The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  The Seanchan would come for Andor eventually. By then, Rand’s armies would likely be weakened and broken from the fighting, their leader possibly dead. Again, it made her heart twist to consider that, but she couldn’t shy away from the truth.

  Andor would be a prize to the Seanchan. The mines and rich lands of her realm would tempt them, as would the proximity to Tar Valon. Beyond that, she suspected that those who claimed to be Artur Hawkwing’s successors would never be satisfied until they held all that had once belonged to their ancestor.

  Elayne looked out over her nation. Her nation. Full of those who trusted in her to protect and defend them. Many who had supported her claim to the throne had had little faith in her. But she was their best option, their only option. She would show them the wisdom of their choice.

  Securing the Kin would be one step. Sooner or later, the Seanchan would be able to Travel. All they needed to do was capture one woman who knew the weaves, and soon each and every damane with the requisite strength would be able to create the portals. Elayne needed access to them as well.

  What she didn’t have, however, were channelers to use in battle. She knew she couldn’t ask this of the Kin. They’d never agree to it, nor would Egwene. Nor would Elayne herself. Forcing a woman to use the Power as a weapon would make her no better than the Seanchan themselves.

  Unfortunately, Elayne knew full well the destruction women using the One Power could cause. She’d been bound in a wagon while Birgitte led the attack on the Black Ajah who had kidnapped her here in Caemlyn, but she’d seen its aftermath. Hundreds dead, hundreds more wounded, dozens burned away. Smoking, twisted corpses.

  She needed something. An edge against the Seanchan. Something to balance their channelers in combat. The only thing she could think of was the Black Tower. It was on Andor’s soil. She’d told them that she considered them part of her nation, but so far she’d gone no further than sending inspection parties.

  What would happen to them if Rand died? Dared she try to claim them? Dared she wait for someone else to?

  Chapter 18

  The Strength of This Place

  Perrin ran through the darkness. Trails of watery mist brushed his face and condensed in his beard. His mind was foggy, distant. Where was he going? What was he doing? Why was he running?

  He roared and charged, ripping through the veiled darkness and bursting into open air. He took a deep breath and landed on the top of a steep hill covered with short, patchy grass, with a ring of trees at its base. The sky rumbled and churned with clouds, like a boiling pot of tar.

  He was in the wolf dream. His body slumbered in the real world, on this hilltop, with Faile. He smiled, breathing deeply. His problems had not diminished. In fact, with the Whitecloak ultimatum, they seemed magnified. But all was well with Faile. That simple fact changed so much. With her at his side, he could do anything.

  He leaped down from the hillside and crossed the open area where his army camped. They had been here long enough that signs had appeared in the wolf dream. Tents reflected the waking world, though their flaps were in a different position each time he looked at them. Cook-fire pits in the ground, ruts in the pathways, occasional bits of refuse or discarded tools. These would pop into existence, then vanish.

  He moved quickly through the camp, each step taking him ten paces. Once he might have found the lack of people in the camp eerie, but he was accustomed to the wolf dream now. This was natural.

  Perrin approached the statue at the side of the camp, then looked up at the age-pocked stone, overgrown with lichen of black, orange and green. The statue must have been posed oddly, if it had fallen in such a way. It almost looked as if it had been created this way—an enormous arm bursting from the loam.

  Perrin turned to the southeast, toward where the Whitecloak camp would be found. He had to deal with them. He was increasingly certain—confident, even—that he could not continue until he had confronted these shadows from the past.

  There was one way to deal with them for certain. A careful trap using the Asha’man and Wise Ones, and Perrin could hit the Children so hard that they shattered. He could maybe even destroy them permanently as a group.

  He had the means, the opportunity, and the motivation. No more fear in the land, no more Whitecloak mock trials. He leaped forward, soaring thirty feet and falling lightly to the ground. Then he took off, running southeast along the road.

  He found the Whitecloak camp in a forested hollow, thousands of white tents set up in tight rings. The tents of some ten thousand Children, along with another ten thousand mercenaries and other soldiers. Balwer estimated that this was the bulk of the remaining Children, though he had been unclear on how he’d gotten that knowledge. Hopefully the dusty man’s hatred of the Whitecloaks wasn’t clouding his judgment.

  Perrin moved among the tents, looking to see if he could discover anything that Elyas and the Aiel had not. It was unlikely, but he figured it was worth an attempt, while he was here. Besides, he wanted to see the place with his own eyes. He lifted flaps, moved between groupings of tents, inspecting the place and getting a feel for it and its occupants. The camp was arranged in a very orderly manner. The insides were less stable than the tents themselves, but what he saw was also kept orderly.

  The Whitecloaks liked things neat, tidy and carefully folded. And they liked to pretend the entire world could be polished up and cleaned the same way, people defined and explained in one or two words.

  Perrin shook his head, making his way to the Lord Captain Commander’s tent. The organization of the tents led him to it easily, at the center ring. It wasn’t much larger than the other tents, and Perrin ducked inside, trying to see if he could find anything of use. It was furnished simply, with a bedroll that was in a different position each time Perrin looked at it, along with a table holding objects that vanished and appeared at random.

  Perrin stepped up to it, picking up something that appeared there. A signet ring. He didn’t recognize the signet, a winged dagger, but memorized it just before the ring vanished from his fingers, too transient to stay long in the wolf dream. Though he’d met with the Whitecloak leader, and corresponded with the man, he didn’t know much about the man’s past. Perhaps this would help.

  He searched through the tent a while longer, finding nothing of use, then went to the large tent where Gaul had explained that many of the captives were being kept. Here, he saw Master Gill’s hat appear for a moment, then vanish.

  Satisfied, Perrin walked back out of the tent. As he did so, he found something bothering him. Shouldn’t he have tried something like this when Faile was kidnapped? He’d sent numerous scouts to Malden. Light, he’d had to restrain himself from marching off to find Faile on his own! But he’d never tried visiting the place in the wolf dream.

  Perhaps it would have been useless. But he hadn’t considered the possibility, and that troubled him.

  He froze, passing a cart parked beside one of the Whitecloak tents. The back was open, and a grizzled silver wolf lay there, watching him.

  “I do let my attention grow too narrow, Hopper,” Perrin said. “When I get consumed by a goal, it can make me careless. That can be dangerous. As in battle, when concentrating on the adversary in front of you can expose you to the archer on the side.”

  Hopper cracked his mouth open, smiling after the way of wolves. He hopped from the cart. Perrin could sense other wolves nearby—the others of the pack he had run with before. Oak Dancer, Sparks and Boundless.

  “All right,” he said to Hopper. “I’m ready to learn.”

  Hopper sat down on his haunches, regarding Perrin. Follow, the wolf sent.

  Then vanished.

  Perrin cursed, looking about. Where had the wolf gone? He moved through the camp, searching, but couldn’t sense Hopper anywhere. He reached out with his mind. Nothing.

  Young Bull. Suddenly Hopper was behind him. Follow. He vanished again.

  Perrin growled, then moved about the camp in a flash. When he didn’t find
the wolf, he shifted to the field of grain where he’d met Hopper last time. The wolf wasn’t there. Perrin stood among the blowing grain, frustrated.

  Hopper found him a few minutes later. The wolf smelled dissatisfied. Follow! he sent.

  “I don’t know how,” Perrin said. “Hopper, I don’t know where you’re going.”

  The wolf sat down. He sent an image of a wolf pup, joining others of the pack. The pup watched his elders and did what they did.

  “I’m not a wolf, Hopper,” Perrin said. “I don’t learn the way you do. You must explain to me what you want me to do.”

  Follow here. The wolf sent an image of, oddly, Emond’s Field. Then he vanished.

  Perrin followed, appearing on a familiar green. A group of buildings lined it, which felt wrong. Emond’s Field should have been a little village, not a town with a stone wall and a road running past the mayor’s inn, paved with stones. Much had changed in the short time he had been away.

  “Why have we come here?” Perrin asked. Disturbingly, the wolfhead banner still flew on the pole above the green. It could have been a trick of the wolf dream, but he doubted it. He knew all too well how eagerly the people of the Two Rivers flew the standard of “Perrin Goldeneyes.”

  Men are strange, Hopper sent.

  Perrin turned to the old wolf.

  Men think strange thoughts, Hopper said. We do not try to understand them. Why does the stag flee, the sparrow fly, the tree grow? They do. That is all.

  “Very well,” Perrin said.

  I cannot teach a sparrow to hunt, Hopper continued. And a sparrow does not teach a wolf to fly.

  “But here, you can fly,” Perrin said.

  Yes. And I was not taught. I know. Hopper’s scent was full of emotion and confusion. Wolves all remembered everything that one of their kind knew. Hopper was frustrated because he wanted to teach Perrin, but wasn’t accustomed to doing things in the way of people.

  “Please,” Perrin said. “Try to explain to me what you mean. You always tell me I’m here ‘too strongly.’ It’s dangerous, you say. Why?”

  You slumber, Hopper said. The other you. You cannot stay here too long. You must always remember that you are unnatural here. This is not your den.

  Hopper turned toward the houses around them. This is your den, the den of your sire. This place. Remember it. It will keep you from being lost. This was how your kind once did it. You understand.

  It wasn’t a question, though it was something of a plea. Hopper wasn’t certain how to explain further.

  “I can try,” Perrin thought, interpreting the sending as best he could. But Hopper was wrong. This place wasn’t his home. Perrin’s home was with Faile. He needed to remember that, somehow, to keep himself from getting drawn into the wolf dream too strongly.

  I have seen your she in your mind, Young Bull, Hopper sent, cocking his head. She is like a hive of bees, with sweet honey and sharp stings. Hopper’s image of Faile was that of a very confusing female wolf. One who would playfully nip at his nose one moment, then growl at him the next, refusing to share her meat.

  Perrin smiled.

  The memory is part, Hopper sent. But the other part is you. You must stay as Young Bull. A wolf’s reflection in the water, shimmering and growing indistinct as ripples crossed it.

  “I don’t understand.”

  The strength of this place, Hopper sent an image of a wolf carved of stone, is the strength of you. The wolf thought for a moment. Stand. Remain. Be you.

  With that, the wolf stood and backed up, as if preparing to run at Perrin.

  Confused, Perrin imagined himself as he was, holding that image in his head as strongly as he could.

  Hopper ran and jumped at him, slamming his body into Perrin. He’d done this before, somehow forcing Perrin out of the wolf dream.

  This time, however, Perrin was set and waiting. Instinctively, Perrin pushed back. The wolf dream wavered around him, but then grew firm again. Hopper rebounded off him, though the heavy wolf should have knocked Perrin to the ground.

  Hopper shook his head, as if dazed. Good, he sent, pleased. Good. You learn. Again.

  Perrin steadied himself just in time to get slammed by Hopper a second time. Perrin growled, but held steady.

  Here, Hopper sent, giving an image of the field of grain. Hopper vanished, and Perrin followed. As soon as he appeared, the wolf slammed into him, mind and body.

  Perrin fell to the ground this time, everything wavering and shimmering. He felt himself being pushed away, forced out of the wolf dream and into his ordinary dreams.

  No! he thought, holding to an image of himself kneeling among those fields of grain. He was there. He imagined it, solid and real. He smelled the oats, the humid air, alive with the scents of dirt and fallen leaves.

  The landscape coalesced. He panted, kneeling on the ground, but he was still in the wolf dream.

  Good, Hopper sent. You learn quickly.

  “There’s no other option,” Perrin said, climbing to his feet.

  The Last Hunt comes, Hopper agreed, sending an image of the Whitecloak camp.

  Perrin followed, bracing himself. No attack came. He looked around for the wolf.

  Something slammed into his mind. There was no motion, only the mental attack. It wasn’t as strong as before, but it was unexpected. Perrin barely managed to fight it off.

  Hopper fell from the air, landing gracefully on the ground. Always be ready, the wolf sent. Always, but especially when you move. An image of a careful wolf, testing the air before moving out into an open pasture.

  “I understand.”

  But do not come too strongly, Hopper chided.

  Immediately, Perrin forced himself to remember Faile and the place where he slept. His home. He…faded slightly. His skin didn’t grow translucent, and the wolf dream stayed the same, but he felt more exposed.

  Good, Hopper sent. Always ready, but never holding on too strong. Like carrying a pup in your jaws.

  “That’s not going to be an easy balance,” Perrin said.

  Hopper gave a slightly confused scent. Of course it was difficult.

  Perrin smiled. “What now?”

  Running, Hopper sent. Then more practice.

  The wolf dashed away, zipping in a blur of gray and silver off toward the road. Perrin followed. He sensed determination from Hopper—a scent that was oddly similar to the way Tam smelled when training the refugees to fight. That made Perrin smile.

  They ran down the road, and Perrin practiced the balance of not being in the dream too strongly, yet being ready to solidify his sense of self at any moment. Occasionally Hopper would attack him, trying to throw him from the wolf dream. They continued until Hopper—suddenly—stopped running.

  Perrin took a few extra steps, surging ahead of the wolf, before stopping. There was something in front of him. A translucent violet wall that cut directly through the roadway. It extended up into the sky and distantly to both the right and the left.

  “Hopper?” Perrin asked. “What is this?”

  Wrongness, Hopper sent. It should not be here. The wolf smelled angry.

  Perrin stepped forward and raised a hand toward the surface, but hesitated. It looked like glass. He’d never seen anything like this in the wolf dream. Might it be like the bubbles of evil? He looked up at the sky.

  The wall flashed suddenly and was gone. Perrin blinked, stumbling back. He glanced at Hopper. The wolf sat on his haunches, staring at the place where the wall had been. Come, Young Bull, the wolf finally sent, standing. We will practice in another place.

  He loped away. Perrin looked back down the road. Whatever the wall had been, it had left no visible sign of its existence.

  Troubled, Perrin followed after Hopper.

  “Burn me, where are those archers!” Rodel Ituralde climbed up to the top of the hillside. “I wanted them formed up on the forward towers an hour ago to relieve the crossbowmen!”

  Before him, the battle clanged and screamed and grunted and thumped a
nd roared. A band of Trollocs had surged across the river, crossing on ford rafts or a crude floating bridge fashioned from log rafts. Trollocs hated crossing water. It took a lot to get them over.

  Which was why this fortification was so useful. The hillside sloped directly down to the only ford of reasonable size in leagues. To the north, Trollocs boiled through a pass out of the Blight and ran right into the River Arinelle. When they could be forced across, they faced the hillside, which had been dug with trenches, piled with bulwarks and set with archer towers at the top. There was no way to reach the city of Maradon from the Blight except by passing over this hill.

  It was an ideal position for holding back a much larger force, but even the best fortifications could be overrun, particularly when your men were tired from weeks of fighting. The Trollocs had crossed and fought their way up the slope under a hail of arrows, falling into the trenches, having difficulty surmounting the high bulwarks.

  The hillside had a flat area at the top, where Ituralde had his command position, in the upper camp. He called orders as he looked down on the woven mass of trenches, bulwarks and towers. The Trollocs were dying to pikemen behind one of the bulwarks. Ituralde watched until the last Trolloc—an enormous, ram-faced beast—roared and died with three pikes in its gut.

  It looked as if another surge was coming, the Myrddraal driving another mass of Trollocs through the pass. Enough bodies had fallen in the river that it was clogged for the moment, running red, the carcasses providing a footing for those running up behind.

  “Archers!” Ituralde bellowed. “Where are those bloody—”

  A company of archers finally ran past, some of the reserves he’d held back. Most of them had the coppery skin of Domani, though there were a few stray Taraboners mixed in. They carried a wide variety of bows: narrow Domani longbows, serpentine Saldaean shortbows scavenged from guard posts or villages, even a few tall Two Rivers longbows.

  “Lidrin,” Ituralde called. The young, hard-eyed officer hurried across the hillside to him. Lidrin’s brown uniform was wrinkled and dirty at the knees, not because he was undisciplined, but because there were times when his men needed him more than his laundry did.