“Perhaps that is too harsh,” Moiraine said. “It was not merely stubbornness that drove you; it was a will to prove to yourself, and to everyone else, that you could do this on your own.” She touched his arm. “But you cannot do this on your own, can you?”
Rand shook his head. He reached up to Callandor, strapped on his back, touching it. The sword’s final secret lay bare to him now. It was a trap, and a clever one, for this weapon was a sa’angreal not for just the One Power, but for the True Power as well.
He had thrown away the access key, but on his back he carried something so very tempting. The True Power, the Dark One’s essence, was the sweetest thing he had ever touched. With Callandor, he could draw it forth in strength such as no man had ever before felt. Because Callandor lacked the safety measures of most other angreal and sa’angreal, there was no telling how much of the Powers it could draw.
“There it is again,” Moiraine murmured. “What are you planning, Rand al’Thor, Dragon Reborn? Can you finally let go enough to tell me?”
He eyed her. “Did you set this entire conversation up to pull that secret from me?”
“You think very highly of my conversational abilities.”
“An answer that says nothing,” Rand said.
“Yes,” Moiraine said. “But might I point out that you did it first in deflecting my question?”
Rand thought back a few steps in the conversation, and realized he’d done just that. “I’m going to kill the Dark One,” Rand said. “I’m not just going to seal up the Dark One, I’m going to end him.”
“I thought you had grown up while I was away,” Moiraine said.
“Only Perrin grew up,” Rand said. “Mat and I have simply learned to pretend to be grown up.” He hesitated. “Mat did not learn it so well.”
“The Dark One is beyond killing,” Moiraine said.
“I think I can do it,” Rand said. “I remember what Lews Therin did, and there was a moment … a brief moment … It can happen, Moiraine. I’m more confident that I can do that than I am that I could seal the Dark One away.” That was true, though he had no real confidence that he could manage either.
Questions. So many questions. Shouldn’t he have some answers by now?
“The Dark One is part of the Wheel,” Moiraine said.
“No. The Dark One is outside the Pattern,” Rand countered. “Not part of the Wheel at all.”
“Of course the Dark One is part of the Wheel, Rand,” Moiraine said. “We are the threads that make up the Pattern’s substance, and the Dark One affects us. You cannot kill him. That is a fool’s task.”
“I have been a fool before,” Rand said. “And I shall be one again. At times, Moiraine, my entire life—all that I’ve done—feels like a fool’s task. What is one more impossible challenge? I’ve met all the others. Perhaps I can accomplish this one too.”
She tightened her grip on his arm. “You have grown so much, but you are still just a youth, are you not?”
Rand immediately seized control of his emotions, and did not lash back at her. The surest way to be thought of as a youth was to act like one. He stood straight-backed, and spoke softly. “I have lived for four centuries,” he said. “Perhaps I am still a youth, in that all of us are, compared to the timeless age of the Wheel itself. That said, I am one of the oldest people in existence.”
Moiraine smiled. “Very nice. Does that work on the others?”
He hesitated. Then, oddly, he found himself grinning. “It worked pretty well on Cadsuane.”
Moiraine sniffed. “That one … Well, knowing her, I doubt you fooled her as well as you assume. You may have the memories of a man four centuries old, Rand al’Thor, but that does not make you ancient. Otherwise, Matrim Cauthon would be the patriarch of us all.”
“Mat? Why Mat?”
“It is nothing,” Moiraine said. “Something I am not supposed to know. You are still a wide-eyed sheepherder at heart. I would not have it any other way. Lews Therin, for all of his wisdom and power, could not do what you must. Now, if you would be kind, fetch me some tea.”
“Yes, Moiraine Sedai,” he said, immediately starting toward the teapot over the fire. He froze, then looked back at her.
She glanced at him slyly. “Merely seeing if that still worked.”
“I never fetched you tea,” Rand protested, walking back to her. “As I remember, I spent our last few weeks together ordering you around.”
“So you did,” Moiraine said. “Think about what I said regarding the Dark One. But now I ask you a different question. What will you do now? Why go to Ebou Dar?”
“The Seanchan,” Rand said. “I must try to bring them to our side, as I promised.”
“If I remember,” Moiraine said, “you did not promise that you would try, you promised that you would make it happen.”
“Promises to ‘try’ don’t achieve much in political negotiations,” Rand said, “no matter how sincere.” He held up his hand before him, arm outstretched, fingers up, and looked out of his open tent flaps. As if he were preparing to grab the lands to the south. Scoop them up, claim them as his, protect them.
The Dragon on his arm shone, gold and crimson. “Once the Dragon, for remembrance lost.” He held up his other arm, ending at the stump near the wrist. “Twice the Dragon … for the price he must pay.”
“What will you do if the Seanchan leader refuses again?” Moiraine asked.
He hadn’t told her that the Empress had refused him the first time. Moiraine didn’t need to be told things. She simply discovered them.
“I don’t know,” Rand said softly. “If they don’t fight, Moiraine, we will lose. If they don’t join the Dragon’s Peace, then we have nothing.”
“You spent too much time on that pact,” Moiraine said. “It distracted you from your goal. The Dragon does not bring peace, but destruction. You cannot change that with a piece of paper.”
“We shall see,” Rand said. “Thank you for your advice. Now, and always. I don’t believe I have said that enough. I owe you a debt, Moiraine.”
“Well,” she said. “I am still in need of a cup of tea.”
Rand looked at her, incredulous. Then he laughed and walked away to bring her some.
* * *
Moiraine held her warm cup of tea, which Rand had fetched for her before leaving. He had become ruler of so much since they had parted, and he was as humble now as when she had first found him in the Two Rivers. Maybe more so.
Humble toward me, perhaps, she thought. He believes he can slay the Dark One. That is not the sign of a humble man. Rand al’Thor, such an odd mixture of self-effacement and pride. Did he finally have the balance right? Despite what she had said, his action toward her today proved he was no youth, but a man.
A man could still make mistakes. Often, they were of a more dangerous sort.
“The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills,” she murmured to herself, sipping the tea. Prepared by Rand’s hand, and not someone else’s, it was as flavorful and vibrant as it had been during better days. Not touched in the least bit by the Dark One’s shadow.
Yes, the Wheel wove as it willed. Sometimes, she wished that weaving were easier to understand.
* * *
“Everyone knows what to do?” Lan asked, turning in Mandarb’s saddle.
Andere nodded. He’d carried the word himself to the rulers, and from them it had gone to their generals and commanders. Only at the last moments had it been passed to the soldiers themselves.
There would be Darkfriends among them. There always were. It was impossible to exterminate rats from a city, no matter how many cats you brought in. The Light willing, this news would come too late for those rats to give warning to the Shadow.
“We ride,” Lan said, setting heels into Mandarb’s ribs. Andere raised his banner high, the flag of Malkier, and galloped at his side. He was joined by his ranks of Malkieri. Many of those had only a little Malkieri blood in them, and were truly Borderlanders of other nations. They stil
l chose to ride beneath his banner, and had taken up the hadori.
Thousands upon thousands of horsemen rode with him, hooves shaking the soft earth. It had been a long, hard retreat for their army. The Trollocs had superior numbers and presented a serious threat of surrounding Lan’s men. Lan’s mounted army was highly mobile, but there was only so much speed you could force upon soldiers, and Trollocs could march quickly. Faster than people could, particularly with those Fades whipping them. Fortunately, the fires in the countryside were slowing the Shadow’s army. Without that, Lan’s men might not have been able to escape.
Lan crouched in the saddle as the explosions from the Dreadlords began. To his left, the Asha’man Deepe rode, tied to his saddle because of his missing leg. As a ball of fire crackled through the air and arced down toward Lan, Deepe adopted a look of concentration and thrust his hands forward. The fire exploded in the air above them.
Burning embers fell like crimson rain, trailing smoke. One hit Mandarb’s neck, and Lan brushed it aside with a gauntleted hand. The horse didn’t seem to notice.
The ground here was of deep clay. The terrain consisted of rolling hills, covered with sere grass, rocky outcrops and groves of defoliated trees. The retreat followed the banks of the Mora; the river would prevent the Trollocs flanking them from the west.
Smoke bled from two distinct points on the horizon. Fal Dara and Fal Moran. The two grandest cities in Shienar, torched by their own people, along with the lands of their farms and orchards, everything that could provide even a handful of sustenance to the invading Trollocs.
Holding the cities had not been an option. That meant they had to be destroyed.
It was time to start hitting back. Lan led a charge at the center of the mass, and the Trollocs set spears against the oncoming rush of Malkieri and Shienaran heavy cavalry. Lan brought his lance down, setting it in position along Mandarb’s neck. He leaned forward in his stirrups, holding tightly with his knees, and hoped that the channelers—Lan now had fourteen, after a small reinforcement from Egwene—could do their part.
The ground ripped up before the Trollocs. The front line of Trollocs broke.
Lan chose his target, a massive boar Trolloc that was yelling at its companions as they shied away from the explosions. Lan took the creature in the neck; the lance pierced it, and Mandarb threw the Trolloc to the side while trampling one of the cowering beasts nearby. The roar of the cavalry became a crash as the riders hit hard, letting momentum and weight carry them into the thick of the Trollocs.
Once they slowed, Lan tossed the lance to Andere, who caught it deftly. Lan’s guards moved in and he slipped his sword from its sheath. Woodsman Tops the Sapling. Apple Blossom on the Wind. The Trollocs made for easy targets when he was in the saddle—the Trollocs’ height presented their necks, shoulders and faces at just the right level.
It was quick, brutal work. Deepe watched for attacks from the enemy Dreadlords, countering them. Andere moved up to Lan’s side.
Lan’s banner was a lodestone for the Shadowspawn. They began to roar and rage, and he heard two Trolloc words spoken over and over in their language. Murdru Kar. Murdru Kar. Murdru Kar. He laid about himself with his sword, spilling their blood, coldly, within the void.
They had taken Malkier from him twice now. They would never be able to taste his sense of defeat, his sense of loss, at leaving his homeland again, this time by choice. But by the Light, he could bring them close to it. His sword through their chests would do that best.
The battle descended into chaos, as so many did. The Trollocs fell into frenzy; his army had spent the last four days not engaging the beasts at all. They had only retreated, finally having gained some control over their withdrawal, enough to avoid clashes, at least, which their fires had made possible.
Four days without a conflict, now this all-out attack. That was the first piece of the plan.
“Dai Shan!” someone called. Prince Kaisel. He pointed to where the Trollocs had managed to divide Lan’s guard. His banner was tipping.
Andere. The man’s horse fell, pulled down as Lan urged Mandarb between two Trollocs. Prince Kaisel and a handful of other soldiers joined him.
Lan couldn’t continue on horseback, lest he accidentally trample his friend. He threw himself from the saddle, hit the ground and crouched beneath a Trolloc swing. Kaisel took that beast’s leg off at the knee.
Lan dashed past the falling Trolloc. He saw his banner and a body beside it. Alive or dead, Lan did not know, but there was a Myrddraal raising a dark blade.
Lan arrived in a rush of wind and spinning steel. He blocked the Thakan’dar blade with a swing of his own, trampling his own banner as he fought. Within the void, there was no time for thought. There was only instinct and action. There was—
There was a second Myrddraal, rising up from behind Andere’s fallen horse. So, a trap. Take down the banner, draw Lan’s attention.
The two Fades attacked, one from each side. The void did not shake. A sword could not feel fear, and for that moment, Lan was the sword. The Heron Spreads Its Wings. Slashing all around him, blocking their blades with his own, back and forth. The Myrddraal were like water, flowing, but Lan was the wind itself. He spun between their blades, knocking back the attack to the right, then the one to the left.
The Fades began cursing in fury. The one to his left rushed Lan, a sneer on its pale lips. Lan stepped to the side, then parried the creature’s thrust and lopped its arm off at the elbow. He continued in a fluid stroke, his swing continuing to where he knew the other Fade would be attacking, and took its hand off at the wrist.
Both Thakan’dar blades clanged to the ground. The Fades froze, stupefied for a second. Lan cut the head of one from its neck, then twisted and drove his sword through the neck of the other. Black Pebbles on Snow. He stepped back and swiped his sword to the side to spray some of the deadly blood free of the blade. Both Fades fell, thrashing, flailing at one another, mindless, dark blood staining the ground.
A good hundred and fifty Trollocs nearby fell writhing to the ground. They’d been linked to the Fades. Lan stepped over to haul Andere out of the mud. The man looked dazed, blinking, and his arm hung at a strange angle. Lan tossed Andere over his shoulder, and kicked his banner by its staff up into his free hand.
He ran back toward Mandarb—the area around him now clear of Trollocs—and handed the banner to one of Prince Kaisel’s men. “See that cleaned, then raise it.” He slung Andere across the front of his saddle, mounted, and wiped his sword on his saddle blanket. The man didn’t look mortally wounded.
He faintly heard Prince Kaisel behind. “By my fathers!” the man said. “I’d heard he was good, but … but Light!”
“This will do,” Lan said, surveying the battlefield, releasing the void. “Send the signal, Deepe.”
The Asha’man complied, sending a red streak of light into the air. Lan turned Mandarb and pointed his sword back toward the camp. His forces rallied around him. Their attack had always been meant to be a hit and retreat. They hadn’t maintained a solid battle line. That was difficult with a cavalry charge.
His troops pulled back, and the Saldaeans and Arafellin arrived, riding in quick waves to break up the Trolloc lines and protect the retreat. Mandarb was wet with sweat; carrying two armored men was a difficult order for the horse, following a charge. Lan slowed the pace, now that they were out of direct harm.
“Deepe,” Lan asked as they reached the back lines. “How is Andere?”
“He has a few broken ribs, a broken arm, and a head injury,” Deepe said. “I’d be surprised if he could count to ten on his own right now, but I’ve seen worse. I’ll Heal the head wound; the rest can wait.”
Lan nodded, reining in. One of his guards—a surly man named Benish who wore a Taraboner veil, though he wore a hadori above it—helped take Andere off Mandarb; they held him up beside Deepe’s horse. The one-legged Asha’man leaned down from the arrangement of straps that supported him in the saddle, placing his hand on An
dere’s head and concentrating.
The dazed look left Andere’s eyes, and awareness took over. Then he started swearing.
He’ll be fine, Lan thought, looking at the battlefield. The Shadowspawn were now falling back. It was near dusk.
Prince Kaisel cantered up beside Lan. “That Saldaean flag bears the red stripe of the Queen,” he said. “She’s riding with them again, Lan.”
“She is their queen. She can do as she wishes.”
“You should talk to her,” Kaisel said, shaking his head. “It’s not right, Lan. Other women from the Saldaean army are starting to ride with them as well.”
“I’ve seen Saldaean women spar,” Lan said, still watching the battlefield. “If I were to place a bet on a contest between one of them and a man from any army in the South, I’d bet on the Saldaean any day.”
“But…”
“This war is everything or nothing. If I could round up each woman in the Borderlands and put a sword in her hands, I would. For now, I’ll settle for not doing something stupid—like forbidding some trained and passionate soldiers from fighting. If you, however, decide not to exercise that prudence, you are free to tell them what you think. I promise to give you a good burial once they let me take your head down off the pole.”
“I … Yes, Lord Mandragoran,” Kaisel said.
Lan took out his spyglass and surveyed the field.
“Lord Mandragoran?” Kaisel said. “Do you really think this plan will work?”
“There are too many Trollocs,” Lan said. “The leaders of the Dark One’s armies have been breeding them for years, growing them like weeds. Trollocs eat a lot; each one requires more food than a man to keep it going.
“By now, they must have eaten the Blight out of anything that could sustain them. The Shadow expended every bit of food they could to create this army, counting on the Trollocs being able to eat the corpses of the fallen.”
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