The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  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 Egwene? And Mat? Are they really all right? I can’t leave until I know they’re all right.”

  “The girl is fine. She’ll wake in the morning, and probably not even remember what happened. Blows to the head are like that.”

  “What about Mat?”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 7

  Blood Calls Blood

  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, channeling 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. And the work they had done on the boy had not been easy.

  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. . . .

  The door closed behind Leane and the litter bearers, and the Amyrlin 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 been the fourth Aes Sedai the Amyrlin had chosen for the work. “It is too bad we do not have the dagger so the Healing could be complete. For all we did tonight, he will not live long. Months, perhaps, at best.” The three Aes Sedai were alone in the Amyrlin’s chambers. Beyond the arrowslits dawn pearled the sky.

  “But he will have those months, now,” Moiraine said sharply. “And if it can be retrieved, the link can still be broken.” If it can be retrieved. Yes, of course.

  “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 gray 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, whether it is found or not. 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 find the dagger, Sister. Agelmar is sending men to hunt those who took the Horn and slew his oathmen, the same who took the dagger. If one is found, the other will be.”

  Verin nodded, but frowned at the same time. “Yet, even if it is found, who can return it safely? Whoever touches it risks the taint if they handle it long. Perhaps in a chest, well wrapped and padded, but it would still be dangerous to those nearby for any great time. Without the dagger itself to study, we cannot be sure how much it must be shielded. But you saw it and more, Moiraine. You dealt with it, enough for that young man to survive carrying it and to stop him infecting others. You must have a good idea of how strong its influence is.”

  “There is one,” Moiraine said, “who can retrieve the dagger without being harmed by it. One whom we have shielded and buffered against that taint as much as anyone can be. Mat Cauthon.”

  The Amyrlin nodded. “Yes, of course. He can do it. If he lives long enough. The Light only knows how far it will be carried before Agelmar’s men find it. If they do find it. And if the boy dies first . . . well, if the dagger is loose that long, we have another worry.” She rubbed her eyes tiredly. “I think we must find this Padan Fain, too. Why is this 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.”

  “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. I suppose Agelmar will insist on feasting tonight since last night was spoiled. Your help was invaluable, Daughter. Please remember, say nothing of the nature of the boy’s hurt to anyone. There are some of your sisters 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 a small notebook, bound in soft, brown leather, from her belt. “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 Dhoom.

  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.”

  Lanfear. In the Old Tongue, 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 rumors 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 rumors—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 at least three center 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 traveling with you, Moiraine.”

  Moiraine stared in shock. Not aware of the world? I am a fool. Before sh
e 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 channeling 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.”