The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Perhaps this was merely one tiny group of Aiel. Or maybe the man had been mistaken. There was little way to tell from this single vision. Why had she been shown it?

  She took a hesitant step away from the glass columns, and nothing happened. No further visions. Disturbed, she began to walk from the plaza.

  Then she slowed.

  Hesitantly she turned back. The columns stood in the dimming light, quiet and alone, seeming to buzz with an unseen energy.

  Was there more?

  That one vision seemed so disconnected from the others she’d seen. If she passed into the columns’ midst again, would she repeat what she’d been given before? Or…had she, perhaps, changed something with her Talent?

  In the centuries since Rhuidean’s founding, those columns had shown the Aiel what they needed to know about themselves. The Aes Sedai had set that up, hadn’t they? Or had they simply placed the ter’angreal and allowed it to do what it pleased, knowing it would grant wisdom?

  Aviendha listened to the tree’s leaves rustle. Those pillars were a challenge, as sure as an enemy warrior with his spear in hand. If she passed into their midst again, she might never come out; nobody visited this ter’angreal a second time. It was forbidden. One trip through the rings, one through the columns.

  But she had come seeking knowledge. She would not leave without it. She turned and—taking a deep breath—walked up to the pillars.

  Then took a step.

  She was Norlesh. She held her youngest child close to her bosom. A dry wind tugged at her shawl. Her baby, Garlvan, started to whimper, but she quieted him as her husband spoke with the outlanders.

  An outlander village stood in the near distance, built of shacks against the foothills of the mountains. They wore dyed clothing and strangely cut trousers with buttoning shirts. They had come for the ore. How could rocks be so valuable that they would live on this side of the mountains, away from their fabled land of water and food? Away from their buildings where light shone without candles and their carts that moved without horses?

  Her shawl slipped and she pulled it up. She needed a new one; this one was ragged, and she didn’t have any more thread left for patching. Garlvan whimpered in her arms, and her only other living child—Meise—held to her skirts. Meise hadn’t spoken for months, now. Not since her older brother had died from exposure.

  “Please,” said her husband—Metalan—to the outlanders. There were three of them, two men and a woman, all wearing trousers. Rugged folk, not like the other foreigners, with their delicate features and too-fine silks. Illuminated Ones, those others sometimes called themselves. These three were more ordinary.

  “Please,” Metalan repeated. “My family…”

  He was a good man. Or he had been once, back when he’d been strong and fit. Now he seemed a shell of that man, his cheeks sunken. His once-vibrant blue eyes stared absently much of the time. Haunted. That look came from watching three of his children die in eighteen months’ time. Though Metalan was a head taller than any of the outlanders, he seemed to grovel before them.

  The lead outlander—a man with a bushy beard and wide, honest eyes—shook his head. He returned to Metalan the sack full of stones. “The Raven Empress, may she always draw breath, forbids it. No trading with Aiel. We could be stripped of our charter for talking to you.”

  “We have no food,” Metalan said. “My children are starving. These stones contain ore. I know that it is the type for which you search. I spent weeks gathering it. Give us a bit of food. Something. Please.”

  “Sorry, friend,” the lead outlander said. “It isn’t worth trouble with the Ravens. Go on your way. We don’t want an incident.” Several outlanders approached from behind, one carrying an axe, two others with hiss-staves.

  Her husband slumped. Days of travel, weeks of searching for the stones. For nothing. He turned and walked back to her. In the distance, the sun was setting. Once he reached her, she and Meise joined him, walking away from the outlander camp.

  Meise began to sniffle, but neither of them had the will or strength to carry her. About an hour away from the outlander camp, her husband found a hollow in a rock shelf. They settled in, not making a fire. There was nothing to burn.

  Norlesh wanted to cry. But…feeling anything seemed difficult. “I’m so hungry,” she whispered.

  “I will trap something in the morning,” her husband said, staring up at the stars.

  “We haven’t caught anything in days,” she said.

  He didn’t reply.

  “What are we going to do?” she whispered. “We haven’t been able to keep a home for our people since my greatmother Tava’s day. If we gather, they attack us. If we wander the Waste, we die off. They won’t trade with us. They won’t let us cross the mountains. What are we going to do?”

  His response was to lie down, turning away from her.

  Her tears did come then, quiet, weak. They rolled down her cheeks as she undid her shirt to nurse Garlvan, though she had no suck for him.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t latch on. She lifted his small form and realized that he was no longer breathing. Somewhere along the walk to the hollow, he had died without her realizing it.

  The most frightening part was how difficult she found it to summon any sorrow at the death.

  Aviendha’s foot hit the flagstones. Around her, the forest of glass columns shimmered with prismatic color. It was like standing in the middle of an Illuminator’s firework. The sun was high in the sky, cloud cover remarkably gone.

  She wanted to leave the square forever. She had been prepared for the knowledge that the Aiel had once followed the Way of the Leaf. That knowledge wasn’t very disturbing. They would soon fulfill their toh.

  But this? These scattered and broken wretches? People who didn’t stand up for themselves, who begged, who didn’t know how to survive off the land? To know that these were her ancestors was a shame she nearly could not bear. It was good that Rand al’Thor had not revealed this past to the Aiel.

  Could she flee? Run from the plaza and see no more? If it grew any worse, the shame would overwhelm her. Unfortunately, she knew that there was only one way out, now that she’d begun.

  Gritting her teeth, she took a step forward.

  She was Tava, fourteen years old and screaming in the night as she ran from her burning house. The entire valley—really a canyon, with steep sides—was in flames. Every building in the fledgling hold had been set afire. Nightmarish creatures, with sinuous necks and wide wings, flapped in the night above, bearing riders with bows, spears, and strange new weapons that made a hissing sound when they fired.

  Tava cried, searching for her family, but the hold was a mass of chaos and confusion. Some few Aiel warriors resisted, but anyone who raised a spear fell moments later, killed by arrow or by one of the invisible shots from the new weapons.

  An Aiel man fell before her, corpse rolling on the ground. Tadvishm had been his name, a Stone Dog. It was one of the few societies which still maintained an identity. Most warriors no longer held to a society; they made brothers and sisters of those with whom they camped. All too often, those camps were scattered anyway.

  This hold was to have been different, secret, deep within the Waste. How had their enemies found them?

  A child of only two years was crying. She dashed to him, snatching him from where he lay near the flames. Their homes burned. The wood had been scavenged with difficulty from the mountains on the eastern edge of the Waste.

  She held the child close and ran toward the deeper recesses of the canyon. Where was her father? With a sudden whoosh of sound, one of the nightmarish creatures landed before her, the burst of wind making her skirt flap. A fearsome warrior sat upon the creature’s back, helmet like that of an insect, mandibles sharp and jagged. He lowered his hissing staff toward her. She cried out in terror, huddling around the crying child and closing her eyes.

  The hissing sound never came. At a grunt and a sudden screech from the serpentine beast, she loo
ked up and saw a figure struggling with the outlander. The firelight showed the face of her father, clean-shaven as the old traditions dictated. The beast beneath the two men lurched, throwing both to the ground.

  A few moments later, her father rose, holding the invader’s sword in his hands, its length stained dark. The invader did not move, and behind them the beast leaped into the air, howling. Tava looked up, and saw that it was following the rest of the pack. The invaders were withdrawing, leaving a broken people with burning homes.

  She looked down again. The scene horrified her; so many bodies, dozens, lay bleeding on the ground. The invader that her father had killed appeared to be the only enemy that had fallen.

  “Gather sand!” her father—Rowahn—roared. “Quench the flames!”

  Tall—even for an Aiel—with striking red hair, he wore the old clothing of brown and tan, boots tied high to his knees. That clothing marked one as Aiel, therefore many had abandoned it. Being known as Aiel meant death.

  Her father had inherited his clothing from his grandfather, along with a charge. Follow the old ways. Remember ji’e’toh. Fight and maintain honor. Though he had been in the hold for only a few days, the others listened when he yelled for them to put out the fires. Tava returned the child to a grateful mother and then helped gather sand and dirt.

  A few hours later, a tired and bloodied people gathered in the center of the canyon, regarding with dull eyes what they had worked for months to build. It had been wiped out in a single night. Her father still carried the sword. He used it to direct the people. Some of the old ones said that a sword was bad luck, but why would they say that? It was only a weapon.

  “We must rebuild,” her father said, surveying the wreckage.

  “Rebuild?” said a soot-stained man. “The granary was the first to burn! There is no food!”

  “We will survive,” her father said. “We can move deeper into the Waste.”

  “There is nowhere else to go!” another man said. “The Raven Empire has sent word to the Far Ones, and they hunt us at the eastern border!”

  “They find us whenever we gather!” another cried.

  “It is a punishment!” her father said. “But we must endure!”

  The people looked at him. Then, in pairs or small groups, they began to walk away.

  “Wait,” her father said, raising his hand. “We must stay together, keep fighting! The clan—”

  “We are not a clan,” an ashen man said. “I can survive better on my own. No more fighting. They beat us when we fight.”

  Her father lowered the sword, its tip hitting the ground. Tava moved up beside him, worried as she watched the others walk their ways into the night. The air was still thick with smoke. The departing Aiel were shadows, melting into darkness, like swirls of dust blown on the wind. They didn’t pause to bury their dead.

  Her father bowed his head and dropped the sword to the ash-covered ground.

  There were tears in Aviendha’s eyes. There was no shame at crying over this tragedy. She had feared the truth, and she could no longer deny it.

  Those had been Seanchan raiders, riding atop raken. The Raven Empire, the Lightmakers from her first vision, were the Seanchan—and they hadn’t existed until the middle of the current Age, when Artur Hawkwing’s armies had crossed the oceans.

  She was not seeing the deep past of her people. She was seeing their future.

  Her first time through the pillars, each step had taken her backward, moving her through time toward the Age of Legends. It appeared that this time, the visions had started at a distant point in the future, and were working back toward her day, each vision jumping back a generation or two.

  Tears streaking her face, she took the next step.

  Chapter 49

  Court of the Sun

  She was Ladalin, Wise One of the Taardad Aiel. How she wished that she had been able to learn to channel. That was a shameful thought, wishing for a talent one did not have, but she could not deny it.

  She sat in the tent, feeling regretful. If she’d been able to work with the One Power, perhaps she could have done more to help the wounded. She could have remained young to lead her clan, and perhaps her bones would not ache so. Old age was a frustration when there was so much to do.

  The tent walls rustled as the remaining clan chiefs settled down. There was only one other Wise One in the room, Mora of the Goshien Aiel. She could not channel either. The Seanchan were particularly determined when it came to killing or capturing all Aiel—male or female—who showed any talent with the One Power.

  It was a sorry group gathered in the tent. A one-armed young soldier entered with a warm brazier and set it in the middle of them, then retreated. Ladalin’s mother had spoken of the days when there had still been gai’shain to do such work. Had there really been Aiel, man or Maiden, who had not been needed for the war against the Seanchan?

  Ladalin reached forward to warm her hands at the brazier, fingers knotted with age. She’d held a spear as a young woman; most women did, before they married. How could a woman remain behind when the Seanchan used female soldiers and their damane with such effectiveness?

  She’d heard stories about her mother and greatmother’s days, but they seemed incredible. The war was all Ladalin had ever known. Her first memories as a little girl were of the Almoth strikes. Her youth had been spent training. She had fought in the battles focused around the land that had been known as Tear.

  Ladalin had married and raised children, but had focused every breath on the conflict. Aiel or Seanchan. Both knew that, eventually, only one of the two would remain.

  It was looking more and more like the Aiel would be the ones forced out. That was another difference between her day and her mother’s day. Her mother had not spoken of failure; Ladalin’s lifetime was filled with milestones of withdrawal and retreat.

  The others seemed absorbed in their thoughts. Three clan chiefs and two Wise Ones. They were all that remained of the Council of Twenty-Two. Highland winds seeped through the tent flaps, chilling her back. Tamaav was the last to arrive. He looked as old as she felt, his face scarred and his left eye lost in battle. He sat down on the rock. The Aiel no longer carried rugs or cushions. Only the essentials could be transported.

  “The White Tower has fallen,” he said. “My scouts informed me not an hour ago. I trust their information.” He had always been a blunt man, and a good friend to her husband, who had fallen last year.

  “Then with it goes our last hope,” said Takai, the youngest of the clan chiefs. He was the third chief of the Miagoma in as many years.

  “Speak not so,” Ladalin said. “There is always hope.”

  “They have pushed us all the way to these cursed mountains,” Takai said. “The Shiande and the Daryne are no more. That leaves only five clans, and one of those is broken and scattered. We are beaten, Ladalin.”

  Tamaav sighed. She’d have lain a bridal wreath at his feet, had the years been earlier and the times different. Her clan needed a chief. Her son still thought to become the one, but with the recent Seanchan capture of Rhuidean, the clans were uncertain how to choose new leaders.

  “We must retreat into the Three-fold Land,” Mora said in her soft, matronly voice. “And seek penance for our sins.”

  “What sins?” Takai snapped.

  “The Dragon wanted peace,” she replied.

  “The Dragon left us!” Takai said. “I refuse to follow the memory of a man my greatfathers barely knew. We made no oaths to follow his foolish pact. We—”

  “Peace, Takai,” Jorshem said. The last of the three clan chiefs was a small, hawk-faced man with some Andoran blood in him from his greatfather. “Only the Three-fold Land holds any hope for us, now. The war against the Ravens has been lost.”

  The tent fell still.

  “They said they’d hunt us,” Takai said. “When they demanded surrender, they warned us against retreat. You know that. They said they would destroy any place where three Aiel gathered.”
/>   “We will not surrender,” Ladalin said firmly. More firmly than she felt, to be honest.

  “Surrender would make us gai’shain,” Tamaav said. They used the word to mean one without honor, though that was not the way Ladalin’s mother had used it. “Ladalin. What is your advice?”

  The other four looked at her. She was of the lineage of the Dragon, one of the last living. The other three lines had been killed off.

  “If we become slaves to the Seanchan, the Aiel as a people will be no more,” she said. “We cannot win, so we must retreat. We will return to the Three-fold Land and build up our strength. Perhaps our children can fight where we cannot.”

  Silence again. They all knew her words to be optimistic at best. After decades of war, the Aiel were a bare fraction of the number they had once been.

  Seanchan channelers were brutal in their effectiveness. Though the Wise Ones and Dragon Blooded used the One Power in battle, it was not enough. Those cursed a’dam! Each channeler the Aiel lost to capture was eventually turned against them.

  The real turning point in the war had been the entry of the other nations. After that, the Seanchan had been able to seize wetlander peoples and cull more channelers from their ranks. The Ravens were unstoppable; now that Tar Valon had fallen, every realm in the wetlands was subject to the Seanchan. Only the Black Tower still fought, though the Asha’man did so in secret, as their fortress had fallen years before.

  Aiel could not fight in secret. There was no honor to that. Of course, what did honor matter now? After deaths numbering in the hundreds of thousands? After the burning of Cairhien and the scouring of Illian? It had been twenty years since the Seanchan had gained the Andoran war machines. The Aiel had been tumbling toward defeat for decades; it was a testament to their tenacious nature that they had lasted so long.

  “This is his fault,” Takai said, still looking sullen. “The Car’a’carn could have led us to glory, but he abandoned us.”