by this time.”
“He’s here,” Rand said, though even to his own ears he sounded unconvincing.
Fain had had time to take ship for anyplace he wanted to go. Time to ride to
Emond’s Field. Or Tar Valon. Light send he didn’t get tired of waiting. If he’s
hurt Nynaeve, or Mat, or anybody in Emond’s Field, I’ll ... Burn me, I tried to
come in time.
Loial still had not risen. He sat on the cold stone with his chin resting on
one huge hand and a pensive look on his face. When he noticed Rand watching he
gave a small sigh. “If I never do or see anything else in my life, this
experience alone will still be enough to fill a book. Though if I’m honest, I
would much rather have just read about it.”
“Me too,” Rand muttered. He offered the Ogier a hand to rise, despite the
differences in height between them. Loial smiled wryly as he grasped Rand’s
forearm and hauled himself up.
“There are some larger towns between here and Falme,” Verin announced loudly
enough for all to hear. Everyone was on their feet again. “If we are to find
any trace of the Darkfriends, to the west is the place to begin. And I think we
should not waste the daylight sitting here.”
She put her hands on Perrin and the bloody furrows on his brow swiftly faded.
Rand backed away when she reached for him.
“Don’t be foolish,” she told him.
“I don’t want your help,” he said quietly. “Or any Aes Sedai help.”
Her lips twitched. “As you wish.”
They mounted up and rode northwest, gladly leaving the Portal Stone and the
worlds it linked to far behind them.
If any among them had entertained the thought of burying the memory of those
other lives completely, what they learned in Atuan’s Mill rid them of that
hope.
Most of the houses in the village were single-storied, though with room for a
large attic under their steeply sloped wooden roofs. They would have been
considered very fine by Emond’s Field standards, if they did not look so run-
down. The village seemed half deserted and those folk who remained were slow to
venture out of their homes, no matter Ingtar’s assurances of their good
intentions. When at last he coaxed them out the people babbled one moment and
clamped their mouths shut the next, trembling and looking over their shoulders.
They spoke of strange invaders from across the ocean, of an army of monsters
and damane; and they spoke a name that sent shivers down Rand’s back, for he
had heard it before even as he heard it now for the first time. The Seanchan.
How many times in those other worlds had he fought and killed and been killed
by those who bore that name? From the widened eyes of his companions as they
listened to the Falmerans’ tales he did not think he was the only one to
recognise what they were describing.
That women who should have been Aes Sedai were instead leashed like animals
frightened the villagers even more than the strange creatures the Seanchan
commanded, things the folk of Atuan’s Mill could only describe in whispers as
coming from nightmares. Verin’s mouth tightened angrily as she listened, though
Rand noticed that she didn’t seem at all surprised by what she heard.
The villagers spoke too of dead queens and absent kings, of battles fought and
lost, and shook as they spoke of the examples the Seanchan had made when they
first came to pacify Atuan’s Mill. They had buried their dead, but they feared
to clean away the large charred patch on the stones of the village square.
Hurin had vomited as soon as they entered the village, and he would not go near
the blackened ground. None of the villagers would say exactly what had happened
there, they only gave warning that the Seanchan did not tolerate disobedience
from anyone. As obviously foreign as their party was, with an Ogier and so many
topknotted Shienarans, the folk of Atuan’s Mill seemed especially insistent on
warning them about the Seanchan’s ways, and the need to stay clear of them.
Ingtar thanked them for their advice, and for the shelter they granted on his
request. He had Uno set a watch, and he and the rest of his men dispersed to
the sadly empty houses.
Perrin and Anna, both looking rather solemn, volunteered to take care of the
horses and Rand was happy to leave Red in their charge.
He chose a cottage of his own and went inside and tried not to look too long at
the scattered belongings of an owner that would never return to claim them. As
he tried to sort his thoughts, and his memories, he kindled a fire in the
hearth and fed it well to drive the chill and damp of disuse from the cottage.
Though he was tired he did not feel like sleeping and found himself pacing back
and forth before his fire as the evening turned to night outside the cloudy
glass windows.
The sun had long-since set when there came a soft tapping on his door.
When he opened it he found a figure in a padded undercoat waiting.
“Can I come in?” Areku asked quietly.
Rand stepped aside from the doorway. “Of course.”
She walked past him and went to warm her hands by the fire as he closed and,
after a moment’s consideration, bolted the door.
He studied Areku as he went to join her by the fire. She looked as solemn as
ever, but her solemnity had a haunted air to it now.
“It’s been a long day,” he sighed. “The longest imaginable, in fact.”
“Yes. Four and a half months worth of ...” she shook her head, grey topknot
swaying.
“I know. But it’s over now.”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “Is it? How can you be certain? What if everything
just ... changes again? What if this isn’t real either?”
Rand sighed. “I’ve been having the same thoughts. The best reassurance I can
find for myself is that in none of the other ... lives ... or worlds ...
whatever, I was never aware then that they were other worlds, that there was
anything but the me that I was then. If that makes sense. But I remember myself
now, and I remember those other mes.” He gave an exasperated shrug, sure he was
failing miserably to explain himself. “Besides. This feels real somehow. This
world, the people with me. They are ... right. I think we’re back where we
belong at last.”
“I hope so,” Areku breathed. “But I’m not sure I feel real.” She looked at him
then, her face still and her eyes questioning.
Rand reached out and touched his fingers gently to the smooth plane of her
cheek. “I wish there was something I could do to help you with that ...” he
said in a near whisper.
“I think you could ...” she responded in a voice as soft as his own. “If you
wanted to.”
“I do,” he said and leaned in for a kiss.
Areku’s lips parted under his. Instinctually Rand tried to run his fingers
through her hair but of course his touch found only her shaven skull. It felt
strange to caress her so, but thrillingly exotic as well. His kisses grew
firmer.
Areku had been pliant at first, stiff even, but soon she was kissing him back
and pushing up his shirt to run her callused hands over his body. It was she
who steered them towards the pallet he had earlier hauled close to the
fireside, and when they landed atop the blankets it was she who was on top.
She eagerly rid Rand of his shirt and started caressing the muscles of his
chest and stomach. “So pretty,” she whispered.
As he endeavoured to kick off his boots his growing manhood bumped against her
clothed form. Areku gave a small smile at the sensation and clambered off him
to attend to her own boots. When he was done Rand helped rid her of the heavy
leather trousers she wore, and stole the opportunity to trail kisses down the
inside of her muscular thighs in the process.
Having rid themselves of half their clothes they returned to kissing, this time
with Rand on top. He caressed Areku’s sex through the heavy white cloth of her
breechclout and savoured her low moans. She was eager, and in no time at all
she was rolling them over and pulling at Rand’s breeches, freeing his hard
length from its confinement.
“Yes, oh yes,” she murmured as she beheld him. She sat up and pulled her
breechclout aside. The narrow twist of cloth at the back had barely covered the
crack between her toned buttocks even before she shifted it but he was afforded
little time to enjoy the sight before Areku threw a leg over his waist and
mounted him. She took him in her hands and positioned him at her entrance then
sank down onto him slowly; her sigh was long and sweet and grew louder with
each inch that slipped into her hot, tight hole.
As eager as she had been to begin, once she had him inside her Areku moved
slowly, rolling her hips and moaning quietly. Rand was glad of it. After all
that had happened lately he was not in the mood for speed. He wanted something
that would last.
He wanted to see her body too. But when he started to undo the laces on her
padded coat she caught his hands in hers and stiffened.
“I want to see you,” he breathed.
Areku gave a tight little shrug and grimaced. “You aren’t missing much.”
“I’m missing you. And that’s a lot.” She didn’t fight him as he removed her
coat and started unwinding the wraps from her chest, but she didn’t meet his
eye either, and the rolling of her hips stopped completely.
Areku’s shoulders and arms were heavy with muscle, especially for a woman; her
breasts, reddened where the cloth had bound them tight, were girlishly small
and tipped with hard, brown nipples. Rand thought her altogether beautiful and
told her so as squeezed her breasts in his hands.
Areku turned her face away, an uncharacteristic blush darkening her cheeks. She
bit her lip. “Now there’s a lordly courtesy,” she gasped.
Rand pushed his hips up off the bed once, twice, three times, more, pushing his
rock-hard cock into her slick pussy. “Does this feel like some empty courtesy,
Areku?” he groaned. “You’re beautiful woman. Don’t ever tell yourself
different.”
The smile she gave him lit up her usually stern face and crinkled the corners
of her near-black eyes. She stilled him with a hand on his flat stomach and
took up her earlier pace once more, riding Rand slowly and steadily.
Together they savoured every moment that the world did not shift around them
until at last Rand began to feel that he really was back where he belonged.
He woke with the dawn, a habit that had been ingrained in him after years of
farm work, only to find that Areku had already stirred from their bed. She
stood before the dim embers of his fire, adjusting her breechclout. The hair
she now hid was the same shade as that on her head, a grey too dark and uniform
to be the result of aging. He should know, he’d gotten a very close look at it
during the long night before.
Rand stretched happily as he recalled the things they had done.
The sound brought Areku’s attention his way. A smile flickered across her lips.
“Good morning. Sorry if I woke you.” Her lips had felt wonderful upon his cock.
And she had seemed to enjoy the way he massaged her shaven scalp as she took
him in her mouth.
“You didn’t wake me,” he told her, smiling broadly. “I always had to get up at
this time on the farm. No matter how little sleep I’d gotten the night before.”
“Should I apologise for that last part instead then?” Areku asked with a hint
of wry humour.
It surprised and delighted him. He had been equally as surprised when, as he
was taking her slowly from behind and tracing his fingers along the muscles and
curves of her body, she had reached back and pushed his manhood out of her
creamy depths only to redirect it towards the tone cheeks of her bottom and the
tight little hole that hid between them. Areku was only a few years his senior,
but she had certainly been no virgin. She hadn’t even flinched as he stretched
her back entrance and pushed his full length inside, though Rand knew he was
bigger than most men. That had been the third and final time he had come in
her. He didn’t know for certain how many times she had come, she was not a very
expressive woman, but he liked to think it had been a lot.
“Apologise?” he answered now. “Never. In fact you should come back over here
and keep me awake some more.”
She laughed softly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Lord Ingtar will be
expecting us to be ready to march soon.” As she fetched and began to put on her
trousers she grew pensive. By the time she had laced up her padded undercoat
she was frowning. “Rand ...” she began hesitantly. “Can I trust you to be
discreet about this? You aren’t going to start pinching my bottom in the line
for dinner are you? Or throwing thinly-disguised innuendos my way every time we
meet. I like you, don’t get me wrong. I’d like to do this again sometime, if
you’re willing. But I don’t want the men in my squad to have reason to gossip
about me.”
Rand sat up in bed and opened his mouth to speak. Then let it drift shut again.
His first instinct was to offer his assurances that he would never do or say
anything that would compromise her reputation. But how could he say that for
certain? It was not as though every word or action of his was carefully planned
out beforehand. What would he not find himself saying in an unguarded moment
when someone he cared about was near? And he found that he did care about
Areku, quite a lot in fact. He considered the situation carefully before
answering.
“I can’t promise that nothing will be different between us, Areku. But I can
promise that I won’t tell anyone what happened last night, or try to embarrass
you, or flirt with you in public.” He offered an apologetic smile. “I’ll be as
discreet as I can be.”
She took a while to respond, but when she did it was with a small smile. “I
think that will be enough.”
She preceded him from the cottage, and by the time Rand had washed and dressed
and emerged into the dark winter morning she had faded back into the armoured
mass of Ingtar’s army.
Perrin and Anna came out to join the gathering party before daybreak. Rand
studiously avoided looking at them, and said nothing of the fact that they had
shared a cabin the night before.
Despite the rest and relaxation Atuan’s Mill had afforded them it was a sombre
party that rode west that day. They rode towards Falme, and no man or woman
among them was certain of what they would find there. Fain and the Horn if they
were lucky, and bared Seanchan swords if they were not.
The weather turned foul perhaps an hour into their journey and by the time they
approached the next village thunder was rumbling across the slate-dark
afternoon sky.
Rand pulled the hood of his cloak further up, hoping to keep at least some of
the cold rain off. Red stepped through muddy puddles doggedly. The hood hung
sodden around Rand’s head, as the rest of the cloak did around his shoulders,
and his fine black coat was just as wet, and as cold. The temperature would not
have far to drop before snow or sleet came down instead of rain. Snow would
fall soon, again; the people in Atuan’s Mill had said two snows had already
come this year. Shivering, Rand almost wished it was snowing. Then, at least,
he would not be soaked to the skin.
The column plodded along, keeping a wary eye on the rolling country. Ingtar’s
Grey Owl hung heavily from Bartu’s staff even when the wind gusted. Hurin
sometimes pulled his cowl back to sniff the air; he said neither rain nor cold
had any effect on a trail, certainly not on the kind of trail he was seeking,
but so far the sniffer had found nothing. Behind him, Rand heard Uno mutter a
curse. Loial kept checking his saddlebags; he did not seem to mind getting wet
himself, but he worried continually about his books. Everyone was miserable
except for Verin, who appeared too lost in thought to even notice that her hood
had slid back, exposing her face to the rain.
“Can’t you do something about this?” Rand demanded of her. A small voice in the
back of his head told him he could do it himself. All he need do was embrace
saidin. So sweet, the call of saidin. To be filled with the One Power, to be
one with the storm. Turn the skies to sunlight, or ride the storm as it raged,
whip it to fury and scour Toman Head clean from the sea to the plain. Embrace
saidin. He suppressed the longing ruthlessly.
The Aes Sedai gave a start. “What? Oh. I suppose. A little. I couldn’t stop a
storm this big, not by myself—it covers too much area—but I could lessen it
some. Where we are, at least.” She wiped rain from her face, seemed to realize
for the first time that her hood had slipped, and pulled it back up absently.
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because if I used that much of the One Power, any Aes Sedai closer than ten
miles would know someone had channelled. We don’t want to bring these Seanchan
down on us with some of their damane.”
“Why did Fain bring the Horn here?” Perrin muttered. The question had been
asked by each of them at one time or another, and no-one had an answer.
“There’s war, and these Seanchan, and their monsters. Why here?”
Ingtar turned in his saddle to look back at them. His face looked haggard.
“There are always men who see chances for their own advantage in the confusion
of war. Fain is one like that. No doubt he thinks to steal the Horn again, from
the Dark One this time, and use it for his own profit.”
“The Father of Lies never lays simple plans,” Verin said. “It may be that he
wants Fain to bring the Horn here for some reason known only in Shayol Ghul.”
Masema came galloping from ahead, through the mud and the steady rain. “There
is another village ahead, my Lord,” he said as he pulled in beside Ingtar. His
eyes only swept past Rand, but they tightened, and he did not look at Rand
again. “Just as Verin Sedai said. Only it’s empty, my Lord. No villagers, no
Seanchan, nobody at all. The houses all look sound, though, except for two or
three that ... well, they aren’t there anymore, my Lord.”
Ingtar raised his hand and signalled for a trot.
The village Masema had found covered the slopes of a hill, with a paved square
at the top around a circle of stone walls. The houses were of stone, all steep-
roofed and few more than a single story. Three that had been larger, along one
side of the square, were only heaps of blackened rubble; shattered chunks of
stone and roof beams lay scattered across the square. A few shutters banged
when the wind gusted.
Ingtar dismounted in front of the only large building still standing. The
creaking sign above its door bore a woman juggling stars, but no name; rain
came off the corners in two steady drizzles. Verin hurried inside while Ingtar
spoke. “Uno, search every house. If there is anyone left, perhaps they can tell
us what happened here, and maybe a little more about these Seanchan. And if
there’s any food, bring that, too. And blankets.” Uno nodded and began telling
off men. Ingtar turned to Hurin “What do you smell? Did Fain come through
here?”
Hurin, rubbing his nose, shook his head. “Not him, my Lord, and not the
Trollocs, neither. Whoever did that left a stench, though.” He pointed to the
wreckage that had been houses. “It was killing, my Lord. There were people in
there.”
“Seanchan,” Ingtar growled. “Let’s get inside. Ragan, find some sort of stable
for the horses.”
Verin already had fires going in both of the big fireplaces, at either end of
the common room, and was warming her hands at one, her sodden cloak spread out
on one of the tables dotting the tiled floor. She had found a few candles, too,
now burning on a table stuck in their own tallow. Emptiness and quiet, except
for the occasional grumble of thunder, added to the flickering shadows to give
the place a cavernous feel. Rand tossed his equally wet cloak and coat on a
table and joined her. Only Loial seemed more interested in checking his books
than in warming himself.
“We will never find the Horn of Valere this way,” Ingtar said. “Two days since
we ... since we arrived here”—he shuddered and scrubbed a hand through his
hair; Rand wondered what the Shienaran had seen in his other lives—“another
three, at least, to Falme, and we have not found so much as a hair of Fain or
Darkfriends. There are scores of villages in this country. He could have gone
to any of them or taken a ship to anywhere by now. If he was ever here.”
“He was here,” Verin said calmly, “and he went to Falme.”
“And he’s still here,” Rand said. Waiting for me. Please, Light, he’s still
waiting.
“Hurin still hasn’t caught a whiff of him,” Ingtar said. The sniffer shrugged
as if he felt himself at fault for the failure. “Why would he choose Falme? If
those villagers are to be believed, Falme is held by these Seanchan. I would
give my best hound to know who they are, and where they came from.”
“Who they are is not important to us.” Verin knelt and unfastened her
saddlebags, pulling out dry clothes. “At least we have rooms in which to change
our clothes, though it will do us little good unless the weather changes.
Ingtar, it may well be that what the villagers told us is right, that they are
the descendants of Artur Hawkwing’s armies come back. What matters is that
Padan Fain has gone to Falme. The writings in the dungeon at Fal Dara—”
“—never mentioned Fain. Forgive me, Aes Sedai, but that could have been a trick
as easily as dark prophecy. I can’t believe even Trollocs would be stupid
enough to tell us everything they were going to do before they did it.”
She twisted to look up at him. “And what do you mean to do, if you will not
take my advice?”
“I mean to have the Horn of Valere,” Ingtar said firmly. “Forgive me, but I
have to trust my own senses before some words scrawled by a Trolloc ...”
“A Myrddraal, surely,” Verin murmured, but he did not even pause.
“... or a Darkfriend seeming to betray himself out of his own mouth. I mean to
quarter the ground until Hurin smells a trail or we find Fain in the flesh. I
must have the Horn, Verin Sedai. I must!”
“That isn’t the way,” Hurin said softly. “Not ‘must.’ What happens, happens.”
No-one paid him any mind.
“We all must,” Verin murmured, peering into her saddlebags, “yet some things
may be even more important than that.”
She did not say more, but Rand grimaced. He longed to get away from her and her
prods and hints. I am not the Dragon Reborn. Light, but I wish I could just get
away from Aes Sedai completely. “Ingtar, I think I’m riding on to Falme. Fain
is there—I’m sure he is—and if I don’t come soon, he—he will do something to
hurt Emond’s Field.”
“You can’t know that,” Ingtar said with a bitter laugh. “Darkfriends lie as
naturally as they breathe.”
“I will go wherever you go, Rand,” Loial said. He had finished making sure the
books were dry and was taking off his sodden coat. “But I don’t see where a few
more days will change anything one way or another, now. Try being a little less
hasty for once.”
“It doesn’t matter to me whether we go to Falme now, later, or never,” Perrin
said with a shrug, “but if Fain really is threatening Emond’s Field ... well,
then we need to stop him. Hurin is the best way to find him.”
“I can find him, Lord Rand,” Hurin put in. “Let me get one sniff of him, and
I’ll take you right to him. There’s never anything else left a trail like his.”
“You must make your own choice, Rand,” Verin said carefully, “but remember that
Falme is held by invaders about whom we still know next to nothing. If you go
to Falme alone, you may find yourself a prisoner, or worse, and that will serve
nothing. I am sure whatever choice you make will be the right one.”
“Ta’veren,” Loial rumbled. Rand threw up his hands.
Uno came in from the square, shaking rain off his cloak.
“Not a flaming soul to be found, my Lord. Looks to me like they ran like
striped pigs. Livestock’s all gone, and there isn’t a bloody cart or wagon
left, either. Half the houses are stripped to the flaming floors. I’ll wager my
next month’s pay you could follow them by the bloody furniture they tossed on
the side of the road when they realized it was only weighing down their flaming
wagons.”
“What about clothes?” Ingtar asked.
Uno blinked his one eye in surprise. “Just a few bits and pieces, my Lord.
Mainly what they didn’t think was bloody worth taking with them.”
“They will have to do. Hurin, I mean to dress you and a few more as local
people, as many as we can manage, so you won’t stand out. I want you to swing
wide, north and south, until you cross the trail.” More soldiers were coming
in, and they all gathered around Ingtar and Hurin to listen. Areku did not look
Rand’s way, and he did not try to get her attention.
Rand leaned his hands on the mantel over the fireplace and stared into the
flames. “There isn’t much time,” he said. “I feel ... something ... pulling me
to Falme, and there isn’t much time.” He saw Verin watching him, and added
harshly, “Not that. It’s Fain I have to find. It has nothing to do with ...
that.”
Verin nodded. “The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and we are all woven into
the Pattern. Fain has been here weeks before us, perhaps months. A few more
days will make little difference in whatever is going to happen.”
“I’m going to get some sleep,” he muttered, picking up his saddlebags. “They
can’t have carried off all the beds.”
Upstairs, he did find beds, but only a few still had mattresses, and those so
lumpy he thought it might be more comfortable to sleep on the floor. Finally he
chose a bed where the mattress simply sagged in the middle. There was nothing
else in the room except one wooden chair and a table with a rickety leg.
He took off his wet things, putting on a dry shirt and breeches before lying
down, since there were no sheets or blankets, and propped his sword beside the
head of the bed. Wryly, he thought that the only thing dry he had for a
coverlet was the Dragon’s banner; he left it safely buckled inside the
saddlebags.
Rain drummed on the roof, and thunder growled overhead, and now and again a
lightning flash lit the windows. Shivering, he rolled this way and that on the
mattress, seeking some comfortable way to lie, wondering if the banner would
not do for a blanket after all, wondering if he should ride on alone to Falme.
He rolled to his other side, and Ba’alzamon was standing beside the chair with
the pure white length of the Dragon’s banner in his hands. The room seemed
darker there, as if Ba’alzamon stood on the edge of a cloud of oily black
smoke. Rand’s saddlebags lay by his feet, buckles undone, flap thrown back
where the banner had been hidden.
Ba’alzamon turned his pitch-black eyes to Rand. “You have returned. Did you
enjoy your foray along the Lines of If? Do you see now the futility of it all?
The time comes closer, Lews Therin. A thousand threads draw tight, and soon you
will be tied and trapped, set to a course you cannot change. Madness. Death.
Before you die, will you once more kill everything you love?”
Rand glanced at the door, but he made no move except to sit up on the side of
the bed. What good would it do to run? His throat felt like sand. “I am not the
Dragon, Forsaken!” he said hoarsely.
The darkness behind Ba’alzamon, or Ishamael as he was also known, roiled as he
laughed. “You belittle yourself. I know you too well. I have faced you a
thousand times. A thousand times a thousand. I know you to your miserable soul,
Lews Therin Kinslayer.”
“What do you want?” Rand demanded angrily. “This is no dream for you to twist.
I will not serve you. I will not do anything that you want. I’ll die first!”
“Spare me your histrionics, I did not come here for your body. But tell me, was
death so much to your liking that you now lust for it? How many times did you
die while you were missing from this world? How many times do you think you
have died across the span of the Ages, fool, and how much has death availed
you? But there is another way. A way to break this cycle of death and rebirth.
This time will be different. This time the Wheel of Time will be broken and the
world remade in the image of the Shadow. This time your death will be forever!
Join me and I will free you from life’s chains!”
Rand hardly realized that he was on his feet. The void had surrounded him,
saidin was there, and the One Power flowed into him. He hurled it at
Ba’alzamon, hurled the pure One Power, the force that turned the Wheel of Time,
a force that could make seas burn and eat mountains. “You are mad,” he shouted.
“Stay away from me!”
Ba’alzamon took half a step back, holding the banner clutched before him and
the darkness seemed to cloak him in shadow. In the Shadow. The Power sank into
that black mist and vanished, soaked up like water on parched sand.
Rand drew on saidin, pulled for more, and still more. His flesh seemed so cold
it must shatter at a touch; it burned as if it must boil away. His bones felt
on the point of crisping to cold crystal ash. He did not care; it was like
drinking life itself.
“Fool!” Ba’alzamon roared. “You will destroy yourself!”
Emond’s Field. The thought floated somewhere beyond the consuming flood. Fain.
The Horn. I can’t die yet.
He was not sure how he did it, but suddenly the Power was gone, and saidin, and
the void. Shuddering uncontrollably, he fell to his knees beside the bed, arms
wrapped around himself in a vain effort to stop their twitching.
“That is better, Lews Therin.” Ba’alzamon tossed the banner to the floor and
put his hands on the chair back; wisps of smoke rose from between his fingers.
The shadow no longer encompassed him. “There is your banner, Kinslayer. Much
good will it do you. A thousand strings laid over a thousand years have drawn
you here. Ten thousand woven throughout the Ages tie you like a sheep for
slaughter. The Wheel itself holds you prisoner to your fate Age after Age. But
I can set you free. You cowering cur, I alone in the entire world can teach you
how to wield the Power. I alone can stop it killing you before you have a
chance to go mad. I alone can stop the madness. You have served me before.
Serve me again, Lews Therin, one last time.”
“My name,” Rand forced between chattering teeth, “is Rand al’Thor.” His
shivering forced him to squeeze his eyes shut, and when he opened them again,
he was alone.
The next morning Ingtar sent out his disguised scouts. Rand remained with the
party, yet with each step of their careful journey west something tugged at
him, urging speed. The time they had lost in the Portal Stone weighed heavily
on his thoughts. Light, let me not be too late!
***** The Price of Passage *****
CHAPTER 60: The Price of Passage
 
It tasted like the sea, salty and bitter and frightening. But where the sea was
cold, the thing in her mouth was burning hot. Min squeezed her eyes shut and
tried to pretend she was somewhere else. Fingers tangled in her not-short-
enough hair, holding her head still as the thing began moving in and out of
her. It was what she had agreed to, the only way to save Elayne ... but she
hated it.
She could not recall how long she had been on the Spray, but so far no Seanchan
vessels had pursued them. As soon as Min had figured out how to open the a’dam
she had known she had no choice but to agree to Captain Domon’s terms. Elayne
had resisted the sul’dam’s torture bravely, but how long could she hold out?
How long until the next ship bound for the invaders far-away homeland departed,
taking Elayne away from her forever? She had gone to Domon and agreed to his
demands the very next day, and smuggled her friend out of the damane quarters
and down to the docks just as soon as Domon was ready to leave Falme.
Min gagged on the sailor’s cock as it poked the back of her throat. She had to
concentrate to avoid doing that, though even when she failed to stop it the men
rarely paused in their thrusting. The man using her mouth now certainly did
not. She didn’t know his name, didn’t want to know any of their names. Even
their faces seemed to blur together in her mind.
Domon himself never used her like this. The Illianer captain seemed to feel
guilty over what he had demanded of Min. On the few occasions she caught sight
of him he set his heavy jaw and avoided looking directly at her.
Min herself was finding it difficult to meet Elayne’s eye, when she visited the
cabin they shared. It had been easy to persuade Elayne not to come out. She was
a fugitive from the Seanchan after all, and they were still in Seanchan-
controlled waters. But she had noticed the changes in Min, and expressed worry
over them.
Most of Min’s time was spent here in the crew quarters where sailors coming off
their unpaid shifts could find her. Find her and use her however they pleased.
“Do you be nearly done yet, Gelb?” someone said in a rough Illian accent. “I
want my turn.”
“She isn’t going anywhere,” snapped the man fucking Min’s mouth.
“Fortune prick me, burn this,” muttered the other one. Footsteps sounded on the
deck behind her and strong, callused hands seized Min by the hips. She was
pulled up into a standing position, bent over with her bare ass exposed. The
man in her mouth did not let go of his grip on her hair as the second one
matter-of-factly thrust his cock into her pussy. It was an awkward pose, bent
over like that while they used her mouth and her sex both and her breasts
swayed beneath her, but Min endured it in silence.
She was completely naked, there in that dim, cramped space. Her body was
displayed for anyone who wanted to look. And look they did. When Domon had
first delivered his gift to the crew, along with his promise that all the gold
that was owed them would be paid just as soon as he could return to Illian and
draw funds from his bank, the men had looked dubious. Min had returned to
wearing her boy’s clothes for the escape and she was no Elayne, to stun all who
saw her. She remembered how they had laughed when the first sailors had
stripped her bare. One had crowed aloud that the “captain’s gift” had been
hiding some nice surprises under that disguise.
Min had stood naked before all those jeering strangers, red-faced and fighting
back tears. She had tried not to shiver when the first one squeezed her breast;
tried and failed. When he had pushed her back onto his bed and pulled her legs
apart she had not resisted, though her stomach roiled.
But when the first man was done soiling her with his gunk and he realised how
she had bled, he and his friends had laughed in surprise. That was when the
tears came.
The sailors had gotten angry at her after that. Now they did not speak to her
at all. Just pushed her down, or rolled her over, using her as though she were
a thing and not a person. She thought she could understand a little of what
Elayne had gone though now, when being treated like a damane.
The two sailors fucked her roughly. The one in her mouth did not let go of his
grip when he came to orgasm, leaving Min with no choice but to choke down his
seed along with her own bile. When he had finished his business he let her go
and she gasped for breath, sticky white fluid dribbling over her lips and down
her chin. It wasn’t long after that the second sailor began spurting inside
her. Again? Perhaps. She quite deliberately did not try to keep track of who
all had come in her, or how many times. She hoped she did not get pregnant, for
there was no herbalist anywhere nearby and not likely to be any for some time.
When he had finished using her, the second sailor gave Min a complimentary
smack on her bottom. After all she had been through a little thing like that
should not have been enough to redden her cheeks, but somehow it did.
Once her hips were freed of the sailor’s grip, Min sank to the deck and stared
listlessly at the planking. There was a gap between shifts, when one group of
sailors was asleep and the others hard at work, in which Min could retire to
her quarters and rest. Or get as much rest as she could while trying to keep up
a brave face for Elayne. That time was nearly approaching. If a new sailor did
not approach her soon she would wipe herself ... not clean, she would never be
clean again, but wipe herself off, get dressed and go to Elayne.
The constant sway of the ship had become familiar to her, enough that she could
notice when the captain shifted course. She had noticed the course changes
while the men were using her, but not thought much of them. When raised voices
sounded from the decks above, however, a sudden alarm gripped Min’s heart. Some
of the sailors rose from their bunks, muttering, and made their way towards the
narrow stairs. Min went to gather her clothes, ears pricked for some sign of
trouble.
She need not have strained herself. “Everyone above decks for inspection. Now!”
shouted a voice. A voice in an accent she had come to know and hate. Min
squeezed her eyes shut. No, no, no. Not after all this. We are so close!
“Make me wait, oathbreakers, and you answer for it with your lives,” added the
Seanchan.
All around her sailors scrambled from their bunks and made their way towards
the stairs. One man seized Min by the elbow and pulled her along with him.
“My clothes,” she protested.
“No time,” he grunted. “I will no lose my head for your false modesty, slut.”
She tried to pull free, but he was strong and his fellows crowded about her.
Min was swept upstairs and onto the deck of the Spray, naked as the day she was
born.
Domon was arguing with an armoured Seanchan officer when she arrived. The
bearded captain kept his face smooth, but there was no disguising the nervous
sweat that dampened his brow.
Min and the second shift joined the other sailors on deck, herded together
under the watchful eye of armed Seanchan soldiers. She saw a second ship, much
bigger than the Spray and latched to her with grappling hooks. In the Seanchan
ship’s rigging, hard-eyed archers peered down at their prisoners, ready to fire
at the first sign of resistance. It took no more than a glance to tell that the
Illianers would not be fighting. Even Domon had tossed his sturdy shortsword
aside.
Min stood shivering before her captors, trying to cover her breasts and crotch
with her hands, and prayed that somehow, however impossible it might seem,
Elayne would escape.
“Aha!” crowed a woman. “And what would this one be doing here, if this is not
the ship we seek?” Choking despair overwhelmed Min at the sound of Renna’s
voice. The sul’dam seized Min’s wrist in a cruel grip and yanked her out of the
gathered throng.
Merciless eyes fastened upon her, Renna’s, the Seanchan soldiers’, even the
Illianers who had so delighted in using her body. Min cast her gaze about in
desperation and found no friends among the gathered crowd. Bayle Domon’s fist
trembled at his side. He ground his teeth and turned his back to the spectacle.
“Where is Tuli?” Renna demanded angrily. “And why are you naked?” She wrinkled
her face in disgust. “Actually, don’t bother answering the last question. Given
your tendency to consort with animals I expect you have been pleasuring
yourself with the entire crew of this benighted vessel.”
A surprised whistle sounded among the Illianer prisoners, and a chorus of
snickers soon followed. Min cringed in humiliation at a misunderstanding that
had too much of truth to it for her to phrase an immediate response.
A knowing look crossed Renna’s face. “As I thought,” she sneered. “Tuli. Where
is she? This is the final time I will ask.”
Min swallowed her fear. “I don’t know,” she lied. “I haven’t seen Elayne since
we left Falme.”
Renna stared at her for a long moment, her face still and stern. “So be it,”
she said at last. She made a small gesture and two Seanchan soldiers came
forward to seize Min.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Min protested uselessly. “Let me go!” The men
paid no mind to her cries. One kicked at the back of her knee and sent her to
the deck, the other pushed her forwards until she was on her hands and knees.
“I ... no more ... not again ... Someone, please help me ... I don’t want this
... Rand ...” Min sobbed, thrashing uselessly against the ropes that bound her,
as the tears she’d struggled to repress for so long finally spilled down her
cheeks.
Somehow a torm had gotten on the ship. Why the Seanchan had brought the huge
creature with them she could not say, but a man in the brown and black uniform
of one of their handlers, the morat’torm, led the creature forward at Renna’s
beckoning.
“Torm are dangerous even to their handlers during mating season,” Renna
announced. “So there is a way that even a degenerate traitor such as you can
serve the empire.”
“No! Please no!” Min shouted.
“You had your chance,” the sul’dam said.
The morat’torm led his monstrous mount forward and introduced it to its own
mount. The scaled cat, as big as a horse, watched Min with a cruel, feral
intelligence in its three eyes and bared its long, sharp fangs in what looked
horrifyingly like a smile. The Seanchan soldiers who had been holding Min down
scrambled back and as soon as she felt their grips ease she tried to escape,
but by then it was too late. The torm’s massive bulk pressed her down onto the
deck, its clawed paws coming to rest on her slender shoulders, flattening her
breasts against the rough planks of the ship’s deck. The best was on her. And
soon, shockingly, painfully soon, it was in her too.
Min screamed as she felt the creatures giant cock ram into her too-small pussy.
She had never felt such pain before. She knew at once that the thing was too
big for her, and fear of rape turned immediately to fear of death. Her screams
rose in pitch as it pushed forward, impaling her. She felt something tear
inside and suddenly blood filled her mouth. As the monster pounded savagely
into her and more of her blood spilled onto the deck before her horrified eyes,
Min was glad that she had never been able to see her own future. She didn’t
know how she could have lived knowing it would end like this. The torm’s
needle-sharp teeth closed upon her neck as it fucked the dying girl, and she
screamed one last time  ...
Min’s scream went on and on. She thrashed against the bonds that held her arms
and legs, trying to win free, knowing it was impossible. She knocked a mug to
the floor and shattered it against the deck. She forced her eyes open hoping to
the last that somehow at least Elayne would escape the Seanchan’s notice. Or
better yet, that Rand, or someone, anyone, would save her from her fate.
In the darkness of the alcove in which she slept, it took a look moment for Min
to realise that no monster assailed her. Or to realise that nothing held her
down except the scratchy, tangled, sweat-soaked, blankets she had been given.
Her heart was pounding so hard it was almost deafening. She sat up in her bed
in Falme with a shuddering moan and lowered her face to her hands. Min sobbed
quietly, relief mixed with horror.
“It was just a nightmare,” she whispered to herself. “Just a nightmare. It
never happened. Those men ... and that thing ...” She trembled violently. She
had never been prone to nightmares in the past, not often at least, but this
one had been particularly vivid.
She sat up in her bed for a long time as she fought to steady herself and quiet
her tears. It was only once she had regained a measure of lucidity that she
realised why her imagination had turned against her so violently. That evening,
before bed, she had snuck into the damane quarters once again to fiddle with
the spare a’dam, only this time she had finally managed to get one to open. The
metal of the collar might look seamless but there was no Power involved in
opening and closing it, just a trick, as she had hoped. If you held it at the
right spot, pushed inwards and twisted the collar just right, it sprang open.
She could remove Elayne’s collar. That had been the main obstacle to getting
her out of the damane quarters. The disguises she had hidden away weeks ago
would hopefully be enough to get them through the city to the docks and there
... there Min’s nightmare awaited.
Alone in the dark, Min squeezed her eyes shut and her hands into fists. It was
the only way she could think of to get Elayne out of Falmerden and away from
the Seanchan, no matter how much the price of their passage frightened and
disgusted her.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow I will go to Domon and tell him I agree to
his price. As soon as he can arrange for the Seanchan to let him sail, I’ll
smuggle Elayne out of the prison and onto theSpray. And then, Light be
merciful, I’ll hope the days to come won’t be as bad as I fear. She held her
head in her hands. There was, in Min’s estimation, as much chance of that last
as there was of Rand appearing out of thin air with an army come to save them
both.
***** The Storm Breaks *****
CHAPTER 62: The Storm Breaks
 
It took a great deal of effort to move an army from one end of a nation to the
other, especially at the onset of winter. Men, women and horses all required
abundant supplies if they were to survive the march, much less the battle that
waited at its end. For all his reluctance to move from his fortress, this
General Surtir managed the preparations with swift efficiency. When the army
left Calranell Nynaeve thought it resembled nothing so much as a giant metal
snake, weaving its way along the roads west. the gathered more and more men
along the way until it almost seemed that there was a city on the march, a city
made of armoured men with long spears walking in lockstep, bowmen in leather
jerkins, mounted warriors and lords with colourful sigils painted on their
shields. And Nynaeve, riding in their midst with worry, hope, disgust and fear
warring in her heart.
Nynaeve rode at the King’s side, which was supposedly an honour for him, seeing
as she was an Aes Sedai. Except Nynaeve was not an Aes Sedai, and didn’t much
like them either. So she politely told him to stop bothering her and rode along
in grim silence, chewing over her worries about her friends.
The King’s son rode with them and chattered incessantly, despite Nynaeve’s
hints. His pestering questions soured Nynaeve’s mood further. How was she to
listen to the wind when this boy insisted on making so much wind of his own?
General Surtir sent out scouts by the dozen as the Falmeran army advanced along
the beaten road to Falme beneath a grey and stormy sky. He gave them strict
orders to report back hourly and whenever a group was even slightly late he
called an immediate halt and had the army ready itself for battle. Usually the
scouts returned soon after, having simply lost track of the time, but once, as
they passed within sight of the Knotwood, a group failed to report in. Syoman
deployed his pikemen and sent out a squad of lightly armoured cavalry to see
what had become of the scouts. Half of them returned and their leader carried a
strange, plumed helmet in his hands, one that looked more than a little like a
giant insect’s head. He reported a skirmish with an enemy patrol, and no
survivors among the invaders. Nynaeve couldn’t help but feel guilty. Those men
might not have been here if she hadn’t urged the Falmerans to march.
“How many men are in this army?” she had muttered then.
Prince Alasdair had looked nonplussed. “I don’t know the exact number. I’m not
sure even Syoman does. Less than ten thousand, more than nine.”
“Helpful,” she said flatly. Ten thousand lives in danger of being snuffed out.
Grey-bearded Lord Wulffe spoke then. “It is always hard to be certain of the
numbers when a force of this size is marshalled, Nynaeve Sedai. But I promise
we will be enough. With your help we will put an end to these invaders’ crimes,
and free the young Queen.” His voice surprised her still, sounding much too
polished and dignified to have come from such a burly man.
Alasdair looked like a puppy beside him. He was about the same age as Mat, had
similar colouring and she was starting to suspect had a similar attitude too.
“Knowing Evelin, we may actually be freeing the Seanchan from her,” he quipped.
Nynaeve gave him a stern stare to set him straight and his smile shrivelled
right up.
All along the road to Falme she could hear the storm rumbling above. Even when
the clouds cleared and the thin winter sunlight broke through she could still
feel that storm, looming on the horizon.
She had been worried they would not have enough to feed the army but the
Falmerans had supply caches hidden all throughout their land, remnants of their
past wars with Valreis, and Syoman seemed to know the locations of all of them.
As they marched he sent men to gather everything they could carry from the
caches.
On one occasion the men returned with more than simply dried meat and grain.
Whatever his scouts told him brought Syoman out in person to question the
ragged man they had found. Apparently he had lost his home and, for want of
anywhere else to go, had thought to spend the winter in the hidden and well-
stocked cave where he had been found. But it wasn’t that news that twisted the
general’s face into a snarl. Curious, Kaelan and Nynaeve went to join him.
“You claim the Brylans were responsible for the slaughter of House Elstan? What
proof have you of this?”
“Only my word, General,” said the man, whose hair might have been yellow if you
washed it a few dozen times, and who gave his name as Duncan Gilmor. “I was one
of Lady Eleanor’s guards, on sentry duty at the outer gates of her estate. We
let Lord Timoth and his men in, as the lady had summoned him. He came out again
the next day, him and his men, but none of ours rode with him, as had been
planned. We’d heard noises in the night, Eric and me, but hadn’t wanted to
abandon our posts ... Except when Timoth came out alone, I knew something was
wrong. We ran and hid and only went back to the fort after he was long gone.
There was no-one left alive in there, not even little Lord Oren.”
Nynaeve gasped. “Monstrous.”
Kaelan was outraged. “I can scarcely believe it. How can he imagine he will get
away with such treachery? As soon as we are done here I will turn my army back
and bring Lord Timoth to justice, I swear it.”
“The snake was probably bought and paid for by Valreis,” snarled Syoman. “He
and who knows how many others. The mysterious deaths these past months could
not be the work of one man. Cauthrien! See that this man gets some warm food
and a clean uniform. We will need every true Falmeran we can muster in the
battles to come.”
There were battles along the march, or skirmishes as Wulffe called them. The
Falmerans won each and it was not long before the Seanchan patrols began
fleeing at the sight of their banners. Soon they stopped seeing the enemy at
all, though not long after several large winged shapes began shadowing the
army, far beyond range of their bows. Nynaeve watched the creatures worriedly,
recalling Anna’s description of the Draghkar that had hunted her and the
others. Syoman studied them too until, as they were camped near the outskirts
of the Knotwood one night, he gathered a large force under the command of the
dark-skinned Lord Jervin and sent them into the forest for purpose unknown.
Nynaeve never saw them again.
On they rode, while Alasdair harassed her with tales of his land, and the storm
rumbled just beyond sight. Nynaeve had long known that men were incurable
gossips, but this prince was even worse than the rest of them. He was in sore
need of having his ears boxed.
A week into the march, after Alasdair had ignored one too many of her subtle
rebukes, she snapped at him. “Would you be quiet! I’m trying to concentrate. Go
bother the King or something.”
He had better self control than she had given him credit for. He didn’t show
his shock at her ill temper at all. “But I thought we were getting along so
well,” he sighed morosely. “I was even going to name one of my children after
you. The grumpy one.”
Nynaeve scowled at his back as he trotted off to join his father at the head of
the column.
They were perhaps a day’s march from Falme when Syoman commanded the army to
halt several hours before sunset and set camp around a high hill that was
crowned with a copse of dark leatherleafs. It was in the midst of those trees
that he met with the King and the Prince, their lords and officers, and Nynaeve
“Sedai” to discuss the coming battle.
Syoman had dressed plainly at Calranell but he wore heavy, unadorned steel
armour in the field. His helmet rested on the table before him. “The enemy has
had more than enough time to study the terrain,” he began. “We will assume they
know how to use it.”
“Then given the reports of their numbers they are unlikely to use the city
walls as their first line of defence,” said Wulffe, looking like an old grey
bear in all those furs.
“It would suit us well if these invaders left the city,” Kaelan said. He was
armoured too, though his plate was so richly gilded you might have thought it
was made of gold. “A few brave men, moving swiftly, might be able to get inside
and free my daughter.”
“I doubt they will leave the city completely undefended, your Grace,” the
uniformed Alix said in an inflectionless tone. Her breastplate made it hard to
tell at a glance that she was a woman.
Syoman was more curt. “No. Our every move is being watched by their scouts, and
they will have enough men stationed in Falme to hold the walls against anything
short of a siege. They will certainly be able to hold long enough for their
main force to crush us against the walls if we were fool enough to approach
Falme. We must meet them in the field.”
“On a field of their choosing ...” sighed Wulffe.
Syoman smiled toothily. “But a field which we know well.”
“Couldn’t a few of us sneak inside to find Evelin?” asked Alasdair, whose
armour was lighter than his father’s and much less elaborate.
Syoman shook his head. “They will likely have shut the gates as soon as they
heard we were near. It’s what I would do. And there is no way to approach the
city walls without being seen by the sentries.”
He pointed at the maps assembled on the folding table before him. “Their
command post, unless I overestimate them, will be atop the Mazira Hills to the
north. The view they provide of the surrounding countryside is unmatched and
the slopes leading up to their summit start near the main road. If we were to
engage them there we would be at a severe disadvantage.”
“I assume you have a plan,” said the King.
Syoman pointed at the map again. “Firstly we will clear the woods to the south
of any ambushers that wait there. Ralir, Corthrate; your skirmishers will have
work to do.” The men in question nodded. “Once that is done our main force will
advance, keeping as far to the south of the road as the terrain will allow. We
will come under fire from the enemy’s archers atop the Hills but that is
unavoidable. We will have shields on our northern flank to absorb the brunt of
the attack. Once we taken the woods we must fortify them swiftly. The Seanchan,
seeing our refusal to engage them on the Maziras will have to come down to meet
us. Some of them at least. They will try to bait us back into range of the
hills, and we will try to bait them into range of our defences as well.
Meanwhile we will inch our way closer to Falme, maintaining a strong defensive
line in the process. Once we are close enough to threaten the capital, their
general will have no choice but to come down in force to meet us. Then the real
work begins.”
“Excellent,” said Kaelan, standing tall, his golden hair stirring in the
breeze. “When these Shadow-spawned invaders dare to venture down from their
sanctuary they will find stern Falmeran steel awaiting them. I will lead the
defenders.”
Syoman blinked. “You risk too much, Kaelan. The Seanchan are too dangerous for
you to be playing hero on the front lines.”
“Syoman my decision is final. I will stand at the front of this assault.”
“Very brave of you,” Nynaeve allowed, grudgingly.
“I will fight with you, father,” said the prince.
“No!” snapped Syoman, and for once he and the King were in agreement.
“I would like nothing more than to have you at my side, Alasdair, but you must
remain with the centre of the army, to command in my absence.”
The gathered officers, the common-born ones at least, exchanged blank looks.
Syoman glowered and the King hastily added, “In spirit at least. Obviously
General Surtir will be providing your strategy.”
Alix spoke up. “Sirs. What about the leashed Aes Sedai that fight for the
Seanchan?”
That quietened everyone at the table. The thought of facing the One Power in
battle was enough to give even the most experienced soldiers pause.
“An excellent question, Captain,” said Wulffe, he turned his creased, fatherly
face to Nynaeve. “Is there anything you can do to help us with that, Nynaeve
Sedai?”
Nynaeve took her braid in hand. She had fought the Seanchan’s channelers
before, when she escaped Liandrin’s treachery. She didn’t know for sure if she
had killed any of them, but she feared she had. Burn them! I’m a healer, not a
killer. The prospect of fighting again sickened her, but if that was what she
had to do to save her friends, then she would choke down her bile and do it.
Except ...
“I can stop some of them,” she said grimly. “Several at once even. But,
depending on how many they have, that might not be enough ...”
Syoman was as grim-faced as she. “Archers then. If we rain enough arrows on
them at least a few must find their target. I see little other option, other
than retreating to Calranell.”
“And that is no option at all,” said Kaelan firmly. “Not while Evelin is in
danger.”
“Very well,” Syoman allowed. “Double the watch. We are deep in enemy territory
now. I want no assassins slipping into camp during the night.”
They dispersed to their tasks. In Nynaeve’s case that would involve worrying
herself sick while she tried for the umpteenth time to grasp saidar at will.
She would need it soon.
“... will be your undoing, Kaelan,” she heard the general scoff as he departed,
with the King walking at his side. “We must attend to reality.”
“Fine. Speak your strategy. We draw the Seanchan into charging our lines ...
and then?”
“You will raise the red banner,” said Syoman, sounding exasperated. “Signalling
my men to charge the flanks.”
“Of course, of course.”
Nynaeve slept fitfully that night, and rose before dawn’s first light. She
found herself pacing the camp. Some slept soundly but she was far from the only
woman, or man, to find rest evading them. Cookfires were already burning as men
prepared for an early breakfast. She wondered how many it would find it their
last meal. Prince Alasdair found her at the edge of the camp, frowning towards
the sea with her braid in hand, hoping that Min and Elayne were alive somewhere
in the Seanchan-held city, that they had come to any harm, and that they would
not be caught in the middle of the coming battle.
“I guess even Aes Sedai get nervous,” he said softly. “Is it strange that that
gladdens me?”
“I’m not nervous. I’m worried,” Nynaeve clarified sternly. “You should be too.
You’d best not do anything silly out there, or prince or no I’ll tan your hide
for you.”
Alasdair sighed. “As you say, Aes Sedai.”
She felt a momentary alarm when he jumped towards her; the alarm turned quickly
to anger and saidar filled her with its terrible warmth, bringing the world
into focus around her, brightening the colours and sharpening the sounds. It
was getting more and more difficult to tell herself that she hated the Power.
She was about to give Alasdair the shock of his life when he stepped in front
of her with his hand on his sword hilt. “Who goes there?” he called into the
pre-dawn gloom.
Nynaeve turned her attention to the world outside their camp and with saidar
enhancing her sense she saw the scout approach. Short and stocky, she was
dressed like a Falmeran not a Seanchan and carried a short double-curved bow in
her hands. With saidar in her Nynaeve’s vision was so sharp she could even see
the freckles on the girl’s face. She shivered and the storm rumbled louder than
ever.
“A friend,” the scout called in answer to Alasdair’s challenge. “The fox
trots.”
Alasdair relaxed at the nonsense phrase. Nynaeve frowned momentarily before
realising it was some kind of coded greeting. She could see how that would be
needed in a group this size, so people might know who was friendly and who was
not. It still set her aback sometimes, how massive everything outside the
Theren was. Back home she would have known on sight the names and business of
everyone she met. She hoped she would be able to go back there someday.
“Do you have a report?” asked Alasdair tightly, interrupting Nynaeve’s musing.
“I do, Prince Alasdair,” the girl said, saluting. “Scout Debatthien, honour to
serve.” She looked to be about Rand’s age, too young to be part of an army. She
hoped he was safe, wherever he was now; but deep down she knew that he would
never be safe again. None of them would. The girl spoke the words Nynaeve knew
she would speak. “It’s started sir. The advanced troops have engaged the
enemy.” Thunder sounded all around them as the storm she had been waiting for
finally broke. Nynaeve was the only one present who did not flinch at the
sound. I’m almost there Elayne.
***** Sul'dam *****
CHAPTER 63: Sul’dam
 
Rand had never seen the sea before. He thought it surprisingly angry looking.
The white-capped waves rose high and smashed hard against the huge bay that
Falme presided over, and there was a seemingly ever-present rumbling noise that
the local people paid not the slightest heed to. He supposed it was all in what
you were used to, and tried to pretend that he too was used to such things. I’m
glad I got to see the ocean, before the end. That end was fast approaching now.
All he had to do was find Padan Fain somewhere in this city, put an end to his
threats, and give the Horn to Ingtar. Then ... Then he would do what he must.
Rand could see ships anchored down in the bay; tall, square-looking ships with
high masts, made small by the distance. The breeze from the sea brought the
smell of breakfast cook fires to Rand’s nose, and tried to flap at his moth-
eaten cloak, but he held it closed with one hand as Red neared the city. There
had not been a coat to fit him in the clothes they had found, and he thought it
best to keep the fine silver embroidery on his black sleeves and the herons on
his collar hidden. The Seanchan attitude toward conquered people carrying
weapons might not extend to those with heron-mark swords, either.
The first shadows of morning stretched out ahead of him. He could just see
Hurin riding through the city gate, past wagon yards and horse lots. Only one
or two men moved among the lines of merchant wagons, and they wore the long
aprons of wheelwrights or blacksmiths. Ingtar had been the first to go in and
was already out of sight, though with his hood pulled forward to hide his
topknot Rand would have had difficulty spotting him in the crowd even had he
been nearby. Perrin and Tomas followed behind Rand at spaced intervals. He did
not look back to check on them. There was not supposed to be anything to
connect them; five men coming into Falme at an early hour, but not together.
Rand reached the main gate into Falme just as a mounted group of Seanchan were
leaving. He was glad of the ocean then, for if he had not been concentrating on
schooling his face to indifference he might have gaped at the sight of the
riders. There were no more than a few dozen of them, and they wore the black
and red armour he had seen while travelling through the Portal Stone; one, a
handsome red-haired and brown-eyed man only a few inches shorter than Rand,
still carried the heron-marked blade that he had once shoved though Rand’s
chest. No, not my chest. Not really, he reminded himself as he struggled not to
stare at the man. The Seanchan rode out of the city with an air of supreme
confidence. Other soldiers were rallying too, perhaps to meet that army he kept
hearing about, but none of them looked hurried or concerned. Instead they moved
with calm, practiced efficiency.
He passed through the gate unchallenged. On the other side, horse lots
surrounded him, horses already crowding the fences, waiting to be fed. Hurin
put his head out from between two stables, their doors still closed and barred,
saw Rand and motioned to him before ducking back. Rand turned the bay stallion
that way.
Hurin stood holding his horse by the reins. He had on one of the long vests
instead of his coat, and despite the heavy cloak that hid his short sword and
sword-breaker, he shivered with the cold. “Lord Ingtar’s back there,” he said,
nodding down the narrow passage. “He says we’ll leave the horses here and go
the rest of the way on foot.” As Rand dismounted, the sniffer added, “Fain went
right down that street, Lord Rand. I can almost smell it from here.”
Rand led Red down the way to where Ingtar had already tied his own horse behind
the stable. The Shienaran did not look very much a lord in a dirty fleece coat
with holes worn through the leather in several places, and his sword looked odd
belted over it. His eyes had a feverish intensity.
Tying Red alongside Ingtar’s stallion, Rand hesitated over his saddlebags. He
had not been able to leave the banner behind. He did not think any of the
soldiers would have gone into the bags, but he could not say the same for
Verin, nor predict what she would do if she found the banner. Still, it made
him uneasy to have it with him. He decided to leave the saddlebags tied behind
his saddle. But his quiver and longbow he took with him. Perhaps if he left the
bow unstrung the Seanchan would not take alarm.
Perrin joined them, hefting his own bow and concealing the axe with his too-
short cloak. He had not been there long before Hurin came with Tomas. The
Warder had left his colour-shifting cloak behind but couldn’t disguise the
predatory grace with which he walked. All told, Rand thought they looked like
villainous beggars, but they had made it inside the city at least. “Now,”
Ingtar said. “Let us see what we see.”
They strolled out to the dirt street as if they had no particular destination
in mind, talking among themselves, and ambled past the wagon yards onto sloping
cobblestone streets. Rand was not sure what he himself said, much less anyone
else. Ingtar’s plan had been for them to look like any other group of men
walking together, but there were all too few people out-of-doors. Five men made
a crowd on those cold morning streets.
They walked in a bunch, but it was Hurin who led them, sniffing the air and
turning up this street and down that. The rest turned when he did, as if that
was what they had intended all along. No matter where they went in the city,
they could still see the tall tower he had spotted on his approach.
“He’s crisscrossed this town,” Hurin muttered, grimacing. “His smell is
everywhere, and it stinks so, it’s hard to tell old from new. At least I know
he’s still here. Some of it cannot be older than a day or two I’m sure. Maybe a
week. I am sure,” he added less doubtfully.
Up the street from the harbour came a formation of Seanchan soldiers, a hundred
or more in ordered ranks, with an officer at their head in painted armour. They
marched with a grim, implacable step. Rand and the others casually turned down
a side street. A few more people began to appear, here a fruit peddler setting
his wares on tables, there a fellow hurrying along with a big roll of
parchments under his arm and a sketch-board slung across his back, a knife-
sharpener oiling the shaft of his grinding wheel on its barrow. Two women
walked by, headed towards the gate, one with downcast eyes and a silver collar
around her neck, the other, in a dress worked with lightning bolts, holding a
coiled silver leash.
Rand’s breath caught; it was an effort not to look back at them.
Perrin growled low. “Was that a damane?”
“That is the way they were described,” Ingtar said curtly. “Hurin, are we going
to walk every street in this Shadow-cursed city?”
“He’s been everywhere, Lord Ingtar,” Hurin said. “His stench is everywhere.”
They had come into an area where the stone houses were three and four stories
high, as big as inns.
A pretty and morose-looking girl sat on the stone doorstep of one of the
buildings. She wore a plain woollen dress of dark green, longer and of a
different cut than that of the locals, with a lower hem and a higher neckline.
A Seanchan dress, Rand suspected. He studied at the girl as they approached
along the street. Invader she might be but she could have passed for the twin
of Min Farshaw, the odd girl he had met back in Baerlon. Invaders should seem
less familiar, he somehow felt. He couldn’t help but stare.
She sensed their approach and raised her eyes from the cobblestones. She looked
as if she had been crying recently. When she saw Rand her big, nearly black
eyes grew even bigger. Her jaw dropped.
One look into her eyes and Rand’s steps came to a jarring stop. She didn’t just
look like Min, she was Min!
“Rand?” she said incredulously, climbing slowly to her feet.
“This can’t be real,” Rand gasped, wide-eyed and staring. “How can you be here,
Min? You should be back in Baerlon, practically on the other side of the
continent.”
“It is you,” she whispered. “Oh, thank the Light, I thought I ...”—she shook
her head fiercely, then continued in a firmer voice—“Never mind. Who else is
with you? I need your help, Rand. Elayne needs your help.”
“Elayne?” he asked. “Who’s this Elayne?” He knew a girl named Elayne. She was
the Daughter-Heir of Andor. But he couldn’t see any reason that Min would know
the same Elayne, and the idea of that sheltered princess being here in Falme
was even more ludicrous that Min having somehow hopped across the continent.
She took three quick steps and grabbed hold of his sleeve. “You know. The Dau
...” she darted a quick, worried glance at his companions. “That Elayne. From
Caemlyn. You met her, she’s ... our friend.”
He couldn’t help it. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair and shook his
head dazedly. “Her!? That’s impossible.”
“Well a lot of things seem impossible to me, but they seem determined to happen
anyway,” Min said tartly.
“We don’t have time for this, Rand. Who is this girl?” said Ingtar.
“And who are they?” Min added. Her searching gaze stopped on Perrin and she
gave a short nod of recognition. When she noticed his yellow eyes she leaned
over to peer more closely and Perrin developed a sudden interest in the ground.
Rand made some hasty introductions, but when he asked Min to explain what she
meant about needing help she shook her head.
“Not here, somewhere more private.” She held tight to his sleeve as she led
them swiftly down a narrow alley and across a wide street towards a neglected-
looking three-storey building. At the house’s side she pushed open a wooden
gate and went around back to the weed-choked garden. “The owners are all dead,”
she explained. “We should be able to talk here.”
Ingtar’s frustration was palpable. “I have one question for you girl. Do you
know where the Horn of Valere is?”
Min eyed him askance. “Um ... no. Why would I? I don’t know where Mosk left his
lance either.”
“We found it underneath the Eye of the World,” Rand explained, “Then some
Darkfriends stole it and brought it here. But anyway. What were you saying
about Elayne? What’s wrong?”
Min’s jaw dropped again. She stared for a moment before giving herself a firm
shake. “Right. Of course. But more importantly, Rand, Elayne is here in Falme
and the sul’dam have her. They put one of those collars on her neck. I could
get it off, and I found a ship captain who I think will take us away if we can
reach his ship with her—he won’t help unless we make it that far, and I cannot
say I blame him—do you have any money by the way? That would help. But yes, I
could get her out, except there’s an army coming and the Seanchan are
mobilising to fight it so the damane quarters are off limits and the guard has
been doubled. They are going to take her to the battlefield, Rand, and make her
fight the Falmerans. And then they’re going to take her back to Seanchan with
them. We need to free her before that happens.”
“We will,” he said dazedly. “Somehow.” His brain was still struggling to cope
with the sheer unlikelihood of it all. In the midst of all those other shocks
he couldn’t muster any surprise at the revelation that Elayne could channel. “A
ship, you say? I hadn’t really thought about how to get out of Falmerden,
though the locals all claim the mountain passes have been blockaded by Valreis.
We have plenty of horses, but I’m not sure we have money for passage. How much
does this man want?”
She looked away. “A lot.”
“There is no need for a ship,” said Ingtar confidently. “The Valreio would not
presume to deny us passage with an Aes Sedai in our company. As to this other
matter. Think Rand. If we try to free the damane we must engage the Seanchan
who hold them. How are we to find Fain and the Horn then, with the city risen
against us? Free the girl later. The Horn must come first.”
“But we don’t know where the Horn is exactly,” Perrin muttered while still
avoiding anyone’s eyes. “Fain’s trail is too muddled. You said yourself; we’re
going to have to search the entire city to find him.”
“If that is what it takes, then that is what we must do,” said Ingtar.
“You don’t need me for that,” Rand said. “I’m going to help Min free Elayne.”
Relief seemed to flood through Min’s body. She shuddered and gave him the
brightest of grins. “I’m glad you have your priorities right, sheepherder or
not.”
“This is folly,” Ingtar groaned. “We’ve come too far to fail now.”
“Folly? Or fate?” They all turned to look at the speaker. Tomas had been
hovering near the garden gate, watching the street in his usual quiet way. Now
he fixed them all with an unwavering gaze. “As Verin said, when ta’veren are
involved there is no such thing as coincidence. I gather this girl is from
Baerlon. What are the odds that she should find herself all the way out here
just in time for our arrival, and with an urgent job to ask of us? Pretty high
I would say. Too high to be anything but the Pattern at work. I say we play
this out and see where it leads us.”
Hurin nodded silently at the Warder’s words, but he kept his eyes on Ingtar and
waited for the Lord’s decision.
He sighed. “You may be right, Tomas Gaidin. It strains credulity. And perhaps
somehow this will lead us to the Horn.”
Rand had had no intention of doing anything but helping Min, no matter what the
others decided, but he was glad to hear they would be lending their support.
“Where is Elayne being held, Min?” he asked.
“In a large building near the Divalaird, on the northern side of the square.
I’ll show you.”
Rand studied Min curiously as they made their way west up the sloping streets
of Falme. Her hair was a little longer than when they had last met and the
dress was certainly new. From the way she kept kicking the skirts as she walked
he suspected she didn’t feel entirely comfortable in it. Though it did make her
look bustier than the loose shirt and heavy coat she had worn in Baerlon. “How
do you know Elayne?” he asked wonderingly. “And how did you both end up here?”
Min blushed for some reason and avoided his eyes. “We met in Tar Valon,” she
said. “Moiraine had me brought there after The Stag and Lion burnt down. As to
how we got here, we came by the Ways.”
Perrin grunted and the others looked at Min appraisingly.
“The Ways are dangerous,” said Rand, frowning. “And a maze. Did you find an
Ogier to guide you?”
“No. Li—” Min broke off and glanced Tomas’ way for some reason. “We can talk
about this some other time, Rand. We should focus on what to do about the
Seanchan now.”
They rounded a corner, and Rand saw a score of Seanchan soldiers standing guard
in front of the tall gates at the front of the looming grey tower. Their
officer’s armour was resplendent in red and black and gold, his helmet gilded
and painted to look like a spider’s head. A banner flapped in the wind over the
tower; a golden hawk clutching lightning bolts. Two women in lightning-marked
dresses stood talking on the doorstep of another building nearby. But it was
none of these things that made Rand miss a step; it was the two big, leathery-
skinned shapes that crouched among the soldiers.
Grolm. There was no mistaking those wedge-shaped heads with their three eyes.
They can’t be.
“Bow!” hissed Min urgently. She bent at the waist until her torso was almost
parallel to the ground. “You have to bow when you see a Seanchan, no matter if
it’s a soldier or a litter-bearer.”
Rand followed her example, scowling as he did so. “We’ve passed others, and
they haven’t said anything to us ...”
“Then you were lucky they have other things to concern themselves with right
now,” she said. “Usually they’ll pay you no mind if you bow, and punish you if
you don’t.”
The others made their bows in turn before making their way across the square.
Their efforts to appear casual were undermined by the way they stared at the
strange beasts. Even so the soldiers barely glanced at them. “What in the name
of the Light are they?” Perrin asked.
Hurin’s eyes seemed as big as his face. “Lord Rand, they’re ... Those are ...”
“I know. How did they ...? Never mind. It doesn’t matter,” Rand said. After a
moment, Hurin nodded.
“We are here for the Horn,” Ingtar said, “not to stare at Seanchan monsters.
Concentrate on finding Fain, Hurin.”
“He’s been here a lot.” Hurin scrubbed at his nose with the back of his hand.
“The square stinks of layer on layer on layer of him. But still nothing
recent.”
“There’s a garden behind the damane quarters,” Min said as they reached the
other side of the square. “And an alley runs by the garden wall. I was able to
climb it earlier.”
Ingtar nodded. “Sometimes men are so busy guarding their front, they neglect
their back. Come.” He headed straight for the nearest narrow passage between
two of the tall houses. Hurin and Min trotted right after him.
The alley was barely wider than their shoulders, but it ran between high garden
walls until it crossed another alley big enough for a pushbarrow or small cart.
That was cobblestoned, too, but only the backs of buildings looked down on it,
shuttered windows and expanses of stone, and the high back walls of gardens
overtopped by nearly leafless branches.
Ingtar led them along that alley until they were behind the building Min had
indicated. Taking his steel-backed gauntlets from under his coat, he put them
on and leaped up to catch the top of the wall, then pulled himself up enough to
peek over. He reported in a low monotone. “Trees. Flower beds. Walks. There
isn’t a soul to be—Wait! A guard. One man. He isn’t even wearing his helmet.
Count to fifty, then follow me.” He swung a boot to the top of the wall and
rolled over inside, disappearing before Rand could say a word.
Rand held his breath. Perrin fingered his axe, and Hurin gripped the hilts of
his weapons. Only Tomas and, strangely, Min looked calm. She was staring at
them all in an unfocused way. “But there are other ways it could happen,” she
whispered, as if to herself. “I shouldn’t assume, that could be dangerous.”
“Fifty.” Hurin was scrambling up and over the wall before the word was well out
of his mouth. Perrin and Tomas were right behind him.
Rand hunched down and cupped his hands to offer Min a boost.
“I can climb it myself you know,” she said.
“I believe you,” he responded, but did not move.
“Good.” She placed her shoed foot in his hands and hopped upwards. He lifted
her weight easily; she quickly swung over the wall and lowered herself down the
other side.
Moments later Rand was crouched on the inside with the rest.
The garden was in the grip of deep autumn, flower beds empty except for a few
evergreen shrubs, tree branches nearly bare. The wind stirred dust across the
flagstone walks. For a moment Rand could not find Ingtar. Then he saw the
Shienaran, flat against the wall of a shed with sword in hand, motioning for
them to stay low.
Rand ran in a crouch, more conscious of the windows blankly peering down from
the distant house than of his friends running beside him. It was a relief to
press himself against the shed beside Ingtar.
“Where is the guard?” Rand whispered.
“Dead,” Ingtar said. “The man was overconfident. He never even tried to raise a
cry. I hid his body under one of those bushes. The two standing by the door up
ahead may be harder to get past.”
Rand leaned out just far enough to get a peek at the door in question. There
were indeed two Seanchan soldiers on watch, armoured but with their helmets
tucked under their arms. They seemed to be talking to each other, but at that
range Rand could not hear a word.
“Two guards. Two bows,” said Tomas quietly. “But do you lads know how to use
them? If you were to miss, or just wing them ...”
“Lord Rand wouldn’t miss,” Hurin said stoutly.
Perrin came forward and crouched near Ingtar’s legs. He took a quick glance
around the corner. “We can make those shots,” he whispered. “Light help me, but
it would even be easy.”
Grim-faced, Perrin moved back and set to stringing his bow. Rand did the same
and tried to keep his face as composed as Perrin’s, not wanting to embarrass
himself in front of the others.
“You’ll need to loose in unison,” Ingtar advised as he slid back to make room
for the archers. “They must go down together.”
Perrin grunted and trudged up to take the Shienaran’s former place. He already
had an arrow nocked.
“Rand?” asked Perrin, when he did not immediately join him.
“I know. Just give me a minute.” He needed the void for this. “I’ve never
killed a man before,” he confessed. “Trollocs, but never humans.” Min’s eyes
were full of pity. He looked away.
“You do what you must. No matter how ugly,” said Tomas.
“I know. I will.” For Elayne. Rand fed his queasiness into the flame along with
all his other misgivings and finally stepped up to stand beside Perrin, with
his bow at the ready. “I’ll take the one on our right,” he said in a
preternaturally calm voice.
Perrin nodded. “One, then two, then step, then loose?” he said quietly.
“Understood. Whenever you’re ready, call the shot.”
“One,” Perrin said and Rand tensed to move.
“Two.”
Rand counted out the rest silently in his head. On three he took a long stride
out of the concealment of the garden shed, making room for Perrin to ease
around the corner. He sighted on his target and drew the arrow’s fletching to
his cheek. On four the Thereners loosed their arrows in tandem. On five the
Seanchan soldiers began slumping to the ground, with matched shafts sprouting
from the ruins of their eyes.
Rand stepped back into cover. “It’s done,” he said in that too-calm voice.
Ingtar clapped him on the shoulder as he glanced out. “Good shooting. Let’s
move.”
The Shienaran lord dashed forwards, with Hurin and Tomas close on his heels.
Min approached Rand as though she wanted to say something, but he dodged back
around the corner of the shed before she could speak and ran after the others.
There was a covered walkway at the back of the building where Elayne was being
held, supported by a multitude of tall arches carved from grey stone. Rand
darted into its shelter and hoped no-one had happened to be looking out of the
windows as the intruders approached. He could see only one door into the
building proper and the two Seanchan lay dead just outside it. He avoided
looking at them too closely, even when Tomas and Ingtar grabbed them by the
heels and dragged them into a slightly more concealed position. Rand didn’t
think hiding them would do any good, their blood left a long and foul trail
along the ground. Blood I spilled.
“We are almost there.” Ingtar sounded as if he were speaking to himself, too.
“Almost there. Come.”
Rand slung his bow and drew his sword as they started towards the back door. He
was aware of Hurin unlimbering his short-bladed sword and notched sword-
breaker, and Perrin reluctantly drawing his axe from the loop on his belt. The
knife Min held seemed a small thing in comparison, but she gripped it
determinedly and the mocking smile she’d worn throughout their first encounter
was nowhere to be seen.
No-one challenged them when Tomas eased the door open and led the way inside.
The hallway within was narrow. A half-open door to their right smelled like a
kitchen. Several people were moving about in that room; there was an
indistinguishable sound of voices, and occasionally the soft clatter of a pot
lid.
Tomas motioned Min forward and she hastened to his side, pointing the way. They
crept by the kitchen door, with Rand keeping a watchful eye on the narrow
opening until they were around the next corner.
Min pointed to a set of narrow, winding stairs. They climbed all the way to the
fourth floor. The ceilings were low, there, the halls empty and silent except
for the soft sounds of weeping. Weeping seemed to fit the air of the chilly
halls. She led them down another narrow hallway. Rand thought their footsteps
sounded far too loud on the wooden floor, but so far no-one was drawn to the
sound. He could imagine it all too well though, someone stepping into the hall
to see five slinking men with weapons in their hands, shouting an alarm ...
If he hadn’t been so on edge he might not have heard the sound of footsteps on
the stairwell they had just left. Even from farther down the hallway Tomas
heard too, he whipped his head around and gestured to Rand and Perrin intently.
They eased back towards the stairwell as quietly as they could. Rand held his
sword one-handed, ready to stab downwards when they reached the top of the
stairs, but when he jumped out to confront the climbing enemy he found only a
small, yellow-haired woman looking up at him in shock.
She wore a blue and red dress panelled with lightning bolts and her shock
quickly turned to anger. Rand did not strike of course. How could he? She was a
woman.
The sul’dam opened her mouth to shout the alarm but Perrin surged forward with
a speed surprising in such a bulky man. He clamped one big hand over her mouth
and wrapped his free arm around her, lifting her easily.
“We won’t hurt you,” the burly youth said, looking the sul’dam straight in the
eyes. “But you must be quiet.”
The woman’s lips might have been bound, but her hands were free and one quickly
shot forth towards Perrin’s neck, the dagger it held gleaming in the early
morning light. The point was mere inches from his friend’s neck when Rand’s
hand snapped around the sul’dam’s wrist. He held her firmly, his grip tight
enough to bruise, as he and Perrin exchanged wide-eyed looks.
Ingtar took the knife from their prisoner’s hand. “Bring her. And keep her
quiet,” he said.
Bring her they did, though she kicked and thrashed the whole way down the
corridor. Perrin had to move slowly and carefully to prevent her flailing feet
from impacting with the walls and raising a clamour.
“Seta Zarbey,” Min said when they caught up to her. “She’s nearly as bad as
Renna. Nearly.”
The Seanchan woman glared contemptuously at Min over Perrin’s hand.
“Are we close?” Rand asked.
“I hope so,” Min whispered. She opened a door that was indistinguishable from
the dozen others they had passed and went in, and they followed. The room
beyond had been divided into smaller rooms by roughly-made wooden walls, with a
narrow hallway running to a window. Rand crowded after Min as she hurried to
the last door on the right and pushed in.
Min let out a relived sigh when she saw the room’s occupant.
A slender girl, her hair a mass of red-gold curls, sat at a small table with
her head resting on her folded arms, wearing a dress of drabbest grey. Even
before she looked up, Rand knew that it really was Elayne. Despite everything
part of him had not truly believed she could be here. Impossibility piled upon
impossibility. Either I’ve gone mad already or the world decided to race me
there.
A ribbon of shining metal ran from the silver collar around Elayne’s neck to a
bracelet hanging on a peg on the wall. It glimmered when she looked up to see
who had intruded in her cell. She was thinner than he remembered. Her jewels
and finery had all been taken from her and her eyes were haunted but she was
still stunningly beautiful. Her bright blue eyes widened at the sight of them.
Elayne gave a sudden giggle, and pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle it.
The tiny room was more than crowded with the three of them in it.
“I’ve had this dream before,” Elayne said in a quavering voice, “It was sweet
then too. Can you two stay a little longer this time?”
“This is no dream,” Min said softly. “Hold still.”
She stood behind Elayne’s chair and brushed the Daughter-Heir’s curls aside.
Min touched the collar around Elayne’s neck oh so carefully and ran her fingers
along the seamless metal until she found whatever she was looking for. She did
something with her hands that Rand could not follow and the collar sprang open
and fell away from Elayne’s throat. With an expression of wonder, Elayne
touched her neck.
Sudden tears filled Elayne’s eyes. “Oh, Min. I can never, ever repay this.”
Min’s irreverent smile returned to light up her face once more. “You’ll never,
ever have to,” she said with an easy shrug.
“This truly isn’t a dream?” Elayne looked at Rand. “In my dreams you brought an
army with you. An army led by Lord Gareth. Thousands of brave Andormen in
gleaming armour atop tall stallions.”
Rand felt strangely embarrassed. “I’m afraid there’s just the five of us right
now, my Lady. But there are about twenty more camped outside the city. We just
need to get to them.”
“If you’d rather wait for a gleaming army though ...” Min said dryly.
“Oh, no. No, you are both beautiful, the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
Where did you come from? How did you find me?” Elayne blinked and gave her head
a small shake before continuing in a higher-pitched voice. “And why am I still
in this room?” She shot to her feet and kicked the a’dam at her feet aside,
then went to gave it a few stamps for good measure. “We should leave this place
immediately, before the sul’dam find us.” She made a fist. “Though I promise
you this: they will not find me so easily taken this time.”
She marched out of her cell and into the room where the rest of their
companions awaited. When she came face to face with the captured sul’dam her
lips tightened in fury. “You! The tables have turned, Seta. How fortuitous.”
The other woman’s shoulders shook, and her eyes crinkled above Perrin’s
restraining hand. It took Rand a moment to realize the sul’dam was laughing.
Elayne raised her chin. “Oh yes, it is quite the joke. Shall I deliver the
punchline? A moment then, I shall be right back.”
“Does she know where the Horn of Valere is?” asked Ingtar.
“I haven’t had the chance to ask her yet,” Rand said absently.
Perrin and the rest could only stare at Elayne as she turned and marched
straight back into her cell. Rand didn’t think it was her beauty alone that had
them at a loss for words.
She returned swiftly, holding the collar of the a’dam in her hands. The long,
silvery leash trailed behind her as she advanced on Seta. Perrin looked
confused but he held his place as Elayne reached out and wrapped the collar
around Seta’s neck.
It locked in place with a small click but whatever Elayne had hoped to
accomplish she was doomed to disappointment. The woman simply glanced at the
leash trailing from her neck to Elayne’s wrist, then glared up at her
contemptuously.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Min said, confusion plain on her face.
“Not at first,” Elayne said, sounding suddenly like a judge ready to pronounce
sentence.
She did something, Rand knew not what, and suddenly the sul’dam’s eyes bulged
out of her head, the prisoner gave a cry that Perrin’s hand only partially
muffled. Fanning her hands around her as if trying to ward off something, she
thrashed in the air in a vain effort to escape.
Perrin looked extremely uncomfortable and his grip on the Seanchan woman
weakened. “Whatever you’re doing, please stop it,” he said, looking Elayne in
the eyes.
Elayne’s chin remained high and her voice remained cold. “You may release her
if you wish, goodman. I expect she will not be calling for the guards.”
Perrin let Seta go and the sul’dam sagged, weeping.
Min’s mouth was hanging open. “What did you ... do to her?”
“Significantly less than she has done to the so-called damane. Or should I say,
the other so-called damane.”
“What are you talking about?” Min said.
“I have thought about it a great deal,” Elayne said. “Thinking was all I could
do when they left me alone up here. Sul’dam claim they develop an affinity
after a few years. Most of them can tell when a woman is channelling whether
they’re leashed to her or not. I wasn’t certain, but this proves it. A sul’dam
would die before admitting the truth, even if she knew, and they never train
the ability, so they cannot do anything with it unless linked to a damane, but
they are channelers as surely as I am.”
Seta groaned through her teeth, shaking her head in violent denial. But just as
Elayne had predicated, the Seanchan woman held her silence.
Hurin looked confused. “I thought the Seanchan put leashes on any woman who can
channel. My lady.”
“You must call me Elayne, my good man. I will not stand on formality with any
who numbered among my saviours. As to the Seanchan, they leash all of those
they can find but those they can find are like myself, or the false Dragons who
occasionally plague our lands. We were born with it, ready to channel whether
anyone taught us or not. But there are others in whom the ability to channel
sleeps, ready to be awoken if they are tested and taught, and in whom it would
lay dormant forever if none were to teach them. Here on Valgarda many of these
girls may go to the White Tower to have their potential awoken but what of
those who live in Seanchan? Not just any woman can become a Leash Holder.” She
filled the term with scorn. “Renna thought she was being friendly telling me
about it. It is apparently a feastday in Seanchan villages when the sul’dam
come to test the girls. They want to find any like me, and leash them, but they
let all the others put on a bracelet to see if they can feel what the poor
woman in the collar feels. Those who can are taken away to be trained as
sul’dam. Latent channelers, no different from the poor women they torture so.”
Seta was moaning under her breath. “No. No. No.” Over and over again.
Elayne removed the bracelet from her wrist and dropped it to the floor. She
rubbed her fingers on the skirts of her grey dress as though disgusted to have
even touched the thing. “If it is not so, Seta, marath’damane. Then take off
that collar. Or walk from this room.”
The Seanchan took hold of the silver band around her throat and tugged at it.
Once and only once. Then she sagged to the ground and began dry-heaving.
“You—you do not mean to leave me here with it,” Seta gasped. “You cannot. Tie
me. Gag me so I cannot give an alarm. Please!” She darted frantic glances at
Rand and the other watching men in their borrowed clothes. “You have come to
free the oathbreaker, yes? The so-called Princess Evelin. She is to be executed
as her mother was, by slow impalement, as soon as her traitorous army draws
within sight of the city walls. The High Lord wishes to show them the price of
rebellion, and to crush their spirits. I can tell you how to free her if you
take this thing off me.”
Rand shook his head slowly. He’d never even heard of this Evelin before now.
The fate that Seta described sounded horrible though. He couldn’t imagine
anyone short of a Forsaken, and perhaps not even them, deserving to die like
that. It’s not my concern, he told himself. I have enough problems to deal with
right now. Burn me, it’s not my concern.
Ingtar surged forward and gripped the Seanchan woman by her chin. He knelt down
to look her straight in the eyes, his expression intent. “You wish to win your
freedom woman? Then tell me this. Where is the Horn of Valere?”
Elayne’s brows rose and she looked a question at Rand. He could only shrug. It
didn’t seem a good time to explain all that had happened.
Seta shook her head and Rand thought she would deny all knowledge of the Horn,
but her expression shifted quickly to one of desperation and words spilled from
her lips. “The High Lord Turak has it in his personal collection. He plans to
send it back to Seandar with the next ship, along with his report to the
Empress, may she live forever, and this damane.” She glanced at Elayne, then
quickly looked away.
“That will not happen,” Elayne vowed.
“No,” hissed Ingtar, standing tall. “No it will not.”
“I will not report you,” Seta babbled. “I swear it. Only take this from my
neck. I have gold. Take it. I swear, I will never tell anyone. Please
take—it—off! If anyone sees it on me ...” Seta’s eyes rolled down to stare at
the leash, then squeezed shut. “Please?” she whispered.
“If anyone sees it on you then they will have to face the truth,” declared
Elayne, unmoved. “Let your whole empire see that sul’dam and damane are one and
the same. I will not remove it.”
Seta sobbed and Ingtar turned away. “I made no promises,” he said, and marched
grimly towards the door.
It opened before he could reach it and a second sul’dam stepped into the room.
“What is going on here? An audience?” She stared at Seta, hands on hips. “I
never gave permission for anyone else to link with my pet, Tuli.” She shot a
glance at Elayne—noticed for the first time that Elayne had no collar around
her neck—and her eyes grew as big as saucers. She never had a chance to yell.
Before anyone else could move, the new sul’dam was yanked off her feet and flew
towards Elayne. Literally flew, if only for a moment. Everyone save Tomas gaped
at the sight. The woman was hovering a foot away from Elayne’s outstretched
hand when the Daughter-Heir’s enraged expression became tinged with strain and
she allowed her feet to touch the ground. Invisible bonds seemed to hold her
still though and no sound escaped her lips.
Elayne’s colour was high and she was breathing fast. “Renna, you ... you
monster! You will never call me by that name again! Do you hear me? Never! I
should kill you for what you’ve done.”
“She deserves it.” Min was staring grimly at the sul’dam.
“You would kill someone who kidnapped and tortured people, wouldn’t you Rand?”
Elayne said, almost shrilly. She seemed to be steeling herself.
Rand shifted his feet uncomfortably. He stared at the sul’dam. Save for her
strange dress and her unbraided hair this Renna looked just like a typical
Theren woman. She wore a fixed stare of horror. “You can’t kill women,” he said
in a low whisper. “It’s wrong.” Perrin and the two Shienarans nodded silent
agreement.
“Is that what they taught you in the Theren?” Elayne asked. Some of the rage
seemed to leak out of her. “I suppose there is sense in that. But ...” She fell
silent and just stood there, opening and closing her hands.
“Well I don’t see any sense in it at all,” Min growled. Then she stepped past
Elayne and stuck her knife right into Renna’s heart.
“Burn me,” cursed Perrin. Seta covered her mouth with her hand. Rand took an
unsteady step backwards. Elayne stared at her tormenter, watching as the life
quickly drained from the sul’dam’s body. When it was done, Elayne let Renna
slump to the floor. The Daughter-Heir looked stricken. Killers, thought Rand
sadly. We’re all becoming killers. He felt sorrier for Min than he did for
Renna; she was staring wide-eyed at the body and shaking visibly.
“I see no injustice here,” Elayne said, sounding suddenly tired. “But we should
leave. I would like to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Wait without please. I
cannot be seen in public wearing this dress, any Seanchan we meet would know me
for a channeler.” She drew her red-gold hair out of the way. “Min, help me,
please.” As Min began fumbling with the buttons down the back of Elayne’s
dress, the five men swiftly exited the room.
A plain wooden attic, Rand found himself thinking. It wasn’t much of a stage,
but he had a feeling that what had happened in that room would have as much
consequence as anything that had ever happened in a queen’s throne room.
***** Blademaster *****
CHAPTER 64: Blademaster
 
They left the damane quarters the same way they had entered. Despite having
accomplished what they went there to accomplish, it was a solemn group that
scaled the back wall of the compound. Elayne had looked in on all of the damane
who remained and decided that none of them were safe to free. They were
Seanchan natives and had been firmly beaten into submission years ago, she
claimed, if they released them now they were more likely to attack their would-
be liberators than thank them, or run to warn the other Seanchan of the escape
attempt. No-one had wanted to leave the women in their collars, but they bowed
to Elayne’s superior experience.
The girl in question wore Seta’s blue and red dress now, though it did not fit
her properly and she had had to leave it half unbuttoned to make room for her
larger bust. Hopefully any Seanchan who saw them would think her a sul’dam, if
a dishevelled-looking one. The angry little tugs she occasionally gave her
dress might have been vanity over its poor fit, but Rand thought it more likely
to be a sign of her distaste at being required to wear the uniform of her
former captors.
As they waited for the others to finish clearing the wall, Rand watched Min
concernedly.
She noticed his look. “Do you think I did the right thing?” she whispered.
His thoughts and beliefs tripped over each in a conflicted jumble. The best
answer he could come up with was, “If one of those soldiers had abused Elayne,
or you, I would have stabbed him.”
Her smile was a brittle thing. “And if one of those sul’dam had been guarding
the door to Elayne’s, or your, jail I would have shot her.”
Rand grimaced. He bent to offer her a boost once more. “Thanks,” he whispered
as she hopped up and onto the wall.
When Elayne came to take Min’s example she gave Rand a dimpled smile. “Another
wall and another garden. You have strange hobbies, Rand. But I would not
complain of them.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just lifted her up to where Min
waited, perched atop the brick wall and ready to help the Daughter-Heir over to
the other side.
Rand leapt, climbed and vaulted the wall easily. Though they had started
climbing first, when he dropped down to the other side Elayne and Min were
still waiting up top. He eyed them quizzically.
Min wore an expressional of exaggerated patience. “Catch her, dummy.”
He glanced at the four men standing in the alley around him. Hurin was the
slightest of them but even he had a wiry strength to his limbs. Any one of them
could have helped Elayne down. Why do I have to do it? A chorus of shrugs was
all the answer they gave. He gave a small shrug of his own and went to stand
beneath Elayne, arms open and ready.
She launched herself from the wall as though she intended to land on her bottom
rather than her feet. He’d seen it done before and managed to catch her with an
arm under her knees and another around her shoulders. She barely weighed a
thing.
“I must thank you once again, Rand,” Elayne said, watching him from beneath
lowered lashes. Rand held firm and refused to let himself think of the
Daughter-Heir in any improper ways.
“You’re welcome, Lady Elayne,” he said tightly.
“Oh, do call me Elayne.”
“As you say, my lady.”
Her vexed sigh was drowned out by the thump of Min’s shoes hitting the
cobblestones. “No-one rush to catch me though,” she groused. “Don’t worry,
that’s fine.”
“I offered,” Perrin muttered. “But you both ignored me.” Min ignored his
complaints too, preferring to give Rand a flat stare. As though she had not
been the one to urge him to catch Elayne in the first place! He wondered if
this was another one of her jokes.
Grumbling, Perrin set off down the alley after Ingtar and Hurin.
Rand set Elayne on her feet and she straightened her dress. “Now we just need
to get you both out of the city,” he said as they followed the others. “Verin,
she’s an Aes Sedai, and some Shienaran soldiers are waiting nearby. You should
be safe there. Or safer at least.”
“What of the matter your Shienaran friend spoke of? Would it be terribly naive
of me to think he is not in fact mad, and the item he speaks of actually
exists?”
“It exists,” Rand said. “I’ve seen it myself.”
“Incredible,” Elayne said excitedly. “Then we absolutely cannot allow the
Seanchan to keep it. If you are going to recover it from them then I shall be
accompanying you.”
“Me too,” Min said.
“That’s crazy,” Rand objected. “What if they kill you? Or capture you again?
The two of you need to get out of the city.”
“How rude!” Elayne gasped, as Min muttered angrily. “I am perfectly sane, I
assure you. And so is Min. This is a fight that could have consequence for all
right-thinking people in Valgarda. We will not sit idle. Besides, in case you
have not gathered I have been training to become an Aes Sedai since we last
met. Do not underestimate the potency of the One Power, Rand. You may be
shocked to see what can be accomplished by one who wields it.”
Rand eyed her askance. Not as shocked as you think ... he might have said, but
wisely held his tongue. He wondered what they would do if they found out he too
could channel. Recoil in horror at the least, he expected. And perhaps even try
to kill him.
When they arrived back at the street they found Ingtar staring across the
square ahead, studying the Divalaird intently. The officer was no longer
watching them, but there were still at least twenty soldiers in front of the
building. And a pair of grolm.
“We can’t go through that,” said Perrin.
Rand was careful not to look at Elayne and Min. “We can be back to Verin by
midday and have a plan made before nightfall,” he said.
“I do not mean to wait for Verin,” Ingtar said, “and neither will I wait for
night. I’ve waited too long already. I mean to have the Horn in my hands before
the sun sets again.”
“We might not have gotten this far without the Falmeran army drawing so many of
the Seanchan out of the city. And who knows how long that distraction will
last,” said Tomas. He turned to Min. “Do you know any other ways in?”
She shook her head. “No. I didn’t exactly try to map it but I’ve only ever seen
the one gate, and all the windows that are low enough to reach are so thin that
no-one would be able to squeeze through them.”
“I could make a new door,” said Elayne. “If we could find a place where the
walls are thin enough.” They all turned to stare at her.
“Yes,” Ingtar breathed, an excited glimmer in his dark eyes. “Yes that could
work. An Aes Sedai could clear the path. We should break it on the western
side, where the tower faces the ocean. There won’t be any guards to see or hear
there. Come! We are going to take back the Horn now. Now! Min, find us a
discreet path through the city.”
He led them off at a rush. Min had to trot to keep up. Rand exchanged looks
with Perrin—his curly-haired friend gave a resigned shrug—and they followed,
too. Tomas ghosted along behind.
With Min’s direction it didn’t take for them to reach their destination.
The Aryth Ocean seemed to stretch forever. And the wind that blew across it cut
straight through Rand’s fancy coat and borrowed cloak when they reached the
Divalaird’s far side.
Elayne looked up at the narrow windows Min had described earlier. “There will
be rooms on the other side of those. Probably. I just hope there are no sul’dam
and damane lurking nearby.” She closed her eyes in concentration and suddenly
her expression shifted. She looked both relaxed and intent. “Stand ready,” she
said and raised a hand towards the heavy grey stone walls of the fort. Stone
that a moment before had seemed impermeable now slumped into sand. It began
slowly, just a small patch on the wall that streamed away, piling up at
Elayne’s side, but soon that hole had grown large enough to fit a man’s head.
More and more sand flowed from the wall, until the hole became a doorway,
though a doorway into nothing. As thick as the walls were, Elayne had cleared
enough sand to bury the average Theren man by the time they saw light on the
other side of her new door.
“Excellent. My deepest thanks, Aes Sedai. Honour to serve,” Ingtar said with a
grin.
Elayne smiled back. “You flatter me, Lord Ingtar. In truth I am only a Novice
by the Tower’s standards. But I shall admit to being rather pleased with the
results. After you.”
Ingtar hefted his sword and led the way through the tunnel into the Divalaird.
The others followed, armed and ready every one. The cavernous room that awaited
them on the other side—a pantry, with no Seanchan or Falmeran in sight as their
luck would have it—gave Rand pause. He hesitated between his sword and his bow,
until the sight of the wide hallway outside the pantry door decided him. With
that much space he should be able to get off a shot or two before anyone got
close. He left Tam’s sword in its scabbard, unlimbered his bow and strung an
arrow.
Rand kept to the middle of the halls as they crept through the Divalaird,
senses straining for any sign of the occupants.
The furnishings in the hallways were sparse, and seemed all curves. Here and
there a tapestry hung on a wall, or a folding screen stood against it, each
painted with a few birds on branches, or a flower or two. A river flowed across
one screen, but aside from rippling water and narrow strips of riverbank, the
rest of it was blank.
A slender young woman with dark hair came out of a door ahead of them, carrying
a tray with one cup. They all froze. She turned the other way without looking
in their direction. Rand’s eyes widened. Her long white robe was all but
transparent. She vanished around another corner.
“Did you see that?” Hurin said hoarsely. “You could see right through—”
Ingtar clapped a hand over Hurin’s mouth and whispered, “Keep your mind on why
we are here. Now find it. Find the Horn for me.”
“We may already have done so,” Elayne whispered. She and Min had been creeping
along the edges of the halls, bent over slightly and near hugging each other.
“A single cup, Lord Ingtar. And a scandalously-dressed servant to fetch it.
Whoever it was meant for is of high rank.”
Ingtar’s gaze fixed on the big pair of sliding doors from which the young woman
had emerged. Carved handholds were their only ornamentation. “You may be right,
Lady Elayne.”
They gathered outside the door. Rand was glad that there had been no sign of
guards so far, but that didn’t soothe his frayed nerves. Ingtar looked at
Hurin; the sniffer slid the doors open, and Ingtar leaped through with his
sword ready and Tomas at his side. There was no-one there. Rand and the others
hurried inside, and Hurin quickly closed the doors behind them.
The room was twice the size of the village green back home. Painted screens hid
all the walls and any other doors, and veiled the light coming through the
narrow windows. At one end stood a tall, circular cabinet. At the other was a
small table, the lone chair on the carpet turned to face it. Rand heard Ingtar
gasp, but he only felt like heaving a sigh of relief. The curling golden Horn
of Valere sat on a stand on the table.
“It’s here!” cried Hurin.
“Not so loud,” Perrin said with a wince. “We still have to get out of here
yet.” His hands were busy on the haft of his axe; they seemed to want to be
holding something else.
“The Horn of Valere.” There was sheer awe in Ingtar’s voice. He touched the
Horn hesitantly tracing a finger along the silver script inlaid around the bell
and mouthing the translation, then pulled his hand back with a shiver of
excitement. “It is. By the Light, it is! I am saved.”
“Hurin,” Rand whispered. “Is Fain here?”
The sniffer shook his head. “He’s been here, Lord Rand. But not for several
weeks, I’d say.”
Rand winced. If the Horn was still here and Fain had not come to this room in
weeks, then where was he? He feared he knew the answer. “Burn me, I tried to
come in time.”
Elayne tilted her head as though she were listening to distant music. A small
frown grew between her fair brows. “We aren’t alone,” she said, with sudden
urgency. “There’s a channeler nearby!”
As if her words had been enough to shake the ground, the folding screens around
the far side of the room began toppling to the ground. Behind them stood armed
and armoured Seanchan, their faces hidden behind those strange helmets; two,
five, ten. Behind the men, near the circular cabinet knelt a grey-robed and
dull-eyed woman of middle years; the silvery leash around her neck held by a
scowling woman who looked a bit like a meaner, not-as-pretty Nynaeve. A final
screen thudded to the carpet and from the corner that it had hidden emerged a
bear of all things; a huge, hairless bear that studied the intruders with an
awareness that was more than animal.
Every one of Rand’s companions braced themselves and raised their weapons.
Elayne glared daggers at the sul’dam.
From behind, the soft sound of the doors sliding in their tracks heralded the
arrival of another two soldiers. Perrin spun to face them, axe raised and teeth
bared.
There had been a doorway in the southern wall, hidden behind a screen close to
where the thing that was not quite a bear lounged. From that doorway there now
came a slurring voice.
“So! You are not who I expected.”
For a brief moment, Rand stared. The tall man with the shaven head who emerged
from the hidden room wore a long, trailing blue robe, and his fingernails were
so long that Rand wondered if he could handle anything. The two men standing
obsequiously behind him had only half their dark hair shaved, the rest hanging
in a dark braid down each man’s right cheek. One of them cradled a sheathed
sword in his arms.
“You are in the presence of the High Lord Turak,” the man who carried the sword
began, staring at Rand and the others angrily, but a brief motion of a finger
with a blue-lacquered nail cut him short. The other servant stepped forward
with a bow and began undoing Turak’s robe.
“I suspected it would be the man who calls himself Fain,” the shaven-headed man
said calmly. “I have been suspicious of him since Huan died so mysteriously.
And he has always coveted the Horn.” He held out his arms for the servant to
remove his robe. Despite his soft, almost-singing voice, hard muscles roped his
arms and smooth chest, which was bare to a blue sash holding wide, white
trousers that seemed made of hundreds of pleats. He sounded uninterested, and
indifferent to the blades in their hands. “And now to find strangers attempting
to steal from my collection. It will please me to kill one or two of you for
disturbing my morning. Those who survive will tell me of who you are and why
you came.” He stretched out a hand without looking—the man with the scabbarded
sword laid the hilt in the hand—and drew the heavy, curved blade. “I would not
have the Horn damaged.”
Turak gave no other signal, but one of the soldiers stalked across the room and
reached for the Horn. Rand did not know whether he should laugh, or not. The
man wore armour, but he seemed as oblivious to Ingtar’s raised sword as Turak
was to the arrow that Rand still held ready.
Ingtar put an end to the bizarre scene. As the Seanchan reached out his hands,
the Shienaran’s blade slashed up and across his throat. Unfolding the Fan. Such
a simple move, yet it was enough to kill the fully armoured and presumably
trained soldier. The man hopped backwards and actually looked surprised as his
lifeblood began flowing over his breastplate.
Ingtar looked as confused as Rand felt. “We are no easy meat,” he said softly.
Suddenly he leaped over the corpse, toward the rest of the soldiers. “Shinowa!”
he cried. “Follow me!” Hurin leaped after him with a blade in either hand, and
the Seanchan ran wordlessly to meet them.
Rand loosed two arrows before the Seanchan got close enough that he felt the
need to toss his bow aside, detach the encumbering quiver from his belt, and
yank Tam’s sword from its scabbard. If the soldiers he shot had imagined their
armour would stop an arrow fired by a Theren longbow at this range they were
given a rude, and very brief, awakening.
The sul’dam had pointed at Elayne as soon as the first drop of blood spilled.
Her dull-eyed charge stared at the Daughter-Heir, and though nothing that Rand
could see shot across the space between them, strange sparks danced across
barely-visible bubbles that had formed around both women. Elayne raised a hand
angrily and the damane flinched backwards. He didn’t know what, if anything, he
could do to help her except pray for her victory. If the damane won he didn’t
think any of them would be leaving this room alive.
The sounds of steel on steel rose to fill the room.
Against armed and armoured soldiers, while wearing a dress and armed with
nothing more than a beltknife, Min looked understandably panicked. Bravely she
gripped her knife by the blade and hurled it at one of the Seanchan. The hilt
struck the man’s armoured shoulder and bounced harmlessly away. The fellow
didn’t seem to notice her attack as he danced into what looked like Cat Dances
on the Wall, knocking Rand’s sword aside and then striking for his legs. Rand
knew the move well from sparring with Lan. He let the Seanchan win the first
part of the clash, then sidestepped and let the Boar Rush Downhill, landing a
heavy blow that took the man’s arm off at the elbow. His opponent screamed and
blood spurted all over the fine carpet.
Rand expected at any moment to be stabbed from all sides. The Seanchan
outnumbered them greatly. But when he spun to check what was happening behind
him he found Tomas dancing the forms whilst blood rained around him. The Warder
used Shake Dew From the Branch to keep three foes occupied at once, launching
lightning quick blows at seemingly random targets. The Seanchan parried, once,
twice, thrice, but then one of Tomas’ opponents missed his guard and the Warder
laid a smooth and very deadly cut along the side of his neck. Blood fountained
from the dying man and he collapsed to the floor, trying vainly to still the
flow with his hands. The Seanchan had no time to mourn their fallen, for the
plain-faced Warder launched straight into Apple Blossoms in the Wind, the
second arc of which claimed the life of his second opponent; the third and
final arc drove his remaining man back. Hastily the Seanchan retreated,
parrying desperately as the Warder pursued him across the floor.
When Tomas moved aside he revealed Turak to Rand’s eyes. The shaven lord
strolled calmly across the room, his huge beast lumbering beside him. His eyes
were sharp on Rand’s face; the bodies of his soldiers might as well not have
existed. They did not seem to exist for the two servants, either, any more than
Rand and his sword existed, or the sounds of fighting. The servants had begun
calmly folding Turak’s robe as soon as the High Lord took his sword, and had
not looked up even when the first of the soldiers fell; now they knelt beside
the door and watched with impassive eyes.
Rand raised his sword.
The bear-like thing’s growl sounded like boulders bouncing downhill. Even while
walking on all fours the thing stood as tall as most men, and it was hugely
muscled. It advanced on Rand angrily as soon as he offered threat to its
master.
Rand knew he would not defeat the thing without using saidin and knew too that
he had to defeat it or all his friends would suffer for his failure, but when
he tried to grasp the One Power it slipped away from him like water through
splayed fingers. Desperately, he reached again.
“Tyangni. Heel,” said Turak calmly. Immediately the beast sank onto its
haunches, though its too-intelligent eyes still followed Rand intently.
Turak raised his blade upright before him and faced Rand proudly. “I suspected
it might come to you and me.” Turak spun his blade easily, a full circle one
way, then the other, his long-nailed fingers moving delicately on the hilt. His
fingernails did not seem to hamper him at all. “You are young. Let us see what
is required to earn the heron on this side of the ocean.”
Suddenly Rand saw. Standing tall on Turak’s blade was a heron. With the little
training he had, he was face-to-face with a real blademaster. Hastily he tossed
the fleece-lined cloak aside, ridding himself of weight and encumbrance. Turak
waited.
Back at the doorway, Perrin’s axe had lodged in the armour of one of the
soldiers behind them, digging deep into the torso beneath. The Seanchan lay
dead, but his vengeful companion had left a deep cut on the wolfbrother’s leg.
Spreading blood darkened Perrin’s trousers and he had lost his weapon, yet he
did not surrender. Instead he threw himself at the armoured man, taking another
cut in the process, this time along his ribs, but getting inside the sword’s
reach and bearing the soldier down beneath his muscled bulk. They wrestled
desperately along the ground and slowly, slowly Perrin’s huge hands crept
towards the Seanchan’s neck.
Rand could not help him now. He had lost the void while trying and failing to
grasp saidin. Now he sought it once more but before he could finish forming the
flame in his mind Turak glided toward him on silent feet. Blade rang on blade
like hammer on anvil.
From the first it was clear to Rand that the man was testing him, pushing only
hard enough to see what he could do, then pushing a little harder, then just a
little harder still. It was quick wrists and quick feet that kept Rand alive as
much as skill. Without the void, he was always half a heartbeat behind. The tip
of Turak’s heavy sword made a stinging trench just under his left eye. A flap
of coat sleeve hung away from his shoulder, the darker for being wet. Under a
neat slash beneath his right arm, precise as a tailor’s cut, he could feel warm
dampness spreading down his ribs.
There was disappointment on the High Lord’s face. He stepped back with a
gesture of disgust. “Where did you find that blade, boy? Or do they here truly
award the heron to those no more skilled than you? No matter. Make your peace.
It is time to die.” He came on again.
I can’t, Rand thought stubbornly. Not if it means the others dying with me. The
void enveloped Rand and everything around him was suddenly clearer. Saidin
flowed toward him, glowing with the promise of the One Power, but he ignored
it. It was no more difficult than ignoring a barbed thorn twisting in his
flesh. He refused to be filled with the Power, refused to be one with the male
half of the True Source. Instead he became one with the sword in his hands, one
with the floor beneath his feet, one with the walls. One with Turak.
He recognized the forms the High Lord used; they were a little different from
what he had been taught, but not enough. The Swallow Takes Flight did not fool
him, he knocked aside the thrust that followed its slashing feint with a simple
Parting the Silk. Rand fell into The Wood Grouse Dances, stepping quickly
around the High Lord and trying to anticipate his next attack. Turak, impatient
with such a delay, tried to finish him with an aggressive thrust from high
guard, Moon on the Water. Rand seized the opening to attack, advancing inside
Turak’s guard with Ribbon in the Air, Tam’s blade alive in his hands. The High
Lord was forced backwards but used Stones Falling From the Cliff to force Rand
to check his attack or lose his head. They moved about the room as in a dance,
and their music was steel against steel.
Disappointment and disgust faded from Turak’s dark eyes, replaced by surprise,
then concentration. Sweat appeared on the High Lord’s face as he pressed Rand
harder. Leaf on the Breeze allowed Rand to parry the entirety of Lightning of
Three Prongs, but only barely; Rand took another cut from that, this time on
his forearm when the thrust he had been expecting became a quick slash mid-
motion.
Rand’s thoughts, and pains, floated outside the void, apart from himself,
hardly noticed. It was not enough. He faced a blade-master, and with the void
and every ounce of his skill he was barely managing to hold his own. Barely. He
had to end it before Turak finally did. Saidin? No! Sometimes it is necessary
to Sheathe the Sword in your own flesh. But that would not help Elayne and Min.
He had to end it now. A woman’s high-pitched scream echoed throughout the room
and the void threatened to collapse once more. Now! Or never!
Turak’s eyes widened as Rand glided forward. So far he had fought defensively;
now he attacked, all out. The Boar Rushes Down the Mountain. Every movement of
his blade was an attempt to reach the High Lord; now all Turak could do was
retreat and defend, down the length of the room, almost to the door from which
he had entered.
In an instant, while Turak still tried to face the Boar, Rand lunged forward
and dropped to one knee, blade slashing across, expecting at any moment to feel
the cold touch of Turak’s steel on the back of his neck. The River Undercuts
the Bank. It was a desperate move, one that he doubted Lan or any other
blademaster would have approved of. And perhaps that was why it worked. Rand
did not need Turak’s gasp, or the feel of resistance to his cut to know. He
heard two thumps and turned his head, knowing what he would see. He looked down
the length of his blade, wet and red, to where the High Lord lay, sword tumbled
from his limp hand, a dark dampness staining the birds woven in the carpet
under his body. Turak’s eyes were still open, but already filmed with death.
The void collapsed. Pain and exhaustion, ignored until now, rushed to fill
Rand. He looked around the room frantically, searching for the source of the
scream he had heard. Elayne still stood, though she was covering her mouth with
her hand and there were unshed tears in her eyes. A spike of dread stabbed
Rand’s heart, but when he looked for Min he found her blessedly unhurt; she
rushed to Elayne’s side and put and arm around her shoulders. And then they
both disappeared behind well over a thousand pounds of killing fury.
The bear-like beast let out a deafening roar and charged at Rand. He saw pain
in its eyes, and he saw hate, and he saw his inevitable death. It closed the
distance between them in two bounds and raised a heavy paw that was tipped with
six sharp claws.
“No!” screamed Elayne. Lightning lanced out from her raised hands and struck
the beast before its blow could land. As heavy as the creature was the Power
Elayne poured into that strike was enough to lift it from its feet and send it
careening past Rand to crash into the wall beyond. The thick stone cracked and
dust rained down from the roof of a fortress that had already been old when the
nation of Falmerden first came into existence. Turak’s strange pet fell to the
ground, and did not rise again.
Rand let out a shaky breath and turned his face away from the creature’s
corpse. He gave a start when he saw the two servants still kneeling beside the
door. He had forgotten them, and now he did not know what to do about them.
Neither man appeared armed.
They never looked at him, or at each other. Instead, they stared silently at
the High Lord’s body. They produced daggers from under their robes, and he
tightened his grip on the sword, but each man placed the point to his own
breast. “From birth to death,” they intoned in unison, “I serve the Blood.” And
then they plunged the daggers into their own hearts. They folded forward almost
peacefully, heads to the floor as if bowing deeply to their lord.
Rand stared at them in disbelief. Mad, he thought. Maybe I will go mad, but
they already were.
His searching gaze found Perrin leaning by the entrance, bloodied but alive,
his red axe now free of the Seanchan’s body and back in his hand. He looked as
if he might be sick at any moment. The leather of Ingtar’s coat was stained in
more than one place but he still stood and his sword was as red as Perrin’s
axe. Hurin’s face had been nicked, and blood had sheeted down his cheek but a
closer glance revealed that the cut was not that deep. Tomas didn’t seem to
have been touched at all.
“Everyone’s here,” Rand said hoarsely. Relief washed over him. “Everyone’s
alive.”
Ingtar grinned fiercely. “I told them we were no easy meat. They should have
listened.”
All around them the Seanchan lay dead. No man, beast, or woman of their ambush
had survived.
Rand got to his feet. On shaky legs he walked to where Elayne and Min stood,
looking down on the fallen sul’dam. And the damane laying beside her, still
linked to her captor by that silver chain. The sul’dam’s body was blackened as
if from a fire, and even in death her face was twisted in pain. The damane
appeared untouched, but no less dead. Rand’s stomach roiled at the sight.
“Whatever hurt the sul’dam takes, the damane linked to her feels fivefold,”
Elayne was saying. She sounded heartbroken. “That was what they told me. I
knew. But I did it anyway. That poor woman.”
Min still had her arm around Elayne’s shoulders. She caressed her now, trying
to comfort her in her grief. “It’s not your fault, Elayne. The sul’dam brought
her here, put that leash on her, made her try to kill us all. They’re the ones
to blame. Not you, never you.”
Rand didn’t know what to say. “Thank you, Elayne,” he managed at last. “That
beast would have killed me if not for you.” He did not look at the dead women
again. “And the sul’dam would probably have killed us all if you hadn’t been
here.”
Grief warred briefly with concern on Elayne’s face and concern won. “Are you
badly hurt? You’re covered in blood. Sit down and let me find some bandages.”
Rand shook his head. “I’ll be alright. I don’t think any of the cuts were
deep.”
He glanced towards the door, where Tomas was already tying a strip of cloth
around Perrin’s leg, drawing it as tightly as he could. Perrin made little
sound, however painful it might have been.
Ingtar sheathed his sword and made his way back to the Horn, stepping over
Seanchan corpses as he did so. He lifted it reverently from its stand and
cradled it in his arms. “We have what we came for. And those fools never cried
for help, not once. If no alarm is given, we’re done here. We are leaving now,
as fast as we can run, out the way we came and back to the horses. Let’s go!”
As Rand gathered his bow and stumbled towards the door, Perrin caught his eye.
“Rand, these people are crazy. Those servants ... I saw it. Madness.” Rand
could only nod in agreement.
Bloodied, weary, but triumphant, they hastened along the halls of the
Divalaird. They encountered only servants on their way out; on sighting the
armed and bloodied men the servants, whether it be a grey-haired man in white
wool or another nubile girl in a nearly transparent robe, knelt and lowered
their faces to the floor with their arms wrapped around their heads. He was
relieved to see none of them reach for a knife, for their sake as much as
Rand’s and his friends’.
Not long after they reached Elayne’s manufactured entrance shouts rose from far
behind; a woman screamed, and someone began tolling a gong.
Rand sped after the others as fast as he could.
***** To Come Out of the Shadow *****
CHAPTER 65: To Come Out of the Shadow
 
Rand peered around the corner at the approaching Seanchan, then ducked back
into the narrow alley between two stables. There was blood crusted on his
cheek. The cuts he had from Turak burned, but there was nothing to be done for
them now. Distant lightning flashed across the sky again; he felt the rumble of
its plummet through his boots. What in the name of the Light is happening?
“Close?” Ingtar said.
“They turned north, towards the city walls,” said Rand. “There was a woman with
them, sul’dam maybe, but without the dress, and with no damane attached to
her.” Elayne had said that any damane who got too close might be able to sense
the ability to channel in her. She was up ahead with the others. The stable
where they had left their horses was close now. So close.
Ingtar grunted. “I doubt a sul’dam would march to battle without her uniform.
Perhaps it was that prisoner Seta mentioned. The fighting is drawing close now.
You can hear it on the wind. The skirmishing will be done and the real battle
is about to begin. It’s a perfect opportunity to escape.”
Death by slow impalement, Rand recalled. Like her mother before her. As soon as
her father’s army was close enough to see. “Horrible,” he whispered.
He wet his lips with his tongue. Down at the other end of the alley Perrin, Min
and Elayne peering out into the street, ready to make their final dash for the
horses. Ingtar held the Horn of Valere in his hands, and whatever Fain had done
during Rand’s misadventure in the Portal Stone was beyond his power to undo.
They were as close to safe as they could be. Safer than they would be in his
company, once the madness started to take him.
Yes, he thought. This is a good way for it to end.
“I’m going to try and free that prisoner,” Rand said. He was surprised at how
calm his voice sounded. The Shienaran lord gave him a look of pure incredulity.
“Take the Horn back to Fal Dara, Ingtar. Tell my friends that I’ll catch up
when I can ... and if I don’t,” he smiled sadly. “Take care of them for me.”
“You fool!” Ingtar snapped. “We have what we came for. The Horn of Valere. The
hope of salvation. What can one girl count, alongside the Horn, and what it
stands for?”
Rand hefted his weapons. “What does finding the Horn count if I abandon this
Evelin to such a horrible fate? If I did that, the Horn couldn’t save me. The
Creator couldn’t save me. I would damn myself.”
Ingtar stared at him, his face unreadable. “You mean that exactly, don’t you?”
He didn’t, at least not exactly, but he couldn’t tell Ingtar the real reason.
So instead he smiled and said, “Good luck, Ingtar. It’s been an honour riding
with you. Tai’shar Shienar.”
With that Rand sped off towards the walls of Falme, where the Seanchan had led
their prisoner. We could feel Ingtar’s eyes on his back until he rounded a
corner and ran up the cobbled street.
The people of the city had all fled indoors and the empty streets reminded him
of Shadar Logoth. He hoped the Aes Sedai had been able to heal Mat of the
illness he had found there. He hoped Nynaeve was doing well in the White Tower.
It was easy to find Princess Evelin, all he had to do was get a clear look at
the walls. The Seanchan had her atop them, standing near a tall spike of wood
with a taller pulley. Her hands were bound together and a burly man in a long
dark apron, his face covered by a loose leather mask, was tying another rope to
her bindings, one that dangled from the end of the pulley. Three Seanchan
soldiers held her still as the masked man did his work.
A small crowd had gathered in a nearby square to see the grizzly spectacle,
mostly Seanchan from their clothes. Perhaps fifty armoured soldiers stood among
them, looking up.
Rand’s path had brought him near the wall, which loomed three stories high. A
flight of narrow stone steps had been carved into it but he didn’t climb those.
They would leave him too exposed. The houses to his left shielded him from the
view of those gathered in the square. He pulled an arrow from his quiver,
tipped with a curved broadhead meant for larger game. From that angle he was
sure he could hit all three of the men that held the girl prisoner, but he
doubted it would do her much good, the other soldiers would quickly overwhelm
him. He chose three more arrows and set them close to hand. At least I’ll give
her a fighting chance, he told himself. A chance to escape, or if that fails
then to at least die a less hideous death.
“The Horn of Valere must be saved, Rand.”
He whipped his head around at the sound of Ingtar’s voice. The Shienaran stood
not three feet from Rand, his clothes bloodied and the gleaming Horn cradled in
his arms. Despite everything he seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts.
“What are you doing here?” Rand hissed. “You need to go, Ingtar, before the
Seanchan see us.”
“One man could hold fifty here,” Ingtar said. The houses stood close to the
city wall, with barely room for the pair of them to stand side by side between
them. “One man holding fifty at a narrow passage. Not a bad way to die. Songs
have been made about less.”
“Maybe a gleeman will write one for me then, if you tell him. After you go.
Which should be now.” The Seanchan soldiers released their prisoner and the
burly man in the mask began hauling on the rope that held her. With her limbs
freed she kicked at her captors, sending one man stumbling back, but it was a
futile defiance. Her feet left the ground and she spun slowly in the air,
turning her back to Rand and giving him a good look at the ropes between her
wrists. She strained against them, pulling them taut ... it was too perfect a
shot to let pass.
The void came easily. Rand drew fully and sent the broadhead flashing between
Evelin’s outstretched hands. The ropes parted and the princess came crashing
back down to the stone walls of her city. He nocked a second arrow, a narrower
bodkin this time, and sent it through the neck of the nearest Seanchan while
the man was still gaping at the fallen girl. The second soldier ducked and
reached for his sword, shouting something, head swivelling in search of the
archer he now knew was nearby.
“I never knew what he was going to do,” Ingtar was saying softly, as if talking
to himself. He stood at Rand’s side with the Horn cradled under his arm and his
sword out, testing the edge with his thumb. “A pale little man you didn’t seem
to really notice even when you were looking at him. Take him inside Fal Dara, I
was told, inside the fortress. I did not want to, but I had to do it. You
understand? I had to. I never knew what he intended until he shot that arrow. I
still don’t know if it was meant for the Amyrlin, or for you.”
Rand felt a chill, even through the void. He had the shot, and he took it,
knowing before he loosed that his target was dead. While the arrow was in mid-
flight he turned his face to stare at Ingtar. “What are you saying?” he
whispered.
Studying his blade, Ingtar did not seem to hear. “Humankind is being swept away
everywhere. Nations fail and vanish. Darkfriends are everywhere, and none of
these southlanders seem to notice or care. We fight to hold the Borderlands, to
keep them safe in their houses, and every year, despite all we can do, the
Blight advances. And these southlanders think Trollocs are myths, and Myrddraal
a gleeman’s tale.” He frowned and shook his head. “It seemed the only way. We
would be destroyed for nothing, defending people who do not even know, or care.
It seemed logical. Why should we be destroyed for them, when we could make our
own peace? Better the Shadow, I thought, than useless oblivion, like Caralain,
or Hardan, or ... It seemed so logical, then.”
Rand grabbed Ingtar’s lapels. “You aren’t making any sense.” He can’t mean what
he’s saying. He can’t. “Say it plain, whatever you mean. You are talking
crazy!”
For the first time Ingtar looked at Rand. His eyes shone with unshed tears.
“You are a better man than I. Shepherd or lord, a better man. The prophecy
says, ‘Let who sounds me think not of glory, but only salvation.’ It was my
salvation I was thinking of. I would sound the Horn, and lead the heroes of the
Ages against Shayol Ghul. Surely that would have been enough to save me. No man
can walk so long in the Shadow that he cannot come again to the Light. That is
what they say. Surely that would have been enough to wash away what I have
been, and done.”
“Oh, Light, Ingtar.” Rand released his hold on the other man and sagged back
against the house’s wall. He could hear angry shouts from the square around the
corner and the sound of many boots pounding on stone. “I think ... I think
wanting to is enough. I think all you have to do is stop being ... one of
them.” Ingtar flinched as if Rand had said it out loud. Darkfriend.
“Rand, when Verin brought us here with the Portal Stone, I—I lived other lives.
Sometimes I held the Horn, but I never sounded it. I tried to escape what I’d
become, but I never did. Always there was something else required of me, always
something worse than the last, until I was ... You were ready to give it up to
save a stranger. Think not of glory. Oh, Light, help me.”
Up on the wall Evelin had gained her feet and was grappling with the masked
man. She put a boot to the man’s heavy gut and kicked hard against him. He fell
back, his legs hit the ramparts of the city wall and he careened over, falling
from sight with a loud yell. She looked around frantically, saw Rand and Ingtar
in the narrow street, and ran towards them along the wall.
Rand was only partly aware of her. He did not know what to say to Ingtar. It
was as if Nynaeve had told him she had murdered children. Too horrible to be
believed. Too horrible for anyone to admit to unless it was true. Too horrible.
Ingtar spoke again, firmly. “There has to be a price, Rand. There is always a
price. Perhaps I can pay it here.”
“Ingtar, I—”
“It is every man’s right, Rand, to choose when to Sheathe the Sword. Even one
like me.”
Before Rand could say anything, Hurin’s voice sounded from behind. “There you
are! Everyone was worried, Lord Ingtar, Lord Rand. The stables are clear for
now but we’d best be going quickly before those bug-headed Seanchan come back.”
Above, Evelin had reached the top of the stone steps. They slanted down to the
street behind Rand and Ingtar and for as far as he could see to the north there
was no other way up. She had hair of a similar shade to Elayne’s but shorter
and straighter, and now that he got a closer look at her he was surprised at
how big she was; six foot at the least. She hesitated, and looked about to
climb down when Ingtar spoke.
“Keep running, my Lady,” he called. “They will not catch you up there. And you
go too, Rand.” He placed the Horn of Valere in Rand’s arms. “Take the Horn
where it belongs. I always knew the Amyrlin should have given you the charge.
But all I ever wanted was to keep Shienar whole, to keep us from being swept
away and forgotten.” He stepped forward into the middle of the narrow street
and did not look at Rand or Hurin again.
“I know, Ingtar.” Rand drew a deep breath. “The Light shine on you, Lord Ingtar
of House Shinowa, and may you shelter in the palm of the Creator’s hand.” He
touched Ingtar’s shoulder. “The last embrace of the mother welcome you home. My
friend.” Hurin gasped.
“Thank you,” Ingtar said softly. A tension seemed to go out of him. For the
first time since the night of the Trolloc raid on Fal Dara, he stood as he had
when Rand first saw him, confident and relaxed. Content.
Rand turned and found Hurin staring at him, staring at both of them. “It is
time for us to go.”
“But Lord Ingtar—”
“—does what he has to,” Rand said sharply. “But we go.” Hurin nodded, and Rand
trotted after him. Evelin ran along the wall above them, throwing glances back
over her shoulder, but he soon lost sight of her.
Rand could hear a multitude of booted feet enter the street behind. Ingtar’s
voice rose. “For the Light, and Shienar!” The clash of steel joined the roar of
other voices.
He looked back once before he rounded the corner. Ingtar was engaged by three
armoured Seanchan, whose feet were tangled by the bodies of two of their fallen
comrades; three he fought, and behind them milled thirty more, all eager to
lock swords with the lone Shienaran who barred their path. Rand turned his face
away and ran on.
“The Light, and Shinowa!” Ingtar’s shout soared after him, sounding triumphant,
and lightning crashed across the sky in answer.
***** Falme *****
CHAPTER 66: Falme
 
When Bayle arrived at the Divalaird he found it in chaos. As disciplined and
orderly as the Seanchan usually were, it was shocking to see so many of them
milling about. He was not an unfamiliar presence around the High Lord Turak so
the guards usually admitted him without problem, but this time they barely even
glanced at him as he approached, instead staring ahead with transfixed
expressions.
It was worse inside. Servants wept and tore their hair as Bayle stumped past.
What do be wrong? he wondered. Up ahead a covered litter was being carried on
the shoulders of four strong men while dozens of weeping Seanchan crowded
around. The litter seemed to have come from the High Lord’s solar. Bayle walked
to the open doorway on hesitant feet.
“What do be the matter?” he asked a robed servant near the back of the mob.
“The High Lord Turak has been murdered,” the man wailed. “Thieves! Traitors!
This honourless land has spilled the highest Blood.”
“It is terrible,” said a grey-haired woman, weeping openly. “Did you come to
bask once more in the High Lord’s company, Illianer? You must grieve with us,
then, for never again will he enlighten your mind.”
“Tragic,” Bayle said, with a despairing sigh. The Seanchan nodded in assumed
understanding as they walked slowly off behind the litter.
Bayle Domon’s despair had less to do with Turak’s death and more to do with his
own situation. He had been hoping to draw on the High Lord’s favour to secure a
written pass that would let him finally sail from this damnable port. Fortune
prick me! This whole venture do be a disaster. His crew had not been paid in
months and Bayle still worried they would throw him overboard as soon as the
Spray was out of sight of land, even with the girl to distract them. He had
hated having to ask her to do what he had asked her, she seemed a nice young
woman, but he hadn’t been able to think of any other way. Now even that
desperate and distasteful plan had been scuppered by Turak’s death. He supposed
he might raise sail and make a run for the next port while the Seanchan were
distracted by the Falmeran army, but his crew would almost certainly mutiny
before he got that far.
Bayle’s gaze fell on the room Turak had been taken from and though he was not a
squeamish man, his stomach still roiled at the sight. There was blood
everywhere, and the bodies of men and women and even a great grey-skinned beast
littered the once pristine and orderly chamber where it had pleased the High
Lord to discuss antiquities with his reluctant guest.
On the far side of the room the cabinet where Turak kept his prized treasures
was still closed. Bayle’s eyes widened and he shot a look up the hallway, first
left and then right. There was no-one in sight. Thieves, the man had said. He
wondered what they had taken ... and what they had left.
Bayle Domon was no thief. He might occasionally ship goods that some folk would
consider ... questionable, and he avoided customs officers and taxmen as much
as he could, but he was not a man to be found prowling dark alleys or breaking
the windows of decent folk. He liked to think himself a relatively honest man.
But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Turak certainly wouldn’t
be needing his treasures any more.
The captain’s boots squelched on the blood-soaked carpet as he hastened toward
the cabinet. A glance back at the door assured him he was still alone and he
quickly pulled the cabinet doors open. As he had hoped when he saw it safely
shut, whatever the thieves had been looking for it was not one of the antiques.
Bayle hastily began pocketing as much of Turak’s horde as he could. The smooth
disk, half black and half white and divided by a sinuous line, might not have
looked valuable to some traders, but to those who knew better it was worth a
fortune. He took it from its stand and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat.
He took the lightstick too, left from the Age of Legends, or so it was said.
Certainly no-one knew the making of them any longer. Expensive, that, and rarer
than an honest magistrate. It looked like a plain glass rod, thicker than his
thumb and not quite as long as his forearm, but when held in the hand it glowed
as brightly as a lantern. Lightsticks shattered like glass, too; he had nearly
lost Spray in the fire caused by the first he had owned. The small, age-dark
ivory carving of a man holding a sword also disappeared into Bayle’s pocket.
Turak had told him that the fellow he acquired it from claimed if you held it
long enough you started to feel warm. Turak never had, and neither had Bayle
when the High Lord let him hold it, but it was old, and that was enough for
now. His crew were not a particularly educated bunch but they had sailed with
him long enough to know that he could make a tidy profit from selling old
“trinkets” such as these. If he promised them double pay once he could find a
buyer then perhaps he might just make it back to Illian after all.
Bayle hesitated over the red cuendillar bird that Egeanin had taken from him.
It was the only thing in the cabinet that was his by rights, but he left it
among the treasures that were too big to conceal. Anyone who thought to search
for the missing treasures would be less likely to suspect Bayle if his own
“gift” to the High Lord was not among the stolen items.
When he had what he thought he would need, Bayle hastened back towards the
Divalaird’s gate. Light willing he might just get out of this yet.
 
                                     * * *
 
Furyk Karede dismounted to lead his horse up the slopes towards the Captain-
General’s command post. The rest of his grim dozen marching behind him. They
had been sent to these lands by the Empress herself—may she live forever!—to be
the living banner of her favour, and to protect her cousin, the High Lord Turak
Aladon. He was proud to perform the duty assigned him, yet Furyk’s thoughts
were now troubled. The Deathwatch Guard was under Turak’s temporary command,
but their ultimate loyalty, always and ever, was to the Empress; may she live
forever. Was it her will that they obey Turak now? Or should they have stayed
at his side. Turak had sent them to the front, overriding Furyk’s objections.
The High Lord claimed they could better protect him by helping to crush the
enemy army, and perhaps he was right, but Furyk disliked leaving his safety in
the hands of lesser warriors.
He glanced back at his men, each armoured in the blood-red and dark-green—so
dark it was often thought to be black—armour of the Deathwatch. They were the
property of the Empress, every last man, and fiercely proud to be so. Furyk
himself was not the only one among them to bear the heron on his tasselled
sword. Alin, Varlen and Aramas also displayed the famed symbol. Tul and Kardol
would almost certainly be afforded that honour too, if either man ever cared to
contest for it. They never had in all the years he had known them. Such things
were irrelevant in their eyes; serving the Empress was all. May she live
forever.
If his fellow guardsmen were as troubled by Turak’s orders as Furyk was, no
sign showed on their stern faces or in their constantly roving eyes. They were
unlikely to encounter the enemy this close to Miraj’s tent, but the Deathwatch
never relaxed their vigilance. Any trainee who failed to understand that did
not survive long enough to don the armour.
He sent one last look at the Divalaird tower, modest by Seanchan standards but
seemingly famous among the people of this honour-forsaken land, and offered up
a prayer that the High Lord would be safe, then turned his feet towards the
Captain-General’s tent, doing his duty as he saw it.
 
                                     * * *
 
“They do not attempt the hill then?” said Captain-General Miraj, face impassive
as he studied the neat maps on his table.
“The morat’raken report that the enemy attempt to bypass our position while
enduring our archers’ fire. They have taken losses but refuse to engage,” his
man said.
Miraj nodded. “I have no doubt the report is accurate. Our current enemy is not
as foolish as some on this side of the Aryth Ocean. No matter. It was to be
expected.” He fixed the lesser Seanchan officers assembled in the tent with a
stern eye. “Prepare to advance. You will have full damane support but they are
not to be used until I give the signal. Your task will be to force the enemy
into consolidating his forces. These oathbreakers are not used to facing the
damane in battle, but they may scatter if they see their power too soon. I want
to end this quickly and decisively.”
“As you command, Captain-General,” said the vile Bakuun. He was older than
Miraj and taller. Miraj was a very short man in fact, not much taller than Pura
herself. Not that that made her hate him any less.
He waited until the officers had withdrawn—all save the Deathwatch Guard,
around whom all other Seanchan seemed to walk carefully—before turning his
attention to Lisaine. Pura felt the plump, grey-haired woman’s appreciation
through the leash that bound them together.
“Will your current charge be able to join the battle, Lisaine?” he said
quietly.
The sul’dam stroked Pura’s long brown hair, a wave of affection assaulted her
through the a’dam, tainted by the other woman’s disappointment. Pura—no, Ryma!
Her name was Ryma—shuddered, fighting to quash the terrible urge to please the
sul’dam, fighting to suppress the sick sense of shame she felt for failing her.
“Sadly not, Kennar,” said Lisaine, with a sigh of martyred patience. “Pura can
perform many small tasks, and she does them well, but fighting is beyond her at
the moment. I confess I do not understand why. No other damane I have trained
has had such trouble.”
None of those other damane were bound by the Oath Rod never to use the One
Power as a weapon except against Darkfriends or Shadowspawn, or in the last
extreme defence of her life, the life of her Warder, or another Aes Sedai. Ryma
had tried to explain that once. She still flinched to recall the sul’dam’s
response, her hatred and contempt. She was not an Aes Sedai they had told her.
Those vile women were marath’damane, even moreso than the rest, and they would
soon suffer the Empress’ justice. Pura had not been able to move without a
twinge of pain for an entire week after that.
“I’m sure you will find a solution eventually, Lisaine. You always do,” said
Miraj. Her sul’dam smiled brightly in response.
From outside the tent she could hear the distant sounds of battle. Men’s raised
voices carried on the wind along with the screams of the dying and the clash of
steel on steel. She missed Zabac. The first tears she had shed during her
captivity had been for him. The next had been for herself when, starving, she
had finally pressed her forehead to the ground and pleaded with the sul’dam to
feed her, just as they had told her she must and would. Obedience was getting
easier for Ryma, she found herself answering to the new name they had given her
almost as readily as she would her own, and that terrified her more than
anything else in her life ever had.
She frowned. The sounds drifting in from outside seemed closer than they had
been. The black-armoured man at Miraj’s shoulder, Karede she thought his name
was, moved with shocking speed. He and his fellows were already outside forming
a ring around the entry by the time Lisaine had pulled her forwards.
They were atop a rocky hill north of Falme, with the rough waters of the White
Sea to their back and a staked palisade protecting their southern side. When
she glanced that way she saw the battle in full swing, distant figures
struggling to kill each other, but it was the more immediate struggle that
demanded her attention.
The Seanchan lines were unbroken, the command tent should have been safe, but
somehow fifty or so Falmerans had slipped through. Even as she watched they cut
down the few Seanchan who remained to serve the Captain-General’s needs,
clerks, quartermasters, a token guard. When they turned their attention to the
small group gathered outside Miraj’s tent, she knew their purpose. When she
recognised the dark-skinned man who led them, she knew hope for the first time
in months. Lord Jervin had been at Calranell when she had passed through on her
way to learn what, if anything, on Toman Head should concern the White Tower.
If he could just take this collar off me ...
“How did they ...?” Miraj began, then snapped a glance at one of his remaining
adjutants. “Send the signal to begin the bombardment!” The Captain-General
snatched his sword from its scabbard as shouting Falmerans charged towards
them, with hungry swords in their hands.
Fear warred with hope in Ryma. If the Falmerans did not recognise her they
might cut her down as swiftly as they would the Seanchan.
Steel clashed against steel. As the fight took shape around her she began to
think herself safer than she had feared. But that only turned her initial worry
into terror. The Falmerans greatly outnumbered Miraj’s protectors but the
Deathwatch Guard formed a ring of armoured bodies and flashing blades around
the Captain-General and the Falmeran charge shattered against that ring like
glass hurled against a stone wall. Blood flew, bodies fell, warcries turned to
deathcries, until a ring of corpses surrounded them. The remaining Falmerans,
Jervin among them, faltered and stood staring at the red-and-green armoured
men. Not a single one of the bodies before her wore that armour, Karede and his
fellow Deathwatch Guards stood unbloodied, the only sign of their exertion the
loud breaths that came from behind their strange helms.
Hope died in Ryma then. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt tears leak from
their corners as she knelt at the sul’dam’s side. She would never be free, she
would never be safe.
“Ah, that’s interesting,” said Lisaine, sounding pleasantly surprised. Ryma
felt herself fill with saidar’s glory, drawn into her by the sul’dam’s will
rather than her own. She had only a moment to realise the horror of what was
coming before she saw the weaves form. Fire was not her strongest element, but
she could channel enough of it for Lisaine’s purpose.
She watched helpless as a terrible, beautiful flower of pure heat bloomed in
the midst of those few remaining Falmerans. Lord Jervin and his men barely had
time to scream before the flames consumed them. Ryma’s stomach roiled at the
sight and she lowered her gaze to the rocky dirt.
“There you see?” said Lisaine delightedly as she pet her damane’s hair. “You
can do it, just as I said. Pura is a good damane.” Pura sighed in despair.
 
                                     * * *
 
People were dying all around her and her every instinct cried out against it,
filling her with fury. Nynaeve had no difficulty grasping saidar now; as filled
with the Power as she was she felt almost as though she too was on fire.
Plenty of others had more to worry about that simply feeling that strange
phantom burning, they were busy burning in truth. She saved as many as she
could but the Seanchan had so many damane, too many for one woman to defeat.
For every lightning bolt she shielded against, every fireball she extinguished,
a dozen more fell among the Falmeran troops, each leaving a pile of twisted
corpses in its wake and a bruise on Nynaeve’s heart.
She was strong with the One Power, all the Aes Sedai had agreed on that. But
she was outnumbered and many of the channelers among the Seanchan army were
pretty strong too. It was hard to tell, considering the great distance between
them, but she thought one woman up there might even be close to matching
Nynaeve’s strength.
Nynaeve stood well back from the frontlines, she did not need to risk getting
that close to do what she was doing, but she had little time to spare for the
men and woman around her, shouting reports at Syoman and rushing off to deliver
his orders to whoever they were meant for. Nynaeve’s focus was completely on
saving as many lives as she could.
She was only peripherally aware of the grim silence that soon grew around her.
“But what about the King?” said Alix. “Should we not ...”
“Do as I command,” growled Syoman.
 
                                     * * *
 
Alasdair had never seen his father fight so fiercely before. He knew that many
Falmerans considered Kaelan Ostarim a bit of a fop, vain and foolish. But they
were wrong. His father trained extensively with the sword and was as fit as
most men half his age. Alasdair had not neglected his own training either; he
very much wanted to make his father proud.
He yanked his sword free of the Seanchan’s body and let the man fall. He was
the first to have won through to Alasdair’s position. His Falmerans had been
holding their line well until the Seanchan’s chained Aes Sedai began attacking.
Now ...
His father fought at the side of his personal guard, his blade whirling and
blood almost turning his gilded armour red. Alasdair hoped none of that blood
was his.
Nearer he could see old Lord Wulffe, the Hero of Harper’s Ford, waving his
bloodied axe above his head as he urged his armsmen on. He hadn’t been supposed
to be fighting so close to the front, but when he saw his fellow countrymen
hard-pressed Wulffe had been quick to join the fray. Alasdair wasn’t certain he
would have survived that last Seanchan push if not for the lord’s arrival.
Nearer still was a blackened ruin he would not have known was the Elstan’s man,
Gilmor, if he had not seen the lightning strike him.
Another ball of fire struck among the Falmerans with a roar that threatened to
deafen Alasdair. Even at a distance he felt a wave of heat wash over him. The
lucky soldiers died instantly, the others staggered briefly about the field,
flailing their arms about them and screaming in pain before they too succumbed
to the flames.
The archers he had been charged with defending loosed again, but though their
arrows were felling many among the enemy ranks they were paltry weapons in
comparison to what the Seanchan unleashed upon them.
“Where is our cavalry?” he shouted between gasping breaths. Syoman should have
struck the Seanchan flanks by now. Alasdair wasn’t sure how much longer they
could wait.
“I don’t see them, my prince,” a girl’s voice answered. It took him a moment to
recognise her as the scout he had met earlier in the day. “General Surtir isn’t
on the hill anymore though. He must be on his way.” She loosed another arrow
into the thick of the Seanchan horde.
Alasdair’s attention was suddenly elsewhere. Syoman wasn’t supposed to ride
with the flankers in person. Only a foolish general fought on the front lines
and Syoman was no fool. Why would he leave his command post? Where would he go?
The chaos of battle and the terrible proximity of death had long since set
Alasdair’s heart to pounding constantly but now a new fear trickled its way
down his spine.
“He’s not coming,” Alasdair whispered. “He left us.”
As if to confirm his fears a bolt of lightning struck the Falmeran ranks.
Wulffe had been shouting encouragement to his men when he was cut off mid-
sentence and thrown from his feet. Many of his armsmen were killed instantly
and many more lay stunned. The Seanchan they had been fighting surged forward,
their tasselled spears stabbing the dead and the living with equal dispassion.
Wulffe struggled to regain his feet but only made it as far as one knee before
the enemy and their spears were upon him. They sent the old bear back to the
ground and this time he did not rise again.
Alasdair gritted his teeth. “We need to ...” To what? How could they defeat an
enemy like this?
There came a loud trumpeting sound, seemingly far too musical to be part of
this horror. He looked towards it and saw the strangest charge imaginable. Half
a dozen grey-skinned beasts, each with two white tusks as long as any man was
tall, thundered across the battlefield. They were huge and powerful things,
almost as tall as the walls of Falme, so close and yet so far. Seanchan rode on
the backs of the monsters and anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the path of
their charge was crushed under their heavy feet. There were snake-like things
attached to the place where their noses should be and it was from those that
the sound blew. He watched in horror as they cascaded towards his father’s
position.
“Father run!” he shouted, but he was too far away to be heard, too far away to
do anything but watch in pained horror as the beasts trampled the King’s elite
guards underfoot like so many roaches, and one sent his father careening
through the air with one sweep of its huge tusks.
Kaelan came crashing to the ground and lay still. His back was twisted in a
painful manner but he did not cry out or writhe in agony. He just lay there.
“No,” breathed Alasdair.
The sounds of battle washed over him. The Seanchan had finished butchering Lord
Wulffe’s men and were upon Alasdair’s and the archers behind them now. Feeling
numb, he raised his sword to fight. It was hopeless, he knew that now. Perhaps
it had always been hopeless. If the Seanchan had killed his sister like they
had killed his parents then he was the last member of House Denagar. And there
was nothing left except to die in a way that befit that.
As he ran to meet the enemy he saw one of them slash at the little scout. The
sword sheared her bow in two and reached the flesh behind, slashing across at
neck height and leaving a red ribbon in its wake. She screamed and fell. He
called out her name as he charged but in his heart he knew she was dead. They
all were.
 
                                     * * *
 
Kennar did not insult Karede and his men by thanking them for doing their duty
so exceptionally, but he did bow in respect. He was still surprised that the
enemy had managed to penetrate their lines like that, unseen even by the
morat’raken. Kennar had been a flyer himself before being raised to the Blood
and promoted to general and he had utter faith in his fellow airborne scouts.
Perhaps too much faith. But then, he himself had examined the cliffs to his
north and deemed them unscalable, and he could think of no other approach the
Falmerans could have used.
He was still excited from the attack and preferred to remain outside his
command tent. The risk of assassination was small anyway, only a truly
exceptional archer could hit him and even then they would require a great deal
of luck on their side.
Down below, the battle was going in their favour. That was only as it should
be, when the Empire faced oathbreaking rabble like these. His officers had
followed the plan well, and manoeuvred the enemy into consolidating his forces,
though Kennar’s hastily given order for the damane to begin their attack had
given the opposing general time to try and minimise his losses. The sounds of
thunder, explosions and screaming men were muted this far up. Kennar had always
thought that strange, but welcomed it too; it let him think clearly. His sharp
eyes saw part of the Falmeran army begin to disperse. Their general was rightly
thinking that they would take fewer casualties from each blow the damane struck
if they were deployed in looser formations. Kennar could respect the man’s
competence, but it would do him no good in the end; he was simply delaying the
inevitable. The Ever Victorious Army fought for the Empress—may she live
forever—and while they had known setbacks during the long centuries of the
Consolidation they had never known defeat. Light willing they never would.
Kennar watched his forces march to victory until a fog rose up and hid them
from view. Strange, he thought. It’s a bit late in the day for fog ...
***** The Grave Is No Bar to My Call *****
CHAPTER 67: The Grave Is No Bar to My Call
 
The others were already mounted by the time Rand and Hurin reached them. Elayne
and Min having acquired horses of their own from somewhere.
“I wish there was time to find Lioness and Wildrose,” Elayne was saying sadly.
Before Min could respond, Perrin caught sight of Rand. “Where’s Ingtar?” he
shouted. “What’s going on?”
“He’s dying,” Rand said harshly as he swung onto Red’s back. The girls gasped
in unison.
“Then we have to help him,” Perrin said. “Min and Elayne can take the Horn to—”
“He is doing it so we can all get away,” Rand said. For that, too. “We will all
take the Horn to Verin, and then you can help her take it wherever she says it
belongs.”
“What do you mean?” Perrin asked. Rand dug his heels into the bay’s flanks, and
Red leaped away toward the gates of Falme and the hills beyond. The guards
posted on the gate did not try to stop Rand from leaving, though they frowned
suspiciously at his dishevelled state. Their job today was to watch for anyone
trying to get in and if necessary to bar the gates, not to prevent anyone from
leaving.
Rand whipped Red with his reins, then lay against the stallion’s neck as the
bay laid out in a dead run, mane and tail streaming. He had thrust his hand
through the great loop in the Horn’s main tube and it now bounced uncomfortably
against his wrist. He wished he did not feel as if he were running away from
what he was supposed to do. Ingtar, a Darkfriend. I don’t care. He was still my
friend. The bay’s gallop could not take him away from his own thoughts. Death
is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain. So many duties. The
Horn. Fain. Taintedsaidinand what to do about it. Why can’t there just be one
at a time? I have to take care of all of them.
He reined in so suddenly that Red slid to a halt, sitting back on his haunches.
They were in a scanty copse of bare-branched trees atop one of the hills
overlooking Falme. The others galloped up behind him.
“What do you mean?” Perrin demanded. “We can help Verin take the Horn where
it’s supposed to go? Where are you going to be?”
“I ... don’t know ...” He felt strange, like something was pulling him, tugging
at his coat insistently. “Just take the Horn to Verin.” So many threads, in so
much danger. So many duties. “You do not need me.”
“Are you well, Rand?” asked Elayne. The lightning was no longer distant. It was
inside him.
“None of us are,” said Tomas grimly. The Warder was looking down the eastern
slope of their hill, from where a great clamour rose. Rose? It had always been
there. Why didn’t I notice it?
“They’re in trouble,” Rand muttered. There was an odd feeling in his head, as
if pieces of his life were in danger. Elayne was one piece, one thread of the
cord that made his life, Min was another, Perrin too, and there were more, some
near, some far, and he could feel them threatened. If any of those threads was
destroyed, his life would never be complete, the way it was meant to be. He did
not understand it, but the feeling was sure and certain.
Someone put a hand on his forearm and squeezed it gently. Words were spoken but
Rand could not hear them. He jerked in his saddle, instinctually trying to
resist whatever it was that held him. The Horn bounced against him irritatingly
so he pulled it from his wrist and shoved it into the arms of the nearest
person.
There was a squawk; there were creatures in the sky but they had not made the
noise. Flying creatures. That felt right somehow, familiar.
“We can’t go back,” Elayne was saying. “None of us can, not after what happened
in the Divalaird. And I would sooner die than be recaptured by the sul’dam.”
“Either side could kill us,” Hurin said, “even if they never see the Horn. If
they do ...”
Rand shook his head. Threads. Duties. He felt as if he were about to explode
like a firework. Light, what’s happening to me?
“If we could just make contact with the Falmerans ... if we could tell them who
we are ...”
Who we are. Who are we? An answer came to Rand, but he shoved it away before it
had a chance to form completely.
He forced his mind into order and for the first time got a good look at the
fields around him. They were black with soldiers, Seanchan and Falmeran both.
Tens of thousands of them rank on rank, with troops of cavalry riding scaled
beasts as well as armoured men on horses, colourful gonfalons marking the
officers. They clashed and struggled in what looked to Rand like utter chaos.
Grolm dotted the ranks of Seanchan, and other strange creatures, almost but not
quite like monstrous birds and lizards, and great things like nothing he could
describe, with grey, wrinkled skin and huge tusks. At intervals along the lines
stood sul’dam and damane by the score. The sul’dam gestured repeatedly towards
the army that opposed them and men died. Just like that they died, rent by
fire, a dozen at a time. Two flying beasts, with leathery wings sixty feet from
tip to tip, soared high overhead, keeping well away from where bright bolts of
lightning lanced down to strike the beleaguered Falmerans again and again.
Bodies littered the field and only perhaps one in five wore the distinctive
armour of the Seanchan.
“I don’t see any way around all that,” Perrin muttered. “Or any way through.”
“If the sul’dam see us and think us part of the enemy army ...” Elayne bit her
lip. “I don’t think I would be able to block them all, but I shall try.”
I have to go forward. I have to. Rand found himself staring at the Horn of
Valere. Suddenly they all were, their heads turning in unison. The curled,
golden Horn hung from the pommel of Min’s horse, the focus of every eye.
“It has to be there at the Last Battle,” Min said, licking her lips nervously.
“Nothing says it can’t be used before then. Nothing that I know of at least.”
She lifted the Horn free and looked at them anxiously. “Nothing says it can’t.”
No-one else said anything. Rand did not think he could speak; his own thoughts
were too urgent to allow room for speech. Have to go forward. Have to go
forward. The longer he looked at the Horn, the more urgent his thoughts became.
Have to. Have to.
Min’s hands shook as she raised the Horn of Valere to her lips. Elayne’s eyes
went very wide.
It was a clear note, golden as the Horn was golden, a sound so sweet he wanted
to laugh, so mournful he wanted to cry. It seemed to come from every direction
at once. The trees around them seemed to resonate with it, and the ground under
their feet, the sky overhead. That one long sound encompassed everything. Rand
thoughts burst back into focus, he became himself again and not the hundreds of
jittering impulses that he had been. What in the Light was that?
He had no time to try and form an answer, for out of nowhere, a fog began to
rise. First thin wisps hanging in the air, then thicker billows, and thicker,
until it blanketed the land like clouds.
Rand could not see the battle around them any longer. Min had lowered the Horn,
eyes wide with awe, but the sound of it still rang in Rand’s ears. The fog hid
everything in rolling waves as white as the finest bleached wool, yet Rand
could see. He could see, but it was mad. Falme floated somewhere beneath him,
its landward border black with the Seanchan ranks. Falme hung over his head.
There Falmerans charged and died as the earth opened in fire beneath their
horses’ hooves. There men ran about the decks of tall, square ships in the
harbour, and on one small ship beat for the sea. He clutched his head with both
hands. The trees were hidden, but he could still see each of the others
clearly. Hurin anxious. Tomas, his composure cracked and fear in his eyes.
Perrin looking as if he knew this was meant to be. Elayne’s mouth hung open and
she stared about excitedly, while Min looked nervous enough to faint. The fog
roiled up all around them.
Hurin gasped. “Lord Rand!” There was no need for him to point.
Down the billowing fog, as if it were the side of a mountain, they came. At
first the dense mists hid more than their vague shapes, but slowly they came
closer, and it was Rand’s turn to gasp. He knew them. Men, not all in armour,
and women. Their clothes and their weapons came from every Age, but he knew
them all.
Rogosh Eagle-eye, a fatherly looking man with white hair and eyes so sharp as
to make his name merely a hint. Gaidal Cain, a swarthy man with the hilts of
his two swords sticking above his broad shoulders. Golden-haired Birgitte, with
her gleaming silver bow and quiver bristling with silver arrows. Bryce of
Coremanda, from whom no Darkfriend could hide, his face shadowed by his dark
cowl. Etsio of Shiota, who had fought a hundred duels and loved a hundred
women. Kent the Struggler, one-armed and huge. Gabrielle the Magnificent, Alan
the Quick. More. He knew their faces, knew their names. But he heard a hundred
names when he looked at each face, some so different he did not recognize them
as names at all, though he knew they were. Michael instead of Mikel. Patrick
instead of Paedrig. Oscar instead of Otarin. Ming instead of Ling.
He knew the man who strode at their head, too. Tall and hook-nosed, with dark,
deep-set eyes, his great sword Justice at his side. Artur Hawkwing. The High
King.
Hawkwing had warred against the White Tower in life, but several Aes Sedai
walked beside him in death, seemingly untroubled by the ancient conflict. The
tall, dark-skinned woman, her chainmail so silvered it was almost white, could
only be Rashima the Soldier Amyrlin, who had commanded Tar Valon’s armies
during the Trolloc Wars. Slight and gracious Mabriam en Shereed, founder of the
Pact of the Ten Nations glided along beside her. The great healer Azra was with
them. And amidst the crowd he spotted another, a white-haired woman in a plain
grey robe. A name drifted into his mind. Elisane.
Min gaped at them as they came to stand before her. They all gaped in fact;
even the Warder’s usual stolidity had been shattered. Hurin’s eyes bulged
almost out of his head.
“Is this ...? Is this all of you?” Min said in a quavering voice. They were
little more than a hundred, Rand saw, and realized that somehow he had known
that they would be.
“It takes more than bravery to bind a man to the Horn.” Artur Hawkwing’s voice
was deep and carrying, a voice used to giving commands.
“Or a woman,” Birgitte said sharply.
“Or a woman,” Hawkwing agreed. “Only a few are bound to the Wheel, spun out
again and again to work the will of the Wheel in the Pattern of the Ages. You
could tell her, Lews Therin, could you but remember when you wore flesh.” He
was looking at Rand.
Rand shook his head fiercely, he heard gasps and could feel his friends’ eyes
on him but did not dare glance their way. “That’s not my name,” he gritted.
“Names are fleeting,” said fair Caira Rand, who had forged Basharande out of
the ruins of Jaramide. Rand had sometimes wondered if his mother had named him
after her. “Our faces, our voices, our bodies, our genders. All change again
and again over the infinite turnings of the Wheel. But our souls remain, and it
is they that define us most.” She smiled prettily. “Old friend.”
“No,” he whispered. “No.” Amidst the gathered Heroes there were people he had
never heard tell of, people wearing clothes that were beyond strange and
carrying weapons he had no name for. Some didn’t even look human, like the
slender, white-haired man whose skin was as dark as ebony and whose eyes glowed
with a fierce red light. A vague, unwelcome awareness grew in him when he
looked their way. The dark-haired woman with the strong, unyielding face
carried what looked like a crossbow, only without the bow; she had been called
Ellen once, Susan other times. Nate. There was a man covered completely in
armour, red armour that glowed unnaturally. And another all in green who would
have towered over any but an Ogier. He knew them. “No.” The man in the blue
uniform with the lived-in face had commanded ships before and would command
them again. A solemn-looking fellow wore a long black coat and had an odd, dark
little device perched on the bridge of his nose, covering his eyes completely,
seemingly blinding him. Names drifted across Rand’s mind again. Motoko. Jay.
“No.”
Abruptly, a winged giant descended from the sky to alight behind the gathered
Heroes. It was a giant made of metal and bristled with unknowable weapons. Rand
gave a start at the sight and in the space between two beats of his pounding
heart the giant was gone. In its place stood a slight young man with wild black
hair and blue eyes. “Sorry. I suppose I should have chosen something more
fitting to the current Age.”
“You should know better, Hunter,” said a deep-chested man in an unadorned
yellow shirt and dark breeches. “It’s almost a first contact scenario.”
“Should I be worried you are going to start trying to hump the locals then?”
Groused an eccentric-looking man with a little ribbon tied at the neck of his
shirt. The Heroes laughed familiarly.
Rand shook his head in denial as he struggled to make sense of what was
happening. I’m not what, who, they called me. I can’t be, I won’t be! Please,
Light, not that. Not ... the Kinslayer. He swallowed loudly and tried to recall
why they had summoned these wraiths. If he could make them go away before they
said more then perhaps his friends would forget what had already been said.
“Invaders have come,” Rand said, more loudly than was needed. “Men who call
themselves Seanchan, who use chained Aes Sedai in battle. They are slaughtering
the Falmerans and soon they will turn on us too. They must be driven back into
the sea.”
“War is sadly inevitable. But so is peace,” said Shona, the Virgin of Edirc.
“And while some fates repeat themselves far too often, it is not always the
same, Lews Therin.” Her eyes were kind, and knew too much.
“My name is Rand al’Thor,” he snapped. “You have to hurry. There isn’t much
time.”
“Time?” Birgitte said, smiling as she tested her bowstring. “We have all of
time.” Gaidal Cain drew a sword in either hand. Hernd the Striker took a hammer
in one huge fist and a long spike in the other. The great Ogier builder, Brent
son of Mart son of Wint, took up his long-handled axe. All along the small band
of heroes there was an unsheathing of swords, an unlimbering of bows, a hefting
of spears and axes. Even those like Paedrig and Blaes, who carried no weapons,
had an air of readiness to them.
Rand watched the High King warily. “The invaders might have a familiar banner.
A flying hawk with lighting clutched in its talons ...”
Hawkwing looked unconcerned by the prospect of battling his descendants. “That
was one life among hundreds of thousands. You overestimate its relevance.”
“We are all each other’s mothers,” explained Queen Toph the Thrice-Great. “And
we are all each other’s daughters. What value has blood when you accept that
the body is transient?”
“There is no child in all this world who is not your son or daughter,” added
Zheba the Just. “The belief that it is otherwise, that a few of our children
should be favoured above all others, is a product of the animal instincts
inherent in the flesh we inhabit while mortal. Be not its slave.”
Justice shone like a mirror in Artur Hawkwing’s gauntleted fist. “I have fought
by your side times beyond number, Lews Therin, and faced you on the field of
battle as many more. The Wheel spins us out for its purposes, not ours, to
serve the Pattern. I know you, even if you do not know yourself. We will drive
these invaders out for you.” He made as if to turn away then stopped, frowning.
“Something is wrong here. Something holds me.” Suddenly he turned his sharp-
eyed gaze on Rand. “You are here. Have you the banner?” A murmur ran through
those behind him.
Rand groaned. “Yes,” he said as he undid the strap of his saddlebags. He pulled
out the Dragon’s banner. It filled his hands and hung almost to his stallion’s
knees. The murmur among the heroes rose.
“The Pattern weaves itself around our necks like halters,” Artur Hawkwing said.
“You are here. The banner is here. The weave of this moment is set. We have
come to the call of the Horn, but we must follow the banner ... of the Dragon
Reborn.”
He had said it, said the damning words and now Rand had to look. Hurin made a
faint sound as if his throat had seized. Elayne had a hand clapped over her
mouth and was staring at Rand with eyes as big as teacups.
“Is that what it all meant?” Min whispered. She licked her lips and studied
Rand as though seeing him for the first time.
“Burn me,” Tomas breathed. The Warder who had stood unflinching while
outnumbered by Seanchan soldiers now backed away from Rand in horror.
The Dragon Reborn. The Kinslayer. The Breaker of Worlds. It was not every day
you learned you were the greatest monster in history ... and prophesised to
repeat your past crimes. Rand slumped in his saddle as grief washed over him.
Perrin had been staring at the yellow-eyed man amongst the Heroes, a white-
haired fellow with two long swords strapped to his back. Another wolfbrother
perhaps, though Perrin had claimed that those who could do as he now did had
not existed in this world for as long as anyone could remember. But when
Hawkwing finished speaking, Perrin hesitated only an instant before swinging
down off his horse and striding into the mist.
Elayne spoke into the fraught silence. “Your Grace,” she said with frayed
poise. “You said you must follow the ... the Dragon,” her cheeks coloured when
she faltered, though she forged on. “But what of the one who sounds the Horn?
Are you not theirs to command? I was taught that if a Darkfriend were to find
it the Heroes would ride for the Shadow.”
“Then you were taught by fools,” declared Amerasu proudly from amidst her
burning halo.
Min looked more relieved than dismayed at the fiery figure’s words. There came
a chopping sound from the mist around them.
Mabriam took only an instant to study Elayne, yet Rand felt that instant was
enough for her to know her completely. “You again. Try not to be too selfless
this time dear. Some deals, no matter how carefully arranged, must simply be
walked away from.” Elayne gave a squeak and stared back at her open-mouthed.
The amber-skinned little woman smiled. “No. But just because you are not bound
to the Wheel as we are does not mean we have not met before. That is another
thing our stubborn young friend here would know, were he not now mortal. Is it
in the White Tower that you heard these defamatory claims?” Elayne nodded
wordlessly. “Understand then that they did not lie to you. That belief was
common even during my most recent incarnation, and the Oath Rod only prevents
one from knowingly speaking an untrue word. The Aes Sedai of this time may
believe we can be controlled by this fine instrument, but they are quite
mistaken. It but opens the door, that we might touch the mortal word again for
a time.”
“I see,” Elayne said faintly.
By then Perrin had returned, carrying a straight length of sapling shorn of its
branches. “Give the banner to me, Rand,” he said gravely. “If they need it ...
Give it to me.”
Rand looked back at him despairingly. He wanted to heel his horse and ride
away, to pretend that none of what they claimed was true. He had called the
Amyrlin Seat a liar to her face when she named him the Dragon Reborn, but how
was he to call the Heroes of legend liars too?
With a long, defeated sigh, Rand passed the Dragon’s banner into Perrin’s
hands. The wolfbrother promptly tied it to the pole he had fashioned. When
Perrin remounted, pole in hand, a current of air seemed to ripple the pale
length of the banner, so the serpentine Dragon appeared to move, alive. The
wind did not touch the heavy fog, only the banner.
Rand slid Tam’s blade from its scabbard. “The rest of you stay here,” he said
quietly. “When it’s over ... You will be safe, here.”
“I think we’ll be safer staying close to this lot actually,” said Min in a tone
of exaggerated patience. She eyed Rand a bit warily before adding, “Stupid
sheepherder,” under her breath.
“I would not miss this for anything,” said Elayne firmly.
Hurin drew his short sword, holding it as if it might actually be of some use
from horseback. “Begging your pardon, Lord Rand, but I think not. I don’t
understand the tenth part of what I’ve heard ... or what I’m seeing”—his voice
dropped to a mutter before picking up again—“but I’ve come this far, and I
think I’ll go the rest of the way.”
Artur Hawkwing clapped the sniffer on the shoulder. “Sometimes the Wheel adds
to our number, friend. Perhaps you will find yourself among us, one day.” Hurin
sat up as if he had been offered a crown. Hawkwing bowed formally from his
saddle to Rand. “With your permission ... Lord Rand. Trumpeter, will you give
us music on the Horn? Fitting that the Horn of Valere should sing us into
battle. Bannerman, will you advance?”
Min sounded the Horn again, long and high—the mists rang with it—and Perrin
heeled his horse forward. Rand rode between them.
Where before the Heroes had walked, now in the blink of an eye they were all
mounted on spectral horses, each alike to the next, glowing with a strange blue
light. The metal giant reappeared and the Hunter hopped onto it and then
disappeared into it before together they rose into the sky. Weapons appeared in
the hands of those who had had none as though conjured by will alone.
He could see nothing but thick billows of white, but somehow he could still see
what he had before, too. Falme, and the harbour, and the Seanchan host, and the
dying Falmerans, all of it beneath him, all of it hanging above, all of it just
as it had been. It seemed as if no time at all had passed since the Horn was
first blown, as though time had paused while the Heroes answered the call and
now resumed counting.
The wild cries Min wrung from the Horn echoed in the fog along with the
drumming of hooves as the horses picked up speed. Rand charged into the mists,
wondering if he knew where he was headed. The clouds thickened, hiding the far
ends of the rank of Heroes galloping to either side of him, obscuring more and
more, till he could see only Min and Elayne at his left hand, and Perrin and
Hurin on his right clearly. Min sounded the Horn, and laughed wildly between
each blow. Elayne’s head swivelled excitedly as she tried to see as much as
possible. Hurin crouched low in his saddle, wide-eyed, urging his horse on.
Perrin, his yellow eyes glowing, had the Dragon’s banner streaming behind him.
Then they were gone, too, and Rand rode on alone, as it seemed.
In a way, he could still see them, but now it was the way he could see Falme,
and the Seanchan. He could not tell where they were, or where he was. He
tightened his grip on his sword, peered into the mists ahead. He charged alone
through the fog, and somehow he knew that was how it was meant to be.
Suddenly Ba’alzamon was before him in the mists, throwing his arms wide.
Red reared wildly, hurling Rand from his saddle. Rand clung to his sword
desperately as he soared. It was not a hard landing. In fact, he thought with a
sense of wonder that it was very much like landing on ... nothing at all. One
instant he was sailing through the mists, and the next he was not.
When he climbed to his feet, his horse was gone, but Ba’alzamon was still
there, striding toward him with a long, black-bladed sword in his hands. They
were alone, only they and the rolling fog. Behind Ba’alzamon was shadow. The
mist was not dark behind him; this blackness excluded the white fog.
Rand was aware of the other things, too. Artur Hawkwing and the other Heroes
meeting the Seanchan in dense fog. Perrin, with the banner, swinging his axe
more to fend off those who tried to reach him than harm them. Min, still
blowing wild notes on the Horn of Valere. Elayne with lightning in her hands
and joy in her heart. Hurin down from his saddle, fighting with short sword and
sword-breaker in the way he knew. It seemed as if the Seanchan numbers would
overwhelm them in one rush, yet it was the dark-armoured Seanchan who fell
back.
Rand went forward to meet Ba’alzamon. Reluctantly, he assumed the void, reached
for the True Source, was filled with the One Power. There was no other way.
Perhaps he had no chance against the Forsaken, but whatever chance he did have
lay in the Power. It soaked into his limbs, seemed to suffuse everything about
him, his clothes, his sword. He felt as if he should be glowing like the sun.
It thrilled him; it made him want to vomit.
“Get out of my way,” he grated. “I am not here for you!”
“Ah, but you are fool! Can you not feel it pulling upon you, just as it pulls
upon me, drawing me here?” Ba’alzamon laughed loudly, bitterly, his face
twisted in madness. “You are no more than a puppet on its strings, no more than
a sword in his master’s hands! There is no escaping it, not when the very
reality in which we live makes up our prison. Not unless you serve me.”
“Never!” Rand snarled. He struck at Ba’alzamon, but the black sword turned his
blade in a shower of sparks. “I will never serve the Shadow!”
“Fool! Did those other fools you summoned not tell you who you are?”
Even floating in emptiness, Rand felt a chill. Would they have lied? I don’t
want to be the Dragon Reborn. He firmed his grip on his sword. Lightning of
Three Prongs, but Ba’alzamon beat every cut aside, sneering at the steel that
menaced his flesh as though it were no more than an irritating fly; sparks flew
as from a blacksmith’s forge and hammer.
“You pitiful wretch. You have sounded the Horn of Valere. You are linked to it,
now. So long as you live it will be no more than a trumpet to anyone else. Do
you think the worms of the White Tower will ever release you, now? They will
put chains around your neck so heavy that you will never be able to cut them.”
Rand was so surprised he felt it inside the void. He doesn’t know everything.
He doesn’t know! He was sure it must show on his face. To cover it, he rushed
at Ba’alzamon. Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose at least forced the Forsaken to
cease his ranting long enough to push the thrust away from his face. So he
thrust again from The Moon on the Water. He can never know it was Min. No-one
can ever know. She would be a target if they did. Rand would sooner die than
let anyone hurt her. He slashed at Ba’alzamon with The Swallow Takes Flight,
lightning arching between their swords, then thrust again, driving the Forsaken
back. Coruscating glitter showered the fog.
At the edge of his awareness, Rand saw the Seanchan falling back in the streets
of Falme fighting desperately. Damane tore the earth with the One Power, but it
could not harm the Heroes of the Horn.
“Will you remain a slug beneath a rock, ignorant of all that happens around
you?” Ba’alzamon snarled. The darkness behind him boiled and stirred. “You walk
in your own footprints, slave to a path that ends in your death and
degradation. I alone can free you! You kill yourself while we stand here. The
Power rages in you. It burns you. It is killing you! I alone in all the world
can teach you how to control it. Serve me, and live. Serve me, and die!”
“Never!” He launched himself at Ba’alzamon again, crouching low and thrusting
high, The Dove Takes Flight. A similar move had felled Turak against all
conventional logic but this time the risk did not pay off. Roaring in anger
Ba’alzamon charged at Rand and Rand scrambled back, slipping into The Falling
Leaf as he did so, the wavering movements parrying the Forsaken’s striking
black blade.
Now it was he who was driven back. Dimly, he saw the Seanchan rally by the
shattered gates of the city, locking their shields and bracing against the
Heroes’ attack behind a wall of spears. He redoubled his efforts, striking
downwards with The Kingfisher Takes a Silverback, breaking Ba’alzamon’s charge.
The Seanchan gave way to another charge, Artur Hawkwing and Perrin side by side
in the van. Bundling Straw proved a mistake; Ba’alzamon caught his blow in a
fountain like crimson fireflies, and he had to leap away before the black sword
split his head; the wind of the blow ruffled his hair. The Seanchan surged
forward.
“I do not want to kill you fool!” snarled the Forsaken. “Satisfying as it would
be, it would not end this farce. You would simply be reborn to do it all over
again, as you have been reborn now. Reborn to kill them again, Kinslayer! Only
I can stop it. Serve me!”
Ba’alzamon drew back and Rand rained overhand blows against his blade; Striking
the Spark lived up to its name as sparks fell like hail from their clashing
swords. Ba’alzamon hopped backwards, and the Seanchan were driven back to the
cobblestone streets, many stumbling as they ran, even their rigid discipline
crumbling before the attacking ghosts of legendary Heroes.
Rand wanted to howl aloud. Suddenly he knew that the two battles were linked.
When he advanced, the Heroes called by the Horn drove the Seanchan back; when
he fell back, the Seanchan rose up.
“They will not save you,” Ba’alzamon said. “Those who might save you will be
carried far across the Aryth Ocean. If ever you see them again, they will be
collared slaves, and they will destroy you for their new masters.”
Elayne. I can’t let them do that to her.
Ba’alzamon’s voice rode over his thoughts. “You have only one salvation, Rand
al’Thor. Lews Therin Kinslayer. I am your only salvation. Serve me, and I will
give you that which you most desire. Resist, and I will destroy you as I have
so often before. But this time I will destroy you to your very soul, destroy
you utterly and forever in the hope that whichever of these other fools takes
up your role will be more inclined to see wisdom!”
You lose again, Lews Therin. The thought was beyond the void, yet it took an
effort to ignore it, an effort not to think of all the lives where he had heard
it. He shifted his sword, and Ba’alzamon braced for his attack. Rand was one
with the sword. He could feel every particle of it, tiny bits a thousand times
too small to be seen with the eye. And he could feel the Power that suffused
him running into the sword, as well, threading through the intricate matrices
wrought by Aes Sedai during the War of Power. It was another voice he heard
then. Lan’s voice. There will come a time when you want something more than you
want life. Ingtar’s voice. It is every man’s right to choose when to Sheathe
the Sword. The picture formed of Elayne, collared, living her life as a damane.
Threads of my life in danger. Before he knew it, he had taken the first
position of Heron Wading in the Rushes, balanced on one foot, sword raised
high, open and defenceless. Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than
a mountain.
Ba’alzamon stared at him. “Why are you grinning like an idiot, fool? Do you not
know I can destroy you utterly?”
Rand felt a calmness beyond that of the void. “I will never serve you,
Ishamael. In a thousand lives, I never have. I know that. I’m sure of it.
Whatever it is you hunger for, you will never find it. Come. It is time to
die.”
The ancient madman’s impossibly black eyes widened. The shadow behind him
boiled up around him, and he screamed in animal fury. “Then die, worm!” He ran
forwards with his sword levelled as though it were a spear.
Rand screamed as he felt it pierce his side, burning like a white-hot poker.
The void trembled, but he held on with the last of his strength, and drove the
heron-mark blade into Ba’alzamon’s heart. Ba’alzamon screamed, and the darkness
behind him screamed, and the world exploded in fire.
***** The Ever Victorious Army *****
CHAPTER 68: The Ever Victorious Army
 
She hurt so much that it was hard to think. Her face felt like it was on fire,
there was blood in her mouth and cold muck beneath her hands. “Debatthien!” she
heard the Prince call, but when she tried to raise her bow she found she was
holding nothing but a little stick with a piece of string attached to it. She
stared at the man standing over her, a dark-armoured man with his sword raised
high. I should have listened to my mother, she thought as the sword came
slashing down.
Lace squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see her death. It came with a
surprisingly loud clang she thought, considering her light leather armour. It
was surprisingly painless too, apart from the throbbing of her injured face of
course.
She opened one eye cautiously and found herself alive and ... not well, but
alive was the important part.
Another man stood over her and for a moment she thought it was Prince Alasdair,
but this man’s armour shone as though he had just come from a parade, rather
than a raging battle. He had lost his sword somewhere, leaving him with only a
shield but that was enough to stop the Seanchan’s blow. With a mere flex of his
arm her saviour sent the enemy soldier flying backwards, literally and
impossibly, for the Seanchan went flailing through the air to land a good
twenty feet away from them. She gaped at the sight.
She gaped again when the man turned to offer her his hand, for he was the
handsomest man she had ever seen and his bright blue eyes were good. “On your
feet, soldier. This battle’s not won yet,” he said in a sure and certain voice.
Lace took his hand, blinking in confusion as he pulled her effortlessly back to
her feet. How can eyes be good, she thought, but somehow no other description
fit.
A fog had risen across the battlefield and cries that had filled the air
moments before, cries of pain from her side and cries of victory from their
enemy, had now all turned to cries of shock. Her saviour gave her a thump on
the shoulder once she had regained her balance and then sped off without
another word.
Lace stared after him. He sped off at incredible speed, charging right into the
midst of the Seanchan’s ranks and wherever he ran enemy soldiers were sent
careening through the air. That’s ... impossible, she thought, her pain
forgotten. What’s happening?
 
                                     * * *
 
Bethamin Zeami hastened through halls of the damane kennels, her skirts
swishing before her. The battle outside the walls of the city had been well in
hand when she had last looked, but the messenger who arrived asking for
reinforcements had been worryingly urgent. She had no doubt that the Empire
would prevail of course, but Bethamin was determined to do her part for the
glory of the Empress.
She kept her cloak pulled tightly around herself as she stretched her legs for
speed. It was a cold and wet place this Falmerden. Not at all like her hometown
of Abunai on the Sea of L’Heye; it was never cold there. Bethamin had not felt
winter’s true touch until just after she was chosen to be sul’dam. She hadn’t
seen anyone whose skin was not a similar dark brown to own back then either,
but while serving the Empire she had long since gotten used to a more varied
populace. She didn’t think she would ever get used to the cold though.
It was not Seta’s paleness that took her aback when she threw open the door to
the kennels, but the other woman’s tear-streaked face and the vomit on the
floor before her.
Bethamin found herself staring, her purpose momentarily forgotten. She gave
herself a shake. “What is wrong with you? Get up. Are there any damane left
incomplete? Mylen or Tuli perhaps? The Captain-General requests reinforcements
on the front.” Pura would not be there of course. Lisaine had taken over her
training after Bethamin proved unable to force the silly girl to fight for the
Empire. That still rankled with her, even though Lisaine was der’sul’dam and
had not rebuked her for her failure. When Seta just stared at her with terror-
filled eyes, Bethamin snapped. “Attend to your duties, woman! Are there any
more dama ...”
She trailed off, noticing for the first time the silvery metal collar around
Seta’s throat. It can’t be, she issul’dam... like me.
“Take it off me,” Seta gasped desperately. “Take it off me before anyone sees
us.”
Bethamin backed away. “Us?” she choked. She wanted to deny what her eyes were
seeing, but how many times before had she seen a new damane try to claw off
their a’dam and suffer for it? Sul’dam couldn’t be damane! She couldn’t be
damane! Panic brought a flush to her face as her denials rang hollow in her own
ears.
“Please, Bethamin!”
Her shoulders thumped against the door of the kennel and Bethamin jumped. She
might have tried to free Seta then, for old time’s sake. She might have
summoned the guards or rushed to join the battle outside, for the glory of the
Empire. She did none of those things. Bethamin gathered her blue and red skirts
and ran for the exit as fast as her feet could carry her. At that moment she
didn’t think she would stop running until there was a whole continent between
her and any other sul’dam.
 
                                     * * *
 
The damned fog make it hard to aim, but Nafanyel managed to put one through the
neck of the officer anyway. He assumed it was an officer at least, judging by
the coloured plumes that rose from the man’s helmet.
His target fell and the guards spun about with their swords in hand, shouting
angrily. The fog made it easier to hide too. He was glad of it as he scuttled
away. Burn his eyes if he could explain why he bothered coming to this
slaughter though. It wasn’t as if one more bow would ever have made a
difference. And it wasn’t as though he could ever have shown his face to his
fellow Falmerans. How could he gamble that they would not know what his father
had done? What Nafanyel had helped him do. Grimacing, ears pricked, he stalked
through the fog in search of another likely target.
Panicked shouts seemed to come from all around but Nafanyel kept to the hills,
apart from both armies. Alone.
Soon he spotted another group of Seanchan, with another plumed helmet in their
midst. This group had one of those damned damane with them. His lips twisted
and he gave serious thought to sneaking on by, but those things—he hesitated to
call them women—had already killed thousands of his countrymen today.
He knew his mother would never have approved. Most folk wouldn’t. But Nafanyel
raised his bow and sighted on the damane. An image came into his mind, an image
of Lady Eleanor sprawled on her bed, soiled and murdered. At the last second,
Nafanyel switched his aim to the Seanchan officer and loosed.
His aim was true. The man fell and the Seanchan around him wheeled, searching
for the assassin in their midst.
Abruptly someone alighted on the hill right beside the spot where Nafanyel
crouched. He bared his teeth and fumbled for a knife. How did I let them get so
close? were what he feared would be his last thoughts.
“Not bad,” said the golden-haired woman, judiciously. Her long braid hung to
her waist and she was stunningly beautiful. Even more stunning was the tall bow
she held in her hands. It shone brighter than even polished silver had a right
to shine. A silver bow ... old stories rushed through Nafanyel’s thoughts,
tales he had heard when he was a boy.
The Seanchan below spotted the archers through the fog and the woman in the red
and blue dress pointed angrily their way.
His strange visitor’s silver bow was raised instantly, an equally silver arrow
appeared at its centre as though simply willed there. It flew beautifully and
where it struck the Seanchan were no more. The Seanchan and most of the land on
which they had stood. Dirt cascaded through the air and rained down around
them, pelting Nafanyel but not the woman with the silver bow. The Seanchan,
soldiers and damane alike, had not even had time to scream.
Nafanyel found himself staring at the bow in his hands. It seemed a silly
little thing suddenly. He felt like he was a little boy again.
“Birgitte Silverbow?” he said hesitantly.
The ghost grinned at him. “That’s what they called me last time.” Then she was
gone, jumping from his hill to the next one over as easily as he might skip
across a narrow stream. Nafanyel stared after her, his past and his bow
temporarily forgotten.
 
                                     * * *
 
The man wore no armour. He was almost naked in fact save for a rough loincloth,
yet nothing seemed to harm him. Fire or lightning, sword or arrow, the hugely
muscled man shrugged them all off as he waded amidst the ranks of Kennar’s
army, swinging his brutal, two-handed sword, slaying all around him. Grim-
faced, with long black hair and a heavy, brooding brow, his near-nudity would
not have been enough to make him less intimidating even if he was not busy
slaughtering men by the dozen.
Kennar struggled to keep his face impassive as he watched the catastrophe
unfold before him. They had been winning the battle until these strangely-
dressed reinforcements arrived, but now the tide had turned completely against
them. He had thrown everything he had at the new enemy but nothing seemed to
stop them.
He watched his raken tumble from the sky, their riders thrown clear and left to
embrace the long fall that Kennar had so often imagined in his youth. The thing
that had shot them down was beyond his understanding. A metal creature that
looked far too heavy to fly and yet moved through the air at speeds that made a
raken seem like a winged turtle.
Even more terrible were the giants fighting in the sky above, beyond even the
raken and backed by a white banner on which rode a strange red-and-gold
creature which would have looked like a snake, if snakes had manes and four
small, clawed legs. One of the giants was young and red-haired, the other dark
and mature. Their faces were angry and their lips moved as if they argued but
no sound reached those on the ground beneath them save the deafening thunder
that shook Toman Head with each strike of their swords. The men, if men they
were, moved with exaggerated slowness, as though the Wheel of Time itself
turned differently around them. Kennar had no idea what they were fighting
over, or what would happen if one of them prevailed and then turned his wrath
on the Seanchan.
He glanced to his side. Karede’s face was as bluff as ever, a slight tightening
around the eyes was the only sign of his reaction to what was happening. He was
of the Deathwatch Guard, the Empress’ personal property, her swords. If Kennar
gave the order that he knew he must, he suspected Karede would be the one to
kill him. He doubted he would be afforded the luxury of asking the Empress for
permission to take his own life. Yet Kennar was not a vain man, and the welfare
of the Empire and its soldiers came before his life or pride.
“Fall back to the city,” he ordered. Every one of the clerks around him drew
deep breaths and held them. “Have the damane and the other exotics disengage
first.” They were the rarest, and most irreplaceable parts of the Ever
Victorious Army. He had to save as many of them as he could. “Carry my orders
to Captains Bakuun, Nadoc and Kakuzu. They are to engage the enemy in a
chequered retreat and delay them as long as possible while our forces withdraw
to Falme’s walls.”
Discipline was strong among them. Few hesitated more than a moment before
penning his orders for delivery by the waiting runners. Withdrawal. To think
that I would live to see the day when the Ever Victorious Army retreated. To
think that I would live to bear the shame of being the one to give the order.
Kennar doubted he would ever be sei’taer again.
 
                                     * * *
 
Alasdair was lost. Lost in the fog, and very much afraid that he had lost his
mind.
He staggered towards Falme on shaking legs, with his sword hanging at his side.
In the space of moments he had seen certain defeat turn to impossible victory.
Even more insane was that he thought he recognised some of their saviours. They
looked very much like the descriptions he had read of various historical
figures, heroes who were long dead. But that couldn’t be so. His father’s death
must have robbed him of his wits.
The Seanchan had been driven all the way back to Falme’s walls. Walls that now
loomed out of the mists ahead. Alasdair made his way towards them. If his
sister was still alive she would be in the city somewhere, probably held inside
the Divalaird where his mother had once held court, before the Seanchan took
her from him too.
Thunder crashed again and against his will he looked up. The terrible giants
fought on, blazoned across the sky for all to see. Alasdair didn’t know which
of them, if any, he wanted to win. The younger one pressed the attack and
suddenly a great roar went up from the city gate ahead. Stone crumbled and the
defenders were thrown back. The ghostly attackers poured into the gap, and
Alasdair stumbled along in their wake.
Broken bricks and broken bodies littered the ground as he returned to his home
city for the first time in half a year. From the hill he could see down to the
familiar docks where unfamiliar ships were raising sail. A steady stream of
people rushed towards those ships. Seanchan he thought, fleeing from an enemy
they could not defeat.
“I fled like that once,” a voice mused, in an accent he did not recognise.
Alasdair stared at the beautiful, olive-skinned woman who now stood beside him,
looking down on the docks. Woven within her black hair was an elaborate golden
net that almost looked like a crown, and she wore a suit of golden scales. The
spear she carried was taller than she was.
“It seems cruel to strike them as they run,” she continued. “But fate is rarely
kind and those who work the Pattern’s will, though some call us Heroes, are
often required to do, or endure, terrible things.”
“I don’t understand,” he whispered.
The woman ignored him. He thought she might not even have been speaking to him,
though there was no-one else nearby. She smiled sadly and hefted her spear,
then took a single step forward and threw. The spear arched out, flying down
towards the ships below. They seemed so small, almost impossible to hit from
that range, but the woman’s spear struck true and a Seanchan ship reeled under
its impact. As he watched, the vessel began taking on water and listed to its
side. Alasdair shivered and looked at the strange woman out of the corner of
his eye. There was another spear in her hand, though she had only been carrying
one a moment ago. He breathed a sigh of relief when she strolled away without
saying, or doing, more.
“Strange friends you’ve been keeping,” said a slightly shaky, but blessedly
familiar, voice.
Alasdair spun to face her, smiling for the first time in what felt like
forever.
Evelin emerged from a nearby house looking dishevelled but unharmed. He ran to
embrace her and for once didn’t mind that extra inch of height his “little”
sister had on him. He hugged her hard and she hugged him back as though trying
to crack his ribs. He was grateful for his armour and even more grateful that
fate had, despite the spear-wielder’s grim musings, been kind enough to return
her to him.
“These aren’t my friends,” Alasdair choked. “I don’t know where they came from,
or what they want. But at least they’re fighting the Seanchan. Without them
...”
Evelin looked up at the giants in the sky. “I think they are friends,” she said
quietly.
“Frightening friends if so,” he said.
“No. Magnificent ones,” she whispered with a strange look in her usually stern
blue eyes.
Evelin and Alasdair looked nothing alike, other than possibly their cheekbones.
He knew there were rumours about their mother, and people who called Evelin
“the Bastard” behind her back. But that didn’t matter to him, she would inherit
the throne from their mother after all and that was one half of her parentage
that could never be denied. He didn’t think it had mattered to his father
either. If Kaelan had believed the rumours, he had never shown any sign or it,
or treated Evelin any differently than he did Alasdair.
“Evelin,” he began hesitantly. “I ... have some terrible news.”
She closed her eyes. Firmed her jaw. “Tell me.”
“It’s Father. In the battle outside the walls ... The Seanchan were so many ...
Their damane, their monsters. We lost a lot of good people. Including the King.
He’s gone, Evelin.” Anguish turned to anger inside him. “And Syoman abandoned
us. Fled the field and left us all to die. Why would he do that? He just
betrayed his own king. If the ladies and lords knew what he’d done they would
call for his execution.”
“Dead,” Evelin sighed. “I feared that was what you would say. All of Falmeran
is bleeding it seems. But Syoman a traitor? That’s nearly as bad. We will have
to make him answer for that. Somehow.” She rested her head on his shoulder.
“Was it quick at least?”
“It was,” said Alasdair sadly. The prince and princess held each other in the
ruins of their city as chaos reigned around them.
 
                                     * * *
 
The Deathwatch Guard would be among the last to leave. That was as it should
be, but it was one of the few things about which that might be said. Alin
couldn’t really fault Miraj, though the man’s eyes would be lowered greatly
over this. Defeated by these honourless oathbreakers? If it were up to Alin
Cergiel he would draw his sword and charge them, one opponent, ten, a hundred,
whatever it took, rather than board the waiting ship and accept this disgrace.
But it was not up to him. He was the property of the Crystal Throne, and his
life was the Empress’ to dispose of, not his.
Their escort spoke again. “Freedom is never dear at any price. It is the breath
of life. What would a man not pay for living?”
Karede ignored the spindly old man in his blanket and sandals, and the rest of
the Deathwatch followed Karede’s example, though the spirit’s insults still
grated.
Aramas had attempted to cut the man down the first time he had insulted the
Empress.
“It has always been a mystery to me how people can feel themselves honoured by
the humiliation of their fellow beings,” the man had claimed as he watched
damane being led onto the ship. “You should abandon the tyrant you serve. She
harms you as much as she harms those she sends you to slay.”
Like Alin, Aramas was a blademaster and his drawcut was as quick as a striking
viper. The old man ignored it completely. Like the rest of these half-
recognised spectres he was invulnerable to any weapon wielded by mortal man.
Alin was not afraid to die in the service of the Empress—may she live
forever—but he had never encountered an enemy who tried to preach him to death
before. He almost wished the man would attack them properly but his only
response to Aramas’ strike had been a sad shake of his head. “Nonviolence is
the first article of my faith,” he had claimed.
Alin wondered what the man would do if he turned around and began working a
bloody justice on the skulking oathbreakers who watched from their windows as
the Seanchan retreated, their glee barely concealed. None of them had had the
honour or the courage to show that glee before today. The insult of it made him
grind his teeth.
Defeat and disgrace was all around them. When they had learned of the High Lord
Turak’s murder, Karede had grimaced and briefly closed his eyes. From him that
was the equivalent of another man falling to his knees and shouting at the
heavens. The Deathwatch had failed to protect the man they had been sent to
protect and for that they would have to answer to the Empress—may she live
forever.
Their escort walked with them to the docks, where streams of Seanchan settlers
still flowed towards the waiting ships. They were the lucky ones, the rest
would be left behind in this twisted land, surrounded by people who hated them.
Alin was glad Rikku had not been part of the Hailene. It would have grieved him
greatly to have to leave her behind. She was a more than capable fighter, but
no-one could stand forever against so many foes. Thankfully she had not been
assigned to the Forerunners, sent to scout the way, but would instead arrive
with the Return.
If there was one comfort to be found in this debacle it was that. When the
Corenne landed in force all these lands would be brought back into the Empire.
And every insult that had been done the great Hawkwing and his descendant the
Empress—may she live forever—would be answered tenfold.
***** First Claim *****
CHAPTER 69: First Claim
 
Min struggled up the cobblestone street, clutching the Horn of Valere to her
breast and shouldering through crowds that stood white-faced and staring, those
who were not screaming hysterically. A few ran, seemingly without any idea of
where they were running, but most moved like poorly handled puppets, more
afraid to go than to stay. She searched the faces, hoping to find Elayne but
all she saw were Falmerans. And there was something drawing her on, as surely
as if she had a string tied to her.
The fog had mostly faded now and Rand wasn’t pretending to be a giant anymore.
She hadn’t seen the entirety of his fight with the dark-eyed man, or how it had
ended. She only knew that there had come a crack of thunder even louder than
the rest and suddenly Rand wasn’t in the sky anymore. So much had been
happening all around that she had struggled to get a good look. With Rand
fighting above her, Karna of Anga fighting to her left, Ceegar the Invincible
to her right, Jearom straight ahead and so many others all around it had been a
struggle to know who to stare at. Most of the Heroes had dispersed to fight
alone and she had lost track of her mortal companions in the fog and the chaos.
That indescribable something pulled her onwards and Min felt as powerless to
stop herself as a leaf was powerless to prevent itself from floating
downstream. Once she turned to look back. Seanchan ships burned in the harbour,
and she could see more inflames off the harbour mouth. Many squarish vessels
were already small against the setting sun, sailing west as fast as damane
could make the winds drive them, and one small ship was beating away from the
harbour, tilting to catch a wind to take it along the coast. Spray. She did not
blame Bayle Domon for not waiting. She hoped she never saw him again, and that
no-one ever learned of the deal she had been willing to make. There was one
Seanchan vessel in the harbour not burning, though its towers were black from
fires already extinguished. As the tall ship crept toward the harbour mouth, a
figure on horseback suddenly appeared around the cliffs skirting the harbour.
Riding across the water. Min’s mouth fell open. A flag flew from a staff attach
to the horses saddle and on the flag was a creature similar to the red-and-gold
snake on the banner Rand had produced, though this snake was silver and the
background black. It tickled a memory of something she had read, she thought it
might be the flag of one of the old Borderland nations, from before the Trolloc
Wars. Aramaelle? Could that be Minna Surik, the Saviour of Aramaelle? The
figure raised her bow; a streak of fire lanced to the boxy ship, a gleaming
line connecting bow and ship. With a roar she could hear even at that distance,
fire engulfed the foretower anew, and sailors rushed about the deck. Min
blinked, and when she looked again, the mounted figure was gone. The ship still
slowly made way toward the ocean, the crew fighting the flames.
She gave herself a shake and started to climb the street again. She had seen
too much that day for someone riding a horse across water to be more than a
momentary distraction. Even if it really was Minna. And Artur Hawkwing. I did
meet him. I did.
In front of one of the tall stone buildings, she stopped uncertainly, ignoring
the people who brushed past her as if stunned. It was in there, somewhere, that
she had to go. She rushed up the stairs and pushed open the door.
No-one tried to stop her. As far as she could tell, there was no-one in the
house. Most of Falme was out in the streets, trying to decide whether they had
all gone mad together. She went on through the house, into the garden behind,
and there he was.
Rand lay sprawled on his back under an oak, face pale and eyes closed, left
hand gripping a hilt that ended in a foot of blade that appeared to have been
melted at the end. His chest rose and fell too slowly, and not with the regular
rhythm of someone breathing normally.
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she went to see what she could do for
him. First was to get rid of that stub of a blade; he could hurt himself, or
her, if he started thrashing. She set the Horn down and pried his hand open,
wincing when the hilt stuck to his palm. She tossed it aside with a grimace.
The heron on the hilt had branded itself into his hand. But it was obvious to
her that that was not what had him lying there unconscious. A hasty examination
showed that most of his cuts and bruises were not new—at least, the blood had
had time to dry in a crust, and the bruises had started to turn yellow at the
edges—but there was a hole burned through his dark coat on the left side.
Opening his coat, she pulled up his shirt. Breath whistled through her teeth.
There was a wound burned into his side, but it had cauterized itself. What
shook her was the feel of his flesh. It had a touch of ice in it; he made the
air seem warm.
Grabbing his shoulders, she began to drag him toward the house. He hung limp, a
dead weight. “Great lummox,” she grunted. “You couldn’t be short, and light,
could you? You have to have all that leg and shoulder. I ought to let you lie
out here.”
But she struggled up the steps, careful not to bump him any more than she could
avoid, and pulled him inside. Leaving him just within the door, she knuckled
the small of her back, muttering to herself about the Pattern. Then she
recovered the Horn and made a hasty search. There was a small bedroom in the
back of the house, perhaps a servant’s room, with a bed piled high with
blankets, and logs already laid on the hearth. In moments, she had the blankets
thrown back and the fire lit, as well as a lamp on the bedside table. Then she
went back for Rand.
It was no small task getting him to the room, or up onto the bed, but she
managed it with only a little hard breathing, and covered him up. After a
moment, she stuck a hand under the blankets; she winced and shook her head. The
sheets were icy cold; he had no body warmth for the blankets to hold. With a
put-upon sigh, she wriggled under the covers beside him. Finally, she put his
head on her arm. His eyes were still closed, his breathing ragged, but she
thought he would be dead by the time she came back if she left to find a
healer. He needs an Aes Sedai, she thought. All I can do is try to give him a
little warmth.
For a time she studied his face. It was only his face she saw; she could never
read anyone who was not conscious. “I like older men,” she told him. “I like
men with education, and wit. I have no interest in farms, or sheep, or
shepherds. Especially boy shepherds.” With a sigh, she smoothed back the hair
from his face; he had silky hair. “But then, you aren’t a shepherd, are you?
Not anymore. Light, why did the Pattern have to catch me up with you? Why
couldn’t I have something safe and simple, like being shipwrecked with no food
and a dozen hungry Aielmen? Instead of being tied to Rand al’Thor, the …
whatever you are.”
“Not Rand al’Thor,” said a musical voice from the door. “Lews Therin Telamon.
The Dragon Reborn.”
Min stared. She was the most beautiful woman Min had ever seen, with pale,
smooth skin, long, dark hair, and eyes as dark as night. Her dress was a white
that would make snow seem dingy, belted in silver. All her jewellery was
silver. Min felt herself bristle. “What do you mean? Who are you?”
The woman came to stand over the bed—her movements were so graceful Min felt a
stab of envy, though she had never before envied any woman anything—and
smoothed Rand’s hair as if Min were not there. “He doesn’t believe yet, I
think. He knows, but he does not believe. I have guided his steps, pushed him,
pulled him, enticed him. He was always stubborn, but this time I will make him
see the truth. Ishamael thinks he controls events, but I do.” Her finger
brushed Rand’s forehead as if drawing a mark; Min thought uneasily that it
looked like the Dragon’s Fang. Rand stirred, murmuring, the first sound or
movement he had made since she found him.
“Who are you?” Min demanded. The woman looked at her, only looked, but she
found herself shrinking back into the pillows, clutching Rand to her fiercely.
To Min’s eyes, thick chains seemed to swirl around the stranger and a key was
in her hand, but Min did not know who the chains were meant for.
“I am called Lanfear, girl.”
Min’s mouth was abruptly so dry she could not have spoken if her life depended
on it. One of the Forsaken! No! Light, no!All she could do was shake her head.
The denial made Lanfear smile.
“I suppose you are not utterly without appeal. In a scruffy sort of way,” said
the Forsaken as she scrutinised Min’s face, her dark eyes full of confidence.
“I could kill you here and now ...” She paused for a moment, savouring the fear
that Min could not hide. “But what would that accomplish really? He has always
had a roving eye. He may dandle you for a time but you could never be my rival,
you could never take his heart from me. Even that chit Ilyena never truly
managed it, whatever she believed.” For a second the woman’s beautiful mask
slipped and anger twisted her features to ugliness. But only for a second, then
she was all poise once more. “Lews Therin was and is and always will be mine,
girl. Tend him well for me until I come for him.” And she was gone. Min gaped.
One moment she was there, then she was gone. Min discovered she was hugging
Rand’s unconscious form tightly. She wished she did not feel as if she wanted
him to protect her.
There was a sound in the hall. Min raised her head and stared at the door,
afraid that the Forsaken had returned. Someone rattled the handle on the door
and Min held her breath as it swung slowly open. Nynaeve stood there, staring
at them by the light of the fire and the lamp. Somehow, after everything that
had happened today, Min wasn’t even surprised to see her. “Oh,” was all Nynaeve
said.
Min’s cheeks coloured. Why am I behaving like I’ve done something wrong? Fool!
“I-I’m keeping him warm. He is unconscious, and he’s as cold as ice.”
Nynaeve shook herself and marched determinedly into the room. “I felt him
pulling at me. Needing me. I thought it must be something to do with—with what
he is.” She drew a deep, unsteady breath. She didn’t remove the blankets to
examine Rand, but instead simply placed her hands on his chest and closed her
eyes. She began to mutter angrily. “Damned Moiraine, and Seanchan and Trollocs.
Damned Pattern. First Egwene and now this? They’re trying to take them all away
from me. Well I won’t have it. They’re my people, my responsibility.” Nynaeve
opened her eyes and glared at Rand’s sleeping face, as though trying to
intimidate him into healthiness. The former Wisdom was using the One Power, Min
knew, though she could see nothing of what Nynaeve was doing with it of course.
Whatever she did it made Rand shudder in Min’s arms, but when he lay still once
more he did not feel quite so icy cold.
Nynaeve gaped, her hand sliding down to probe gently at Rand’s side, where the
cauterised wound Min had seen earlier had been. “It didn’t work.” Her voice was
faint and her cheeks paled.
“What’s wrong? Can’t you heal him?”
“Mostly. But that wound in his side, it resisted saidar…” Nynaeve tugged at her
braid angrily, staring at Rand’s prone form. Then she set her jaw and turned to
Min with a determined look in her eyes. “The Seanchan left most of their horses
behind; I don’t mind at all taking the poor beasts from them either, it’s less
like stealing and more like liberating. We should go as soon as we can. Min,
you know what he is now, don’t you?”
“I know.” Min wanted to take her arm from under Rand’s head, but she could not
make herself move. “Whatever he is, he is hurt. And I feel … I feel as if he
needs me somehow. It’s strange ...”
“Min, you know he cannot marry. He isn’t … safe … for any of us, Min.”
Nynaeve’s cheeks coloured and she tugged her braid. “For any of you I mean.”
A roving eye huh? Min wasn’t completely surprised, she had suspected there was
something more than friendly in the way Nynaeve spoke of him. “Speak for
yourself,” she said. She pulled Rand’s face against her breast. Nynaeve looked
at her for what seemed a long time. Not at Rand, not at all, only at her. She
felt her face growing hotter and wanted to look away, but she could not.
“I’ll bring the others, we’ll need help moving him.” Nynaeve said finally, and
marched out of the room with her back straight.
Min wanted to call out, to go after her, but she lay there as if frozen.
Frustrated tears stung her eyes. It’s what has to be. I know it. I read it in
all of them. Light, I don’t want to be part of this. But whatever it was that
pulled at her mind, her heart, perhaps her soul even, was so strong that if he
were to wake and start pulling at her clothes she didn’t think she could stop
him, or remember that she wanted to stop him.
“It’s all your fault,” she told Rand’s still shape. “No, it isn’t. I doubt you
wanted any of this to happen. Still. We’re all caught like flies in a
spiderweb. What if I told her there’s another woman yet to come, one she
doesn’t even know? For that matter, what would you think of that, my fine Lord
Shepherd? You aren’t bad-looking at all, but … Light, I don’t even know if I am
the one you’ll choose. I don’t know if I want you to choose me. Or will you try
to dandle all of us on your knee? I wouldn’t mind that if it was just Elayne,
but ... It may not be your fault, Rand al’Thor, but it certainly isn’t fair.”
***** What Was Meant to Be *****
CHAPTER 70: What Was Meant to Be
 
Rand opened his eyes and found himself staring up at sunlight slanting through
the branches of a leatherleaf, its broad, tough leaves still green despite the
time of year. The wind stirring the leaves carried a hint of snow, come
nightfall. He lay on his back, and he could feel blankets covering him under
his hands. His coat and shirt seemed to be gone, but something was binding his
chest, and his left side hurt. He turned his head, and Min was sitting there on
the ground, watching him. She smiled uncertainly.
“Min. Where are we?” His memory came in flashes and patches. Old things he
could remember, but the last few days seemed like bits of broken mirror,
spinning through his mind, showing glimpses that were gone before he could see
them clearly.
“We’re five days east of Falme, now, and you’ve been asleep all that time,” she
said.
“Falme.” More memory. Min had blown the Horn of Valere. Elayne had been
captured by the sul’dam. “Elayne! Is she safe?” He struggled to sit up, but she
pushed him back down easily and stayed there, hands on his shoulders, eyes
intent on his face. “Where is she?”
“Near.” Min’s face coloured. “They’re all here. Elayne, and Nynaeve, and
Perrin, and Hurin, and Tomas. Anna and your Shienaran friends are here too. And
the Ogier.” She shook her head. “You meet the strangest people, sheepherder.”
“Nynaeve,” he sighed. “I can’t believe she’d just show up here too, so far away
from ... anything. It’s such a strange coincidence.” The red in Min’s cheeks
deepened and she sat back, staring at her lap.
Another memory swam into focus, Ba’alzamon ranting about the Horn and thinking
it was bound to Rand. He seized Min by the collar of her dress and urgently
pulled her face close to his. She gasped and her eyes went very wide. “The
Horn, Min,” he hissed. “Ba’alzamon thought I sounded it, he said it was bound
to me now, that it would be useless to anyone else so long as I live. But it’s
you that it’s bound to. You have to be careful. If they find out it was you
you’ll become a target. They might kill you so they could claim it for
themselves. Don’t tell anyone about it if you don’t have to.”
“I wasn’t planning to go around telling everyone I meet,” Min muttered. She
took hold of his wrist and he hastily released his grip on her collar. He
hadn’t meant to be so rough.
He raised his hands to run them over his face, and stopped, staring at his
palms in shock. There was a heron branded across his left palm, too, now, to
match the one on his right, every line clean and true. Once the heron to set
his path; Twice the heron to name him true. “No,” he whispered. More memories
returned. Artur Hawkwing. The Heroes of the Horn. The things they had said to,
and about, him. “No!” But his denials rang hollow even in his own ears.
“ ‘No’ what?” Min asked, looking askance at him.
He shook his head. Something told him the pain in his side was important. He
could not remember being injured, but it was important. He started to lift his
blankets to look, but she slapped his hands away.
“You can’t do any good with that. It isn’t healed all the way, yet. Nynaeve
tried Healing, but she said it didn’t work the way it should.” She hesitated,
nibbling her lip. “Moiraine says there is ... something wrong with your wound.
You will have to wait for it to heal naturally.” She seemed troubled.
“Moiraine is here too?” He barked a bitter laugh. “So much for leaving me in
peace.”
“I am here,” Moiraine said. She appeared, all in blue and as serene as if she
stood in the White Tower, strolling up to stand over him. He wondered how long
she had been listening, and if she had been following him all this time. Min
was frowning at the Aes Sedai. Rand had the odd feeling that she meant to
protect him from Moiraine.
“I wish you weren’t here,” he told the Aes Sedai. “As far as I am concerned,
you can go back to wherever you’ve been hiding and stay there.”
“I have not been hiding,” Moiraine said calmly. “I have been doing what I
could, here on Toman Head, and in Falme. It was little enough, for I arrived
too late, but I learned much. I failed to rescue two of my sister before the
Seanchan herded them onto the ships with the Leashed Ones, but I did what I
could.”
“What you could. You sent Verin to shepherd me, but I’m no sheep, Moiraine. You
said I could go where I wanted, and I mean to go where you are not.”
“I did not send Verin.” Moiraine frowned. “She did that on her own. You are of
interest to a great many people, Rand. Did Fain find you, or you him?”
The sudden change of topic took him by surprise. “Fain? No. A fine hero I make.
Fain said he would hurt Emond’s Field if I didn’t face him, and I never laid
eyes on him. Did he go with the Seanchan, too?”
Moiraine shook her head. “I do not know. I wish I did. But it is as well you
did not find him, no until you know what he is, at least.”
“He’s a Darkfriend.”
“More than that. Worse than that. Padan Fain was the Dark One’s creature to the
depths of his soul, but I believe that in Shadar Logoth he fell afoul of
Mordeth, who was as vile in fighting the Shadow as ever the Shadow itself was.
Mordeth tried to consume Fain’s soul, to have a human body again, but found a
soul that had been touched directly by the Dark One, and what resulted ... What
resulted was neither Padan Fain nor Mordeth, but something far more evil, a
blend of the two. Fain— let us call him that—is more dangerous than you can
believe. You might not have survived such a meeting, and if you had, you might
have been worse than turned to the Shadow.”
“If he is alive, if he did not go with the Seanchan, I have to—” He cut off as
she produced his heron-mark sword from under her cloak. The blade ended
abruptly a foot from the hilt, as if it had been melted. Memory came crashing
back. “I killed him,” he said softly. “I killed Ba’alzamon.”
Moiraine threw the ruined sword into a nearby ditch, discarding Tam’s gift like
the useless thing it now was, and wiped her hands together with an air of
finality. “The Dark One is not slain so easily. The mere fact that he appeared
in the sky above Falme is more than merely troubling. He should not be able to
do that, if he is bound as we believe. And if he is not, why has he not
destroyed us all?” Min stirred uneasily.
“He wasn’t the Dark One,” said Rand. “He was Ishamael the Forsaken and he
claimed he had never been bound.”
“A wild ... and troubling claim,” Moiraine said.
“Wait, what was that you said before. In the sky?”
“Both of you,” Moiraine said. “Your battle took place across the sky, in full
view of every soul in Falme. Perhaps all across Toman Head, too, if half what I
hear is to be believed.”
“We—we saw it all,” Min said in a faint voice. She put a hand over one of
Rand’s comfortingly. Moiraine reached under her cloak again and came out with a
rolled parchment, one of the large sheets such as the street artists in Falme
used. The chalks were a little smudged when she unfurled it, but the picture
was still clear enough. Two men in black coats fought with swords among clouds
where lightning danced, and behind them rippled the Dragon banner. Rand’s face
was easily recognizable.
“How many have seen that?” he demanded. “Tear it up. Burn it.”
The Aes Sedai let the parchment roll back up. “It would do no good, Rand. I
bought that two days gone, in a village we passed through. After what I found
in Falme I deemed it best we leave swiftly and quietly, before someone
recognised you and took precipitate action. But still the rumours outrace us.
There are hundreds of these drawings, perhaps thousands, and the tale is being
told everywhere of how the Dragon battled the Dark One in the skies above
Falme.”
Rand looked at Min. She nodded reluctantly, and squeezed his hand. She looked
frightened, but she did not flinch away.
“The Pattern weaves itself around you even more tightly,” Moiraine said. “You
need me now more than ever.”
“I don’t need you,” he said harshly, “and I don’t want you. I will not have
anything to do with this.” He remembered being called Lews Therin; not only by
Ba’alzamon, but by Artur Hawkwing. “I won’t. Light, the Dragon is supposed to
Break the World again, to tear everything apart, to kill everyone he cares
about. I will not be the Dragon, I’d sooner die.”
Moiraine was unmoved, implacable. “You are what you are. Already you stir the
world. The Black Ajah has revealed itself for the first time in two thousand
years. Arad Doman and Amadicia were on the brink of war, and it will be worse
when news of Falme reaches them. Cairhien is already in civil war.”
“I did nothing in Cairhien,” he protested. “You can’t blame that on me.”
“Doing nothing was always a ploy in the Great Game,” Moiraine said with a sigh,
“and especially as they play it now. You were the spark, and Cairhien exploded
like an Illuminator’s firework. What do you think will happen when word of
Falme reaches Arad Doman and Amadicia? There have always been men willing to
proclaim for any man who called himself the Dragon, but they have never before
had such signs as this. There is more. At the Eye of the World we found the
broken fragments of one of the Seals on the Dark One’s prison.” Min gasped; her
grip on his hand sought comfort, now, rather than offering it. He wrapped his
fingers around hers half-unconsciously. Moiraine spoke on. “When all seven are
broken, perhaps even before, the patch men put over the hole they drilled into
the prison the Creator made will be torn asunder, and the Dark One will once
more be able to put his hand through that hole and touch the world. And the
only hope of salvation is that the Dragon Reborn will be there to face him.”
Min tried to stop Rand from throwing back the blankets, but he pushed her
gently aside. “I need to walk.” She helped him up, but with a great many sighs
and grumbles about him making his wound worse. He discovered that his chest was
wrapped round with bandages. Min draped one of the blankets about his shoulders
like a cloak.
For a moment he stood staring down at the heron-mark sword, what was left of
it, lying in the ditch. Tam’s sword. My father’s sword. Reluctantly, more
reluctantly than he had ever done anything in his life, he let go of the hope
that he would discover Tam really was his father. It felt as if he were tearing
his heart out. But it did not change the way he felt about Tam, and Emond’s
Field was the only home he had ever known. Fain is the important thing. I have
one duty left. Stopping him.
His legs were unsteady, but Min’s shoulder under his arm offered support. Rand
tried not to lean on her too heavily as he surveyed the camp around them. They
were within a large copse not far from a road of hard-packed dirt. Lan sat
under a nearby tree sharpening his belt knife; the Warder gave Rand a careful
look, then a nod. Those Shienarans not on sentry duty were gathered around
several campfires, making preparations for their evening meal. He saw Perrin
sitting by one such fire, staring into the flames with a melancholy air about
him, and Loial was at his side, reading a book. Beyond them, Nynaeve and Verin
stood at the foot of an unhitched wagon, animatedly discussing the wrapped
bundles within. He spotted Anna patrolling the edge of the camp, bow in hand,
eyes turned outward. They had laid Rand out in a small clearing, and ensured
that no-one was too near. Are they afraid of me? If it’s true, if I am the
Dragon Reborn… then they would be right to avoid me.
“I am glad to see you back on your feet, Rand,” said a girl’s high voice as he
tottered towards the fires. He turned his head toward the sound and discovered
the Daughter-Heir of Andor sitting on a log not too far from his resting
place—and very, very far from her mother’s palace in Caemlyn. He’d have to be
certain to share stories with her and the others when they got time. She was
wearing a dark green riding dress and her red-gold curls contrasted against it
quite fetchingly. “I can still call you Rand, I trust?”
“Of course, my Lady.”
Her smile had more than a hint of wariness to it, but he thought it gracious of
her to force one at all. “Then surely you should call me Elayne in return.”
“I’m not sure that would be appropriate, my Lady,” Rand said slowly.
She raised her chin at that. “If you call me that again, I shall call you my
Lord Dragon. And curtsy. Even the Queen of Andor might curtsy to the Dragon
Reborn, and I am only Daughter-Heir.” Her voice had taken on a severe quality
that would be well suited to passing sentence on someone, but Rand had the
feeling she was making fun of him.
“Light! Don’t do that.” The Dragon Reborn. What did it mean? What would he have
to do? Defeat the Dark One, but how? I don’t know what I’m doing, I can’t be
what they want me to be. I’m just a shepherd.
“I will not, Rand,” she said in a more reasonable voice. “If you call me by my
name. Elayne. Say it.”
Rand stared at her. When he had first met the Daughter-Heir, after falling into
the garden of her palace, he had come away thinking her an odd combination of
bossy and big-hearted. Not unlike Nynaeve in fact, though the two women could
not have appeared more dissimilar. She had tended to the cuts he had taken in
his fall, and smoothed over the trouble he got into with her mother after being
caught trespassing by the Queen’s Guards. And now, she seemed to be offering
her friendship, despite everything that had happened at Falme. “Elayne,” he
said, feeling oddly moved by the gesture.
She smiled brightly. “Good.”
Rand was glad she could still smile like that after what she had been through
with the Seanchan. He bit his lip, wondering it would be worse to raise the
topic, or worse to ignore it as if it didn’t matter. “I hope you’re feeling
okay, Elayne,” he began, his words weighted with uncertainty. “What happened in
Falme can’t have been a pleasant experience; I’m sorry you had to go through
it.”
Min, who had watched their exchange with a wry smile on her face, now tsked
loudly and poked Rand in the ribs. “Have some tact, sheepherder. Elayne doesn’t
want to talk about that right now.”
Elayne rose from her woodland throne and brushed off her skirts. She was
composed, but her composure seemed a carefully arranged thing. “It is quite
alright Min, though I thank you for your concern. Both of you. Falme was, as
you said, Rand, an unpleasant experience, for all of us. But I shall be well, I
assure you.”
Pursing her lips, Elayne regarded him speculatively. “I can’t help but notice
you’ve lost your father’s sword. You seemed quite attached to it when we first
met. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather keep it, damaged or otherwise?” There was
wariness in her voice, as though she wondered whether she should raise the
topic or not.
Rand looked back the way he’d come. Moiraine was standing beside Lan, seemingly
discussing something with her Warder. But the flat look she now sent Elayne
told him the Aes Sedai had been listening to every word they’d exchanged.
“Actually I would like to keep it,” he said softly. “But I don’t think Tam is
my real father. Not by blood at least. And maybe that’s for the best. Anything
that distances him from the likes of me can only be for the good.”
Elayne looked troubled. “I ... see. Well, that sounds like something you should
discuss with him,” she said, in a careful voice. “Until then, however …” Elayne
took Rand’s other arm in a light grip and changed his course. Supported by the
two women, he tottered back towards the small ditch his past had been discarded
in.
Moiraine watched them come with an expressionless face, but disapproval
radiated from her. Rand ignored it. Climbing down to reclaim Tam’s sword was
going to be difficult, but he’d crawl out of that ditch if he had to. He
thought he saw a nod of approval from Lan, but when he glanced at the man, his
face was as inscrutable as always.
Tam’s sword was easy to see. The long, leather-wrapped hilt with its bronze
heron stood out from the dead leaves and winter slush it rested amidst. Rand
released his hold on the girls and made to step forward, but Min tugged him
back.
“I’ll get it,” she announced with a put-upon sigh. “You’ll just tear your wound
open if you go clambering around in there.” Before he could object, she slid
down, muttering to herself about stupid skirts and stupid shepherds and stupid
patterns as she ploughed her way over to the sword. She snatched it up and
turned back towards them. Rand watched her with a surprised smile on his face;
she matched it with a rueful one of her own as she clambered over to them and
tossed the broken sword back out of the ditch.
Elayne crouched on her heels and offered Min her hands. “Allow me.”
“Thanks Elayne.” The other girl took hold of them. “It’s a good thing you’re
not a fragile little flower, like some I could name.” That rather wiped the
smile off Rand’s face.
Elayne laughed lightly. “Oh hush.” She hauled Min out of the ditch and gave her
a small hug. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Min objected, with an irreverent grin. “Nice and honest.”
The two girls laughed at that, and Rand found himself laughing with them, even
if it was at his own expense.
“Well. It’s just as well I still have friends then, or I’d be in even more
trouble than usual,” he said as he bent to pick up Tam’s sword. He held the
cold, hard, lifeless thing to his chest for a moment, and felt unaccountably
warmer. “Thank you, Min. And you, Elayne.”
A pair of beautiful smiles were his response. And when he turned back towards
the centre of camp, walking more steadily now, the pair accompanied him, one at
either arm.
The bite of winter was in the air. With everything that had happened,
especially the months he had spent lost in the Portal Stone, Rand had
difficulty recalling the date. But he thought ... “Do either of you know what
day it is?”
Min shook her head but Elayne answered. “It is Danu the second. Why do you
ask?”
“No real reason,” he said. As he suspected, yesterday had marked the
anniversary of his birth. He was eighteen years of age now.
When they arrived at the cookfires a gust of wind stirred the Dragon banner.
Someone had found a proper staff to replace Perrin’s sapling, and then hung the
damn thing right there in the middle of camp.
“What is that doing out where anybody who passes by can see it?” Rand demanded.
“It is too late to hide, Rand,” Moiraine said. She ghosted up behind him with
Lan at her side. “It was always too late for you to hide.”
“You don’t have to put up a sign saying ‘here I am,’ either. I’ll never find
Fain if somebody kills me because of that banner.” He shook his head and turned
to Loial and Perrin. “I’m glad you stayed. I would have understood if you
hadn’t.”
“Why would I not stay?” Loial said, closing his copy of To Sail Beyond the
Sunset. “You are even more ta’veren than I believed, true, but you are still my
friend. I hope you are still my friend.” His ears twitched uncertainly.
“I am,” Rand said. “For as long as it’s safe for you to be around me, and even
after, too.” The Ogier’s grin nearly split his face in two.
“I’m staying as well,” Perrin said. There was a note of resignation, or
acceptance, in his voice. “The Wheel weaves us tight in the Pattern, Rand. Who
would have thought it, back in Emond’s Field?”
“Not me, that’s for sure,” Anna said gruffly. “When I said I’d do whatever I
could to help, I wasn’t expecting ... this.”
The Shienarans were gathering around. To Rand’s surprise, they all fell to
their knees. Every one of them watched him. “We would pledge ourselves to you,”
Uno said. The others kneeling with him nodded.
“Your oaths are to Ingtar, and Lady Amalisa,” Rand protested. “Ingtar died
well, Uno. He died so the rest of us could escape with the Horn.” There was no
need to tell them or anyone else the rest. He hoped that Ingtar had found the
Light again. “Tell Lord Agelmar that when you return to Fal Dara.”
“It is said,” the one-eyed man said carefully, “that when the Dragon is Reborn,
he will break all oaths, shatter all ties. Nothing holds us, now. We would give
our oaths to you.” He drew his sword and laid it before him, hilt toward Rand,
and the rest of the Shienarans did the same. Even Hurin added his shortsword to
the mix.
“We exist to oppose the Shadow. And you are the prophesised leader in the war
against it,” said Areku solemnly. She studiously avoided meeting his eyes. “It
is only right that we should serve you.”
“You battled the Dark One,” Masema added. Masema, who hated him. Masema who he
had foolishly let use and debase him. Masema, who looked at him as if seeing a
vision of the Light. “I saw you, Lord Dragon. I saw. I am your man, to the
death.” His dark eyes shone with fervour.
“You must choose, Rand,” Moiraine said in a voice of icy chimes. “The world
will be broken whether you break it or not. Tarmon Gai’don will come, and that
alone will tear the world apart. Will you still try to hide from what you are,
and leave the world to face the Last Battle undefended? Choose.”
They were all watching him, all waiting. Death is lighter than a feather, duty
heavier than a mountain. He made his decision.
 
                                     * * *
 
By ship and horse the stories spread, by merchant wagon and man on foot, told
and retold, changing yet always alike at the heart. They spread throughout
Falmerden, to Valreis and Arad Doman and to lands far beyond, telling of signs
and portents in the sky above Falme. And wherever they spread men proclaimed
themselves for the Dragon, and other men struck them down for it and were
themselves struck down in turn.
Other tales spread, of a column that rode from the sinking sun across Toman’s
Head. A hundred Bordermen, it was said. No, a thousand. No, a thousand heroes
come back from the grave to answer the call of the Horn of Valere. Ten
thousand. They had destroyed an army of Darkfriends. They had thrown Artur
Hawkwing’s returned armies back into the sea. They were Artur Hawkwing’s armies
returned. Onwards they rode, toward the dawn.
Yet one thing every tale had the same. At their head rode a man whose face had
been seen in the sky above Falme, and they rode under the banner of the Dragon
Reborn.
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