Lord of Chaos

by Robert Jordan

  “ . . . and in addition,” the tall bony man standing before the Throne said in a near monotone, “one thousand four hundred twenty-three refugees from Murandy, five hundred sixty-seven from Altara, and one hundred nine from Illian. As far as the head count inside the city proper has gone to this date, I hasten to add.” The few wisps of gray hair remaining to Halwin Norry stood up like quill pens stuck behind his ears, appropriate since he had been Morgase’s chief clerk. “I have hired twenty-three additional clerks for the enumeration, but the number is still clearly insufficient for . . . ”

  Rand stopped listening. Grateful as he was that the man had not run away as so many others had, he was not certain anything was real to Norry except the numbers in his ledgers. He recited the number of deaths during the week and the price of turnips carted in from the countryside in the same dusty tone, arranged the daily burials of penniless friendless refugees with no more horror and no more joy than he showed hiring masons to check the repair of the city walls. Illian was just another land to him, not the abode of Sammael, and Rand just another ruler.

  Where are they? he wondered furiously. Why hasn’t Alanna at least tried to sidle up to me? Moiraine would never have been frightened off so easily.

  Where are all the dead? Lews Therin whispered. Why will they not be silent?

  Rand chuckled grimly. Surely that had to be a joke.

  Sulin was sitting easily on her haunches to one side of the throne’s dais, and red-haired Urien to the other. Today twenty Aethan Dor, Red Shields, waited among the Grand Hall’s columns with the Maidens, some wearing the red headband. They stood or squatted or sat, some talking quietly, but as usual looked ready to spring into action in a heartbeat, even the Maiden and two Red Shields who were dicing. At least one pair of eyes always seemed to be watching Norry; few Aiel trusted a wetlander this close to Rand.

  Abruptly Bashere appeared in the Hall’s tall doorway. When he nodded, Rand sat up. At last. At bloody last. The green-and-white tassel swayed as he gestured with the dragon-carved length of Seanchan spear. “You’ve done well, Master Norry. Your report left nothing out. I will see that the gold you need is provided. But I must attend to other matters now, if you will forgive me.”

  The man gave no sign of curiosity or hurt at being cut off so abruptly. He merely stopped in midword, bowed with “As the Lord Dragon commands” in that same dry tone, and backed away three steps before turning. He did not even glance at Bashere in passing. Nothing real but the ledgers.

  Impatiently, Rand nodded to Bashere and set himself erect and stiff-backed on the throne. The Aiel went silent. It made them seem twice as ready.

  When the Saldaean entered, he did not come alone. Two men and two women followed close behind, none young, in rich silks and brocades. They tried to pretend Bashere did not exist, and almost carried it off, but the watchful Aiel among the columns were another story. Golden-haired Dyelin missed only a step, but Abelle and Luan, both graying yet hard-faced, frowned at the cadin’sor-clad figures and instinctively felt for the swords they did not wear today, while Ellorien, a plump dark-haired woman who would have been pretty were her face not so determinedly stony, stopped dead and glared before she came to herself and caught up to the others with a quick stride. Their first good view of Rand took them aback as well, all of them. Quick wondering glances passed between them. Perhaps they had thought he would be older.

  “My Lord Dragon,” Bashere intoned loudly, halting before the dais, “Lord of the Morning, Prince of the Dawn, True Defender of the Light, before whom the world kneels in awe, I give to you Lady Dyelin of House Taravin, Lord Abelle of House Pendar, Lady Ellorien of House Traemane, and Lord Luan of House Norwelyn.”

  The four Andorans looked at Bashere then, with tight lips and sharp sidelong glances. There had been something in his tone that made it sound as if he was giving Rand four horses. To say their spines stiffened would be to say water became wetter, yet it seemed so as they stared up at Rand. Mostly at Rand. Their eyes could not help drifting to the Lion Throne shining and glittering on its pedestal beyond his head.

  He wanted to laugh at their outraged faces. Outraged, but also careful, and perhaps a touch impressed in spite of themselves. He and Bashere had worked out that list of titles between them, but the bit about the world kneeling was new, Bashere’s own late addition. Moiraine had given him the advice, though. He almost thought he heard her silvery voice again. How people see you first is what they hold hardest in their minds. It is the way of the world. You can step down from a throne, and even if you behave like a farmer in a pigsty, some part in each of them will remember that you did descend from a throne. But if they see only a young man first, a country man, they will resent him stepping up to his throne later, whatever his right, whatever his power. Well, if a title or two could make anything so, everything would be a deal easier.

  I was the Lord of the Morning, Lews Therin mumbled. I am the Prince of the Dawn.

  Rand kept his face smooth. “I will not welcome you — this is your land, and the palace of your queen — but I am pleased you accept my invitation.” After five days and with just a few hours’ notice, but he did not mention that. Rising, he laid the Dragon Scepter on the throne, then trotted down from the dais. With a reserved smile — Never be hostile unless you must, Moiraine had said, but above all never be overly friendly. Never be eager — he gestured to five comfortably cushioned chairs with padded backs, set in a circle among the columns. “Join me. We will talk and have some chilled wine.”

  They followed, of course, eyeing the Aiel and him with equal curiosity and perhaps equal animosity, both poorly hidden. When they were all seated, gai’shain came, silent in their hooded white robes, bringing wine and golden goblets already damp with condensation. Another stood behind each chair with a plumed fan, gently stirring the air. Every chair but Rand’s. They noted that, noted the lack of sweat on his face. But the gai’shain did not perspire either, even in their robes, and neither did the other Aiel. He watched the nobles’ faces over his own winecup.

  Andorans were proud of being more straightforward than many, and they were not slow to boast that the Game of Houses was far more entwined in other lands than in theirs, yet they still believed they could play Daes Dae’mar when they had to. After a fashion they could, but the truth was, Cairhienin and even Tairens considered them simple when it came to the subtle move and countermove of the Great Game. These four kept their composure for the most part, but to someone schooled by Moiraine, schooled harder in Tear and Cairhien, they gave away much with every shift of eye, every slight change of expression.

  First it dawned on them that there was no chair for Bashere. Quick looks flickered between them, a slight brightening, especially when they realized Bashere was striding from the throne room. All four actually let themselves glance after him with the faintest of satisfied smiles. They must dislike a Saldaean army in Andor as much as Naean and that lot did. Now their thoughts were obvious: Perhaps the foreigner’s influence was less than they had feared. Why, Bashere had been treated as no more than a superior servant.

  Dyelin’s eyes widened slightly at almost the same instant as Luan’s, and only a moment ahead of the other two. For a moment they stared at Rand so closely it was plain they avoided looking at one another. Bashere was an outlander, but also the Marshal-General of Saldaea, three times a lord, and uncle to Queen Tenobia. If Rand used him like a servant . . .

  “Excellent wine.” Staring into his goblet, Luan hesitated before adding, “My Lord Dragon.” It might have been pulled out of him with a rope.

  “From the south,” Ellorien said after a sip. “A Tunaighan Hills vintage. A wonder you can find ice in Caemlyn this year. I have heard people already calling this “’The year without a winter.’ “

  “Do you think I would waste time and effort finding ice,” Rand said, “when so many troubles inflict the world?”

  Abelle’s angular face paled, and he seemed to force himself to take another swallow. On the other han
d, Luan emptied his winecup deliberately and thrust it out to be filled by a gai’shain whose green eyes flashed a fury at strong odds with the obstinate mildness of his sun-dark face. Serving wetlanders was like being a servant, and Aiel despised the very notion of servants. How that disgust squared with the very concept of gai’shain Rand had never been able to determine, but it was so.

  Dyelin held her wine firmly on her knees and ignored it thereafter. This close, Rand could see touches of gray in her golden hair; she was still lovely, though in nothing except the hair did she look at all like Morgase or Elayne. Next in line for the throne, she must be a cousin at least, and close. Frowning briefly at him, she seemed on the point of shaking her head, but instead said, “We are concerned with the world’s troubles, but more with those inflicting Andor. Did you bring us here to find a cure?”

  “If you know one,” Rand replied simply. “If not, I must look elsewhere. Many think they know the right cure. If I cannot find the one I want, I will have to accept the next best.” That tightened mouths. On the way here, Bashere had taken them through a courtyard where Arymilla and Lir and the rest of those had been left cooling their heels. Taking their ease in the Palace, it would seem. “I would think you’d want to help put Andor back together. You’ve heard my proclamation?” He did not have to say which one; in this context, there could be only one.

  “A reward offered for news of Elayne,” Ellorien said flatly, her face becoming even stonier, “who is to be made queen now that Morgase is dead.”

  Dyelin nodded. “That seemed well, to me.”

  “Not to me!” Ellorien snapped. “Morgase betrayed her friends and spurned her oldest adherents. Let us see an end to House Trakand on the Lion Throne.” She seemed to have forgotten Rand. They all did.

  “Dyelin,” Luari said curtly. She shook her head as if she had heard this before, but he went on. “She has the best claim. I speak for Dyelin.”

  “Elayne is the Daughter-Heir,” the golden-haired woman told them levelly. “I speak for Elayne.”

  “What does it matter who any of us speak for?” Abelle demanded. “If he killed Morgase, he will — ” Abelle cut off abruptly with a grimace, then looked at Rand, not exactly in defiance, but definitely daring him to do his worst. And expecting him to.

  “Do you really believe that?” Rand glanced sadly at the Lion Throne on its pedestal. “Why under the Light would I kill Morgase only to hand that to Elayne?”

  “Few know what to believe,” Ellorien said stiffly. Spots of color still stained her cheeks. “People say many things, most foolish.”

  “Such as?” He directed the question to her, but it was Dyelin who answered, looking him straight in the eye.

  “That you will fight the Last Battle and kill the Dark One. That you are a false Dragon, or an Aes Sedai puppet, or both. That you’re Morgase’s illegitimate son, or a Tairen High Lord, or an Aielman.” She frowned again for a moment, but did not stop. “That you are the son of an Aes Sedai by the Dark One. That you are the Dark One, or else the Creator clothed in flesh. That you will destroy the world, save it, subjugate it, bring a new Age. As many tales as there are mouths. Most say you killed Morgase. Many add Elayne. They say your proclamation is a mask to hide your crimes.”

  Rand sighed. Some of those sayings were worse than any he had heard. “I won’t ask which you believe.” Why did she keep frowning at him? She was not the only one. Luan did too, and Abelle and Ellorien darted the sort of glances at him that he had come to expect from Arymilla’s bunch when they thought he was not looking. Watching. Watching. That was Lews Therin, a hoarse giggling whisper. I see you. Who sees me? “Instead, will you help me make Andor whole again? I don’t want Andor to become another Cairhien, or worse, a Tarabon or Arad Doman.”

  “I know something of the Karaethon Cycle,” Abelle said. “I believe you are the Dragon Reborn, but nothing there speaks of you ruling, only fighting the Dark One at Tarmon Gai’don.”

  Rand’s hand tightened on his goblet so hard the dark surface of the wine trembled. How much easier if these four were like most of the Tairen High Lords, or the Cairhienin, but not one of them wanted a shaving more power for themselves than they already had. However the wine had been chilled, he doubted the One Power would intimidate this lot. In all likelihood, they’d tell me to kill them and be burned for it!

  Burn for it,

  Lews Therin echoed morosely. “How many times must I say I don’t want to rule Andor? When Elayne sits on the Lion Throne, I will leave Andor. And never return, if I have my way.”

  “If the throne belongs to anyone,” Ellorien said tightly, “it belongs to Dyelin. If you mean what you say, see her crowned, and go. Then Andor will be whole, and I don’t doubt Andoran soldiers will follow you to the Last Battle, if that’s what is called for.”

  “I refuse still,” Dyelin answered in a strong voice, then turned to Rand. “I will wait and consider, my Lord Dragon. When I see Elayne alive and crowned, and you leave Andor, I will send my retainers to follow you whether anyone else in Andor does the same. But if time passes and you still reign here, or if your Aiel savages do here what I’ve heard they did in Cairhien and Tear” — she scowled at the Maidens and Red Shields, and the gai’shain too, as if she saw them looting and burning — “or you loose here those . . . men you gather with your amnesty, then I will come against you, whether anyone else in Andor does the same.”

  “And I will ride beside you,” Luan said firmly.

  “And I,” Ellorien said, echoed by Abelle.

  Rand threw back his head and laughed in spite of himself, half mirth, half frustration. Light! And I thought honest opposition would be better than sneaking behind my back or licking my boots!

  They eyed him uneasily, doubtless thinking it was madness at work. Maybe it was. He was not sure himself anymore.

  “Consider what you must,” he told them, standing to end the audience. “I mean what I said. But consider this as well. Tarmon Gai’don is coming closer. I don’t know how long we have for you to spend considering.”

  They made their goodbyes — a careful bow of the head, as between equals, and at that more than when they arrived — but as they turned to go, Rand caught Dyelin’s sleeve. “I have a question for you.” The others paused, half turning back. “A private question.” After a moment she nodded, and her companions moved a little way down the throne room. They watched closely, but they were not near enough to hear. “You looked at me . . . strangely,” he said. You and every other noble I’ve met in Caemlyn. Every Andoran noble, at least. “Why?”

  Dyelin peered up at him, then finally nodded slightly to herself. “What is your mother’s name?”

  Rand blinked. “My mother?” Kari al’Thor was his mother. That was how he thought of her; she had raised him from infancy, until she died. But he decided to give her the cold truth he had learned in the Waste. “My mother’s name was Shaiel. She was a Maiden of the Spear. My father was Janduin, clan chief of the Taardad Aiel.” Her eyebrows rose doubtfully. “I will swear it on any oath you choose. What does that have to do with what I want to know? They’re both long dead.”

  Relief crept across her face. “A chance resemblance, it seems; no more. I do not mean to say you don’t know your parents, but you have the west of Andor on your tongue.”

  “A resemblance? I grew up in the Two Rivers, but my parents were as I said. Who do I look like to make you stare at me?”

  She hesitated, then sighed. “I do not suppose it matters. Someday you must tell me how you had Aiel parents yet were raised in Andor. Twenty-five years ago, more now, the Daughter-Heir of Andor vanished in the night. Her name was Tigraine. She left behind a husband, Taringail, and a son, Galad. I know it is only chance, yet I see Tigraine in your face. It was a shock.”

  Rand felt a shock of his own. He felt cold. Fragments of the tale the Wise Ones had told him spun through his head . . . a golden-haired young wetlander, in silks . . . son she loved; a husband she did not . . . Shaiel was the name she t
ook. She never gave another . . . You have something of her in your features. “How was it that Tigraine vanished? I have an interest in the history of Andor.”

  “I will thank you not to call it history, my Lord Dragon. I was a girl when it happened, but more than a child, and here in the Palace often. One morning, Tigraine simply was not in the Palace, and she was never seen again. Some claimed to see Taringail’s hand in it, but he was half-mad with grief. Taringail Damodred wanted more than anything else in the world to see his daughter Queen of Andor and his son King of Cairhien. He was Cairhienin, Taringail. That marriage was meant to stop the wars with Cairhien, and it did, yet Tigraine vanishing made them think Andor wanted to break the treaty, which led them to scheme the way Cairhienin do, which led to Laman’s Pride. And you of course know where that led,” she added dryly. “My father said Gitara Sedai was really at fault.”

  “Gitara?” A wonder he did not sound strangled. He had heard that name more than once. It had been an Aes Sedai named Gitara Moroso, a woman with the Foretelling, who announced that the Dragon had been Reborn on the slopes of Dragonmount, and so set Moiraine and Siuan on their long search. It had been Gitara Moroso who years before that told “Shaiel” that unless she fled to the Waste, telling no one, and became a Maiden of the Spear, disaster would fall on Andor and the world.

  Dyelin nodded, a touch impatiently. “Gitara was counselor to Queen Mordrellen,” she said briskly, “but she spent more time with Tigraine and Luc, Tigraine’s brother, than with the Queen. After Luc rode north, never to return, whispers said Gitara had convinced him that his fame lay in the Blight, or his fate. Others said it was that he would find the Dragon Reborn there, or that the Last Battle depended on him going. That was about a year before Tigraine disappeared. Myself, I doubt Gitara had anything to do with it, or with Luc. She stayed the Queen’s counselor until Mordrellen died. From heartbreak over Tigraine on top of Luc, so it was said. Which began the Succession, of course.” She glanced toward the others, who were shifting their feet and frowning with suspicion and impatience, but she could not resist adding one more thing. “You would have found a different Andor, without that. Tigraine queen, Morgase only High Seat of House Trakand, Elayne not born at all. Morgase married Taringail once she had the throne, you see. Who can say what else would be changed?”