The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Of course. You are Young Bull.

  “I mean, do you remember me from before, when we met in the waking world? You sent an image of it.”

  Noam opened his jaws, and a bone appeared in them. A large femur with some meat still on it. He lay on his side, chewing the bone. You are Young Bull, he sent, stubborn.

  “Do you remember the cage, Noam?” Perrin asked softly, sending the image. The image of a man, his filthy clothing half ripped off, locked in a makeshift wooden cell by his family.

  Noam froze, and his image wavered momentarily, becoming that of a man. The wolf The wolf image returned immediately, and he growled a low, dangerous growl.

  “I do not bring up bad times to make you angry, Noam,” Perrin said. “I…. Well, I’m like you.”

  I am a wolf.

  “Yes,” Perrin said. “But not always.”

  Always.

  “No,” Perrin said firmly. “Once you were like me. Thinking it differently doesn’t make it so.”

  Here it does, Young Bull, Noam sent. Here it does.

  That was true. Why was Perrin pressing this issue? Hopper had sent him here, though. Why should Boundless have the answer? Seeing him, knowing who he was, brought back all of Perrin’s fears. He’d made peace with himself, yet here was a man who had lost himself completely to the wolf.

  This was what Perrin had been terrified of. This was what had driven the wedge between him and the wolves. Now that he’d overcome that, why would Hopper send him here? Boundless scented his confusion. The bone vanished and Boundless set his head on his paws, looking up at Perrin.

  Noam—his mind almost gone—had thought only of breaking free and of killing; he’d been a danger to everyone around him. There was none of that now. Boundless seemed at peace. When they’d freed Noam, Perrin had worried that the man would die quickly, but he seemed alive and well. Alive, at least—Perrin couldn’t judge much about his wellness from how the man looked in the wolf dream.

  Still, Boundless’s mind was far better now. Perrin frowned to himself. Moiraine had said there was nothing left of the man Noam in the mind of the creature.

  “Boundless,” Perrin said. “What do you think of the world of men?”

  Perrin was immediately hit with a rapid succession of images. Pain. Sadness. Dying crops. Pain. A large, stout man, half-drunk, beating a pretty woman. Pain. A fire. Fear, sorrow. Pain.

  Perrin stumbled back. Boundless kept sending the images. One after another. A grave. A smaller grave beside it, as if for a child. The fire getting larger. A man—Noam’s brother; Perrin recognized him, though the man had not seemed dangerous at the time—enraged.

  It was a flood, too much. Perrin howled. A lament for the life that Noam had led, a dirge of sorrow and pain. No wonder this man preferred the life of a wolf.

  The images stopped, and Boundless turned his head away. Perrin found himself gasping for breath.

  A gift, Boundless sent.

  “By the Light,” Perrin whispered. “This was a choice, wasn’t it? You picked the wolf intentionally.”

  Boundless closed his eyes.

  “I always thought it would take me, if I weren’t careful,” Perrin said.

  The wolf is peace, Boundless sent.

  “Yes,” Perrin said, laying a hand on the wolf’s head. “I understand.”

  This was the balance for Boundless. Different from the balance for Elyas. And different from what Perrin had found. He understood. This did not mean that the way he let himself lose control was not a danger. But it was the final piece he needed to understand. The final piece of himself.

  Thank you, Perrin sent. The image of Young Bull the wolf and Perrin the man standing beside one another, atop a hill, their scents the same. He sent that image outward, as powerfully as he could. To Boundless, to the wolves nearby. To any who would listen.

  Thank you.

  “Dovie’andi se tovya sagain,” Olver said, throwing the dice. They rolled across the canvas floor of the tent. Olver smiled as they came up. All black dots, no wavy lines or triangles. A lucky roll indeed.

  Olver moved his piece along the cloth board of the Snakes and Foxes game his father had made for him. Seeing that board made Olver hurt every time. It reminded him of his father. But he kept his lip stiff and did not let anyone know. Warriors did not cry. And besides, someday he would find that Shaido who had killed his father. Then Olver would get his vengeance.

  That was the sort of thing a man did, when he was a warrior. He figured Mat would help, once he was done with all of this business at the Last Battle. He would owe Olver by then, and not just for all the time Olver had spent being Mat’s personal messenger. For the information he had given him about the snakes and the foxes.

  Talmanes sat in a chair beside Olver. The stoic man was reading a book, only paying mild attention to the game. He was not nearly as good to play with as Noal or Thom. But then, Talmanes had not been sent to play with Olver so much as watch over him.

  Mat did not want Olver to know that he had gone to the Tower of Ghenjei, leaving Olver behind. Well, Olver was not a fool, and he knew what was going on. He was not mad, not really. Noal was a good one to take, and if Mat could only take three, well…Noal could fight better than Olver. So it made sense for him to go.

  But next time, Olver would do the choosing. And then Mat had better be nice, or he would be left behind.

  “Your roll, Talmanes,” Olver said.

  Talmanes mumbled something, reaching over and tossing the handful of dice without losing his place in the book. He was an all-right fellow, though a little stiff. Olver would not choose to have a man like him on a good night of drinking and hunting serving girls. As soon as Olver was old enough to go drinking and hunting serving girls. He figured he would be ready in another year or so.

  Olver moved the snakes and foxes, then picked up the dice for his next throw. He had figured it all out. There were a lot of Shaido out there, and he had no idea how to find the one who had killed his parents. But the Aelfinn, they could answer questions. He had heard Mat talking about it. So Olver would go get his answers, then track the man down. Easy as riding a horse. He just had to train with the Band beforehand, so he could fight well enough to see done what needed to be done.

  He threw his dice. Another full run. Olver smiled, moving his piece back toward the center of the board, half lost in thought and dreaming of the day when he would finally get his revenge, like was proper.

  He moved his piece across one more line, then froze.

  His piece was on the center spot.

  “I won!” he exclaimed.

  Talmanes looked up, pipe lowering in his lips. He cocked his head, staring at the board. “Burn me,” he muttered. “We must have counted wrong, or…”

  “Counted wrong?”

  “I mean…” Talmanes looked stunned. “You can’t win. The game can’t be won. It just can’t.”

  That was nonsense. Why would Olver play if it could not be won? He smiled, looking over the board. The snakes and the foxes were within one toss of getting to his piece and making him lose. But this time, he’d gotten all the way to the outside ring and back. He had won.

  Good thing, too. He had started to think he would never manage it!

  Olver stood up, stretching his legs. Talmanes climbed off his chair, squatting down beside the game board and scratching his head, smoke idly curling from the end of his pipe.

  “I hope Mat will be back soon,” Olver said.

  “I’m sure he will be,” Talmanes said. “His task for Her Majesty shouldn’t take much longer.” That was the lie they had told Olver—that Mat, Thom and Noal had gone off on some secret errand for the Queen. Well, that was just another reason that Mat would owe him. Honestly, Mat could be so prim sometimes, acting as if Olver could not take care of himself.

  Olver shook his head, strolling over to the side of the tent, where a stack of Mat’s papers sat awaiting his return. There, peeking from between two of them, Olver noticed something interesting.
A bit of red, like blood. He reached up, sliding a worn letter from between two of the sheets. It was sealed closed with a dollop of wax.

  Olver frowned, turning the small letter over. He had seen Mat carrying it about. Why had he not opened it? That was downright rude. Setalle had worked hard to explain propriety to Olver, and while most of what she said made no sense—he just nodded his head so she would let him snuggle up to her—he was sure you were supposed to open letters people sent you, then respond kindly.

  He turned the letter over again, then shrugged and broke the seal. Olver was Mat’s personal messenger, all official and everything. It was no wonder Mat sometimes forgot things, but it was Olver’s job to take care of him. Now that Lopin was gone, Mat would need extra taking care of. It was one of the reasons Olver stayed with the Band. He was not sure what Mat would do without him.

  He unfolded the letter and removed a small, stiff piece of paper inside. He frowned, trying to make out the words. He was getting pretty good with reading, mostly because of Setalle, but some words gave him trouble. He scratched his head. “Talmanes,” he said. “You should probably read this.”

  “What’s that?” the man looked up from the game. “Here, now! Olver, what are you doing? That wasn’t to be opened!” The man rose, striding over to snatch the paper from Olver’s fingers.

  “But—” Olver began.

  “Lord Mat didn’t open it,” Talmanes said. “He knew that it would get us tied up in White Tower politics. He waited all those weeks! Now look what you’ve done. I wonder if we can stuff it back inside…”

  “Talmanes,” Olver said insistently. “I think it’s important.”

  Talmanes hesitated. He seemed torn for a moment, then held the letter so that the light shone better on it. He read it quickly, with the air of a boy stealing food from a street vendor’s cart and stuffing it into his mouth before he could be discovered.

  Talmanes whispered a curse under his breath. He read the letter again, then cursed more loudly. He grabbed his sword from the side of the room and dashed out of the tent. He left the letter on the floor.

  Olver looked it over again, sounding out the words he had not understood the first time.

  Matrim,

  If you are opening this, then I am dead. I had planned to return and release you of your oath in a single day. There are many potential complications to my next task, however, and a large chance that I will not survive. I needed to know that I’d left someone behind who could see this work done.

  Fortunately, if there’s one thing I believe I can rely upon, it is your curiosity. I suspect you lasted a few days before opening this letter, which is long enough for me to have returned if I were going to. Therefore, this task falls upon you.

  There is a Waygate in Caemlyn. It is guarded, barricaded, and thought secure. It is not.

  An enormous force of Shadowspawn moves through the Ways toward Caemlyn. I do not know when they left exactly, but there should be time to stop them. You must reach the Queen and persuade her to destroy the Waygate. It can be done; walling it up will not suffice. If you cannot destroy it, the Queen must bring all of her forces to bear upon guarding the location.

  If you fail in this, I fear Caemlyn will be lost before the month is out.

  Sincerely,

  Verin Mathwin

  Olver rubbed his chin. What was a Waygate? He thought he had heard Mat and Thom talking about them. He took the letter and walked out of the tent.

  Talmanes stood just outside the tent, looking eastward. Toward Caemlyn. A reddish haze hung on the horizon, a glow over the city. One larger than had been there on other nights.

  “Light preserve us,” Talmanes whispered. “It’s burning. The city is burning.” He shook his head, as if clearing it, then raised a call. “To arms! Trollocs in Caemlyn! The city is at war! To arms, men! Burn me, we have to get into the city and salvage those dragons! If those fall into the Shadow’s hands, we’re all dead men!”

  Olver lowered the letter in his fingers, eyes wide. Trollocs in Caemlyn? It would be like the Shaido in Cairhien, only worse.

  He hurried into Mat’s tent, stumbling over the rug, and threw himself to his knees beside his sleeping pallet. He hurriedly pulled at the stitchings on the side. The wool stuffed inside bulged out through the opening. He reached in, fishing about, and pulled free the large knife he had hidden there. It was wrapped in a leather sheath. He had taken it from one of the Band’s quartermasters, Bergevin, when he had not been looking.

  After Cairhien, Olver had sworn to himself that he would never prove himself a coward again. He gripped the large knife in two hands, knuckles white, then dashed out of the tent.

  It was time to fight.

  Barriga stumbled as he crawled past the stump of a fallen tree. Blood from his brow dripped onto the ground, and the dark-speckled nettles seemed to soak it in, feeding upon his life. He raised a trembling hand to his brow. The bandage was soaked through.

  No time to stop. No time! He forced himself to his feet and hastily scrambled through the brown sawleaf. He tried not to look at the black spots on the plants. The Blight, he’d entered the Blight. But what else was he to do? The Trollocs rampaged to the south; the towers had all fallen. Kandor itself had fallen.

  Barriga tripped and fell to the earth. He groaned, rolling over, gasping. He was in a trough between two hills north of Heeth Tower. His once fine clothing—coat and vest of rich velvet—was ragged and stained with blood. He stank of smoke, and when he closed his eyes, he saw the Trollocs. Washing over his caravan, slaughtering his servants and soldiers.

  They’d all fallen. Thum, Yang…both dead. Light, they were all dead.

  Barriga shuddered. How had he come to this? He was just a merchant. I should have listened to Rebek, he thought. Smoke rose from Heeth Tower behind. That was where his caravan had been going. How could this be happening?

  He needed to keep moving. East. He’d make for Arafel. The other Borderlands couldn’t have fallen, could they?

  He climbed up a hillside, hands pulling against short, coiling chokevine. Like worms between his fingers. He was growing woozy. He reached the hilltop; the world was spinning. He fell there, blood seeping from his bandage.

  Something moved in front of him. He blinked. Those clouds above were a tempest. In front of him, three figures wearing black and brown approached with a sleek grace. Myrddraal!

  No. He blinked the tears and blood from his eyes. No, those weren’t Myrddraal. They were men, wearing red veils over their faces. They walked at a crouch, scanning the terrain, short spears worn on their backs.

  “Light be praised,” he whispered. “Aiel.” He’d been in Andor when Rand al’Thor had come. Everyone knew the Aiel followed the Dragon Reborn. He had tamed them.

  I’m safe!

  One of the Aiel stepped up to Barriga. Why was the man’s veil red? That was unusual. The Aiel’s dark eyes were glassy and hard. The Aiel man undid his veil, and revealed a smiling face.

  The man’s teeth had been filed to points. His smile broadened, and he slipped a knife from his belt.

  Barriga stuttered, looking at that horrific maw and the glee in this man’s eyes as he reached in for the kill. These weren’t Aiel. They were something else.

  Something terrible.

  Rand al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn, sat quietly in his dream. He breathed in the cool, chill air. White clouds floated gently around him, kissing his skin with their condensation.

  His throne for the night was a flat boulder on a mountain slope; he looked down through the clouds at a narrow valley. This wasn’t the real location. It wasn’t even the World of Dreams, that place where he’d fought Forsaken, the place he’d been told was so dangerous.

  No, this was one of his own ordinary dreams. He controlled them now. They were a place he could find peace to think, protected by wards while his body slept beside Min in their new camp, surrounded by Borderlanders, set up on the Field of Merrilor. Egwene was there, with armies marshaled. He was ready for that
. He’d counted on it.

  On the morrow, they’d hear his demands. Not what he would demand to keep him from breaking the seals—he was going to do that, regardless of what Egwene said. No, these would be the demands he made on the monarchs of the world in exchange for going to Shayol Ghul to face the Dark One.

  He wasn’t certain what he’d do if they refused him. They’d find it very difficult to do so. Sometimes, it could be useful to have a reputation for being irrational.

  He breathed in deeply, peaceful. Here, in his dreams, the hills grew green. As he remembered them. In that nameless valley below, sheltered in the Mountains of Mist, he’d begun a journey. Not his first, and not his last, but perhaps the most important. One of the most painful, for certain.

  “And now I come back,” he whispered. “I’ve changed again. A man is always changing.”

  He felt a unity in returning here, to the place where he’d first confronted the killer inside him. The place where he’d first tried to flee from those whom he should have kept near. He closed his eyes, enjoying tranquility. Calmness. Harmony.

  In the distance, he heard screams of pain.

  Rand opened his eyes. What had that been? He stood up, spinning. This place was created of his own mind, protected and safe. It couldn’t—

  The scream came again. Distant. He frowned and raised a hand. The scene around him vanished, puffing away into mist. He stood in blackness.

  There, he thought. He was in a long corridor of dark wood paneling. He walked down it, boots thumping. That screaming. It shook his peace. Someone was in pain. They needed him.

  Rand began to run. He reached a doorway at the end of the hall. The door’s russet wood was knobbed and ridged, like the thick roots of an ancient tree. Rand seized the handle—just another root—and wrenched the door open.

  The vast room beyond was pure black, lightless, like a cavern deep beneath the ground. The room seemed to suck in the light and extinguish it. The screaming voice was inside. It was weak, as if it were being smothered by the darkness.

  Rand entered. The darkness swallowed him. It seemed to pull the life out of him, like a hundred leeches sucking blood from his veins. He pressed onward. He couldn’t distinguish the direction of the cries, so he moved along the walls; they felt like bone, smooth but occasionally cracked.