The Fires of Heaven

by Robert Jordan

  Panic seized her. She was just standing there. Quick as thought she fled, the World of Dreams seeming to change around her.

  She stood on a dirt street in a small village of wooden houses, none more than a single story. The White Lion of Andor waved from a tall staff, and a single stone dock stuck out into a broad river where a flock of long-billed birds flapped south low over the water. It all looked vaguely familiar, but it took her a moment to know where she was. Jurene. In Cairhien. And that river was the Erinin. It had been here that she and Egwene and Elayne had boarded the Darter, as badly misnamed as the Riverserpent, to continue their journey to Tear. That time seemed like something read in a book long ago.

  Why had she jumped to Jurene? That was simple, and answered as soon as she thought of it. Jurene was the one place she knew well enough to leap to in Tel’aran’rhiod that she could be sure Moghedien did not know. They had been there for an hour, before Moghedien knew she existed, and she was sure neither she nor Elayne had ever mentioned it again, in Tel’aran’rhiod or awake.

  But that left another question. The same one, in a way. Why Jurene? Why not step out of the Dream, wake up in her own bed, such as it was, if washing dishes and scrubbing floors on top of everything had not left her so weary she slept right on? I can still step out. Moghedien had seen her in Salidar, if that had been Moghedien. Moghedien knew Salidar now. I can tell Sheriam. How? Admit she was teaching Siuan? She was not supposed to have her hands on those ter’angreal except with Sheriam and the other Aes Sedai. How Siuan got hold of them when she wanted, Nynaeve did not know. No, she was not afraid of more hours up to her elbows in hot water. She was afraid of Moghedien. Anger burned in her belly fiercely. She wished she had some goosemint out of her scrip of herbs. I am so . . . so bloody tired of being afraid.

  There was a bench in front of one of the houses, overlooking dock and river. She sat down and considered her situation from every angle. It was ridiculous. The True Source was a pale thing. She channeled a flame dancing in air above her hand. She might look solid—to herself, anyway—but she could see the river through that scrap of fire. She tied it off, and it faded away like mist as soon as the knot was done. How could she face Moghedien when the weakest novice in Salidar could match or better her strength? That was why she had fled here instead of leaving Tel’aran’rhiod. Afraid and angry at being afraid, too angry to think straight, to consider her own weakness.

  She would step out of the Dream. Whatever Siuan’s scheme had been, it was done; she would have to take her chances right along with Nynaeve. The thought of more hours scrubbing floors tightened her hand on her braid. Days more likely, and maybe Sheriam’s switch besides. They might never let her near one of the dream ter’angreal again, or any ter’angreal. They would set Faolain over her instead of Theodrin. A finish to studying Siuan and Leane, much less Logain; maybe a finish to studying Healing.

  In a fury she channeled another flame. If it was a whit stronger, she could not see it. So much for trying to crank her anger in hope it would help. “There’s nothing for it but to just tell them I saw Moghedien,” she muttered, yanking her braid hard enough to hurt. “Light, they will give me to Faolain. I’d almost rather die!”

  “But you seem to enjoy running little errands for her.”

  That mocking voice pulled Nynaeve up off the bench like hands on her shoulders. Moghedien stood in the street all in black, shaking her head at what she saw. With all her strength Nynaeve wove a shield of Spirit and hurled it between the other woman and saidar. Tried to hurl it between; it was like chopping at a tree with a paper hatchet. Moghedien actually smiled before she bothered to slice Nynaeve’s weave, and that as casually as brushing a biteme away from her face. Nynaeve stared at her as though poleaxed. After everything it came down to this. The One Power, useless. All the anger bubbling inside her, useless. All her plans, her hopes, useless. Moghedien did not bother to strike back. She did not even bother to channel a shield of her own. That was how much contempt she had.

  “I was afraid you had seen me. I grew careless when you and Siuan started trying to kill each other. With your hands.” Moghedien gave a belittling laugh. She was weaving something, lazily because there was no reason to hurry. Nyaneve did not know what it was, yet she wanted to scream. Fury seethed inside her, but fear dulled her wits, rooted her feet to the ground. “Sometimes I think you are all too ignorant even to train, you and the former Amyrlin Seat and all the rest. But I cannot allow you to betray me.” That weave was reaching out for her. “It is time to collect you at last, it seems.”

  “Hold, Moghedien!” Birgitte shouted.

  Nynaeve’s mouth dropped open. It was Birgitte, as she had been, in her short white coat and wide yellow trousers, intricate golden braid pulled over her shoulder, silver arrow drawn on silver bow. It was impossible. Birgitte was no longer part of Tel’aran’rhiod, she was back in Salidar, making sure no one discovered Nynaeve and Siuan asleep with the sun up and began asking questions.

  Moghedien was so shocked, the flows she had woven vanished. Shock lasted less than a moment, though. The gleaming arrow flew from Birgitte’s bow—and evaporated. The bow evaporated. Something seemed to seize the archer, jerking her arms straight up, pulling her clear of the ground. Almost immediately she was snubbed short, pulled tight between wrists and ankles a foot above the ground.

  “I should have considered the possibility of you.” Moghedien turned her back on Nynaeve to move closer to Birgitte. “Do you enjoy your flesh? Without Gaidal Cain?”

  Nynaeve thought of channeling. But what? A dagger that might not even penetrate the woman’s skin? Fire that would not singe her skirts? Moghedien knew how useless she was; she was not even looking at her. If she stopped the flow of Spirit to the sleeping woman in amber, she would wake in Salidar, she could give warning. Her face twisted near to tears as she looked at Birgitte. The golden-haired woman hung there, staring defiantly at Moghedien. Moghedien contemplated her in return as a woodcarver would a block of wood.

  There’s only me, Nynaeve thought. I might as well not be able to channel at all. There’s only me.

  Lifting that first foot was like pulling it out of knee-deep mud, the second staggering step no easier. Toward Moghedien. “Don’t hurt me,” Nynaeve cried. “Please. Don’t hurt me.” A chill ran through her. Birgitte was gone. A child of perhaps three or four, in short white coat and wide yellow trousers, stood there playing with a toy-sized silver bow. Flipping her golden braid back, the child aimed the bow at Nynaeve and giggled, then stuck a finger in her mouth as though unsure whether she had done something wrong. Nynaeve sagged to her knees. It was hard work crawling in skirts, but she did not think she could have remained standing. Somehow she managed, reaching out a pleading hand and whimpering. “Please. Don’t hurt me. Please. Don’t hurt me.” Over and over as she dragged toward the Forsaken, a broken beetle scrabbling in the dirt.

  Moghedien watched silently, until at last she said, “Once I thought you were stronger than this. Now I find I truly like the sight of you on your knees. That is close enough, girl. Not that I think you have courage enough to try tearing my hair out. . . .” She seemed amused by the notion.

  Nynaeve’s hand wavered a span from Moghedien. It had to be close enough. There was only her. And Tel’aran’rhiod. The image formed in her head, and there it was, silver bracelet on her outstretched wrist, silver leash linking it to the silver collar around Moghedien’s neck. It was not just the a’dam she fixed in her head, but Moghedien wearing it, Moghedien and the a’dam, a part of Tel’aran’rhiod that she held in the form she wanted. She knew something of what to expect; she had worn an a’dam’s bracelet briefly once, in Falme. In a strange way she was aware of Moghedien in the same way she was aware of her own body, her own emotions, two sets, each distinct, but each in her own head. One thing she had only hoped, because Elayne insisted it was so. The thing was indeed a link; she could feel the Source through the other woman.

  Moghedien’s hand leaped to the collar, sh
ock rounding her eyes. Rage and horror. Rage more than horror, at first. Nynaeve felt them almost as if they were her own. Moghedien had to know what the leash-and-collar was, yet she tried to channel anyway; at the same time Nynaeve felt a slight shifting in herself, in the a’dam, as the other woman tried to bend Tel’aran’rhiod to herself. Suppressing Moghedien’s attempt was simple; the a’dam was a link, with her in control. Knowing that made it easy. Nynaeve did not want to channel those flows, so they were not channeled. Moghedien might as well have tried to pick up a mountain with her bare hands. Horror overwhelmed rage.

  Getting to her feet, Nynaeve fastened the proper image in her mind. She did not just imagine Moghedien leashed in the a’dam, she knew Moghedien was leashed, as firmly as she knew her own name. The sense of shifting, of her skin trying to crawl, did not go away, though. “Stop that,” she said sharply. The a’dam did not move, but it seemed to tremble unseen. She thought of blackwasp nettles lightly brushing the other woman from shoulders to knees. Moghedien shuddered, exhaled convulsively. “Stop it, I said, or I’ll do worse.” The shifting ceased. Moghedien watched her warily, still clutching the silver collar around her neck and with an air of being poised on her toes for flight.

  Birgitte—the child who was, or had been, Birgitte—stood eyeing them curiously. Nynaeve formed the image of her as a grown woman, concentrated. The little girl put her finger back in her mouth and began studying the toy bow. Nynaeve breathed angrily. It was hard changing what someone else was already maintaining. And on top of that, Moghedien had claimed she could make changes permanent. But what she could do, she could undo. “Restore her.”

  “If you release me, I—”

  Nynaeve thought of nettles again, and not a light brush this time. Moghedien sucked air through clenched teeth, shook like a bedsheet in a high wind.

  “That,” Birgitte said, “was the most frightening thing that has ever happened to me.” Herself once more, she wore the short coat and wide trousers, but she had no bow or quiver. “I was a child, but at the same time, what was me—really me—was just some fancy floating in the back of that child’s mind. And I knew it. I knew I was just going to watch what happened and play. . . .” Flipping her golden braid back over her shoulder, she gave Moghedien a hard look.

  “How did you get here?” Nynaeve asked. “I am grateful, you understand, but . . . how?”

  Birgitte gave Moghedien a final stony stare, then opened her coat to fish in the neck of her blouse, pulling up the twisted stone ring on a leather thong. “Siuan woke up. Just for a moment, and not all the way. Long enough to grumble about you snatching this from her. When you didn’t wake right behind her, I knew something must be wrong, so I took the ring and the last of what you mixed for Siuan.”

  “There was hardly any left. Only the dregs.”

  “Enough to put me to sleep. It tastes horrible, by the way. After that, it was as easy as finding feather-dancers in Shiota. In some ways this is almost as if I were still—” Birgitte cut off with another glare for Moghedien. The silver bow reappeared in her hand, and a quiver of silver arrows at her hip, yet after one moment they vanished again. “Past is past, and the future is ahead,” she said firmly. “I was not truly surprised to realize there were two of you who knew they were in Tel’aran’rhiod. I knew the other must be her, and when I arrived and saw the pair of you . . . It seemed as if she had already captured you, but I hoped that if I distracted her, you might come up with something.”

  Nynaeve felt a stab of shame. She had considered abandoning Birgitte. That was what she had almost come up with. The thought had only been there for a moment, rejected as soon as it came, but it had come. What a coward she was. Surely Birgitte never even had moments when fear almost took control of her. “I . . .” A faint taste of boiled catfern and powdered mavinsleaf. “I almost ran away,” she said faintly. “I was so frightened my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I almost ran away and left you.”

  “Oh?” Nynaeve writhed inside as Birgitte considered her. “But you did not, did you? I should have loosed before I called out, but I’ve never felt comfortable shooting anyone from behind. Even her. Still, it all worked out. But what do we do with her now?”

  Moghedien certainly seemed to have overcome her fear. Ignoring the silver collar around her throat, she watched Nynaeve and Birgitte as though they were the prisoners, not she, and she was deliberating what to do with them. Except for an occasional twitch of her hands, as if she wanted to scratch where her skin held the memory of nettles, she appeared black-clad serenity. Only the a’dam let Nynaeve know there was fear in the woman, almost a gibbering, but pushed down to a muted buzz. She wished the thing let her know what Moghedien was thinking as well as feeling. Then again, she was just as glad not to be inside the mind behind those cold dark eyes.

  “Before you consider anything . . . drastic,” Moghedien said, “remember that I know much that would be useful to you. I have observed the other Chosen, peeked into their schemes. Is that not worth something?”

  “Tell me, and I will consider whether it’s worth anything,” Nynaeve said. What could she do with the woman?

  “Lanfear, Graendal, Rahvin and Sammael are plotting together.”

  Nynaeve gave the leash a short tug, staggering her. “I know that. Tell me something new.” The woman was captive here, but the a’dam only existed so long as they were in Tel’aran’rhiod.

  “Do you know they are drawing Rand al’Thor to attack Sammael? But when he does, he will find the others as well, waiting to trap him between them. At least, he will find Graendal and Rahvin. I think Lanfear plays another game, one the others know nothing about.”

  Nynaeve exchanged worried glances with Birgitte. Rand must learn of this. He would, as soon as she and Elayne could speak to Egwene tonight. If they could manage to put their hands on the ter’angreal long enough.

  “That is,” Moghedien murmured, “if he lives long enough to find them.”

  Nynaeve took hold of the silvery leash where it joined the collar and pulled the Forsaken’s face close to hers. Dark eyes met her gaze flatly, but she could feel anger through the a’dam, and fear wriggling up and being stamped down. “You listen to me. Do you think I don’t know why you are pretending to be so cooperative? You think if you keep talking long enough, I will make some slip, and you can escape. You think the longer we talk, the harder I’ll find it to kill you.” That much was true enough. To kill somebody in cold blood, even one of the Forsaken, would be hard, maybe harder than she could manage. What was she going to do with the woman? “But you understand this. I won’t allow hinting at things. If you try keeping anything back from me, I will do to you everything you ever thought of doing to me.” Dread, creeping through the leash, like bone-chilling shrieks deep in Moghedien’s mind. Maybe she did not know as much about a’dam as Nynaeve thought. Maybe she believed Nynaeve could read her thoughts if she tried. “Now if you know of some threat to Rand, something ahead of Sammael and the others, you tell me. Now!”

  Words spilled from Moghedien’s mouth, and her tongue flickered out to wet her lips continually. “Al’Thor means to go after Rahvin. Today. This morning. Because he thinks Rahvin killed Morgase. I don’t know whether he did or not, but al’Thor believes it. But Rahvin never trusted Lanfear. He never trusted any of them. Why should he? He thought it all might be some trap set for him, so he has laid a trap of his own. He has set Wards through Caemlyn so if a man channels a spark he will know. Al’Thor will walk right into it. He almost certainly already has. I think he meant to leave Cairhien right after sunrise. I had no part of it. It was none of it my doing. I—”

  Nynaeve wanted to shut her up; the fear sweat glistening on the woman’s face made her sick, but if she had to listen to that pleading voice, too . . . She started to channel, wondering whether she would be strong enough to hold Moghedien’s tongue, then smiled. She was linked to Moghedien, and in control. Moghedien’s eyes bulged as she wove flows to stop her own mouth and tied them. Nynaeve added plu
gs for her ears, too, before turning to Birgitte. “What do you think?”

  “Elayne’s heart will break. She loves her mother.”

  “I know that!” Nynaeve took a breath. “I will cry with her and mean every tear, but right now I must worry about Rand. I think she was telling the truth. I could almost feel it.” She caught the silver leash just below her bracelet and shook it. “Maybe it’s this, and maybe it was imagination. What do you believe?”

  “That it’s the truth. She was never very brave unless she clearly had the upper hand, or thought she could get it. And you certainly put the fear of the Light into her.”

  Nynaeve grimaced. Birgitte’s every word put another bubble of anger in her belly. She was never very brave except when she clearly had the upper hand. That could describe herself. She had put the fear of the Light into Moghedien. She had, and she had meant every word when she said it. Boxing somebody’s ears when they needed it was one thing; threatening torture, wanting to torture, even Moghedien, was something else again. And here she was trying to avoid what she knew she had to do. Never very brave except when she clearly had the upper hand. This time the bubble of anger was seeded by herself. “We have to go to Caemlyn. I do, at least. With her. I may not be able to channel strongly enough to tear paper as I am, but with the a’dam I can use her strength.”

  “You won’t be able to affect anything in the waking world from Tel’aran’rhiod,” Birgitte said quietly.

  “I know! I know, but I have to do something.”

  Birgitte threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Nynaeve, it is such an embarrassment being associated with such a coward as you.” Abruptly her eyes widened in surprise. “There wasn’t much of your potion left. I think I am wak—” In mid-word, she was simply no longer there.