The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  He asked Faile what promises Berelain was talking about, and maybe that was a mistake. She blinked—she did forget his hearing sometimes—and said, “I really do not remember. She’s the sort of woman who makes all sorts of promises she cannot keep.” His shoulders got a second set of furrows, and it was not even midmorning!

  Berelain began stalking him. He did not think of it that way at first. The woman had flirted with him once, in the Stone of Tear, in a mild sort of way, not really meaning anything he was sure, and she knew he was married now. It was only a series of chance encounters in hallways, it seemed, a few innocuous words almost in passing. But after a while he knew either his being ta’veren was twisting chance completely out of shape or Berelain was arranging matters, unlikely as that seemed. He tried telling himself that was ridiculous. He tried telling himself he must think he was handsome as Wil al’Seen. Wil was the only man he had ever seen women chase after; they certainly never had after Perrin Aybara. There were just too many of those “chance” encounters, though.

  She always touched him. Not blatantly, just fingers on his hand for a moment, on his arm, his shoulder. Hardly worth noticing. The third day a thought occurred that made the hair on the nape of his neck rise. When you were taming a horse that had never been ridden, you began with light touches, until the animal knew your touch would not hurt, until it stood still for your hand. After that came the saddlecloth, and later the saddle. The bridle was always last.

  He began to dread the scent of Berelain’s perfume, wafting around a corner. He began to head in the opposite direction at the first whiff, only he could not give every moment to watching for it. For one thing, there seemed to be a great many swaggering young Cairhienin fools going in and out of the palace, most of them women. Women carrying swords! He walked around any number of men and women who planted themselves deliberately in his path. Twice he had to knock a fellow down when the idiot simply would not let him walk around, but kept dancing back in front of him. He felt bad about that—Cairhienin were nearly all considerably smaller than he—but you could not take chances with a man who had his hand on his sword hilt. Once a young woman tried that, and after he took her sword away, she made a nuisance of herself until he gave it back, which seemed to shock her, then shouted after him that he had no honor, until some Maidens led her off, talking to her fiercely.

  For another thing, people knew he was Rand’s friend. Even had he not arrived as he did, some of the Aiel and Tairens remembered him from the Stone, and word spread. Lords and ladies he had never seen in his life introduced themselves in hallways, and Tairen High Lords who had stared down their noses at him in Tear addressed him like an old friend in Cairhien. Most smelled of fear, and an odor he could not put a name to. They all wanted the same thing, he realized.

  “I’m afraid the Lord Dragon doesn’t always take me into his confidence, my Lady,” he said politely to a cold-eyed woman named Colavaere, “and when he does, you wouldn’t expect me to break that confidence.” Her smile seemed to come from a great height; she seemed to be wondering how he would skin out for a lap rug. She had a strange smell, hard and smooth and somehow . . . high.

  “I don’t really know what Rand intends to do,” he told Meilan. The man very nearly repeated his nose-staring, for all he smiled nearly as much as Colavaere. He had the smell too, just as potently. “Maybe you should ask him.”

  “If I did know, I’d hardly talk it all over the city,” he told a white-haired weasel with too many teeth, a fellow called Maringil. By then he was growing tired of attempts to milk him. Maringil also gave off the smell, every bit as heavily as Colavaere or Meilan.

  They three carried it far more than anyone else, a dangerous smell, he knew in his bones, like a dry mountain top before an avalanche.

  Between keeping an eye out for young idiots and having that smell in his nose, he could not recognize Berelain’s scent until she had crept close enough to pounce. Well, truth to tell, she glided up along the hallways, a swan on a smooth pond, but it certainly felt like being pounced on.

  He mentioned Faile more times than he could count; Berelain did not seem to hear. He asked her to stop; Berelain asked him whatever did he mean? He told her to leave him alone; Berelain laughed and patted his cheek and asked what she was to stop doing. Which of course had to be the exact moment that Faile came out of the next crossing corridor, just the instant before he jerked back. It must have seemed to Faile that he moved away because he saw her. Without a moment’s hesitation, Faile turned smoothly on her heel, her pace not a whit slower or faster.

  He ran after her, caught up and walked alongside in pained silence. A man could hardly say what he had to say where people could hear. Faile smiled quite pleasantly all the way back to their rooms, but oh, that thorny, thorny, thorny scent in his nose.

  “That wasn’t what it looked like,” he said as soon as the door was closed. Not a word out of her; her eyebrows just rose in a silent question. “Well, it was—Berelain patted my cheek—” Still smiling, but eyebrows lowered darkly, and sharp anger among the thorns. “—but she just did it. I didn’t encourage her, Faile. She just did it.” He wished Faile would say something; she only stared. He thought she was waiting, but for what? Inspiration took him by the throat, and as so often seemed to happen when he was talking to her, put a noose around it. “Faile, I’m sorry.” Anger became a razor.

  “I see,” she said flatly, and glided out of the room.

  So, both feet put wrong; straight into his mouth, it seemed, though he could not understand how. He had apologized, and he had not even done anything to apologize for.

  That afternoon he overheard Bain and Chiad discussing whether they should help Faile beat him, of all things! No telling whether Faile had suggested it—she was fierce, but was she that fierce?—yet he suspected the pair meant him to hear, which made him angry. Plainly his wife was discussing affairs between him and her with them, matters which should have remained between husband and wife, which made him angrier. What other parts of their life did she chat about over tea? That night, as he watched in amazement, Faile put on a thick wool nightgown despite the heat. When he tried to kiss her cheek, almost timidly, she muttered that she had had a tiring day and rolled over with her back to him. She smelled furious, sharp enough to split a razor edgewise.

  He could not sleep with that smell, and the longer he lay there beside her, studying the ceiling in the darkness, the angrier he became. Why was she doing this? Could she not see he loved her and only her? Had he not shown her time and again that what he wanted more than anything in life was to hold her forever? Was he to blame because some fool woman got a bee up her nose and wanted to flirt? What he ought to do was turn her upside down and smack her bottom till she saw sense. Only he had done that once before, when she thought she could hit him with her fist whenever she wanted to make a point. In the long run it had hurt him a lot more than it had her; he did not like even the thought of Faile being hurt. He wanted peace with her. With her and only her.

  Which was why he made the decision he made lying there with gray first light of their sixth day in Cairhien showing in the windows. In the Stone, Berelain had flirted with a dozen men that he knew of; whatever had made her choose him as her quarry, she would settle on another if he was out of sight for very long. And once Berelain chose another victim, Faile would come to her senses. It seemed simple.

  So as soon as he could throw on some clothes he went off to find Loial and breakfast with him, then accompanied him to the Royal Library. And once he saw that slender Aes Sedai and Loial told him she was there every day—Loial was diffident around Aes Sedai, but he did not mind fifty of them around him—Perrin sniffed out Gaul and asked whether he would like to go hunting. There were not many deer or rabbits in the hills close to the city, of course, and those few suffering as much from the drought as the people, yet Perrin’s nose could have led them to any number they needed if meat had really been what he was after. He never even nocked an arrow, but he insisted on rem
aining out until Gaul asked whether he intended hunting bats by the light of the half-moon; sometimes Perrin forgot that other people could not see as well as he in the night. The next day he hunted into the darkness as well, and every day thereafter.

  The problem of it was, his simple plan seemed to be falling on its nose. The first night when he returned to the Sun Palace, with his unstrung bow on his shoulder, pleasantly tired from all that walking, only a chance stir in the air brought Berelain’s scent in time to stop him from walking into the main entry hall of the palace. Motioning the Aiel guards to silence, Perrin sneaked all the way around to a servants’ door, where he had to pound to make a bleary-eyed fellow let him in. The next night Berelain was waiting in the hallway outside his rooms; he had to hide around a corner half the night before she gave up. Every night she was waiting somewhere, as if she could pretend a chance encounter when no one else was awake but a few servants. It was utter madness; why had she not gone on to someone else? And every night when he at last crept into his bedchamber with his boots in his hands, Faile was asleep in that bloody thick nightgown. Long before his sixth sleepless night in a row he was ready to admit he had blundered, though he still could not see how. It had seemed so bloody simple. All he wanted was one word from Faile, one hint of what he should say or do. All he got was the sound of his own teeth grinding in the darkness.

  On the tenth day, Rand received another request from Coiren for an audience, just as politely, worded as the first three. For a time he sat rubbing the thick creamy parchment between thumb and forefinger, thinking. There was really no way to tell how far Alanna was yet from his sense of her, but comparing how strong it had been the first day with how strong it was now, he thought she might be halfway to Cairhien. If that was so, Merana was not dawdling. That was good; he wanted her eager. Penitent, at least a little, would help too, but as well wish for the moon; she was Aes Sedai. Ten more days until they reached Cairhien, if they kept that pace, and they should be able to. Time enough to meet twice more with Coiren, so he would have given each group three audiences. Let Merana consider that when she arrived. No advantage to her at all, the White Tower on the other side, and no need for her to know he would as soon stick his hand into a viper pit as go anywhere near the Tower, especially with Elaida as Amyrlin. Ten more days, and he would eat his boots if ten more passed beyond that before Merana agreed to throw Salidar’s support to him, with no nonsense about guiding or showing the way. Then, at last, he could turn his full attention on Sammael.

  As Rand sat to write Coiren that she could bring two of her sisters to the Sun Palace tomorrow afternoon, Lews Therin began muttering audibly. Yes. Sammael. Kill him this time. Demandred and Sammael and all of them, this time. Yes, I will.

  Rand hardly noticed.

  CHAPTER

  51

  The Taking

  Rand let Sulin hold his coat for him to put on for the simple reason that he would have had to rip it out of her hands physically to do otherwise. As usual, she tried to shove the garment onto him with no regard to details such as where his arms happened to be. The result was a small dance in the middle of his bedchamber. Lews Therin cackled with a sort of mad delight, just loud enough to be heard. Sammael, oh, yes, but Demandred first. First of all I rid myself of him, then Sammael. Oh, yes. If the man had had hands, he would have been rubbing them in glee. Rand ignored him.

  “Be respectful,” Sulin muttered under her breath. “You did not show respect to those Aes Sedai in Caemlyn, and you saw what came of it. The Wise Ones. . . . I have heard the Wise Ones say things. . . . You must be respectful. My Lord Dragon,” she added, as an afterthought.

  At last he managed to wrench the coat on the rest of the way. “Has Min come yet?”

  “Do you see her? My Lord Dragon.” Picking imaginary lint from the red silk, Sulin began doing up his buttons. It was faster to put his hands down and let her. “Min will come when she comes, if she comes. Sorilea will be done with her in the tents when she is done.” Suddenly she peered up at him sharply. “What do you want with her? You hardly want your bottom pinched while the Aes Sedai are here.” There was no hidden smile this afternoon. “My Lord Dragon.”

  It was very hard not to scowl. Everything was going so well, and now this. Sorilea knew he wanted Min today more than for any previous audience; a chance for her to view Coiren and two more of Elaida’s emissaries was not to be missed. Sorilea had promised to have her back. He moved away again, but Sulin followed, working at the buttons. “Sulin, I want you to go to Sorilea’s tent. Find Min and bring her here. No questions, Sulin. Just do it.”

  She managed to smile and grind her teeth at the same time, a remarkable sight. “As my Lord Dragon commands.” A smooth curtsy spread red-and-white skirts wide and lowered her face halfway to the floor.

  “How long?” he asked as she turned to go. There was no need to say until what; her hesitation showed that she understood.

  At last she spoke, calmly and firmly, not grumbling at all. “Until my shame equals theirs.” She looked him straight in the eye for a moment, the Sulin of old, if with longer hair, but just as quickly the mask returned. “If my Lord Dragon will excuse me, I must run if I am to obey his command.” Which she did, lifting her skirts to her knees and darting out of the room. Rand shook his head and did up the last buttons himself.

  In truth, he felt good. Except about Min, of course. Sorilea had promised. Min had promised. Once he fended off Coiren’s inevitable questions as to whether he had decided to return to Tar Valon with her, he was going to sit Min down and. . . . He was not sure what. But Alanna was another day closer. A short time of listening to Coiren, and he would go work the sword for an hour.

  Demandred, Lews Therin snarled. He wanted Ilyena! As usual, the thought of Ilyena sent him off into distant weeping and moaning. Ilyena! Oh, Light, Ilyena!

  Rand took the Dragon Scepter into the anteroom. Wondering who Coiren would bring, he sat in the tall chair on the dais to keep from pacing. Not over the Aes Sedai. Over Min. She knew he needed her. She knew that.

  At last one of the doors opened just enough to admit a woman, but it was Chiad, not Min. “The Aes Sedai are here, Car’a’carn.” She said the title stiffly, still not sure about a wetlander as the chief of chiefs, and for that matter, still not certain how to see him as the son of a Maiden.

  Rand nodded, shifting himself upright and standing the Dragon Scepter erect on his knee. “Send them in.” He was going to speak sharply to Min about this. Giving all her time to the Wise Ones.

  Coiren glided in like a plump self-important swan, followed by Galina and another raven-haired, hard-eyed woman with an Aes Sedai face. They were all in shades of gray today, chosen he suspected because it would not show the dust. To his surprise, once more serving women with light dustcloaks hanging down their backs came behind the Aes Sedai, a full dozen laboring under the weight of two brass-bound chests, neither small. Some of the young women glanced at him, but most had their heads down, in concentration on their burdens or maybe in fear.

  Rand’s lip very nearly curled before he could stop it. They really did think they could buy him.

  “A pity your Green sister is not here today,” Galina said.

  His eyes whipped from the serving women to her. All three Aes Sedai were staring at him intently. How could they possibly know about Alanna?

  There was no time for wondering, though; almost at the same instant, his skin began to tingle.

  Fury leaped inside him, and in Lews Therin too. Rand seized saidin nearly out of Lews Therin’s teeth. White-hot rage roiled along the boundaries of the Void, and contempt, as he glared at Coiren and Galina and whoever the third was. Coiren’s soft round jaw was set with determination; the other two actually smiled, eagerly and not at all pleasantly. They were as much fools as Merana and that lot.

  The shield sliding between him and the True Source was like the closing of a sluice gate; the flow of saidin vanished, leaving only the filthy residue of the taint. Beside that, the
air seeming to turn solid around him from his ankles to his head was as nothing. That shield made his eyes bulge; it was impossible. No three women could block him from the Source once he had taken hold of saidin, not unless they were as strong as Semirhage or Mesaana or. . . . He reached for the Source, battered at that invisible stone wall, harder, harder. Lews Therin was snarling like a beast, battering, clawing frantically. One of them had to be able to reach saidin; one of them had to be able to break a buffer held by only three.

  The block had only been in place moments when one of the serving women stepped up beside Galina, and Rand felt the blood drain from his face. Four sets of eyes in four ageless faces examined him.

  “It is a great pity that it came to this.” In those calm, rolling tones, Coiren might better have been addressing a gathering than one man. “I very much wanted you to come to Tar Valon on your own, but it became obvious you only intended to put us off. I suppose that you have had some contact from those poor fools who fled after the Sanche woman was stilled. Did you really believe they could offer you anything? As against the White Tower?” She actually sounded disappointed in him.

  His eyes were the only part of him that could move; they slid toward the serving women, busy around one of the chests. It stood open, and they were lifting out a shallow tray. Some of those faces looked young, but the others. . . . They were all Aes Sedai, he was sure, the five young women only new enough that they had not yet assumed the agelessness, five to look at him and lull his suspicions while the others hid their faces. Fifteen Aes Sedai. Thirteen to link and weave a shield no man could break, and two to bind him. Thirteen to. . . . Lews Therin fled screaming.

  Galina plucked the Dragon Scepter from Rand’s hand, shaking her head over it. “I am in charge now, Coiren.” She never even looked at him; he might as well have been part of the chair. “It was agreed, if it came to this, the Red Ajah would take charge.” Handing the Dragon Scepter to the other black-haired woman in gray, she said, “Put this somewhere, Katerine. It might make an amusing souvenir for the Amyrlin.”