The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “We must test this,” Sorilea said, eyes like stone. “We must know. Is each woman now shown this vision instead of the other, or was the experience unique?”

  “Elenar of the Daryne,” Amys said. “Her training is nearly complete; she will be the next to visit Rhuidean. We could ask Hayde and Shanni to encourage her.”

  Aviendha suppressed a shudder. She understood too well how “encouraging” the Wise Ones could be.

  “That would be well,” Bair said, leaning forward. “Perhaps this is what happens whenever someone goes through the glass columns a second time? Maybe that is why it is forbidden.”

  None of them looked at Aviendha, but she could feel them considering her. What she had done was forbidden. Speaking of what happened in Rhuidean was also taboo.

  There would be no reprimand. Rhuidean had not killed her; this was what the Wheel had spun. Bair continued to stare into the distance. Sweat trickled down the sides of Aviendha’s face and her breasts.

  I do not miss taking baths, she told herself. She was no soft wetlander. Still, a sweat tent wasn’t truly necessary on this side of the mountains. There was no bitter cold at night, so the heat of the tent felt stifling, not comforting. And if water was plentiful enough for bathing …

  No. She set her jaw. “May I speak?”

  “Don’t be foolish, girl,” Melaine said. The woman was round in the belly, nearly to term. “You’re one of us now. No need to ask permission.”

  Girl? It would take time for them to see her truly as one of them, but they did make an effort. Nobody ordered her to make tea or to throw water on the kettle. With no apprentice around and no gai’shain handy, they took turns doing these tasks.

  “I am less concerned with whether the vision repeats,” Aviendha said, “than with what I was shown. Will it happen? Can we stop it?”

  “Rhuidean shows two types of vision,” Kymer said. She was a younger woman, perhaps less than a decade Aviendha’s senior, with deep red hair and a long, tanned face. “The first visit is what could be, the second, to the columns, what has happened.”

  “This third vision could be either,” Amys said. “The columns always show the past accurately; why would they not show the future with equal accuracy?”

  Aviendha’s heart lurched.

  “But why,” Bair said softly, “would the columns show a despair that cannot change? No. I refuse to believe it. Rhuidean has always shown us what we needed to see. To help us, not destroy us. This vision must have a purpose as well. To encourage us toward greater honor?”

  “It’s unimportant,” Sorilea said curtly.

  “But—” Aviendha began.

  “It’s unimportant,” Sorilea repeated. “If this vision were unchangeable, if our destiny is to … fall … as you have spoken, would any of us stop fighting to change it?”

  The room grew still. Aviendha shook her head.

  “We must treat it as if it can be changed,” Sorilea said. “Best not to dwell on your question, Aviendha. We must decide what course to take.”

  Aviendha found herself nodding. “I … Yes, yes, you are correct, Wise One.”

  “But what do we do?” Kymer asked. “What do we change? For now, the Last Battle must be won.”

  “Almost,” Amys said, “I wish for the vision to be unchangeable, for at least it proves we win this fight.”

  “It proves nothing,” Sorilea said. “Sightblinder’s victory would break the Pattern, and so no vision of the future can be sure or trusted. Even with prophecies of what might happen in Ages to come, if Sightblinder wins this battle, all will become nothing.”

  “This vision I saw has to do with whatever Rand is planning,” Aviendha said.

  They turned to her.

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “From what you’ve told me, he’s preparing for an important revelation.”

  “The Car’a’carn has a … fondness for dramatic presentations,” Bair said, her tone itself fond. “He’s like a crockobur who has toiled all night making a nest so that he can sing of it in the morning to all who will listen.”

  Aviendha had been surprised to discover the gathering at Merrilor; she had found it only by using her bond to Rand al’Thor to determine where he was. Arriving here to find so many together, the wetlander forces collected, she wondered if this was part of what she’d seen. Was this gathering the start of what would become her vision?

  “I feel as if I know more than I should.” She spoke almost to herself.

  “You have had a deep glimpse of what the future may hold,” Kymer said. “It will change you, Aviendha.”

  “Tomorrow is key,” Aviendha said. “His plan.”

  “From what you said,” Kymer replied, “it sounds as if he intends to ignore the Aiel, his own people. Why would he give boons to everyone else, but not to those who are most deserving? Does he seek to insult us?”

  “I don’t think that is the reason,” Aviendha said. “I think he intends to make demands of those who attend, not grant them gifts.”

  “He did mention a price,” Bair said. “A price he intends to make the others pay. No one has been able to pry the secret of this price from him.”

  “He went through a gateway to Tear earlier this evening and returned with something,” Melaine said. “The Maidens report it—he keeps his oath to bring them with him, now. When we have inquired after his price, he has said that it is something that the Aiel need not worry about.”

  Aviendha scowled. “He is making men pay him in order to do what we all know he must? Perhaps he has been spending too much time with that minder the Sea Folk sent him.”

  “No, this is well,” Amys said. “These people demand much of the Car’a’carn. He has a right to demand something of them in return. They are soft; perhaps he intends to make them hard.”

  “And so he leaves us out,” Bair said softly, “because he knows that we are already hard.”

  The tent fell silent. Amys, looking troubled, ladled some water onto the kettle’s heated stones. It hissed as the steam rose.

  “That is it,” Sorilea said. “He does not intend to insult us. He intends to do us honor, in his own eyes.” She shook her head. “He should know better.”

  “Often,” Kymer agreed, “the Car’a’carn gives insult by accident, as if he were a child. We are strong, so his demand—whatever it is—matters not. If it is a price the others can pay, so can we.”

  “He would not make these mistakes if he had been trained properly in our ways,” Sorilea murmured.

  Aviendha met their eyes evenly. No, she had not trained him as well as he could have been trained—but they knew that Rand al’Thor was obstinate. Besides, she was their equal now. Although she had trouble feeling that way while facing Sorilea’s tight-lipped disapproval.

  Perhaps it was spending so much time with wetlanders like Elayne, but suddenly, she did see things as Rand must. To give the Aiel an exemption from his price—if, indeed, that was what he intended—was an act of honor. If he had made a demand of them with the others, these very Wise Ones might have taken offense at being lumped with the wetlanders.

  What was he planning? She saw hints of it in the visions, but increasingly, she was certain that the next day would start the Aiel on the road to their doom.

  She must see that did not happen. This was her first task as a Wise One, and would likely be the most important she was ever given. She would not fail.

  “Her task was not just to teach him,” Amys said. “What I wouldn’t give to know that he was safely under the watchful eyes of a good woman.” She looked at Aviendha, face laden with meaning.

  “He will be mine,” Aviendha said, firmly. But not for you, Amys, or for our people. She was shocked at the strength of that sentiment within her. She was Aiel. Her people meant everything to her.

  But this choice was not their choice. This choice was hers.

  “Be warned, Aviendha,” Bair said, laying a hand on her wrist. “He has changed since you left. He has grown strong.”

&nbs
p; Aviendha frowned. “In what way?”

  “He has embraced death,” Amys said, sounding proud. “He may still carry a sword and wear the clothing of a wetlander, but he is ours now, finally and truly.”

  “I must see this,” Aviendha said, standing. “I will discover what I can regarding his plans.”

  “There is not much time remaining,” Kymer warned.

  “One night remains,” Aviendha said. “It will be enough.”

  The others nodded, and Aviendha started to dress. Unexpectedly, the others joined her, dressing as well. It appeared that they considered her news important enough that they would be going to share it with the other Wise Ones, rather than continuing to sit in conference.

  Aviendha was the first to step out into the night; the cool air, away from the sweltering heat of the sweat tent, felt good on her skin. She took a deep breath. Her mind was heavy with fatigue, but sleep would need to wait.

  The tent flaps rustled behind the other Wise Ones, Melaine and Amys speaking softly to one another as they hastened into the night. Kymer walked purposefully toward the Tomanelle section of the camp. Perhaps she would speak with her sister-father, Han, the Tomanelle chief.

  Aviendha started to move off herself, but a bony hand took her arm. She glanced over her shoulder to see Bair standing behind her, dressed again in blouse and skirt.

  “Wise One,” Aviendha said by reflex.

  “Wise One,” Bair replied with a smile.

  “Is there something…”

  “I would go to Rhuidean,” Bair said, glancing at the sky. “Would you kindly make a gateway for me?”

  “You’re going through the glass columns.”

  “One of us needs to. Despite what Amys said, Elenar is not ready, particularly not to see … something of this nature. That girl spends half of her days squawking like a buzzard over the last scrap of a rotting carcass.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, don’t you start, too. You’re one of us now, Aviendha, but I’m still old enough to have tended your greatmother when she was a child.” Bair shook her head; her white hair almost seemed to glow in the filtered moonlight. “I am the best one to go,” she continued. “Channelers must be preserved for the battle to come. I would not have some child walk into those columns now. I will do it. Now, that gateway? Will you grant my request, or do I need to bully Amys into doing so?”

  Aviendha would have liked to see anyone bully Amys into anything. Maybe Sorilea could do it. She said nothing, however, and created the proper weave to open a gateway.

  The thought of another seeing what she’d seen made her stomach twist. What would it mean if Bair returned with the exact same vision? Would that indicate the future was more likely?

  “It was that terrible, was it?” Bair asked softly.

  “Horrible. It would have made spears weep and stones crumble, Bair. I would rather have danced with Sightblinder himself.”

  “Then it is much better that I go than another. It should be the strongest of us who does this.”

  Aviendha stopped herself from raising an eyebrow. Bair was as tough as good leather, but the other Wise Ones weren’t exactly flower petals. “Bair,” Aviendha said, a thought occurring to her. “Have you ever met a woman named Nakomi?”

  “Nakomi.” Bair tried the word in her mouth. “An ancient name. I have never known anyone who uses it. Why?”

  “I met an Aiel woman while traveling to Rhuidean,” Aviendha said. “She claimed not to be a Wise One, but she had a way about her…” She shook her head. “The question was merely idle curiosity.”

  “Well, we shall know some of the truth of these visions,” Bair said, stepping toward the gateway.

  “What if they are true, Bair?” Aviendha found herself asking. “What if there isn’t anything we can do?”

  Bair turned. “You saw your children, you said?”

  Aviendha nodded. She hadn’t spoken in detail of that segment of the vision. It had seemed more personal to her.

  “Change one of their names,” Bair said. “Never speak of the name that child was called in the vision, not even to us. Then you shall know. If one thing is different, then others may be different as well. Will be different. This is not our fate, Aviendha. It is a path we will avoid. Together.”

  Aviendha found herself nodding. Yes. A simple change, a small change, but full of meaning. “Thank you, Bair.”

  The aging Wise One nodded to her, then stepped through the gateway, running in the night toward the city ahead.

  * * *

  Talmanes threw his shoulder against a hulking, boar-faced Trolloc in crude chain armor. The beast smelled horrid, like smoke, wet fur and unwashed flesh. It grunted at the force of Talmanes’ assault; the things always seemed surprised when he attacked them.

  Talmanes pulled back, ripping his sword out of the beast’s side as it collapsed. He then lunged forward and rammed his sword into its throat, heedless of its ragged fingernails scratching at his legs. Life faded from the beady, too-human eyes.

  Men fought, called, grunted, killed. The street ran up a steep incline toward the Palace. Trolloc hordes had entrenched here, holding position and keeping the Band from reaching the top.

  Talmanes sagged against the side of a building—the one next to it was on fire, lighting the street with violent colors and bathing him in heat. Those fires seemed chilly compared to the flaring, horrible pain of his wound. The flare ran down his leg to his foot and was beginning to work its way across his shoulder.

  Blood and bloody ashes, he thought. What I’d give for another few hours with my pipe and book, alone and peaceful. The people who spoke of glorious death in battle were complete flaming fools. There was nothing glorious about dying in this mess of fire and blood. Give him a quiet death any day.

  Talmanes pushed himself back up to his feet, drops of sweat falling from his face. Below, Trollocs amassed themselves behind his rear position. They had closed the road behind Talmanes’ force, but Talmanes was able to proceed, cutting through the Trollocs ahead.

  Retreat would be difficult to pull off. As well as this roadway being full of Trollocs, fighting in the city meant that Trollocs could wind through the streets in small groups and attack his flanks, as they advanced and later when they retreated.

  “Throw everything you’ve got at them, men!” he bellowed, hurling himself up the street and into the Trollocs blocking the way up. The Palace was quite close now. He caught a goat-faced Trolloc’s sword on his shield right before it would have taken off Dennel’s head. Talmanes tried to shove the beast’s weapon back, but Light, Trollocs were strong. Talmanes barely kept this one from throwing him to the ground as Dennel recovered and attacked its thighs, bringing it down.

  Melten fell in beside Talmanes. The Borderlander was true to his word to stay close, in case Talmanes needed a sword to end his life. The two led the push up the hill. The Trollocs began to give, then rallied, a snarling, roaring heap of dark fur, eyes and weapons in the firelight.

  There were so many of them

  “Steady!” Talmanes yelled. “For Lord Mat and the Band of the Red Hand!”

  If Mat were here, he would probably curse a lot, complain as much, then proceed to save them all with some battlefield miracle. Talmanes couldn’t reproduce Mat’s blend of insanity and inspiration, but his yell did seem to encourage the men. The ranks tightened. Gavid arrayed his two dozen crossbowmen—the last Talmanes had with him—atop a building that hadn’t burned away. They started driving flight after flight of bolts into the Trollocs.

  That might have broken human enemies, but not Trollocs. The bolts dropped a few, but not as many as Talmanes would have hoped.

  There’s another Fade back there, Talmanes thought. Pushing them forward. Light, I can’t fight another. I shouldn’t have fought the one I did!

  He shouldn’t be on his feet. Melten’s flask of brandy was gone, long since drained to deaden what it could. His mind was already as fuzzy as he dared allow. He fell in with Dennel and Londraed
at the front, fighting, concentrating. Letting Trolloc blood out onto the cobbles to stream down the hillside.

  The Band gave a good fight of it, but they were outnumbered and exhausted. Down below, another Trolloc fist joined the ones on the street behind him.

  That was it. He would have to either hit that force behind—turning his back on the one in front—or break his men into smaller units and send them retreating through side streets to regroup at the gate below.

  Talmanes prepared to give the orders.

  “Forward the White Lion!” voices yelled. “For Andor and the Queen!”

  Talmanes spun as men in white and red broke through the Trolloc lines atop the hill. A second force of Andoran pikemen poured out of a side alleyway, coming in behind the Trolloc horde that had just surrounded him. The Trollocs broke before the oncoming pikemen, and in moments the entire mass—like a pus-filled blister—burst, Trollocs scattering in all directions.

  Talmanes stumbled back. Momentarily he had to prop himself up with his sword as Madwin took command of the counterstrike and his men killed many of the fleeing Trollocs.

  A group of officers in bloodied Queen’s Guard uniforms rushed down the hillside; they didn’t look any better than the Band. Guybon led them. “Mercenary,” he said to Talmanes, “I thank you for showing up.”

  Talmanes frowned. “You act as if we saved you. From my perspective, it happened the other way around.”

  Guybon grimaced in the firelight. “You gave us some respite; those Trollocs were attacking the Palace gates. I apologize for taking so long to reach you—we didn’t realize, at first, what had drawn them in this direction.”

  “Light. The Palace still stands?”

  “Yes,” Guybon said. “We’re full of refugees, though.”

  “What of channelers?” Talmanes asked, hopeful. “Why haven’t the Andoran armies returned with the Queen?”