The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  His stomach rumbled. It did that a lot lately.

  This is it then, isn’t it? he thought, eyes toward the too-yellow grass below. The fight just ended.

  Almen slumped down, feeling a weight on his shoulders. Adrinne, he thought. There had been a time when he’d been quick to laugh, quick to talk. Now he felt worn, like a post that had been sanded and sanded and sanded until only a sliver was left. Maybe it was time to let go.

  He felt something on his neck. Warmth.

  He hesitated, then turned weary eyes toward the sky. Sunlight bathed his face. He gaped; it seemed so long since he’d seen pure sunlight. It shone down through a large break in the clouds, comforting, like the warmth of an oven baking a loaf of Adrinne’s thick sourdough bread.

  Almen stood, raising a hand to shade his eyes. He took a deep, long breath, and smelled…apple blossoms? He spun with a start.

  The apple trees were flowering.

  That was plain ridiculous. He rubbed his eyes, but that didn’t dispel the image. They were blooming, all of them, white flowers breaking out between the leaves. The flies buzzed into the air and zipped away on the wind. The dark bits of apple on the ground melted away, like wax before a flame. In seconds, there was nothing left of them, not even juice. The ground had absorbed them.

  What was happening? Apple trees didn’t blossom twice. Was he going mad?

  Footsteps sounded softly on the path that ran past the orchard. Almen spun to find a tall young man walking down out of the foothills. He had deep red hair and he wore ragged clothing: a brown cloak with loose sleeves and a simple white linen shirt beneath. The trousers were finer, black with a delicate embroidery of gold at the cuff.

  “Ho, stranger,” Almen said, raising a hand, not knowing what else to say, not even sure if he’d seen what he thought he’d seen. “Did you…did you get lost up in the foothills?”

  The man stopped, turning sharply. He seemed surprised to find Almen there. With a start, Almen realized the man’s left arm ended in a stump.

  The stranger looked about, then breathed in deeply. “No. I’m not lost. Finally. It feels like a great long time since I’ve understood the path before me.”

  Almen scratched the side of his face. Burn him, there was another patch he’d missed shaving. His hand had been shaking so much that he might as well have skipped the razor entirely. “Not lost? Son, that pathway only leads up the slopes of Dragonmount. The area’s been hunted clean, if you were hoping to find some game. There’s nothing back there of use.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” the stranger said, glancing over his shoulder. “There are always things of use around, if you look closely enough. You can’t stare at them too long. To learn but not be overwhelmed, that is the balance.”

  Almen folded his arms. The man’s words…it seemed they were having two different conversations. Perhaps the lad wasn’t right in the head. There was something about the man, though. The way he stood, the way those eyes of his stared with such calm intensity. Almen felt like standing up and dusting off his shirt to make himself more presentable.

  “Do I know you?” Almen asked. Something about the young man was familiar.

  “Yes,” the lad said. Then he nodded toward the orchard. “Gather your people and collect those apples. They’ll be needed in the days to come.”

  “The apples?” Almen said, turning. “But—” He froze. The trees were burgeoning with new, ripe red apples. The blossoms he’d seen earlier had fallen free, and blanketed the ground in white, like snow.

  Those apples seemed to shine. Not just dozens of them on each tree, but hundreds. More than a tree should hold, each one perfectly ripe.

  “I am going mad,” Almen said, turning back to the man.

  “It’s not you who is mad, friend,” the stranger said. “But the entire world. Gather those apples quickly. My presence will hold him off for a time, I think, and whatever you take now should be safe from his touch.”

  That voice…Those eyes, like gray gemstones cut and set in his face. “I do know you,” Almen said, remembering an odd pair of youths he had given a lift in his cart years ago. “Light! You’re him, aren’t you? The one they’re talking about?”

  The man looked back at Almen. Meeting those eyes, Almen felt a strange sense of peace. “It is likely,” the man said. “Men are often speaking of me.” He smiled, then turned and continued on his way down the path.

  “Wait,” Almen said, raising a hand toward the man who could only be the Dragon Reborn. “Where are you going?”

  The man looked back with a faint grimace. “To do something I’ve been putting off. I doubt she will be pleased by what I tell her.”

  Almen lowered his hand, watching as the stranger strode away, down a pathway between two fenced orchards, trees laden with blood-red apples. Almen thought—for a moment—he could see something around the man. A lightness to the air, warped and bent.

  Almen watched the man until he vanished, then dashed toward Alysa’s house. The old pain in his hip was gone, and he felt as if he could run a dozen leagues. Halfway to the house, he met Adim and the two workers coming to the orchard. They regarded him with concerned eyes as he pulled to a halt.

  Unable to speak, Almen turned and pointed back at the orchards. The apples were red specks, dotting the green like freckles.

  “What’s that?” Uso asked, rubbing his long face. Moor squinted, then began running toward the orchard.

  “Gather everyone,” Almen said, winded. “Everyone from the village, from the villages nearby, people passing on Shyman’s road. Everyone. Get them here to gather and pick.”

  “Pick what?” Adim asked with a frown.

  “Apples,” Almen said. “What else bloody grows on apple trees! Listen, we need every one of those apples picked before the day ends. You hear me? Go! Spread the word! There’s a harvest after all!”

  They ran off to look, of course. It was hard to blame them for that. Almen continued on, and as he did, he noticed for the first time that the grass around him seemed greener, healthier.

  He looked eastward. Almen felt a pull inside of him. Something was tugging him softly in the direction the stranger had gone.

  Apples first, he thought. Then…well, then he’d see.

  Chapter 2

  Questions of Leadership

  Thunder rumbled above, soft and menacing like the growl of a distant beast. Perrin turned his eyes toward the sky. A few days ago, the pervasive cloud cover had turned black, darkening like the advent of a horrible storm. But rain had come only in spurts.

  Another rumble shook the air. There was no lightning. Perrin patted Stayer on the neck; the horse smelled skittish—prickly, sweaty. The horse wasn’t the only one. That scent hung above his enormous force of troops and refugees as they tramped across the muddy ground. That force created a thunder of its own, footsteps, hoofbeats, wagon wheels turning, men and women calling.

  They had nearly reached the Jehannah Road. Originally, Perrin had planned to cross that and continue on northward, toward Andor. But he’d lost a great deal of time to the sickness that had struck his camp—both Asha’man had nearly died. Then this thick mud had slowed them even further. All told, it had been over a month since they’d left Malden, and they’d traveled only as far as Perrin had originally hoped to go in a week.

  Perrin put his hand into his coat pocket, feeling at the small blacksmith’s puzzle there. They’d found it in Malden, and he’d taken to fiddling with it. So far, he hadn’t figured out how to get the pieces apart. It was as complex a puzzle as he’d ever seen.

  There was no sign of Master Gill or the people Perrin had sent on ahead with supplies. Grady had managed a few small gateways ahead to send scouts to find them, but they had returned without news. Perrin was beginning to worry about them.

  “My Lord?” a man asked. He stood beside Perrin’s horse. Turne was a lanky fellow with curly red hair and a beard he tied off with leather cords. He carried a warrior’s axe in a loop at his belt, a wicked thing
with a spike at the back.

  “We can’t pay you much,” Perrin said. “Your men don’t have horses?”

  “No, my Lord,” Turne said, glancing at his dozen companions. “Jarr had one. We ate it a few weeks back.” Turne smelled unwashed and dirty, and above those scents was an odd staleness. Had the man’s emotions gone numb? “If you don’t mind, my Lord. Wages can wait. If you have food…well, that will be enough for now.”

  I should turn them away, Perrin thought. We already have too many mouths to feed. Light, he was supposed to be getting rid of people. But these fellows looked handy with their weapons, and if he turned them away, they’d no doubt turn to pillaging.

  “Go walk down the line,” Perrin said. “Find a man named Tam al’Thor—he’s a sturdy fellow, dressed like a farmer. Anyone should be able to point you in his direction. Tell him you spoke to Perrin, and I said to take you on for meals.”

  The dirty men relaxed, and their lanky leader actually smelled grateful. Grateful! Sell-swords—maybe bandits—grateful to be taken on only for meals. That was the state of the world.

  “Tell me, my Lord,” Turne said as his group began to hike down the line of refugees. “Do you really have food?”

  “We do,” Perrin said. “I just said so.”

  “And it doesn’t spoil after a night left alone?”

  “Course it doesn’t,” Perrin said sternly. “Not if you keep it right.” Some of their grain might have weevils in it, but it was edible. The man seemed to find that incredible, as if Perrin had said his wagons would soon sprout wings and fly off for the mountains.

  “Go on now,” Perrin said. “And make sure to tell your men that we run a tight camp. No fighting, no stealing. If I get a whiff of you making trouble, you’ll be out on your ears.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Turne said, then hastened off to join his men. He smelled sincere. Tam wasn’t going to be pleased to have another batch of mercenaries to watch over, but the Shaido were still out there somewhere. Most of them seemed to have turned eastward. But with how slowly Perrin’s force had been traveling, he was worried the Aiel might change their minds and come back for him.

  He nudged Stayer forward, flanked by a pair of Two Rivers men. Now that Aram was gone, the Two Rivers men had—unfortunately—taken it upon themselves to provide Perrin with bodyguards. Today’s annoyances were Wil al’Seen and Reed Soalen. Perrin had tried chewing out the men about it. But they insisted, and he had bigger worries to bother him, not the least of which were his strange dreams. Haunting visions of working the forges and being unable to create anything of worth.

  Put them out of your mind, he told himself, riding up the long column, al’Seen and Soalen keeping up. You have nightmares enough while awake. Deal with those first.

  The meadow around him was open, though the grass was yellowing, and he noticed with displeasure several large swaths of dead wildflowers, rotting. The spring rains had turned most areas like this into mud traps. Moving so many refugees was slow, even discounting the bubble of evil and the mud. Everything took longer than he expected, including getting out of Malden.

  The force kicked up mud as it marched; most of the refugees’ trousers and skirts were covered with it, and the air was thick with its sticky scent. Perrin neared the front of their line, passing riders in red breastplates, lances held high, their helms like rimmed pots. The Winged Guards of Mayene. Lord Gallenne rode at their front, red-plumed helm held at his side. His bearing was formal enough that you might think he was riding in a parade, but his single eye was keen as he scanned the countryside. He was a good soldier. There were a lot of good soldiers in this force, though sometimes it was tough as bending a horseshoe to keep their hands from one another’s throats.

  “Lord Perrin!” a voice shouted. Arganda, First Captain of Ghealdan, pushed through the Mayener lines riding a tall roan gelding. His troops rode in a wide column beside the Mayeners—ever since Alliandre’s return, Arganda had been set on equal treatment. He’d complained that the Winged Guards often rode in front. Rather than spur further arguments, Perrin had ordered their columns to ride side by side.

  “Was that another batch of mercenaries?” Arganda demanded, pulling his horse up beside Perrin.

  “A small band,” Perrin said. “Probably once the guard of some local city’s lord.”

  “Deserters.” Arganda spat to the side. “You should have sent for me. My queen would want them strung up! Don’t forget that we’re in Ghealdan now.”

  “Your queen is my liegewoman,” Perrin said as they reached the front of the column. “We’re not stringing anyone up unless we have proof of their crimes. Once everyone is safely back where they belong, you can start sorting through the sell-swords and see if you can charge any of them. Until then, they’re just hungry men looking for someone to follow.”

  Arganda smelled frustrated. Perrin had gained a few weeks of goodwill from him and Gallenne following the successful assault on Malden, but old divisions were resurfacing in the endless mud, under a sky full of tumbling thunderheads.

  “Don’t worry yourself,” Perrin said. “I have men watching over the newcomers.” He also had them watching the refugees. Some were so docile that they would hardly go to the privy without being instructed to do so; others kept looking over their shoulders, as if expecting Shaido to spring from the distant line of oaks and sweetgum trees at any moment. People who smelled that terrified could be trouble, and the various factions of his camp already walked as if trudging through itchweed.

  “You may send someone to talk to the newcomers, Arganda,” Perrin said. “Talk only. Find out where they’re from, learn whether they did serve a lord, see if they can add anything to the maps.” They didn’t have any good maps of the area, and had been forced to have the Ghealdanin men—Arganda included—draw some from memory.

  Arganda rode off, and Perrin moved to the front of the column. Being in charge did have its nice moments; up here, the smells of unwashed bodies and pungent mud weren’t nearly so strong. Ahead, he could finally see the Jehannah Road like a long strap of leather cutting through the highland plains, running in a northwestern direction.

  Perrin rode, lost in thought for a time. Eventually, they reached the roadway. The mud didn’t look as bad on the road as it had in the meadows—though if it were like any other road Perrin had traveled on, it would have its mires and washed-out sections. As he reached it, he noticed Gaul approaching. The Aiel had been off scouting ahead, and as Perrin’s horse stepped up onto the road, he noticed that someone was riding behind Gaul up toward them.

  It was Fennel, one of the farriers that Perrin had sent ahead with Master Gill and the others. Perrin felt a wash of relief to see him, but it was followed by worry. Where were the others?

  “Lord Perrin!” the man said, riding up. Gaul stepped to the side. Fennel was a wide-shouldered man, and carried a long-handled workman’s axe strapped to his back. He smelled of relief. “Praise the Light. I thought you’d never get here. Your man says the rescue worked?”

  “It did, Fennel,” Perrin said, frowning. “Where are the others?”

  “They went on ahead, my Lord,” Fennel said, bowing from horseback. “I volunteered to stay behind, for when you caught up. We needed to explain, you see.”

  “Explain?”

  “The rest turned toward Lugard,” Fennel explained. “Along the road.”

  “What?” Perrin said, frustrated. “I gave them orders to continue northward!”

  “My Lord,” Fennel said, looking abashed. “We met travelers coming from that way; said that mud made the roads to the north almost completely impassable for wagons or carts. Master Gill decided that heading to Caemlyn through Lugard would be the best way to follow your orders. Sorry, my Lord. That’s why one of us had to stay behind.”

  Light! No wonder the scouts hadn’t found Gill and the others. They’d gone in the wrong direction. Well, after slogging through mud for weeks himself—sometimes having to stop and wait out storms—Perrin couldn’t bl
ame them for deciding to take the road. That didn’t stop him from feeling frustrated.

  “How far behind are we?” Perrin asked.

  “I’ve been here five days, my Lord.”

  So Gill and the others had been slowed too. Well, that was something, at least.

  “Go get yourself something to eat, Fennel,” Perrin said. “And thank you for staying behind to let me know what happened. It was a brave thing you did, waiting alone for so long.”

  “Somebody had to do it, my Lord.” He hesitated. “Most feared you hadn’t…well, that things had gone wrong, my Lord. You see, we figured you’d be faster than us, since we had those carts. But from the look of things here, you decided to bring the entire town with you!”

  It wasn’t far from the truth, unfortunately. He waved Fennel on.

  “I found him about an hour along the road,” Gaul said softly. “Beside a hill that would make an excellent camp. Well watered, with a good view of the surrounding area.”

  Perrin nodded. They’d have to decide what to do—wait until Grady and Neald could make large gateways, follow along after Master Gill and the others on foot, or send most people northward and send only a few toward Lugard. Regardless of the decision, it would be good to camp for the day and sort through things. “Pass the word to the others, if you will,” Perrin said to Gaul. “We’ll hike down the road to the place you found, then discuss what to do next. And ask some of the Maidens if they’d scout along the road in the other direction to make sure we’re not going to be surprised by anyone moving up the road behind us.”

  Gaul nodded and moved off to pass the word. Perrin remained sitting atop Stayer, thinking. He had half a mind to send Arganda and Alliandre off to the northwest right now, setting on a path to Jehannah. But the Maidens had picked out some Shaido scouts watching his army. Those were probably there to make sure Perrin wasn’t a threat, but they made him uneasy. These were dangerous times.