The Gathering Storm

by Robert Jordan

  She turned to the other two thugs. “Is he lying?” she asked of them. “A hundred gold marks to the one of you who can give me proof that he is.”

  Mord glanced at his boss, then grimaced. “For a hundred in gold, I’d sell you my own mother, Lady. Burn me, but I would. Jorgin’s telling the truth, though. That body was good and dead. The Dragon’s men checked when they brought the lady to us.”

  So Rand had considered that possibility. But she still had no proof that these men were telling her the truth. If there was something to hide, they’d work hard to bury it deep. She decided to try a different path.

  “What did you discover, then,” she said, “about the King’s location?”

  Jorgin just sighed. “Like I told the Lord Dragon’s men, and like I told Lady Chadmar before she landed here in the dungeons herself. That man knew something, but he wouldn’t speak it.”

  “Come now,” Nynaeve said, shooting a glance at the chest with its sharp equipment. She had to look away again before it angered her. “A man of your . . . skill? And you couldn’t pry one simple fact out of him?”

  “Dark One take me if I’m lying!” The jailer’s face flushed as if this were a matter of pride for him. “I’ve never seen a man resist like that one did! A pretty feather of a man like him should have broken without much encouragement at all. But he didn’t. He would speak on anything other than the things we wanted!” Jorgin leaned forward. “I don’t know how he did it, Lady. Burn me, but I don’t! It’s like some . . . force had ahold of his tongue. It was like he couldn’t talk. Even if he’d wanted to!”

  The two thugs muttered to themselves, looking apprehensive. It seemed that Nynaeve’s questioning had hit a nerve.

  “So you pushed him too hard,” Nynaeve guessed. “And that’s how he died.”

  “Take it all, woman!” the jailer growled. “Blood and bloody ashes! I didn’t kill him! Sometimes, people just die.”

  Unfortunately, she was coming to believe him. Jorgin was a wretch of a man who could use a decade doing chores beneath the eyes of a Wisdom. But he wasn’t lying.

  So much for her grand plans. She sighed, standing up, realizing just how tired she really was. Light! This scheme was more likely to make Rand explode at her than persuade him to listen to her counsel. She needed to return to the mansion for some sleep. Perhaps tomorrow she’d be able to think up a better way to show Rand that she was on his side.

  She waved for the guards to take the jailer and his men back up above. After that, she wove Air to shut the cell door on Milisair Chadmar. Nynaeve would see that the woman’s conditions were improved. Despicable human being or not, she should not be treated this way. Rand would have to understand that when she explained it to him. Why, Milisair looked so pale she might be coming down with the shakes! Absently, Nynaeve walked to the viewing slit at the top of the cell door, then wove a Delving of Spirit to make certain the woman was not ill.

  As soon as she began the Delving, Nynaeve froze. She had expected to find Milisair’s body taxed by exhaustion. She had expected to find disease, perhaps hunger.

  She had not expected to find poison.

  Cursing, suddenly alert, Nynaeve threw open the cell door and rushed inside. Yes, she could see it easily through the Delving. Tarchrot leaf. Nynaeve herself had given that to a hound who had needed to be put down. It was a common enough plant, and had a very bitter flavor. Not the best poison, as it had such an unpleasant taste, and yet had to be ingested.

  Yes, it was a bad poison—unless the person you were poisoning was already captive and had no choice but to eat the food you gave her. Nynaeve began a Healing, weaving all five Powers, strangling the poison and strengthening Milisair’s body. It was a relatively easy Healing, as tarchrot leaf wasn’t particularly strong. You either had to use a lot of it—as she had with the hound—or you had to administer it several times for it to take effect. But if you did it slowly like that, the person you killed with it would seem to die naturally.

  Once Milisair was safe, Nynaeve burst from the cell. “Stop!” she bellowed at the men. “Jorgin!”

  Lurts, at the back, turned with surprise. He grabbed the jailer Jorgin by the arm and spun him around.

  “Who prepares the prisoner’s food?” Nynaeve demanded, stalking toward him.

  “The food?” Jorgin asked, looking confused. “That’s one of Kerb’s jobs. Why?”

  “Kerb?”

  “The lad,” Jorgin said. “Nobody important. An apprentice we found among the refugees a few months back. Quite a lucky find—our last apprentice ran off on us, and this one was already trained in—”

  Nynaeve hushed him with a raised hand, suddenly anxious. “The boy! Where is he?”

  “He was just here . . .” Lurts said, glancing up. “Went with—”

  There was a sudden scrambling from above. Nynaeve cursed, calling for Triben to catch the boy. She shoved her way to the ladder and began climbing. She darted out into the shop above, her glowing light following. The two thugs stood cowering in the center room, looking confused, and a Saldaean guard stood with a sword pulled on them. He looked at her questioningly.

  “The boy!” she said.

  Triben glanced toward the shop door. It was open. Preparing weaves of Air, Nynaeve dashed out onto the street.

  There, she found the boy, Kerb, in the muddy street, held down by the four dice-playing workers she’d brought from the mansion. Even as she stepped off the boardwalk onto the street, they pulled the struggling, frantic boy to his feet. The last Saldaean stood at the doorway, sword out, as if he’d been rushing in to see if she was in danger.

  “He bolted out of the door, Aes Sedai,” one of the workers said, “as if the Dark One himself was chasing him. Your soldier ran over to see if you were in danger, but we figured it’d be best to snatch this lad before he could get away. Just in case.”

  Nynaeve let out a breath to calm herself. “You did well,” she said. The youth struggled, weakly. “You did well indeed.”

  CHAPTER 33

  A Conversation with the Dragon

  “This,” Rand declared, “had better be important.”

  Nynaeve turned to find the Dragon Reborn standing in the doorway to the sitting room. He wore a dark red robe with black dragons embroidered up the arms. His stump was hidden in the folds of the left sleeve. Though his hair was tousled from sleep, his eyes were alert.

  He strode into the sitting room, ever the king—even now, long after midnight and just awakened, he walked as if he were absolutely certain of himself. Some servants had brought a pot of hot tea, and he filled a cup as Min followed him into the room. She also wore a sleeping robe; the robes were one of the fashions of the Domani, and hers was of yellow silk, the weave far thinner than Rand’s. Aiel maidens took up positions by the door, lounging in their strangely dangerous way.

  Rand took a gulp from his cup. It was getting harder and harder to see in him the boy Nynaeve had known in the Two Rivers. Had his jaw always been set with those lines of determination? When had his step grown so sure, his posture so demanding? This man almost seemed an . . . interpretation of the Rand she’d once known. Like a statue, carved from rock to look like him, but exaggerated in heroic lines.

  “Well?” Rand demanded. “Who is this?”

  The young apprentice, Kerb, sat tied in Air upon one of the room’s cushioned benches. Nynaeve glanced at him, then Embraced the Source and wove a ward against eavesdropping. Rand looked at her sharply. “You channeled?” he asked. He could sense when she did so without taking precautions; he felt goose bumps on the flesh, according to Egwene and Elayne’s investigations.

  “A ward,” she said, refusing to be cowed. “Last I checked, I didn’t need your permission to channel. You’ve grown high and mighty, Rand al’Thor, but don’t forget that I paddled your backside when you were barely as tall as a man’s shins.”

  Once that would have gotten a reaction from him, if only a huff of annoyance. Now he just looked at her. Those eyes of his seemed, at
times, the part of him that had changed the most.

  He sighed. “Why have you wakened me, Nynaeve? Who is this spindly, terrified youth? If it had been anyone else who sent that message this time of night, I’d have sent them to Bashere for a flogging.”

  Nynaeve nodded at Kerb. “I think this ‘spindly, terrified youth’ knows where the King is.”

  That got Rand’s attention, and Min’s as well. She’d poured herself a cup of tea and was leaning against a wall. Why weren’t they married?

  “The King?” Rand asked. “Graendal too, then. How do you know this, Nynaeve? Where did you find him?”

  “At the dungeon where you sent Milisair Chadmar,” Nynaeve said, eyeing him. “It is terrible, Rand al’Thor. You have no right to treat a person in such a manner.”

  He didn’t rise to that comment either. Instead, he simply walked over to Kerb. “He heard something from the interrogation?”

  “No,” Nynaeve said. “But I think he killed the messenger. I know for a fact that he tried to poison Milisair. She’d have been dead by the end of the week if I hadn’t Healed her.”

  Rand glanced at Nynaeve, and she could almost feel him connecting the comments to figure out what she had been doing. “You Aes Sedai,” he finally said, “share much with rats, I have come to realize. You are always in places where you are not wanted.”

  Nynaeve snorted. “If I’d stayed away, then Milisair would be dying and Kerb would be free.”

  “I assume you’ve asked him who ordered him to kill the messenger.”

  “Not yet,” Nynaeve said. “I did find the poison among his things, however, and confirmed that he had prepared food both for Milisair and for the messenger.” She hesitated before continuing. “Rand, I’m not certain that he’ll be able to answer our questions. I Delved him, and while he’s not sick physically, there’s . . . something there. In his mind.”

  “What do you mean?” Rand asked softly.

  “A block of some sort,” Nynaeve said. “The jailer seemed frustrated—even surprised—that the messenger had been able to resist his ‘questioning.’ I think there must have been some block on that man too, something to keep him from revealing too much.”

  “Compulsion,” Rand said. He spoke offhandedly, raising his tea to his lips.

  Compulsion was dark, evil. She’d felt it herself; she still shivered when she considered what Moghedien had done to her. And that had been only a small thing, removing some memories.

  “Few are as skilled with Compulsion as Graendal,” Rand said musingly. “Perhaps this is the confirmation I’ve been looking for. Yes . . . this could be a great discovery indeed, Nynaeve. Great enough to make me forget how you obtained it.”

  Rand rounded the bench and leaned down to meet the young man’s eyes.

  “Release him,” Rand commanded her.

  She complied.

  “Tell me,” Rand said to Kerb, “who told you to poison those people?”

  “I don’t know anything!” the boy squeaked. “I just—”

  “Stop,” Rand said softly. “Do you believe that I can kill you?”

  The boy fell silent and—though Nynaeve wouldn’t have thought it possible—his blue eyes opened wider.

  “Do you believe that if I simply said the word,” Rand continued in his eerie, quiet voice, “your heart would stop beating? I am the Dragon Reborn. Do you believe that I can take your life, or your soul itself, if I so much as will it to happen?”

  Nynaeve saw it again, the patina of darkness around Rand, that aura that she couldn’t quite be certain was there. She raised her tea to her lips—and found that it had suddenly grown bitter and stale, as if it had been left to sit too long.

  Kerb slouched down and began to cry.

  “Speak,” Rand commanded.

  The youth opened his mouth, but only a groan came out. He was so transfixed by Rand that he didn’t—or couldn’t—blink the sweat from his eyes.

  “Yes,” Rand said thoughtfully. “This is Compulsion, Nynaeve. She’s here! I was right.” He looked at Nynaeve. “You will have to unravel the web of Compulsion, wipe it from his mind, before he can tell us what he knows.”

  “What?” she asked incredulously.

  “I have little skill with this kind of weaving,” Rand said with a wave of his hand. “I suspect that you can remove Compulsion, if you try. It is similar to Healing, in a way. Use the same weave that creates Compulsion, but reverse it.”

  She frowned. Healing the poor boy sounded like a fine idea—every wound should be Healed, after all. But trying something she’d never done before, and doing so in front of Rand, was not appealing. What if she did it wrong and somehow hurt the boy?

  Rand sat down on the cushioned bench seat across from the youth, Min walking over to sit beside him. She was regarding her tea with a grimace; apparently, hers had spoiled as suddenly as Nynaeve’s had.

  Rand watched Nynaeve, waiting.

  “Rand, I—”

  “Just try it,” Rand said. “I can’t tell you how it is done specifically, not for a woman, but you are clever. I’m certain you can manage.”

  His unintentionally patronizing tone sent her back into a rage. Being as tired as she was didn’t help. She gritted her teeth, turning toward Kerb, and wove all five Powers. His eyes darted back and forth, though he couldn’t see the weaves.

  Nynaeve laid a very light Healing across him, causing him to stiffen. She wove a separate line of Spirit, Delving into his head as delicately as she could, prodding at the weaves that clumped across his mind. Yes, she could see it now, a complex web made from lines of Spirit, Air and Water. It was horrible, looking at it with her mind’s eye, crisscrossing the youth’s brain. Bits of the weave touched here and there, like tiny hooks, jutting deep into the brain itself.

  Reverse the weave, Rand had said. That was far from easy. She’d have to pull the web of Compulsion off layer by layer, and if she made a mistake, she could very easily kill him. She almost backed away.

  But who else was there? Compulsion was a forbidden weave, and she doubted that Corele or the others had any experience with it. If Nynaeve stopped now, Rand would just send for the others and ask them to do it. They’d obey him, laughing behind their hands at Nynaeve, the Accepted who thought herself a full Aes Sedai.

  Well, she had discovered new ways of Healing! She had helped cleanse the taint from the One Power itself! She had Healed stilling and gentling!

  She could do this.

  She worked quickly, weaving a mirror image of the first layer of Compulsion. Each use of the Power was exact, but reversed from the pattern already woven in the boy’s mind. Nynaeve laid her weave down carefully, hesitantly, and as Rand had said, both puffed away and vanished.

  How had he known? She shivered, thinking of what Semirhage had said about him. Memories from another life, memories he had no right to. There was a reason the Creator allowed them to forget their past lives. No man should have to remember the failures of Lews Therin Telamon.

  She continued, layer after layer, stripping away the Compulsion’s weaves like a hedge-doctor removing bandages from a wounded leg. It was exhausting work, but fulfilling. Each weave fixed a wrong, healed the youth a little more, made something just a hair more right in the world.

  It took the better part of an hour, and was a grueling experience. But she did it. As the last layer of Compulsion vanished, she let out an exhausted sigh and released the One Power, convinced that she couldn’t channel a single thread more if it were to save her life. She wobbled over to a chair and slumped down. Min, she noticed, had curled up on the bench seat beside Rand and had fallen asleep.

  But he did not sleep. The Dragon Reborn watched, as if seeing things Nynaeve could not. He stood up and walked to Kerb. In her dizzied state, Nynaeve hadn’t noticed the young chandler’s face. It was oddly blank, like that of a person dazed from a strong blow to the head.

  Rand lowered himself to one knee, cradling the youth’s chin in his hand, staring into his eyes. “Where?�
�� he asked softly. “Where is she?”

  The youth opened his mouth, and a line of drool leaked out the side of it.

  “Where is she?” Rand repeated.

  Kerb moaned, eyes still blank, tongue parting his lips just slightly.

  “Rand!” Nynaeve said. “Stop it! What are you doing to him?”

  “I have done nothing,” Rand said quietly, not looking toward her. “This is what you did, Nynaeve, in unraveling those weaves. Graendal’s Compulsions are powerful—but crude, in some ways. She fills a mind with Compulsion to such an extent as to erase personality and intellect, leaving behind a puppet who works only according to her direct commands.”

  “But he was able to interact just moments ago!”

  Rand shook his head. “If you ask the men at the jail, they’ll tell you this one was slow of thought and rarely spoke to them. There was no real person in this head, only layered weaves of Compulsion. Instructions cleverly designed to wipe whatever personality this poor wretch had and replace it with a creature who would act exactly as Graendal wished. I’ve seen it dozens of times.”

  Dozens of times? Nynaeve thought with a shiver. You’ve seen it, or Lews Therin saw it? Which memories rule you right now?

  She looked at Kerb, sick to her stomach. His eyes weren’t blank from being dazed as she’d thought; they were more empty than that. When Nynaeve had been younger, new to her role as Wisdom, a woman had been brought to her who had fallen off of her wagon. The woman had slept for days, and when she’d finally awoken, she’d had a stare like this one. No hint that she recognized anyone, no clue that there was any soul left in the husk that was her body.

  She’d died about a week later.

  Rand spoke to Kerb again. “I need a location,” Rand said. “Something. If there is any vestige within you that resisted, any scrap that fought her, I promise you revenge. A location. Where is she?”

  Spittle dripped from the boy’s lips. They seemed to quiver. Rand stood up, looming, still holding the youth’s eyes with his own. Kerb shivered, then whispered two words.