The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Rand shivered. Sometimes it really did seem that voice was speaking to him. If only it would make sense once in a while, having it in his head would be easier.

  “I see you, Car’a’carn,” one of the Brothers of the Eagle said. His gray eyes were on a level with Rand’s, the scar slashing across his nose stark white against his sun-dark face. “I am Corman of the Mosaada Goshien. May you find shade this day.”

  Rand had no chance to answer properly before the pink-cheeked Mayener officer was shouldering in. Well, not exactly shouldering—he was too slender to shoulder aside a man a head taller and half again as wide, especially an Aiel, though maybe young enough to think he could—yet he did squeeze himself in front of Rand next to Corman, tucking under his arm a crimson helmet with a single slender red plume. “My Lord Dragon, I am Havien Nurelle, Lord Lieutenant in the Winged Guards”—there were wings worked on the sides of his helmet—“in service to Berelain sur Paendrag Paeron, First of Mayene, and at your service also.” Corman gave him an amused sideways look.

  “I see you, Havien Nurelle,” Rand said gravely, and the boy blinked. Boy? Come to think on it, he might be no younger than Rand. That was a shock! “If you and Corman will show me—” Suddenly he realized Aviendha was gone. He nearly broke his back trying to avoid the woman, and the first time in weeks he agreed to let her near him, she slipped away as soon as his head turned! “Take me to Berelain and Rhuarc,” he ordered gruffly. “If they’re not together, take me to whoever is closer, and find the other.” Running to the Wise Ones, no doubt, to report on what he had been up to. He would leave the woman behind here.

  What you want is what you cannot have. What you cannot have is what you want. Lews Therin laughed maniacally. It did not bother Rand as much as it once had. Not quite as much. What had to be endured, could be.

  Discussing who was nearest, Corman and Havien left their men behind, but they still made quite a procession, with all the Maidens and Red Shields following close, crowding the square-vaulted hallway. The corridor had a dark, heavy feel despite lighted stand-lamps. There was very little color anywhere, except in occasional tapestries, and the Cairhienin tried to make up for it by having everything rigidly arranged, whether embroidered flowers or birds, deer or leopards in a hunt, or nobles in battle. For the Cairhienin servants who scurried out of the way, livery usually meant colored stripes on the cuffs and a house badge embroidered on the breast; sometimes a collar or sleeves in House colors, very seldom an entire coat or dress. Only upper servants would show more color. Cairhienin liked order, and disliked flamboyance. An occasional niche held a golden bowl or a Sea Folk vase, but stark and worked with straight lines, trying to disguise their curves if they had any. Whenever the hall gave way to a square-columned colonnade, if there was a garden below, the walks made a precise grid, every flower bed the same size, shrubs and small trees rigidly pruned and spaced. Had the drought and heat allowed any flowers, he was sure they too would have bloomed in straight lines.

  Rand wished Dyelin could see those bowls and vases. The Shaido had carried away whatever they could lift, all the way across Cairhien, and burned what they could when they could not carry it, but such behavior violated ji’e’toh. The Aiel who followed Rand and had saved the city had taken, but by their rules, when they took a place in battle they were allowed a fifth of what it held and not a spoon more. Bael had agreed, reluctantly, to forgo even that in Andor, but Rand thought no one without a list would believe anything had been taken here at all.

  For all their discussion, Corman and Havien failed to find either Rhuarc or Berelain before they were found themselves instead.

  The two came to meet Rand alone in one of the colonnades, without entourage, which only made him feel as though he was leading a parade himself. Rhuarc in his cadin’sor, gray streaking his dark red hair, towered over Berelain, a pale, beautiful young woman in a blue and white dress cut low enough to make Rand clear his throat when she curtsied. Shoufa looped loosely around his neck, Rhuarc carried no weapon but a heavy Aiel knife. She wore the Diadem of the First, a golden hawk in flight, in shining black hair that made waves to bare shoulders.

  Perhaps it was just as well Aviendha had gone; sometimes she had a violent way toward women she even thought were putting themselves forward with him.

  Suddenly he realized that Lews Therin was humming tunelessly. Something about it seemed troubling, but what . . . ? Humming. Like a man admiring a pretty woman who was not aware of him.

  Stop that! Rand shouted inside his head. Stop looking through my eyes! No telling whether he heard—was there someone there to hear?—but the humming stopped.

  Havien went to one knee, but Berelain gestured him to rise almost absently. “I trust all is well with my Lord Dragon, and with Andor.” She had the sort of voice that made a man listen. “And with your friends, Mat Cauthon and Perrin Aybara, as well.”

  “All is well,” he told her. She always asked after Mat and Perrin, however often he told her one was on his way to Tear and the other he had not seen since before going to the Waste. “And with you?”

  Berelain glanced at Rhuarc as they fell in on either side of Rand, proceeding into the next stretch of corridor. “As well as can be expected, my Lord Dragon.”

  “It is well, Rand al’Thor,” Rhuarc said. There was not much expression on his face, but then, there seldom was.

  Rand knew both understood why he had put Berelain in charge here. Cold reasons. The first ruler to offer him alliance freely, he could trust her because she needed him, now more than ever since that alliance, to keep Tear from Mayene’s throat. The High Lords had always tried to treat Mayene like a province. Besides, a foreigner from a small nation hundreds of leagues south, she had no reason to favor one faction over another in Cairhien, she had no hope of seizing power, and she knew the running of a country. Hard reasons. Given how Aiel felt about Cairhienin and Cairhienin about Aiel, putting Rhuarc in charge would have led to bloodshed, and Cairhien had had enough of that.

  The arrangement seemed to be working out well. As with Semaradrid and Weiramon in Tear, the Cairhienin accepted a Mayener as governor as much because she was not Aiel as because Rand appointed her. Berelain did know what she was doing, and she at least listened to advice offered by Rhuarc, speaking for the clan chiefs remaining in Cairhien. No doubt she had to deal with the Wise Ones as well—they would give up meddling, which they did not see as such, a day after Aes Sedai did—but she had not mentioned them so far.

  “And Egwene?” Rand said. “Is she any better?”

  Berelain’s lips compressed slightly. She did not like Egwene. But then, Egwene did not like her. No reason for it, that he knew, but there it was.

  Rhuarc spread his hands. “So far as Amys tells me.” As well as being a Wise One, Amys was his wife. One of his wives; he had two, one of the odder Aiel customs among many Rand found odd. “She says Egwene yet needs rest, light exercise, plenty of food and fresh air. I think she takes walks in the cool of the day.” Berelain gave him a wry look; the faint sheen of perspiration on her face did not detract from her beauty, but of course Rhuarc was not sweating at all.

  “I would like to see her. If the Wise Ones permit,” Rand added. The Wise Ones were as jealous of their prerogatives as any Aes Sedai he had ever met, making sure of them with sept chiefs, clan chiefs and perhaps most of all with the Car’a’carn. “But first we. . . .”

  A noise had been catching the edge of hearing as they approached another place where one wall of the corridor was replaced by balustraded columns. The clatter of practice swords. He glanced down in passing. At least that was his intention. What he saw in the stone-paved courtyard below stilled his tongue and stopped his feet. Under the eye of a stiff-backed Cairhienin in a plain gray coat, a dozen sweat-drenched women flailed away in pairs, some wearing riding dresses with divided skirts, some men’s coats and breeches. Most were awkward in the forms if vigorous, while others flowed from stance to stance smoothly yet swung the bundled-lathe blades hesitantly. A
ll wore grim determination like a cloak, though grimness was likely to break into rueful laughter when one realized she had made a mistake.

  The stiff-backed fellow clapped his hands, and the panting women leaned on their practice swords, some working arms clearly unused to this. From beyond Rand’s sight servants darted out, bowing and curtsying right and left as they proffered trays with pitchers and cups. But if they were servants, their livery was odd for Cairhien. They wore white. Dresses or coats and breeches, all pure white.

  “What is that?” he asked. Rhuarc made a disgusted sound.

  “Some of the Cairhienin women are quite impressed with the Maidens,” Berelain said, smiling. “They want to be Maidens. Only, of the sword, I suppose, not the spear.” Sulin stiffened indignantly, and handtalk flashed among the Maidens; the gestures seemed outraged. “These are daughters of noble Houses,” Berelain went on. “I let them stay here because their parents would not allow this. There are nearly a dozen schools in the city now that will teach the sword to women, but many need to sneak away to attend. It is not only women, of course. The younger Cairhienin in general seem very impressed with the Aiel. They are adopting ji’e’toh.”

  “They are mangling it,” Rhuarc growled. “Many ask about our ways, and who would not teach one who would learn what is proper? Even a treekiller.” He looked ready to spit. “But they take what they are told and change it.”

  “Not change, really,” Berelain protested. “Only adapt, I think.” Rhuarc’s eyebrows rose a fraction, and she sighed. Havien’s face was a picture of affront, seeing his ruler challenged. Neither Rhuarc nor Berelain noticed, they were intent on Rand. He had the feeling this was an argument the pair had had often.

  “They change it,” Rhuarc repeated deliberately. “Those fools down there in white claim to be gai’shain. Gai’shain!” The other Aielmen muttered; handtalk flickered among the Maidens again. Havien began to look a trifle uneasy. “What battle or raid were they taken in? What toh have they incurred? You confirmed my ban on fighting in the city, Berelain Paeron, yet they fight duels wherever they think they’ll not be found, and the loser puts on white. If one strikes another while both are armed, the one struck pleads for a duel, and if it is refused, puts on white. What has that to do with honor or obligation? They change everything, and do things to make a Sharaman blush. It should be stopped, Rand al’Thor.”

  Berelain’s jaw firmed stubbornly, her hands tightening to fists on her skirts. “Young men always fight.” Her tone was condescending enough that you might almost have forgotten she was young herself. “But since they began this, not one has died in a duel. Not one. That alone is worth letting them go on. Besides which, I have faced down fathers and mothers, some powerful, who wanted their daughters sent home. I will not deny those young women what I promised them.”

  “Keep them if you wish,” Rhuarc said. “Let them learn the sword, if they wish. But let them stop claiming to follow ji’e’toh. Let there be an end to them putting on white and claiming to be gai’shain. What they do offends.” His chill blue eyes were fixed on Berelain, but her large dark eyes remained steady on Rand.

  He hesitated only a moment. He thought he understood what drove the younger Cairhienin to ji’e’toh. Twice conquered by Aiel in twenty-odd years, they had to wonder whether the secret lay there. Or maybe they thought their defeats just showed that the Aiel way was better. Clearly the Aiel were upset by what they saw as a mockery of their beliefs, but in truth, some of the ways Aiel became gai’shain seemed no less peculiar. For instance, speaking to a man of his father-in-law or to a woman of her mother-in-law—second-father and second-mother, in the Aiel way—was considered hostile enough to justify drawing weapons unless they had mentioned them first. If the offended party instead touched you after you spoke, under ji’e’toh it was the same as touching an armed enemy without harming him. That gained much ji and incurred much toh, but the one touched could demand to be made gai’shain to lessen the other’s honor and their own obligation. By ji’e’toh, a proper demand to be made gai’shain had to be honored, so a man or woman could end up gai’shain for mentioning somebody’s mother-in-law. Hardly less foolish than what these Cairhienin were doing. Really it came down to one thing, though. He had put Berelain in charge; he had to support her. It was as simple as that. “Cairhienin offend you by being Cairhienin, Rhuarc. Leave them be. Who knows, maybe they will eventually learn enough that you won’t have to hate them anymore.”

  Rhuarc grunted sourly, and Berelain smiled. To Rand’s surprise, for one moment she seemed about to put her tongue out at the Aielman. Only his imagination, of course. She was only a few years older than himself, but she had been ruling Mayene while he was still guarding sheep in the Two Rivers.

  Sending Corman and Havien back to their guard, Rand moved on, with Rhuarc and Berelain to either side and the rest following close. A parade. All it needed was drums and trumpets.

  The clatter of practice swords started up again behind him. Another change, however small. Even Moiraine, who had long studied the Prophecies of the Dragon, had not known whether his Breaking the World again meant he would bring on a new Age, but he was certainly bringing changes, one way and another. As many by accident, it seemed, as on purpose.

  When they reached the door of the study Berelain and Rhuarc shared—rising suns decorated the long panels of dark polished wood, indicating some royal use once—Rand stopped, turning to Sulin and Urien. If he could not dispense with all these guards here, there was nowhere he could. “I mean to return to Caemlyn an hour or so after sunrise tomorrow. Until then, visit the tents, see your friends, and try not to start any blood feuds. If you insist, two of you can hang about to protect me from mice; I don’t think anything larger will jump out at me here.”

  Urien grinned slightly and nodded, though he did gesture about head-high to a Cairhienin and murmur, “The mice can be big here.”

  For an instant Rand thought Sulin meant to argue. Her flat stare lasted only a moment, though, before she nodded. Still tight-mouthed, however. Doubtless he would hear the argument in full once there were only Maidens to hear.

  A large room, the study presented sharp contrasts even at his second sight of it. On the high worked-plaster ceiling, straight lines and sharp angles made elaborately repeating patterns, and around the walls as well as on a wide fireplace faced with deep blue marble. A massive table stood in the middle of the floor, covered with papers and maps, marking a boundary of sorts. The two tall narrow windows to one side of the fireplace held clay pots on deep stools, filled with small plants that showed a few tiny red-and-white blossoms. On that side of the table a long wall hanging showed ships at sea, and men hauling nets filled with oilfish, the source of Mayene’s wealth. An embroidery hoop, with needle and red thread dangling from a piece of half-finished work, sat on a high-backed chair wide enough for Berelain to curl up in if she wished. There was a single carpet on the floor, in flowerlike patterns of gold and red and blue, and a small table beside the chair held a silver wine pitcher and goblets on a silver tray, as well as a slim book bound in red with a gold-worked piece of leather marking Berelain’s place.

  The floor on the other side of the table was layered in brightly colored rugs, with tasseled cushions of red and blue and green scattered about. A tabac pouch, a short-stemmed pipe, and a pair of tongs sat beside a covered brass bowl atop a small brassbound chest, while a slightly larger chest, strapped with iron, held an ivory carving of a gawky animal Rand doubted really existed. Two dozen books of all sizes, from small enough to fit a coat pocket to large enough that even Rhuarc must need both hands to pick them up, made a neat row across the floor along the wall. Aiel made everything in the Waste that they needed except books; peddlers had made fortunes among Aiel hauling nothing but books.

  “Now,” Rand said when the door was closed, leaving him alone with Rhuarc and Berelain, “how are things really?”

  “As I said,” Berelain replied. “As well as can be expected. There is more talk of Car
aline Damodred and Toram Riatin in the streets, but most people are too tired to want another war for a time.”

  “It is said ten thousand Andormen soldiers have joined them.” Rhuarc began thumbing his pipe full. “Rumor always multiplies by ten when not twenty, yet it is troubling if true. The scouts say their numbers are not large, but left to grow they could be more than an annoyance. The yellow-fly is almost too small to see, but if you leave its egg in your skin, you will lose an arm or leg before it hatches—if it does not kill you.”

  Rand grunted noncommittally. Darlin’s rebellion in Tear was not the only one he had to face. House Riatin and House Damodred, the last two to hold the Sun Throne, had been bitter rivals before Rand appeared, and likely would be again if he disappeared. Now they had put rivalry aside—on the surface at least; what went on below the surface with Cairhienin could be something else entirely—and, like Darlin, meant to gather strength somewhere Toram and Caraline thought safe. In their case, the foothills of the Spine of the World, as far from the city as they could be and remain in the country. They had gathered the same mix as Darlin, nobles mainly of middle rank, displaced country folk, some outright mercenaries and perhaps a few former brigands. Niall’s hand might be there, as well, as it was with Darlin.

  Those foothills were not nearly so impenetrable as Haddon Mirk, but Rand held his hand: He had too many enemies in too many places. If he paused to swat Rhuarc’s yellowfly here, he might find a leopard on his back somewhere else. He had it in mind to take the leopard first. If only he knew where all the other leopards were.

  “What of the Shaido?” he asked, setting the Dragon Scepter down on a half-unrolled map. It showed the north of Cairhien, and the mountains called Kinslayer’s Dagger. The Shaido might not be as big a leopard as Sammael, but they were a sight bigger than High Lord Darlin or Lady Caraline. Berelain handed him a goblet of wine, and he thanked her. “Have the Wise Ones said anything at all about Sevanna’s intentions?”