The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  He stared down at the access key. Then he seized saidin.

  The sickness washed across him more powerfully than it ever had before. The force of it knocked him to the ground like a physical blow. He cried out, barely noticing when he hit the stones. He groaned, gripping the access key, curling around it. His insides seemed to burn, and he turned his head, rolling onto his shoulder and vomiting onto the bridge.

  But he held on to saidin. He needed the power. The succulent, beautiful power. Even the stench of his own vomit seemed more real to him, more sweet, for the power within him.

  He opened his eyes. People were gathered around him, concerned. A Seanchan patrol was approaching. Now was the time. He had to strike.

  But he could not. The people looked so concerned. So worried. They cared.

  Screaming in frustration, Rand made a gateway, causing the people to jump back in shock. He stumbled to his feet and threw himself through, scrabbling on all fours, as the Seanchan soldiers drew swords and yelled unfamiliar words.

  Rand landed on a large stone disc of black and white, the air around him a void of darkness. The portal closed behind, locking Ebou Dar away, and the disc began to move. It floated through the void, lit by some strange ambient light. Rand curled up on the disc, cradling the access key, breathing deeply.

  Why can’t I be strong enough? He didn’t know if the thought was his or if it was Lews Therin’s. The two were the same. Why can’t I do what I must?

  The disc traveled for a short time, the only sound in the void that of his breathing. The disc looked like one of the seals to the Dark One’s prison, split with a sinuous line dividing the black from the white. Rand lay directly atop it. They called the black half the Dragon’s Fang. To the people, it symbolized evil. Destruction.

  But Rand was necessary destruction. Why had the Pattern pushed him so hard if he didn’t need to destroy? Originally, he had tried to avoid killing—but there had been little chance of that working. Then he’d made himself avoid killing women. That had proven impossible.

  He was destruction. He just had to accept that. Someone had to be hard enough to do what was necessary, didn’t they?

  A gateway opened, and he stumbled to his feet, clutching the access key. He stepped from the Skimming platform and out onto an empty meadow. The place where he’d fought the Seanchan once with Callandor. And failed.

  He stared at this place for a long time, breathing in and out, then spun another gateway. This one opened onto a field of snow, and icy wind blasted at him. He stepped through, feet crunching into the snow, and let the gateway close.

  Here, the world spread before him.

  Why have we come here? Rand thought.

  Because, Rand replied. Because we made this. This is where we died.

  He stood on the very point of Dragonmount, the lone peak that had erupted where Lews Therin had killed himself three thousand years before. To one side, he could see down hundreds of feet to where the side of the mountain opened into a blasted-out chasm. The opening was enormous, larger than it looked from profile. A wide oval of red, blazing, churning rock. It was as if a chunk of the mountain were simply missing, torn away, leaving the peak to rise into the air but the entire side of the mountain gone.

  Rand stared down into that seething chasm. It was like the maw of a beast. Heat burned from below and flakes of ash twisted into the sky.

  The dun sky was clouded above him. The ground seemed equally distant, barely visible, like a quilt marked with patterns. Here a patch of green that was a forest. There a stitch that was a river. To the east, he saw a small speck in the river, like a floating leaf caught in the tiny current. Tar Valon.

  Rand sat down, the snow crunching beneath his weight. He set the access key into the bank before him and wove Air and Fire to keep himself warm.

  Then he rested his elbows on his knees and his head on his hand, staring at the diminutive statue of the man with the globe.

  To think.

  CHAPTER 50

  Veins of Gold

  Wind blew around Rand as he sat at the top of the world. His weaving of Air and Fire had melted away the snow around him, exposing a jagged gray-black tip of rock about three paces wide. The peak was like a broken fingernail jutting into the sky, and Rand sat atop it. As far as he could tell, it was the very tip of Dragonmount. Perhaps the highest point in the world.

  He sat upon his small outcropping, the access key sitting on the rock in front of him. The air was thin here, and he’d had trouble breathing until he’d found a way to weave Air so that it compressed slightly around him. Like the weave that warmed him, he wasn’t certain how he’d done it. He vaguely remembered Asmodean trying to teach him a similar weave, and Rand hadn’t been able to get it right. Now it came naturally. Lews Therin’s influence, or his own growing familiarity with the One Power?

  Dragonmount’s broken, open mouth lay several hundred feet beneath him, to the left. The scents of ash and sulphur were pungent, even at this distance. The maw was black with ash and red from molten rock and blazing fires.

  He still held to the Source. He didn’t dare let go. This last time he’d seized it had been the worst he could remember, and he feared that the sickness would overpower him if he tried again.

  He had been here for hours. And yet he did not feel tired. He stared at the ter’angreal. Thinking.

  What was he? What was the Dragon Reborn? A symbol? A sacrifice? A sword, meant to destroy? A sheltering hand, meant to protect?

  A puppet, playing a part over and over again?

  He was angry. Angry at the world, angry at the Pattern, angry at the Creator for leaving humans to fight against the Dark One with no direction. What right did any of them have to demand Rand’s life of him?

  Well, Rand had offered that life to them. It had taken him a great while to accept his death, but he had made his peace. Wasn’t that enough? Did he have to be in pain until the end?

  He had thought that if he made himself hard enough, it would take away the pain. If he couldn’t feel, then he couldn’t hurt.

  The wounds in his side pulsed in agony. For a time, he’d been able to forget them. But the deaths he had caused rubbed his soul raw. That list starting with Moiraine. Everything had begun to go wrong at her death. Before that, he’d still had hope.

  Before that, he’d never been put in a box.

  He understood what would be required of him, and he’d changed in the ways he thought he needed. Those changes were to keep him from being overwhelmed. Die to protect people he didn’t know? Chosen to save mankind? Chosen to force the kingdoms of the world to unite behind him, destroying those who refused to listen? Chosen to cause the deaths of thousands who fought in his name, to hold those souls upon his shoulders, a weight that must be borne? What man could do these things and remain sane? The only way he had seen had been to cut off his emotions, to make himself cuendillar.

  But he had failed. He hadn’t been able to stamp his feelings out. The voice inside had been so small, but it had pricked at him, like a needle making the smallest of holes in his heart. Even the smallest of holes would let the blood leak free.

  Those holes would bleed him dry.

  The quiet voice was gone now. It had vanished when he’d thrown Tam to the floor and nearly killed him. Without that voice, did Rand dare continue? If it was the last remnant of the old Rand—the Rand who had believed that he knew what was right and what was wrong—then what did its silence mean?

  Rand picked up the access key and stood up, boots scraping stone. It was midday, though the sun still lay hidden behind the clouds. Below, he could see hills and forests, lakes and villages.

  “And what if I don’t want the Pattern to continue?” he bellowed. He stepped forward, right to the edge of the rock, clutching the access key to his chest.

  “We live the same lives!” he yelled at them. “Over and over and over. We make the same mistakes. Kingdoms do the same stupid things. Rulers fail their people time and time again. Men continue to hurt
and hate and die and kill!”

  Winds buffeted him, whipping at his brown cloak and his fine Tairen trousers. But his words carried, echoing across the broken rocks of Dragonmount. It was cold and crisp, the air new. His weave kept him warm enough to survive, but it did not stop the chill. He hadn’t wanted it to.

  “What if I think it’s all meaningless?” he demanded with the loud voice of a king. “What if I don’t want it to keep turning? We live our lives by the blood of others! And those others become forgotten. What good is it if everything we know will fade? Great deeds or great tragedies, neither means anything! They will become legends, then those legends will be forgotten, then it will all start over again!”

  The access key began to glow in his hands. The clouds above seemed to grow darker.

  Rand’s anger beat in rhythm with his heart, demanding to be set free.

  “What if he is right?” Rand bellowed. “What if it’s better for this all to end? What if the Light was a lie all along, and this is all just a punishment? We live again and again, growing feeble, dying, trapped forever. We are to be tortured for all time!”

  Power flooded into Rand like surging waves filling a new ocean. He came to life, glorying in saidin, not caring that the display must be brilliantly visible to men everywhere who could channel. He felt himself alight with the Power, like a sun to the world below.

  “NONE OF THIS MATTERS!”

  He closed his eyes, drawing in more and more power, feeling as he had only twice before. Once when he had cleansed saidin. Once when he had created this mountain.

  Then he drew in more.

  He knew that much power would destroy him. He had stopped caring. Fury that had been building in him for two years finally boiled free, unleashed at long last. He spread his arms out wide, access key in his hand. Lews Therin had been right to kill himself and create Dragonmount. Only he hadn’t gone far enough.

  Rand could remember that day. The smoke, the rumbling, the sharp pains of a Healing bringing him back to lucidity as he lay in a broken palace. But those pains had paled compared with the agony of realization. Agony from seeing the beautiful walls scarred and broken. From seeing the piles of familiar corpses, tossed to the floor like discarded rags.

  From seeing Ilyena a short distance away, her golden hair spread out on the ground around her.

  He could feel the palace around him shaking from the earth’s own sobs. Or was that Dragonmount, throbbing from the immense power he had drawn into himself?

  He could smell the air thick with blood and soot and death and pain. Or was that just the scent of a dying world, spread before him?

  The winds began to whip at him, spinning, enormous clouds above twisting upon themselves, like ancient leviathans passing in the profound black deep.

  Lews Therin had made a mistake. He had died, but had left the world alive, wounded, limping forward. He’d let the Wheel of Time keep turning, rotating, rotting and bringing him back around again. He could not escape it. Not without ending everything.

  “Why?” Rand whispered to the twisting winds around him. The Power coming to him through the access key was greater than he’d held when cleansing saidin. Perhaps greater than any man had ever held. Great enough to unravel the Pattern itself and bring final peace.

  “Why do we have to do this again?” he whispered. “I have already failed. She is dead by my hand. Why must you make me live it again?”

  Lightning cracked above, thunder buffeting him. Rand closed his eyes, perched above a drop that plummeted thousands of feet downward, in the middle of a tempest of icy wind. Through his eyelids, he could sense the blazing light of the access key. The Power he held inside dwarfed that light. He was the sun. He was fire. He was life and death.

  Why? Why must they do this over and over? The world could give him no answers.

  Rand raised his arms high, a conduit of power and energy. An incarnation of death and destruction. He would end it. End it all and let men rest, finally, from their suffering.

  Stop them from having to live over and over again. Why? Why had the Creator done this to them? Why?

  Why do we live again? Lews Therin asked, suddenly. His voice was crisp and distinct.

  Yes, Rand said, pleading. Tell me. Why?

  Maybe . . . Lews Therin said, shockingly lucid, not a hint of madness to him. He spoke softly, reverently. Why? Could it be . . . Maybe it’s so that we can have a second chance.

  Rand froze. The winds blew against him, but he could not be moved by them. The Power hesitated inside him, like the headsman’s axe, held quivering above the criminal’s neck. You may not have a choice about which duties are given you, Tam’s voice, just a memory, said in his mind. But you can choose why you fulfill them.

  Why, Rand? Why do you go to battle? What is the point?

  Why?

  All was still. Even with the tempest, the winds, the crashes of thunder. All was still.

  Why? Rand thought with wonder. Because each time we live, we get to love again.

  That was the answer. It all swept over him, lives lived, mistakes made, love changing everything. He saw the entire world in his mind’s eye, lit by the glow in his hand. He remembered lives, hundreds of them, thousands of them, stretching to infinity. He remembered love, and peace, and joy, and hope.

  Within that moment, suddenly something amazing occurred to him. If I live again, then she might as well!

  That’s why he fought. That’s why he lived again, and that was the answer to Tam’s question. I fight because last time, I failed. I fight because I want to fix what I did wrong.

  I want to do it right this time.

  The Power within him reached a crescendo, and he turned it upon itself, drove it through the access key. The ter’angreal was connected to a much greater force, a massive sa’angreal to the south, built to stop the Dark One. Too powerful, some had said. Too powerful ever to use. Too frightening.

  Rand used its own power upon it, crushing the distant globe, shattering it as if in the grip of a giant’s hands.

  The Choedan Kal exploded.

  The Power winked out.

  The tempest ended.

  And Rand opened his eyes for the first time in a very long while. He knew—somehow—that he would never again hear Lews Therin’s voice in his head. For they were not two men, and never had been.

  He regarded the world beneath him. The clouds above had finally broken, if only just above him. The gloom dispersed, allowing him to see the sun hanging just above.

  Rand looked up at it. Then he smiled. Finally, he let out a deep-throated laugh, true and pure.

  It had been far too long.

  EPILOGUE

  Bathed in Light

  Egwene worked by the light of two bronze lamps. They were shaped like women holding their hands into the air, a burst of flame appearing in each set of palms. The calm yellow light reflected on the curves of their hands, arms and faces. Were they symbols of the White Tower and the Flame of Tar Valon? Or were they instead depictions of an Aes Sedai, weaving Fire? Perhaps they were simply relics of a previous Amyrlin’s taste.

  They sat on either side of her desk. A proper desk, finally, with a proper chair to sit upon. She was inside the Amyrlin’s study, purged of any and all references to Elaida. That left it bare, the walls empty, the wood paneling unadorned by picture or tapestry, the end tables empty of works of art. Even the bookshelves had been emptied, lest something of Elaida’s offend Egwene.

  The moment Egwene had seen what the others had done, she had ordered all of Elaida’s effects gathered and placed under secure lock, guarded by women Egwene trusted. Hidden among those effects would be clues to Elaida’s plans. They might simply be hidden notes slipped between the pages of books, left for further review. Or they might be as obscure as connections between the types of books she’d been reading or the items she’d had in the desk drawers. But they didn’t have Elaida herself to question, and there was no telling what schemes of hers would return to bite the White Tower at
a later date. Egwene intended to look over those objects, then interview each and every Aes Sedai who had been in the Tower and determine what clues they hid.

  For now, she had her hands full. She shook her head, turning over the pages of Silviana’s report. The woman was proving to be an effective Keeper indeed, far more skilled than Sheriam had ever been. The loyalist women respected Silviana, and the Red Ajah seemed to have accepted—at least in part—Egwene’s offer of peace in choosing one of their own as her Keeper.

  Of course, Egwene also had two stiff letters of disapproval—one from Romanda and one from Lelaine—on the bottom of her stack. The two women had withdrawn their effusive support almost as quickly as they’d given it. Right now, they were arguing over what to do with the damane Egwene had captured during the White Tower raid, and neither one liked Egwene’s plan to train them as Aes Sedai. Romanda and Lelaine would trouble her for years yet, it appeared.

  She set the report aside. It was late afternoon, and light peeked through the slits of the louvered shutters to her balcony. She didn’t open them, preferring the quiet dimness. The solitude felt nice.

  For now, she didn’t mind the room’s sparse decorations. True, it reminded her just a little too much of the study of the Mistress of Novices, but no number of wall hangings would banish her memory of those days, not when Silviana herself was Egwene’s Keeper. That was fine. Why would Egwene want to banish those days? They contained some of her most satisfying victories.

  Though she certainly didn’t mind being able to sit without cringing.

  She smiled faintly, scanning the next of Silviana’s reports. Then she frowned. Most of the Black Ajah in the Tower had escaped. This report, written in Silviana’s careful, flowing script, told that they had managed to seize some of the Blacks in the hours following Egwene’s raising, but only the weakest of the lot. The majority of them—some sixty Black sisters—had escaped. Including one Sitter, as Egwene had noticed before, whose name had not been on Verin’s list. Evanellein’s disappearance indicated strongly that she was Black.