The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  He named you friend. Do not abandon him. . . .

  Nynaeve controlled her anger, which impressed Rand. “We will speak of this again,” she said to him, voice curt. “Perhaps after you’ve had a chance to think on exactly what abandoning Lan would mean.”

  He liked to think of Nynaeve as the same belligerent Wisdom who had bullied him back in the Two Rivers. She’d always seemed as if she tried too hard, as if she had worried that others would ignore her title because of her youth. But she had grown a lot since then.

  They reached the mansion, where fifty of Bashere’s soldiers stood guard before the gates. They saluted in unison as Rand passed through them. He passed Aiel camped outside, dismounted at the stables and transferred the access key from its loop on his saddle to the oversized pocket of his coat—more of a pouch, buttoned into his coat—designed for the statuette. The hand holding its globe aloft reached out of its depths.

  He went to his throne room. He couldn’t call it anything other than that, now that the King’s throne had been brought to him. It was oversized, with gilding and gemstones affixed to the wood at the arms and to the back, above the head. They protruded like budding eyes, giving the throne an ornate richness that Rand disliked. It hadn’t been in the palace. One of the local merchants had been “protecting” it from the riots. Perhaps he had considered seizing the seat in a more figurative sense as well.

  Rand sat on the throne, despite its gaudiness, shifting so that the access key in his pocket didn’t jab him in the side. The powerful in the city weren’t certain what to think of him, and he preferred it that way. He didn’t name himself king, yet his armies secured the capital. He spoke of restoring Alsalam’s place to him, yet sat on the throne as if he had a right to it. He had not moved into the palace. He wanted them to wonder.

  In truth, he hadn’t made a decision. A lot would depend on this day’s reports. He nodded to Rhuarc as he entered; the muscular Aielman returned the gesture. Then Rand stepped down from the throne and he and Rhuarc sat down on the circular rug of spiraling colors which lay on the floor in front of the green-carpeted dais. The first time they’d done this, it had caused a quiet stir among the Domani attendants and functionaries of Rand’s growing court.

  “We have located and taken another of them, Rand al’Thor,” Rhuarc said. “Alamindra Cutren was hiding on her cousin’s lands near the northern border; what we learned on her estate led us directly to her.”

  That made four members of the merchant council in his custody. “What of Meashan Dubaris? You said you might have her as well.”

  “Dead,” Rhuarc said. “By the hands of a mob a week gone.”

  “You are certain of this? It could be a lie to set you off her track.”

  “I have not seen the body myself,” Rhuarc said, “but men I trust have, and they say it matches her description. I am reasonably assured that the trail was genuine.”

  Four captured, and two dead, then. That left four more to locate before he had enough members to order a new vote for king. It would not be the most ethical council election in Domani history; why did he bother? He could appoint a king, or name himself to the throne. Why did he care what the Domani thought proper?

  Rhuarc watched him; the Aiel chief’s eyes were thoughtful. He likely wondered the same things.

  “Keep searching,” Rand said. “I do not intend to take Arad Doman for myself; we will find the rightful king or we will see the Council of Merchants assembled so that they can choose a new one. I will not care who it is, so long as he is not a Darkfriend.”

  “As you say, Car’a’carn,” Rhuarc said, moving to rise.

  “Order is important, Rhuarc,” Rand said. “I don’t have time to secure this kingdom myself. We don’t have long before the Last Battle.” He glanced at Nynaeve, who had joined several Maidens at the back of the small room. “I want four more members of the merchant council in our possession by the end of the month.”

  “You set a demanding pace, Rand al’Thor,” Rhuarc said.

  Rand stood up. “Just find me those merchants. These people deserve leaders.”

  “And the king?”

  Rand glanced to the side, to where Milisair Chadmar stood, carefully watched by Aiel guards. She seemed . . . haggard. Her once-luxurious raven hair had been pulled up into a bun, obviously because it was easier to care for that way. Her dress was still rich, but now wrinkled, as if she’d been wearing it for too long. Her eyes were red. She was still beautiful, but much in the way that a painting would still be beautiful if it were crumpled up, then smoothed out on a table.

  “May you find water and shade, Rhuarc,” Rand said in dismissal.

  “May you find water and shade, Rand al’Thor.” The tall Aiel withdrew, some of his spears following him. Rand took a deep breath, then stepped up to the gaudy throne and sat. Rhuarc he treated with the respect he deserved. The others . . . well, they would get the respect they deserved as well.

  He leaned forward, motioning Milisair to approach. One of the Maidens nudged her in the back, forcing her forward. The woman looked far more apprehensive than she had the last time she had come before Rand.

  “Well?” he asked her.

  “My Lord Dragon . . .” she began, glancing around, as if seeking aid from the Domani stewards and attendants who stood there. They ignored her; even the fop Lord Ramshalan looked the other way.

  “Speak, woman,” Rand demanded.

  “The messenger you asked after,” she said. “He is dead.”

  Rand took in a deep breath. “And how did this happen?”

  “The men I assigned to watch after him,” she said quickly, “I hadn’t realized how poorly they were treating the messenger! Why, they hadn’t given him water for days, and the fevers struck. . . .”

  “In other words,” Rand said, “you failed to extract information from him, so you left him in a dungeon to rot, only remembering where he was when I demanded he be produced.”

  “Car’a’carn,” one of the Maidens—a very young woman named Jalani—said, stepping forward. “We found this one packing her things, as if she were planning to escape the city.”

  Milisair paled visibly. “Lord Dragon,” she said. “A moment of weakness! I—”

  Rand waved for silence. “What am I to do with you now?”

  “She should be executed, my Lord!” Ramshalan said, stepping forward eagerly.

  Rand looked up with a frown. He hadn’t been asking for a response. Lanky, with one of the thin black Domani mustaches, Ramshalan had a prominent nose that might have indicated some Saldaean forebear. He wore an outrageous coat of blue, orange and yellow, with ruffled white cuffs peeking out underneath. Apparently, such things passed for fashionable among some segments of the Domani upper crust. His earrings bore the mark of his house, and he had a black beauty mark in the shape of a bird in flight affixed to his cheek.

  Rand had known many like him, courtiers with too few brains but too many family connections. Noble life seemed to breed them, much as the Two Rivers bred sheep. Ramshalan was particularly annoying because of his nasal voice and eager willingness to betray others in his desire to curry favor with Rand.

  Still, men like him had their uses. Occasionally. “What do you think, Milisair?” Rand said musingly. “Should I have you executed for treason, as this man suggests?”

  She did not weep, but she was obviously terrified, her hands shaking as she held them out, her eyes wide, unblinking.

  “No,” Rand said finally. “I need you to help choose a new king. What good would it do to search the countryside for your colleagues if I began to execute the Council members I’ve already found?”

  She let out the breath she had been holding, and tension left her shoulders

  “Lock her in the same dungeon where she imprisoned the King’s messenger,” Rand said to the Maidens. “Make sure she doesn’t suffer the same fate—at least, not until after I’m finished with her.”

  Milisair cried out in despair. Aiel Maidens pulled her from
the room screaming, but Rand had already put her from his head. Ramshalan watched her go with satisfaction; apparently, she’d insulted him several times in public. That was one point in her favor.

  “The other members of the merchant council,” Rand said to the functionaries. “Have any of them had contact with the King?”

  “None more recently than four or five months ago, my Lord,” said one of them, a stumpy, large-bellied Domani man named Noreladim. “Though we don’t know about Alamindra, as she was just recently . . . discovered.”

  Perhaps she would have news, though he couldn’t see her having a better lead than a messenger who claimed to have come from Alsalam himself. Burn that woman for letting him die!

  If Graendal sent the messenger, Lews Therin said suddenly, I’d have never been able to break him. She’s too good with Compulsion. Crafty, so crafty.

  Rand hesitated. It was a good point. If the messenger had been subject to Graendal’s Compulsion, there would have been little chance of him being able to betray her location. Not unless the web of Compulsion had been lifted, which would have required a Healing beyond Rand’s skill. Graendal had always covered her tracks well.

  But he wasn’t sure she was in the country. If he could find a messenger and Compulsion was there, he’d have enough. “I need to speak with anyone else who claims to have a message from the King,” he said. “Others in the city who might have had contact.”

  “They will be found, Lord Dragon,” said the prim Ramshalan.

  Rand nodded absently. If Naeff set up the meeting with the Seanchan as hoped, then Rand could leave Arad Doman soon after. He hoped to leave them with a king, hoped to find and kill Graendal. But he would settle for peace with the Seanchan and food for these people. He could not solve everyone’s problems. He could just force them into abeyance long enough for him to die at Shayol Ghul.

  And thereby leave the world to break again once he was gone. He gritted his teeth. He had already wasted too much time worrying about things he could not fix.

  Is that why I resist naming a Domani king? he thought. Once I die, that man would lose his authority, and Arad Doman would be back where it began. If I don’t leave a king who has the support of the merchants, then I’m essentially offering the kingdom up to the Seanchan the moment I die.

  So many things to balance. So many problems. He couldn’t fix them all. He couldn’t.

  “I don’t approve of this, Rand,” Nynaeve said, standing beside the door, arms folded. “And we’re not done talking about Lan, either.”

  Rand waved a dismissive hand.

  “He’s your friend, Rand,” Nynaeve said. “Light! And what of Perrin and Mat? Do you know where they are? What has happened to them?”

  The colors swirled before his eyes, revealing an image of Perrin standing by a tent with Galad. Why was Perrin with Galad of all people? And when had Elayne’s half-brother joined the Whitecloaks? The colors changed to Mat, riding through the streets of a familiar city. Caemlyn? Thom was there, with him.

  Rand frowned to himself. He could feel a pull from Perrin and Mat, both distant. It was their ta’veren natures, trying to draw them together. They both needed to be with him for the Last Battle.

  “Rand?” Nynaeve asked. “Aren’t you going to respond?”

  “About Perrin and Mat?” Rand asked. “They live.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I simply do.” He sighed, shaking his head. “And they had better remain alive. I’ll have need of them both before this is over.”

  “Rand!” she said. “They’re your friends!”

  “They’re threads in the Pattern, Nynaeve,” he said, rising. “I barely know them anymore, and I suspect they would say the same thing of me.”

  “Don’t you care about them?”

  “Care?” Rand walked down the steps of the raised platform that held his throne. “What I care about is the Last Battle. What I care about is making peace with the Light-cursed Seanchan so that I can stop bothering with their squabble and get to the real battle. Beside those cares, a pair of boys from my little village are meaningless.”

  He looked at her, challenging. Ramshalan and the other attendants backed away quietly, not wanting to be caught between his gaze and Nynaeve.

  She was silent, although her face took on a profound sadness. “Oh, Rand,” she finally said. “You can’t go on like this. This hardness within you, it will break you.”

  “I do what I must,” he said, anger creeping into him. Would he never hear the end of complaints about his choices?

  “This isn’t what you must do, Rand,” she said. “You’re going to destroy yourself. You’ll—”

  Rand’s anger surged. He spun, pointing at her. “Would you end up exiled like Cadsuane, Nynaeve?” he bellowed. “I will not be played with! I am done with that. Give advice when it is asked for, and the rest of the time do not patronize me!”

  She recoiled, and Rand gritted his teeth, forcing the anger back down. He lowered his hand, but realized it had begun to reach reflexively for the access key in the pocket at his side. Nynaeve’s eyes fixed on it, opening wide, and he slowly forced his hand away from the statuette.

  The explosion surprised him. He had thought his temper controlled. He forced it down, and had a surprisingly difficult time of it. He turned and stalked from the room, throwing open the door, his Maidens following him. “I will have no more audiences today,” he told the attendants who tried to follow him. “Go and do as I have told you! I need the other members of the merchant council. Go!”

  They scattered. Only the Aiel remained, guarding him as he made his way to the rooms he had claimed in the mansion.

  A short time longer. He only had to keep things balanced a short time longer. Then it could end. And he found that he was beginning to look forward to that end as much as Lews Therin did.

  You promised we could die, Lews Therin said between distant sobs.

  I did, Rand said. And we will.

  CHAPTER 32

  Rivers of Shadow

  Nynaeve stood on the broad wall around Bandar Eban, looking down over the darkened city. The wall was on the inland side of the city, but Bandar Eban was built on a slope, so she could see out over it, past the city, toward the ocean beyond. The night fog rolled in across the waters, hanging above a crisp black mirror sea. It seemed like a reflection of the clouds high above. Those clouds glowed with a phantom pearl light, cast by a moon she could not see.

  The fog did not reach the city; it rarely did. It hung over the ocean, churning. Like the ghost of a forest fire, stopped by some unseen barrier.

  She could still feel the storm to the north. It called on her to ride through the streets, shouting warning. Flee to the cellars! Store up food, for a disaster will strike! Unfortunately, packing earth or reinforcing walls would not help against this tempest. It was of a different sort entirely.

  The ocean fog was often herald to winds, and this night was no exception. She pulled her shawl close, smelling brine on the air. It mixed with the inevitable scents of an overcrowded city. Refuse, packed bodies, soot and smoke from fires and stoves. She missed the Two Rivers. The winds there were cold in the winters, but they were always fresh. Bandar Eban’s winds always felt slightly used.

  There would never again be a place for her in the Two Rivers. She knew this, though it hurt her. She was Aes Sedai now; it had become who she was, more important to her now than being Wisdom had once been. With the One Power, she could Heal people in a way that still seemed a marvel. And with the authority of the White Tower behind her, she was one of the most powerful individuals in the world, matched only by other sisters and the occasional monarch.

  And in regard to monarchs, she herself was married to a king. He might not have a kingdom, but Lan was a king. To her, if nobody else. Life in the Two Rivers would not suit him. And, truthfully, it wouldn’t suit her either. That simple life—once all she had been able to imagine—would now seem dull and unfulfilling.

  Still, it was
difficult not to feel wistful, particularly when watching the night fogs.

  “There,” Merise said, voice edged with tension. She, along with Cadsuane and Corele, stood looking in the other direction—not southwest over the city and ocean, but east. Nynaeve had almost decided against accompanying the group, as she had little doubt that Cadsuane partly blamed Nynaeve for her exile. However, the prospect of seeing the apparitions had been too enticing.

  Nynaeve turned from the city and crossed the top of the wall, joining the others. Corele glanced at her, but Merise and Cadsuane ignored her. That suited Nynaeve. Though it did continue to irk her that Corele—of the Yellow Ajah—was so guarded in her acceptance of Nynaeve. Corele was pleasant, consoling, yet sternly unwilling to admit that Nynaeve was also a member of the Yellow. Well, the woman would have to change ruts eventually, once Egwene secured the White Tower.

  Nynaeve peered through the crenellations atop the wall, scanning the dark landscape outside the city. She could faintly make out the remnants of the shanties that had crowded up against the walls until recently. The dangers—some real, others exaggerated—in the countryside had caused most of the refugees to crowd into the city’s streets. Dealing with them, and the disease and hunger they brought with them, still demanded a lot of Rand’s time.

  Out beyond that trampled-down shantytown there were only shrubs, stunted trees, a shadowed bit of broken timber that might have been a wagon wheel. The nearby fields were barren. Plowed, seeded, yet still barren. Light! Why didn’t crops grow anymore? Where would they find food this winter?

  Anyway, that wasn’t what she was looking for at the moment. What was it Merise had seen? Where—

  Then Nynaeve saw it. Like a wisp of the ocean fog, a tiny patch of glowing light was blowing across the ground. It grew, bulging like a tiny storm cloud, glowing with a pearly light not unlike that of the clouds above. It resolved into the shape of a man, walking. Then that luminescent fog sprouted more figures. Within moments, an entire glowing procession strode across the dark ground, moving at a mournful pace.