The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “Curious,” Egwene said. They seemed a varied bunch, with mismatched tents and little understanding of how to set up an army camp. But there did seem to be some five or ten thousand of them. “Have some scouts keep an eye on them.”

  Gawyn nodded.

  Egwene turned and noted a procession moving through several gateways nearby, setting up camp. The Lion of Andor flew high above them, and the soldiers marched in orderly rows. A procession in red and white had left them and was marching toward Egwene’s camp, the banner of the Queen flying above them.

  Gawyn accompanied Egwene across the yellowed grass to meet Elayne. The Andoran Queen had certainly taken her time. Only one day until the time specified by Rand. Still, she had come, as had others. Aiel had accompanied Darlin from Tear, and her persuasion had been enough to bring a large contingent of Illianers, who camped on the western side of the grass.

  The Cairhienin were Elayne’s now, by reports, and were coming through with the Andorans and a large number of men from the Band of the Red Hand. Egwene had sent an offer, and a woman to offer Traveling, to King Roedran of Murandy, but she was uncertain if he would come. Even without him, however, a considerable number of the world’s nations were represented here, particularly since the flags of Ghealdan and Mayene could be seen among Perrin’s armies. She would have to contact their two rulers and see if she could sway them to her way of thinking. But even if not, surely what she had gathered would be enough to convince Rand to change his plans. Light send it was enough. She didn’t want to think of what would happen if he forced her hand.

  She walked down the pathway, nodding back to sisters who nodded and Accepted who curtsied, soldiers who saluted and servants who bowed. Rand would—

  “It can’t be,” Gawyn said suddenly, freezing in place.

  “Gawyn?” she said, frowning. “Are you—”

  He took off at a run across the weed-strewn hill. Egwene looked after him with dissatisfaction. He still had an impulsive streak. Why was he so upset, suddenly? It wasn’t worry; she could feel that. It was confusion. She hastened after him with as much speed as decorum would allow. Elayne’s envoy had stopped in the dead grass.

  Gawyn was on his knees there, before someone. An older woman with red-gold hair, standing beside a smiling Elayne, who still sat her horse.

  Ah, Egwene thought. Her spies had delivered word of this rumor just last night, but she’d wanted to confirm it before speaking to Gawyn.

  Morgase Trakand lived.

  Egwene stood back, for now. Once she stepped forward, Elayne would have to kiss her ring and the entire procession would bow; that would spoil Gawyn’s moment. As she waited, the clouds above grew thinner.

  Suddenly they split, the dark thunderheads pulling back. The sky became an open field of blue, a deep, pure expanse. Elayne’s eyes opened wide, and she turned on her horse, looking at Perrin’s section of camp.

  He’s come, then, Egwene thought. And the calm is here. The brief moment of peace before the storm that destroys.

  “You give it a try, Emarin,” Androl said, standing with a small group inside a stand of trees near the border of the Black Tower grounds.

  The stately nobleman concentrated, holding the One Power. Weaves sprang up around him. He was remarkably skillful, considering his short time practicing, and expertly crafted the weave for a gateway.

  Instead of opening a hole in the air, the weave unraveled and vanished. Emarin turned to the rest of them, sweat streaming down his face. “Forming those weaves seemed harder than before,” he said.

  “Why won’t they work?” Evin said. The young man’s youthful face flushed with anger—as if the problem with gateways was an insult.

  Androl shook his head, arms folded. The trees rustled, leaves shivering, many falling to the ground. Brown, as if it were autumn. That unnerved him. He’d spent some time working the ground during his journeys in life, and had acquired a farmer’s sense for right and wrong regarding the land.

  “You try it again, Androl,” Evin said. “You’re always so good with gateways.”

  He glanced at the other three. Canler was the other one there; the aging Andoran farmer wore a deep frown. Of course, Canler often scowled at one thing or another.

  Androl closed his eyes, emptying himself of all passions, embracing the void. Saidin shone in there, life and Power. He seized it, drinking it in. He opened his eyes to a world that was more vibrant. Could dead plants look both sickly and vibrant at the same time? A strange juxtaposition made possible by saidin.

  He focused. Making gateways came so much easier to him than other weaves did; he’d never understood why. Though he couldn’t break even a small rock apart by channeling, he could make a gateway large enough for a wagon to drive through. Logain had called it impressive; Taim had called it impossible.

  This time, Androl pushed all of the Power he had into his weave. He understood gateways. They made sense. Maybe it was the innate fondness he had for traveling, for discovering new places and new arts.

  The weaves came together. He didn’t notice any of the difficulty that Emarin had mentioned. However, when the familiar slash of light should have come, the weave began to unravel instead. Androl tried to hold to it, pulling it together. For a moment, it looked like that would work. Then the threads slid from his grip, evaporating. The gateway never formed.

  “The other weaves I’ve tried all work,” Evin said, making a globe of light. “Every one of them.”

  “Only gateways,” Canler said with a grunt.

  “It’s like…” Emarin said. “It’s as if something wants to keep us here. In the Black Tower.”

  “Try them in other places inside the perimeter,” Androl said. “But try not to let any of Taim’s loyalists see what you’re doing. Pretend to be surveying, as Taim ordered.”

  The men nodded, the three of them hiking toward the east. Androl left the glade. Norley was standing beside the road, looking about for him. The short, thick-waisted Cairhienin man waved and approached. Androl met him halfway. Norley had an open, inviting smile. Nobody ever suspected him of spying on them, something Androl had put to good use.

  “You spoke with Mezar?” Androl asked.

  “Sure did,” Norley replied. “Shared a lunch with him.” Norley waved at Mishraile as they passed him supervising a group of soldiers practicing their weaves. The golden-haired man turned away dismissively.

  “And?” Androl asked, tense.

  “It’s not really Mezar,” Norley said. “Oh, it has Mezar’s face, right enough. But it’s not him. I can see it in his eyes. Trouble is, whatever the thing is, it has Mezar’s memories. Talks right like him. But the smile is wrong. All wrong.”

  Androl shivered. “It has to be him, Norley.”

  “It ain’t. I promise you that.”

  “But—”

  “It just ain’t,” the stout man said.

  Androl took a deep breath. When Mezar had returned a few days back—explaining that Logain was well and that all would soon be resolved with Taim—Androl had begun to hope that there was a way out of this mess. But something had seemed off about the man. Beyond that, the M’Hael had made a great show of accepting Mezar as a full Asha’man; the Dragon had raised him. And now Mezar—once fiercely loyal to Logain—was spending his time with Coteren and Taim’s other lackeys.

  “This is getting bad, Androl,” Norley said softly, smiling and waving toward another group of practicing men. “I’d say it’s time for us to leave here, whether or not it’s against orders.”

  “We’d never get past those guard posts,” Androl said. “Taim won’t even let those Aes Sedai leave; you heard the fit that plump one threw at the gates the other day. Taim doubles the guard at night, and gateways don’t work.”

  “Well, we have to do something, don’t we? I mean…what if they’ve got Logain? What then?”

  “I…” I don’t know. “Go talk to the others who are loyal to Logain. I’m going to move us to a shared barrack. Them and their families. We�
��ll tell the M’Hael that we want to give more space for his new recruits. Then we’ll post a guard at nights.”

  “That’s going to be a little obvious.”

  “The division is already obvious,” Androl said. “Go do it.”

  “Sure thing. But what are you going to do?”

  Androl took a deep breath. “I’m going to find us some allies.”

  Norley moved off to the left, but Androl continued down the path, through the village. It seemed that fewer and fewer people were showing him respect these days. Either they were afraid to do so, or they’d thrown their lot in with Taim.

  Packs of black-coated men stood, with arms folded, watching him. Androl tried not to feel a chill. As he walked, he noted Mezar—hair graying at the sides, skin a Domani copper—standing with a group of lackeys. The man smiled at him. Mezar hadn’t ever been one who smiled easily. Androl nodded to him, meeting his eyes.

  And he saw what Norley had seen. Something was deeply wrong, something not-quite-alive inside those eyes. This didn’t seem to be a man, but a parody of one. A shadow stuffed inside human skin.

  Light help us all, Androl thought, hurrying by. He made his way to the southern side of the village, to a group of small huts with bleached white wood walls and thatched roofs that needed to be replaced.

  Androl hesitated outside. What was he doing? This was where the women of the Red Ajah were staying. They said they’d come to bond the Asha’man, but they hadn’t done it so far. That was obviously some kind of ruse. Perhaps they’d come here to try to find a way to gentle the entire lot.

  But if that were the case, then at least he could count on them not siding with Taim. When you stared down the gullet of a lionfish, a pirate’s brig didn’t seem so bad. Androl had heard the saying once while working a fisher’s boat in the south.

  Taking a deep breath, he knocked. The plump Red answered the door. She had the ageless face of an Aes Sedai—not young, really, but also not old. She eyed him.

  “I hear you want to leave the Black Tower,” Androl said, hoping he was doing the right thing.

  “Has your M’Hael changed his mind?” she asked, sounding hopeful. She actually smiled. A rare action for an Aes Sedai.

  “No,” Androl said, “so far as I know, he still forbids you to leave.”

  She frowned. “Then—”

  Androl lowered his voice. “You’re not the only one who would like to leave this place, Aes Sedai.”

  She looked at him, her face becoming perfectly calm. She doesn’t trust me, he thought. Odd, how the mere lack of emotion could itself convey meaning.

  Desperate, he took a step forward, laying a hand on the frame of the door. “Something’s wrong in this place. Something worse than you understand. Once, long ago, men and women who worked the Power strove together. They were stronger for it. Please. Hear me out.”

  She stood for a moment longer, then pulled the door open. “Come in, quickly. Tarna—the woman I share this hut with—is away. We must be done before she returns.”

  Androl stepped up into the building. He didn’t know whether he was stepping into the pirate’s brig or the lionfish’s mouth. But it would have to do.

  Chapter 57

  A Rabbit for Supper

  Mat hit uneven ground, blinded by the flash of light. Cursing, he used the ashandarei to steady himself on the springy earth. He smelled foliage, dirt and rotting wood. Insects buzzed in the shade.

  The whiteness faded, and he found himself standing outside the Tower of Ghenjei. He had half-expected to reappear in Rhuidean. It seemed that the spear returned him to his world in the place where he had entered. Thom sat on the ground, propping up Moiraine, who was blinking and looking about her.

  Mat spun on the tower and pointed upward. “I know you’re watching!” he said, thrilled. He had made it. He had bloody made it out alive! “I beat you, you crusty boot-leavings! I, Matrim Cauthon, survived your traps! Ha!” He raised the ashandarei over his head. “And you gave me the way out! Chew on that bitterness for lunch, you flaming, burning, misbegotten liars!”

  Mat beamed, slamming the spear down butt first onto the ground beside him. He nodded. Nobody got the better of Matrim Cauthon. They had lied to him, told him vague prophecies and threatened him, and then they had hanged him. But Mat came out ahead in the end.

  “Who was the other?” Moiraine’s soft voice asked from behind. “The one I saw, but did not know?”

  “He didn’t make it out,” Thom said somberly.

  That dampened Mat’s spirits. Their victory had come at a price, a terrible one. Mat had been traveling with a legend all this time?

  “He was a friend,” Thom said softly.

  “He was a great man,” Mat said, turning and pulling his ashandarei from where he had planted it in the dirt. “When you write the ballad of all this, Thom, make sure you point out that he was the hero.”

  Thom glanced at Mat, then nodded knowingly. “The world will want to know what happened to that man.” Light. As Mat thought about it, Thom had not been at all surprised to hear Noal was Jain Farstrider. He had known. When had he figured it out? Why had he said nothing to Mat? Some friend Thom was.

  Mat just shook his head. “Well, we’re out, one way or another. But Thom, next time I want to do the bloody negotiating, sneak up behind and hit me on the head with something large, heavy and blunt. Then take over.”

  “Your request is noted.”

  “Let’s move on a little way. I don’t like that bloody tower looming over me.”

  “Yes,” Moiraine said, “you could say that they feed off emotion. Though I wouldn’t call it ‘feeding off’ so much as ‘delighting in’ emotion. They don’t need it to survive, but it pleases them greatly.”

  They sat in a wooded hollow a short walk from the tower, next to the meadow beside the Arinelle. The thick tree canopy cooled the air and obscured their view of the tower.

  Mat sat on a small, mossy boulder as Thom made a fire. He had a few of Aludra’s strikers in his pocket as well as some packets of tea, though there was nothing to warm the water in.

  Moiraine sat on the ground, still wrapped in Thom’s cloak, leaning back against a fallen log. She held the cloak closed from the inside, letting it envelop her completely, save for her face and those dark curls. She looked more a woman than Mat remembered—in his memories, she was like a statue. Always expressionless, face like polished stone, eyes like dark brown topaz.

  Now she sat with pale skin, flushed cheeks, hair curled and falling naturally around her face. She was fetching, save for that ageless Aes Sedai face. Yet that face showed far more emotion than Mat remembered, a look of fondness when she glanced at Thom, a faint shiver when she spoke of her time in the tower.

  She glanced at Mat, and her eyes were still appraising. Yes, this was the same Moiraine. Humbled, cast down. That made her seem stronger to him for some reason.

  Thom blew at a hesitant flame that curled a lock of smoke into the air before flickering out. The wood was probably too wet. Thom cursed.

  “It’s all right, Thom,” Moiraine said softly. “I will be well.”

  “I won’t have you catching cold the moment we free you from that place,” Thom said. He got out a striker, but suddenly the wood sparked, and then fire sputtered to life as it consumed the too-wet tinder.

  Mat glanced at Moiraine, who had a look of concentration on her face.

  “Oh,” Thom said, then chuckled. “I’d forgotten about that, nearly….”

  “It’s all I can manage now on my own,” Moiraine said, grimacing. Light, had Moiraine grimaced before? She had been too high-and-mighty for that, had she not? Or was Mat remembering her wrong?

  Moiraine. He was talking to flaming Moiraine! Though he had gone into the tower with the distinct purpose of rescuing her, it seemed incredible that he was speaking with her. It was like talking to…

  Well, like talking to Birgitte Silverbow or Jain Farstrider. Mat smiled, shaking his head. What a world this was, and what a s
trange place he had in it.

  “What did you mean by that, Moiraine?” Thom asked, nurturing the fire with some sticks. “It’s all you can manage?”

  “The Aelfinn and Eelfinn,” she explained, voice calm. “They savor and relish powerful emotions. For some reason the effects of a ta’veren are even more intoxicating to them. There are other things that they enjoy.”

  Thom glanced at her, frowning.

  “My Power, Thom,” she explained. “I could hear them barking and hissing to one another as they fed on me, both Aelfinn and Eelfinn in turn. They have not often had an Aes Sedai to themselves, it seems. While draining my ability to channel, they were fed twofold—my sorrow at what I was losing and the Power itself. My capacity has been greatly reduced.

  “They claimed to have killed Lanfear by draining her too quickly, though I think they may have been trying to make me afraid. A man was there once, when they woke me. He said I was not the one he wanted.” She hesitated, then shivered. “Sometimes I wished that they would drain me quickly and end my life.”

  The small camp grew silent save for the popping of the fire. Thom looked toward Moiraine, seeming helpless.

  “Do not show me such sorrow, Thom Merrilin,” Moiraine said, smiling. “I have felt terrible things, but all people know such moments of despair. I believed that you would come.” She removed her hand from the cloak—revealing a slender, pale shoulder and collarbone—and reached toward him. He hesitated, then took the hand and squeezed it.

  Moiraine looked to Mat. “And you, Matrim Cauthon. Not a simple farm lad any longer. Does your eye pain you much?”

  Mat shrugged.

  “I would Heal the wound if I could,” Moiraine said. “But even were I still as strong as I once was, I couldn’t restore your eye.” She looked down, releasing Thom’s hand and holding up her arm. “Do you have the angreal?”

  “Oh, yes,” Thom said, fishing the strange bracelet out of his pocket. He put it on her arm.