The Fires of Heaven

by Jordan, Robert

“If you come out too close to him, he will sense it.” Asmodean licked his lips and avoided looking at anyone. “At least, that is what I have heard.”

  “I know where I am going,” Rand said. Not too close. But not too far. He remembered the spot well.

  No movement. Endless black, and them hanging in it. Motionless. Half an hour passed perhaps.

  A slight stir ran through the Aiel.

  “What is it?” Rand asked.

  Murmurs came across the platform. “Someone fell,” a bulky man near him said at last. Rand recognized him. Meciar. He was Cor Darei, a Night Spear. He wore the red headband.

  “Not one of the . . .” Rand began, then caught Sulin looking at him, flat-eyed.

  He turned to stare out into the darkness, anger a stain clinging to the emotionless Void. So it was not supposed to matter more to him if one of the Maidens had fallen, was it? It did. Falling forever through endless black. Would sanity crack before death came, from starvation or thirst or fear? In that fall, even an Aiel must eventually find fear strong enough to stop a heart. He almost hoped so; it must be more merciful than the other.

  Burn me, what happened to all that hardness I was so proud of? A Maiden or a Stone Dog, a spear is a spear. Only, thinking it could not make it so. I will be hard! He would let the Maidens dance the spears where they wished. He would. And he knew he would search out the name of every one who died, that every name would be another knife-cut on his soul. I will be hard. The Light help me, I will. The Light help me.

  Seemingly motionless, hanging in blackness.

  The platform stopped. It was hard to say how he knew, when he could tell it was moving before, but he did.

  He channeled, and a gateway opened in the same way it had in the courtyard in Cairhien. The angle of the sun had hardly changed, but here early-morning light shone on a paved street, and a rising slope patched brown with drought-killed grass and wildflowers, a slope topped by a stone wall two spans high or more, the stones worked rough so it seemed something natural. Above that wall he could see the golden domes of the Royal Palace of Andor, a few of the pale spires topped with banners rippling the White Lion on a breeze. On the other side of that wall was the garden where he had first met Elayne.

  Blue eyes floated accusingly outside the Void, the darting memory of kisses stolen in Tear, the memory of a letter laying her heart and soul at his feet, of messages borne by Egwene professing love. What would she say if she ever learned about Aviendha, about that night together in the snow hut? Memory of another letter, icily spurning him, a queen condemning a swineherd to outer darkness. It did not matter. Lan was right. But he wanted . . . What? Who? Blue eyes, and green, and dark brown. Elayne, who maybe loved him and maybe could not make up her mind? Aviendha, who taunted him with what she would not let him touch? Min, who laughed at him, thought him a wool-headed fool? All that flashed along the boundaries of the Void. He tried to ignore it, to ignore anguished memories of another blue-eyed woman, lying dead in a palace corridor, so long ago.

  He had to stand there, while Aiel dashed out behind Bael, veiling themselves, spreading left and right. It was his presence that maintained the platform; it would vanish as soon as he stepped through the gateway. Aviendha waited almost as calmly as Pevin, though she did occasionally put her head out to frown faintly in one direction or the other down the street. Asmodean fingered his sword and breathed too quickly; Rand wondered whether the man knew how to use the thing. Not that he would have to. Mat stared up the wall as though at a bad remembrance. He had entered the Palace this way once, too.

  The last veiled Aiel went by, and Rand motioned the others out, then followed. The gateway winked out of existence, leaving him in the middle of a long circle of wary Maidens. Aiel were running down the curving street—it followed the line of the hill; all the streets of the Inner City flowed with the land—vanishing around winding corners as they hurried to find and secure anyone who might give alarm. More were climbing the slope, and some had even begun to scale the wall, using tiny knobs and ridges for finger- and toe-holds.

  Suddenly Rand stared. To his left the street bowed downward and rounded out of sight, the decline giving a view past tile-covered towers, sparkling in the morning sun with a hundred changing colors, across tile roofs all the way to one of the Inner City’s many parks, its white walks and monuments forming a lion’s head when seen from this angle. To his right the street rose a little before curving away, more towers topped by spires or domes of various shapes glittering above the rooftops. Aiel filled the street, fanning out quickly into side streets that spiraled away from the palace. Aiel, and not a soul else. The sun was high enough for people to be out and about their business, even this close to the Palace.

  Like a nightmare the wall above toppled outward in half a dozen places, Aiel and stones smashing down on those still climbing. Before those bouncing, sliding chunks of masonry reached the streets, Trollocs appeared in the openings, dropping the tree-thick battering rams they had used and drawing scythe-curved swords—more, with spiked axes and barbed spears, huge man-shapes in black mail with spikes at shoulders and elbows, huge man-faces distorted by snouts and muzzles, beaks and horns and feathers, plunging down the slope with eyeless Myrddraal like midnight serpents in their midst. All along the street howling Trollocs and silent Myrddraal poured from doorways, leaped from windows. Lightning stabbed from the cloudless sky.

  Rand wove Fire and Air to meet Fire and Air, a slow-spreading shield racing lightnings’ fall. Too slow. One bolt struck the shield directly above his head, shattering in a blinding glare, but others grounded themselves, and his hair lifted as the air itself seemed to hammer him down. Almost he lost the weave, almost the Void itself, but he wove what he could not see through eyes still filled with coruscating light, spread the shield against bolts from the heavens that he could at least feel hammering at it. Hammering to reach him, but that could change. Drawing saidin through the angreal in his pocket, he wove the shield until he was sure it must cover half of the Inner City, then tied it off. As he pushed himself to his feet, sight began to return, watery and painful at first. He had to move fast. Rahvin knew he was here. He had to . . .

  Surprisingly little time had passed, seemingly. Rahvin had not cared how many of his own he took. Stunned Trollocs and Myrddraal on the slope were falling to spears in the hands of Maidens, many of whom moved unsteadily themselves. Some Maidens, those nearest Rand, were only now pulling themselves up from where they had been flung, and Pevin stood spraddle-legged, holding himself upright with the red banner’s staff, his scarred face still blank as slate. More Trollocs boiled through the gaps in the wall above, and the din of battle filled the streets in all directions, but it might as well have been in another country so far as Rand was concerned.

  There had been more than one bolt in that first volley, but not all had been aimed at him. Mat’s smoking boots lay a dozen paces from where Mat himself sprawled on his back. Tendrils of smoke rose from the black haft of his spear, too, from his coat, even from the silver foxhead, hanging out of his shirt, that had not saved him from a man’s channeling. Asmodean was a twisted shape of char, recognizable only from the blackened harpcase still strapped to his back. And Aviendha . . . Unmarked, she could have laid down to rest—if she could have rested staring unblinking at the sun.

  Rand bent to touch her cheek. Cooling already. It felt . . . Not like flesh.

  “RAAAAHVIIIIN!”

  It startled him a little, that sound coming from his throat. He seemed to be sitting somewhere deep in the back of his own head, the Void around him vaster, emptier, than it had ever been before. Saidin raged through him. He did not care if it scoured him away. The taint seeped through everything, tarnished everything. He did not care.

  Three Trollocs broke past the Maidens, great spiked axes and oddly hooked spears in hairy hands, all-too-human eyes fixing on him, standing there apparently unarmed. The one with a boar’s tusked snout went down with Enaila’s spear through its spine. Eagle’s beak
and bear’s muzzle raced on toward him, one on booted feet, the other on paws.

  Rand felt himself smile.

  Fire burst from the two Trollocs, a flame at every pore, bursting through black mail. Even as their mouths opened to scream, a gateway opened right where they stood. Bloody halves of burning, cleanly sliced Trolloc fell, but Rand was staring through the opening. Not into blackness, but a great columned hall with lion-carved stone panels, where a large man with wings of white in his dark hair started up in surprise from a gilded throne. A dozen men, some dressed as lords, some in breastplates, turned to see what their master was looking at.

  Rand barely noticed them. “Rahvin,” he said. Or someone did. He was not sure who.

  Sending fire and lightning ahead of him, he stepped through and let the gateway close behind him. He was death.

  Nynaeve was having no trouble maintaining the temper that allowed her to channel a flow of Spirit to the amber sleeping woman in her pouch. Even the feel of unseen eyes could not touch her through her anger this morning. Siuan stood in front of her on a Salidar street in Tel’aran’rhiod, a street empty save for them, a few flies, and one fox that paused to look at them curiously before trotting on.

  “You must concentrate,” Nynaeve barked. “You had more control than this the first time. Concentrate!”

  “I am concentrating, you fool girl!” Siuan’s plain blue wool dress was suddenly silk. The seven-striped stole of the Amyrlin Seat hung around her neck, and a golden serpent bit its own tail on her finger. Frowning at Nynaeve, she did not seem aware of the change, though she had already worn the same five times today. “If there’s any difficulty, it lies in that foul-tasting brew you fed me! Faagh! I can still taste it. Like flatfish gall.” Stole and ring vanished; the silk dress’s high neck plunged low enough to show the twisted stone ring, dangling between her breasts on a fine gold chain.

  “If you didn’t insist on me teaching you when you needed something to help you sleep, you wouldn’t need it.” So there had been a little sheeps-tongue root and a few other things that were not really necessary in the mix. The woman deserved to have her tongue curdled.

  “You can hardly teach me when you’re teaching Sheriam and the others.” The silk paled; the neck was high again, surrounded by a white lace ruff, and a cap of pearls fitted close on Siuan’s hair. “Or would you rather I came after them? You claim you need some sleep undisturbed.”

  Nynaeve quivered, fists clenched at her sides. Sheriam and the others were not the worst thing stoking her anger. She and Elayne took turns bringing them to Tel’aran’rhiod two at a time, sometimes all six in one night, and even if she was the teacher they never let her forget she was Accepted and they Aes Sedai. One sharp word when they made a foolish mistake . . . Elayne had only been sent to scrub pots once, but Nynaeve’s hands were shriveled from hot, soapy water; back where her body lay sleeping they were, anyway. But they were not the worst. Nor was the fact that she barely had a moment to spare for investigating what, if anything, could be done about stilling and gentling. Logain was more cooperative than Siuan and Leane in any case, or at least more eager. Thank the Light he understood about keeping it secret. Or thought he did; he probably believed she would Heal him eventually. No, worse than that was that Faolain had been tested and raised . . . not Aes Sedai—not without the Oath Rod, which was tight in the Tower—but to something more than Accepted. Faolain wore any dress she chose now, and if she could not wear the shawl or choose an Ajah, she had been given other authority. Nynaeve thought she had fetched more cups of water, more books—left deliberately, she was sure!—more pins and inkjars and other useless things in the last four days than she had her entire stay in the Tower. Yet even Faolain was not the worst of all. She did not even want to remember that. Her anger could have heated a house in winter.

  “What’s put a hook in your gills today, girl?” Siuan had on a gown like those Leane wore, only more sheer than even Leane would ever wear in public, so thin it was hard to tell what color it was. Not the first time she had had that on today, either. What was perking around in the back of the woman’s mind? In the World of Dreams, things like these changes of clothing betrayed thoughts you might not even know you had. “You have been almost decent company until today,” Siuan continued irritably, then paused. “Until today. I see it now. Yesterday afternoon Sheriam assigned Theodrin to begin helping you break down that block you’ve built up. Is that what has your shift in a twist? You don’t like Theodrin telling you what to do? She’s a wilder, too, girl. If anyone can help you learn to channel without eating nettles first, she—”

  “And what has you so jittery you can’t hold your dress still?” Theodrin—that was what really hurt. The failure. “Maybe it’s something I heard last night?” Theodrin was even-tempered, good-humored, patient; she said it could not be done in one session; her own block had taken months to demolish, and she had finally realized she was channeling long before going to the Tower. Still, failure hurt, and worst of all, if anyone ever discovered that she had cried like a baby in Theodrin’s comforting arms when she knew she was failing . . . “I heard you heaved Gareth Bryne’s boots at his head when he told you to sit down and polish them properly—he still doesn’t know Min does the polishing, does he?—so he turned you upside down and—”

  Siuan’s full-armed slap rung her ears. For an instant she could only stare at the other woman, eyes going wider and wider. With a wordless shriek, she tried to punch Siuan in the eye. Tried, because somehow Siuan had tangled a fist in her hair. A moment later they were down in the dirt of the street, rolling about and screaming, flailing wildly.

  Grunting, Nynaeve thought she was getting the better of it even if she did not know whether she was on the top or the bottom half the time. Siuan was trying to yank her braid out by the roots with one hand while the other pounded at her ribs or anything else it could find, but she had the other woman the same way, and Siuan’s yanking and punching were definitely growing weaker, and she herself was going to pound Siuan senseless in another minute, then snatch her bald. Nynaeve yelped as a toe caught her hard on the shin. The woman kicked! Nynaeve tried to knee her, but it was not easy in skirts. Kicking was not fighting fair!

  Suddenly Nynaeve realized that Siuan was shaking. At first she thought the woman was crying. Then she realized it was laughter. Pushing herself up, she brushed strands of hair out of her face—her braid was all but undone—and glared down at the other woman. “What are you laughing at? Me? If you are . . . !”

  “Not at you. At us.” Still quivering with mirth, Siuan shoved Nynaeve off her. Siuan’s hair was in wild disarray, and dust covered the plain wool dress she wore now, worn-looking and neatly darned in several places. She was barefoot, too. “Two grown women, rolling around like . . . I haven’t done that since I was . . . twelve, I think. I started thinking that all we needed would be fat Cian snatching me up by an ear to tell me girls don’t fight. I heard she once knocked down a drunken printer; I don’t know why.” Something very like giggles took her for a moment, then she quieted them and stood, brushing dust from her clothes. “If we have a disagreement, we can settle it like adult women.” And in a careful tone, “Still, it might be a good idea not to discuss Gareth Bryne.” She gave a start as the worn dress became a gown, red with black-and-gold embroidery around hem and swooping neckline.

  Nynaeve sat there staring at her. What would she have done as Wisdom if she found two women rolling around in the dirt that way? If anything, the answer kept her anger at a simmer. Siuan still did not seem to realize that there was no need to brush away dust with your hands in Tel’aran’rhiod. Snatching away fingers that had been repairing her braid, Nynaeve got up quickly; before she was on her feet again, her braid hung perfect over her shoulder and her good Two Rivers woolens might have just been laundered.

  “I agree,” she said. She would have made any two women she caught like that sorry they had been born even before she hauled them before the Women’s Circle. What was she doing lashing
out with her fists like some fool man? First Cerandin—she did not want to think about that episode, but there it was—then Latelle, and now this. Was she going to get around her block by being angry all the time? Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—that thought did nothing for her temper. “If we have disagreements, we can . . . discuss them.”

  “Which I suppose means we’ll shout at one another,” Siuan said dryly. “Well, better that than the other.”

  “We would not have to shout if you—!” Drawing a deep breath, Nynaeve jerked her eyes away; this was no way to begin anew. That breath caught in her throat, and she turned her head back to Siuan so quickly it seemed she had been shaking it. She hoped it did. Just for an instant, there had been a face in a window across the street. And there was a flutter in her belly, a bubble of fear, a burn of anger at being afraid. “I think we should go back now,” she said quietly.

  “Go back! You said that vile concoction would put me to sleep for a good two hours, and we haven’t been here much more than half that.”

  “Time works differently here.” Had it been Moghedien? The face had vanished so quickly it could have been someone dreaming herself here for an instant. If it was Moghedien, they must not—must not on any account—let her know she had been seen. They had to get away. Bubble of fear, burn of anger. “I told you. A day in Tel’aran’rhiod can be an hour in the waking world, or the other way round. We—”

  “I’ve dipped better out of the bilge in a bucket, girl. You needn’t think you can get away with shortchanging me. You’ll teach me everything you teach the others, as agreed. We can go when I wake up.”

  There was no time. If it had been Moghedien. Siuan’s dress was green silk now, and the Amyrlin’s stole and her Great Serpent ring were back, but for a wonder the neckline was almost as low as anything she had worn before. The ring ter’angreal hung above her breasts, somehow part of a necklace of square emeralds.