Lord of Chaos

by Robert Jordan

  A sense of awe came over her. She found herself looking at the faces of the others, wondering if they felt the same. She was a part of something more than herself, greater than herself. Not just the One Power. Emotions tumbled in her head, fear and hope and relief — and yes, awe, more than any other — a sense of calm that had to come from the Aes Sedai, and she could not tell which emotions were hers. It should have been chilling, but she felt closer to these women than she could have to any sister, as if they were all one flesh. A lanky Gray named Ashmanaille smiled warmly at her, seemingly recognizing her thoughts.

  Nynaeve’s breath caught as it occurred to her that she no longer felt angry. Anger had vanished, swallowed in wonder. Yet somehow, now that control had passed to the Blue sister, the flow of saidar continued. Her eyes fell on Nicola and found no sisterly smile, only that considering study. Reflexively Nynaeve tried to pull back from the link, and nothing happened. Until Anaiya broke the circle she was part of it, and that was that.

  Elayne joined much more easily, first slipping the silver bracelet into her robe’s pocket. Cold sweat broke out on Nynaeve’s face. What might have happened had Elayne entered the link already linked to Moghedien by the a’dam? She had no notion, which only made the question worse. Nicola frowned from Nynaeve to Elayne. Surely she could not separate out which emotions were which, not when Nynaeve could not tell her own. The final two were brought into the circle just as easily, Shimoku, a pretty dark-eyed Kandori who had become Accepted just before the Tower divided, and Calindin, a Taraboner with her black hair in a multitude of thin braids who had been Accepted for a good ten years. A woman little more than a novice and another who struggled for every scrap she learned, but they had no trouble linking.

  Suddenly Nicola spoke, sounding half-asleep. “The lion sword, the dedicated spear, she who sees beyond. Three on the boat, and he who is dead yet lives. The great battle done, but the world not done with battle. The land divided by the return, and the guardians balance the servants. The future teeters on the edge of a blade.”

  Anaiya stared at her. “What was that, child?”

  Nicola blinked. “Did I say something, Aes Sedai?” she asked weakly. “I feel . . . peculiar.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be sick,” Anaiya said briskly, “get it over with. Linking takes some women funny the first time. We have no time to coddle your stomach.” As if to prove it, she gathered her skirts and started down the street. “Stay close, now, all of you. And sing out if you see something that needs dealing with.”

  That was hardly a problem. People milled about in the streets and things moved. Doors slammed and windows banged open with no one touching them. Crashes and splinterings came from inside the houses. Pots, tools, stones, anything loose, might leap or dart at any moment. A stout cook in her shift snagged a hurtling bucket out of the air with a nearly hysterical laugh, but when a pale lean fellow in his smallclothes tried to knock away a stick of firewood, the result was the crack of his arm breaking. Ropes writhed their way about legs and arms, and even people’s clothes began to crawl. They found a hairy man with his shirt wrapped around his head, flailing about so hard he kept at bay those who were trying to peel it away before it smothered him. A woman who had managed to pull on a dress if not fasten it up clung to the thatch on the edge of a roof, shrieking at the top of her lungs as the dress tried to haul her across the house, or maybe into the sky.

  Dealing with these things proved no more problem than finding them. The flows of Power Anaiya wielded through the link — and those from other circles — would have had no trouble stopping a herd of charging bulls, much less a kettle that took it in mind to fly. And once a thing was stopped, whether by the Power or by hand, it seldom stirred again. There were just so many of them. There was not even time to stop for Healing unless a life was in danger; bruises, bleeding and broken bones had to wait while another fence-board was slapped to the ground, hopefully before it split a head; another barrel halted in its wild rolling, before it broke a leg.

  A sense of frustration grew in Nynaeve. So many things to quell; all small, but a man with his skull cracked by a frying pan or a woman strangled by her own shift was as dead as someone struck down by the Power. It was not just her frustration; she thought it came from every woman in the circle, even the Aes Sedai. But all she could do was march along with the others, watch Anaiya weave the combination of their flows to battle a thousand small dangers. Nynaeve lost herself in being a conduit, in being one with a dozen other women.

  Finally Anaiya halted, frowning. The link dissolving caught Nynaeve by surprise. For a moment she sagged where she stood, staring uncomprehendingly. Moans and weeping had replaced screams and shouts; the palely lit street was still except for people trying to help the injured. By the moon, less than an hour had passed, but it seemed to Nynaeve like ten. Her back ached where the stool had hit her, her knees wobbled, her eyes felt scrubbed. She yawned so hard she thought her ears would pop.

  “Not at all what I expected from one of the Forsaken,” Anaiya muttered only half under her breath. She sounded tired too, but she launched right into the next thing to be done, catching Nicola by the shoulder. “You can hardly stand. Bed for you. Off you go, child. I want to speak to you first thing in the morning, before breakfast. Angla, you stay; you can link again and lend a little strength for the Healing. Lanita, bed.”

  “It wasn’t the Forsaken,” Nynaeve said. Mumbled, really. Light, she was tired. “It was a bubble of evil.” The three Aes Sedai stared at her. For that matter, so did the rest of the Accepted, except for Elayne, and the novices too. Even Nicola, who had not yet gone. For once, Nynaeve did not care how much the woman weighed her with her eyes; she was too sleepy to care.

  “We saw one in Tear,” Elayne said, “in the Stone.” Only the aftermath, really, but that was closer than either of them had ever hoped to be again. “If Sammael attacked us, he wouldn’t toss sticks about.” Ashmanaille exchanged unreadable glances with Bharatine, a Green who managed to make rail-thin look gracefully slender and a long nose look elegant.

  Anaiya never flickered an eyelid. “You seem to have plenty of energy left, Elayne. You can help with the Healing, too. And you, Nynaeve . . . You’ve lost it again, haven’t you? Well, you look as if you ought to be carried to bed, but you will have to find your own way. Shimoku, stand up and go to bed, child. Calindin, you come with me.”

  “Anaiya Sedai,” Nynaeve said carefully, “Elayne and I found something tonight. If we could speak to you alo — ”

  “Tomorrow, child. To bed with you. Now, before you fall down.” Anaiya did not even wait to see whether she was obeyed. Drawing Calindin after her, she strode to a groaning man lying with his head in a woman’s lap and bent over him. Ashmanaille pulled Elayne another way, and Bharatine took Angla a third. Before she vanished into the crowd, Elayne looked over her shoulder at Nynaeve and shook her head slightly.

  Well, perhaps this was not the best time or place to bring up the bowl and Ebou Dar. There had been something odd in Anaiya’s reaction, as though she would be disappointed to learn this truly had not been an attack by the Forsaken. Why? She was too tired to think straight. Anaiya might have controlled the flows, but saidar had passed through Nynaeve for a good hour, enough to weary someone who had had a good night’s sleep.

  Swaying, Nynaeve caught sight of Theodrin. The Domani woman limped along with a pair of white-clad novices at her side, pausing where someone seemed to have an injury her skill at Healing could handle. She did not see Nynaeve.

  I will go to bed, Nynaeve thought sullenly, Anaiya Sedai told me to. Why had Anaiya seemed disappointed? Some thought nuzzled at the corner of her mind, but she was too sleepy to catch it. Her steps dragged, nearly stumbling on level ground. She would go to sleep, and Theodrin could make of it what she wanted.

  Chapter 15

  A Pile of Sand

  * * *

  Egwene’s eyes opened, stared at nothing. For a moment she lay on her bedding, idly fingering the G
reat Serpent ring on its thong around her neck. Wearing it on her hand caused too many odd looks. Easier to fit in as a student of the Wise Ones if no one thought of her as Aes Sedai. Which she was not, of course. She was Accepted, yet had pretended to be Aes Sedai so long, she sometimes almost forgot that she was not.

  A bit of early sunlight crept in at the door flap, barely lighting the tent’s interior. She might as well not have slept at all, and her temples were throbbing. Since the day Lanfear had nearly killed her and Aviendha, the day the Forsaken and Moiraine had killed each other, her head always hurt after a visit to Tel’aran’rhiod, though never enough to be a real bother. Anyway, back home Nynaeve had taught her something of herbs, and she had managed to find a few of the right sort here in Cairhien. Sleepwell root would make her drowsy — or maybe, as weary she was, it might put her under for hours — but it would clear any vestige of a headache.

  Climbing to her feet, she straightened her twisted sweat-soaked shift and padded across the layered carpets to the washbasin, a carved crystal bowl that had probably once held wine punch for some nobleman. In any case, it held plain water as well as the blue-glazed pitcher did, water that hardly felt cool at all when she splashed it on her face. Her gaze met her own eyes in the small gilt-framed mirror propped against the dark tent wall, and her cheeks crimsoned.

  “Well, what did you think would happen?” she whispered. She would not have thought it possible, but her reflection’s face grew redder.

  It had only been a dream, not like Tel’aran’rhiod, where what happened to you was real when you woke. But she remembered everything, just as if it had been real. She thought her cheeks might burn right off. Just a dream, and Gawyn’s dream at that. He had no right to dream about her like that.

  “It was all his doing,” she told her reflection angrily, “not mine! I had no choice in it!” Her mouth snapped shut ruefully. Trying to hold a man at fault for his dreams. And talking to a mirror like a goose-head.

  Pausing at the door flap, she stooped to peer out. Her low tent stood on the edge of the Aiel encampment. The gray walls of Cairhien rose some two miles to the west across the bare hills, with nothing between except the charred ground where Foregate had once encircled the city. By the sharp cast to the light, the sun was just peeking over the horizon, yet Aiel already bustled among the tents.

  No early rising for her this morning. After a whole night out of her body — her cheeks heated again; Light, was she going to go the rest of her life blushing over a dream? She was very much afraid she might — after that she could sleep until afternoon. The smell of cooking porridge was no competition for heavy eyelids.

  Wearily she went back to her blankets and collapsed, rubbing her temples. She was too tired to prepare the sleepwell root, but then, she thought she was too tired for it to matter. The dull pain always faded in an hour or so; it would be gone when she woke.

  Given everything, it was no surprise that Gawyn filled her dreams. Sometimes she repeated one of his, though not exactly, of course; in her versions, certain embarrassing events just did not occur, or at least were glossed over. Gawyn spent a good deal more time reciting poetry, and holding her while they watched sunrises and sunsets. He did not stumble over saying he loved her, either. And he looked as handsome as he really was. Others were all her own. Tender kisses that lasted forever. Him kneeling while she cupped his head in her hands. Some made no sense. Twice, right atop one another, she dreamed of taking him by the shoulders and trying to turn him to face the other way against his will. Once he brushed her hands away roughly; the other time, she was somehow stronger than he. The two blended together hazily. In another he began swinging a door closed on her, and she knew if that narrowing gap of light vanished, she was dead.

  Dreams tumbled through her head, not all of him, and usually nightmarish.

  Perrin came and stood before her, a wolf lying at his feet, a hawk and a falcon perched on his shoulders glaring at each other over his head. Seemingly unaware of them, he kept trying to throw away that axe of his, until finally he ran, the axe floating through the air, chasing him. Again Perrin; he turned away from a Tinker and ran, faster and faster though she called for him to come back. Mat spoke strange words she almost understood — the Old Tongue, she thought — and two ravens alighted on his shoulders, claws sinking through his coat into the flesh beneath. He seemed no more aware of them than Perrin had been of the hawk and falcon, yet defiance passed across his face, and then grim acceptance. In another a woman, face shrouded in shadow, beckoned him toward great danger; Egwene did not know what, only that it was monstrous. Several concerned Rand, not all bad, but all odd. Elayne, forcing him to his knees with one hand. Elayne and Min and Aviendha, sitting in a silent circle around him, each in turn reaching out to lay a hand on him. Him walking toward a burning mountain, something crunching beneath his boots. She stirred and whimpered; the crunching things were the seals on the Dark One’s prison, shattering with his every step. She knew it. She did not need to see them to know.

  Feeding on fear, her dreams became worse. The two strange women she had been seeing In Tel’aran’rhiod caught her and dragged her before a table full of hooded women, and when they took off their hoods, every one was Liandrin, the Black sister who had captured her in Tear. A hard-faced Seanchan woman handed her a silvery bracelet and necklace connected by a silvery leash, an a’dam. That made her cry out; Seanchan had put an a’dam on her once. She would die before letting it happen again. Rand capered through the streets of Cairhien, laughing as he blasted buildings and people with lightning and fire, and other men ran with him, hurling the Power; that awful amnesty of his had been announced in Cairhien, but surely no man would choose to channel. The Wise Ones caught her in Tel’aran’rhiod and sold her like an animal in the lands beyond the Aiel Waste; that was what they did to Cairhienin they found in the Waste. She stood outside herself, watching her face melt, her skull crack open, and dimly seen shapes poke at her with hard sticks. Poke at her. Poke . . .

  She bolted up, gasping, and Cowinde sat back on her heels beside the bed, head bowed in the cowl of her white woolen robe.

  “Forgive me, Aes Sedai. I only meant to wake you to break the night’s fast.”

  “You didn’t have to jab a hole in my ribs,” Egwene muttered, and was instantly sorry.

  Irritation flared in Cowinde’s deep blue eyes, and was snuffed out, hidden behind the gai’shain mask of compliant acceptance. Sworn to obey meekly and touch no weapon for a year and a day, gai’shain accepted whatever happened, whether a rude word, a blow, even a knife in the heart very likely. Though to an Aiel, killing a gai’shain was the same as killing a child. There was no excuse; the perpetrator would be struck down by his own brother or sister. Yet it was a mask, Egwene was certain. Gai’shain worked at it doggedly, but they were still Aiel, and a people less meek Egwene could not imagine. Even one like Cowinde, who refused to put off the white when her year and a day was done. Her refusal was an act of stubborn pride and defiance, as much as any man refusing to retreat from ten enemies. Such tangles the Aiel’s ji’e’toh got them into.

  That was one reason Egwene tried to watch how she spoke to gai’shain, especially those like Cowinde. They had no way to fight back without violating everything they believed in. On the other hand, Cowinde had been a Maiden of the Spear, and would be again if she could ever be convinced to put off that robe. Forgetting the Power, she could probably tie Egwene into a knot while honing a spear at the same time.

  “I do not want any breakfast,” Egwene told her. “Just go away and let me sleep.”

  “No breakfast?” Amys said, necklaces and bracelets of ivory and silver and gold clicking as she ducked into the tent. She wore no rings — Aiel did not — but for the rest she had on enough to do three women with some to spare. “I thought your appetite at least had recovered fully.”

  Bair and Melaine followed her in, each as bedecked with jewelry. The three were from different clans, but where most other Wise Ones who had crossed
the Dragonwall stayed close to their septs, their tents were together nearby. They took places on bright, tasseled cushions at the foot of her bedding, adjusting the dark shawls Aiel women never seemed to be without. Those not Far Dareis Mai, anyway. Amys was as white-haired as Bair, but where Bair’s grandmotherly face bore deep creases, Amys looked oddly young, perhaps because of the contrast between hair and face. She said it had been nearly as pale when she was a child.

  Usually Bair or Amys took the lead, but today Melaine, sun-haired and green-eyed, spoke first. “If you stop eating, you cannot get well. We had considered letting you come to the next meeting with the other Aes Sedai — they ask every time when you will come — ”

  “And make wetlander fools of themselves every time,” Amys put in acidly. She was not a sour woman, but the Aes Sedai in Salidar seemed to make her so. Maybe it was just meeting Aes Sedai. By custom, Wise Ones avoided them, especially Wise Ones who could channel, like Amys and Melaine. Besides, they were not pleased that the Aes Sedai had replaced Nynaeve and Elayne at the meetings. Neither was Egwene. She suspected the Wise Ones felt they had impressed those two with the seriousness of Tel’aran’rhiod. By the fragments she heard of the meetings now, the Aes Sedai were not impressed at all. Very little impressed Aes Sedai.

  “But we may have to think again,” Melaine went on calmly. She had been prickly as a thornbush before her recent marriage, but little seemed to crack her composure now. “You must not return to the dream until your body has its full strength back.”

  “Your eyes are pinched,” Bair said in a concerned, reedy voice that matched her face. In many ways she was the hardest of the three, though. “Did you sleep poorly?”