Thom stepped up beside Rand, squinting up at the hole in the rock. “I suspect I’m not going in with you.”
Moiraine looked at him, pursing her lips.
“Someone will need to guard the entry into the cave, my wife,” Thom said. “That ledge up there right beside the opening has an excellent view of the battlefield. I can watch the battle below, maybe compose a good ballad or two.”
Rand smiled at the spark of humor in Thom’s eyes. They stood at the edge of time itself, and still Thom Merrilin found a smile.
Above them, dark clouds spun, the peak of Shayol Ghul their axis. Darkness assaulted the sun until it was nearly gone, entirely covered, in total oblivion.
Rand’s forces stopped, staring in terror at the sky, and even the Trollocs paused, growling and hooting. But as the sun slowly emerged from its captivity, the fierce battle resumed in the valley below. It announced his intentions, but the dagger would shield him from the Dark One’s eyes. The Light willing, the Shadow’s leaders would focus on the battle and assume Rand would wait for its outcome before striking.
“Now?” Nynaeve asked, looking up the narrow, stony pathway to the cavern.
Rand nodded and led the way forward. A wind rose, whipping at the four as they climbed the pathway. He had chosen his clothing deliberately. His red coat, embroidered with long-thorned briars on the sleeves and golden herons on the collar, was a twin to one of those Moiraine had arranged for him to receive in Fal Dara. The white shirt, laced across the front, was of Two Rivers make. Callandor on his back, the sword of Laman at his hip. It had been a long time since he’d chosen to wear that, but it felt appropriate.
The winds buffeted him, threatening to throw him from the heights. He pushed forward anyway, climbing the steep hill, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side. Time seemed to have less meaning here, and he felt as if he’d been walking for days when he reached the flat area before the cavern. He turned, resting one hand against the rock of the open maw, and looked out over the valley.
His forces in the valley seemed so fragile, so insignificant. Would they be able to hold it long enough?
“Rand . . .” Nynaeve said, taking his arm. “Perhaps you should rest.”
He looked down, following her eyes to his side. His wound, the old wound, had broken open again. He felt blood inside his boot. It had run down his side, down his leg, and when he moved his foot, he left a bloody footprint behind.
Blood on the rocks . . .
Nynaeve raised a hand to her mouth.
“It has to happen, Nynaeve,” Rand said. “You cannot stop it. The prophecy does not say anything about me living through this. I’ve always found that odd, haven’t you? Why would it speak of the blood, but not what comes after?” He shook his head, then unsheathed Callandor from his back. “Moiraine, Nynaeve, will you lend me your strength and join me in a circle?”
“Do you wish one of us to lead,” Moiraine said hesitantly, “so you can use that safely?”
“I’m not planning to be safe,” Rand said. “A circle, please.”
The two women exchanged a look. So long as he led the circle, another could strike and seize control of him. Neither liked the request, obviously. He wasn’t certain if he should be pleased that the two of them had started to get along—perhaps, instead, he should worry about them teaming up against him.
That seemed like a thought from simpler days. Easier days. He smiled wryly, but knew that the smile did not reach his eyes. Moiraine and Nynaeve fed him their strength, and he accepted it. Thom kissed Moiraine, and then the three of them turned to regard the opening before them. It led back down, toward the base of the mountain, and the fiery pit that was the closest thing this world knew to the Dark Ones dwelling.
Shadows from a returned sun dimmed the cavern mouth around him. Wind tugged at him, his foot warm with his own blood. I will not walk out of this pit alive, he thought.
He no longer cared. Survival was not his goal. It had not been for some time.
He did want to do this right. He had to do this right. Was it the right time? Had he planned well enough?
IT IS TIME. LET THE TASK BE UNDERTAKEN.
The voice spoke with the inevitability of an earthquake, the words vibrating through him. More than sound in the air, far more, the words spoke as if from one soul to another. Moiraine gasped, eyes opening wide.
Rand was not surprised. He had heard this voice once before, and he realized that he had been expecting it. Hoping for it, at least.
“Thank you,” Rand whispered, then stepped forward into the Dark One’s realm, leaving footprints of blood behind.
CHAPTER 24
To Ignore the Omens
Fortuona, Empress of the Seanchan Empire, studied her husband as he gave orders to their forces. They were arrayed outside the palace in Ebou Dar, and she herself sat upon an elaborate mobile throne, outfitted with poles at the bottom so she could be carried by a dozen soldiers.
The throne lent her grandeur, but also gave an illusion of immobility. An assassin would assume that she could not move quickly while wearing her formal silks, her gown draping down in front and tumbling toward the ground. They would be surprised, then, that she could break free of the outer garments at the flick of a wrist.
“He has changed, Greatest One,” Beslan said to her. “And yet he hasn’t. I don’t know what to make of him any longer.”
“He is what the Wheel has sent us,” Fortuona replied. “Have you considered what you will do?”
Beslan kept eyes forward. He was impetuous, often governed by his emotions, but no more so than the other Altarans. They were a passionate people, and were making a fine addition to the Empire now that they were properly tamed.
“I will do as has been suggested,” Beslan said, face flushed.
“Wise,” Fortuona said.
“May the throne stand forever,” Beslan said. “And may your breath continue as long, Greatest One.” He bowed, withdrawing to do as he should. Fortuona could march to war, but these were Beslan’s lands to govern. He so wanted to be part of the battle, but now he understood that he was needed here.
Selucia watched him go, nodding in approval. That one is becoming a strong asset as he learns proper restraint, she signed.
Fortuona said nothing. Selucia’s motions carried an implication, one that Fortuona would have missed save for their long association. Beslan was learning. Other men, however . . .
Mat started cursing up a storm nearby, gathered with the Seanchan commanders. She could not hear exactly what had set him off. What had she done, in yoking herself to him?
I have followed the omens, she thought.
She caught him glancing toward her before he returned to his raving. He would have to be taught restraint, but teaching him ... it would be difficult. Far more difficult than teaching Beslan had been. At least Selucia did not speak her condemnations out loud. The woman was now Fortuona's Truthspeaker, though Fortuna could sense that Selucia was finding the position grating. She would prefer to remain only Fortuona's Voice. Perhaps the omens would show Fortuona someone else fitting as a Truthspeaker.
Are we really going to do as he says? Selucia signed.
This world is chaos, Fortuona signed back. Not a straight answer. She did not want to give straight answers at the moment. Selucia would puzzle out the meaning.
The Seanchan commonly said “may she live forever” in regard to the Empress. To some, it was a platitude or a mere ritual of allegiance. Fortuona had always seen much more to it. That phrase encapsulated the strength of the Empire. An Empress had to be crafty, strong, and skilled if she was to survive. Only the fittest deserved to sit on the Crystal Throne. If one of her siblings, or a member of the High Blood like Galgan, managed to kill her, then her death served the Empire—for she had obviously been too weak to lead it.
May she live forever. May she be strong enough to live forever. May she be strong enough to lead us to victory. She would bring order to this world. That was her goal.
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Matrim stalked past on the army’s gathering grounds, passing ten paces before Fortuona's throne. He wore an Imperial high general’s uniform, although not well. He kept snagging the paltron-cloths on things. A high general’s regalia was meant to give the bearer authority, to enhance his grace as cloth rippled in response to his careful movements. On Matrim, it was like wrapping a racehorse in silk and expecting him to run. He had a kind of grace, but it was not the grace of court.
Lesser commanders trailed after him. Matrim baffled the Blood. That was good, as it kept them off balance. But he also represented disorder, with his random ways and constant stabs at authority. Fortuona represented order, and she had married chaos himself. What had she been thinking?
“But what of the Sea Folk, Highness?” General Yulan said, stopping beside Matrim in front of Fortuona.
“Stop worrying about the bloody Sea Folk,” Matrim snapped. “If you say the words ‘Sea Folk’ one more time, I’ll hang you by your toenails from one of those raken you fly about on and send you off to Shara.”
Yulan seemed perplexed. “Highness, I . . .”
He trailed off as Mat yelled, “Savara, we’re leading with pikes, not cavalry, you goat-loving idiot! I don’t care if the cavalry thinks it can do a better job. Cavalry always thinks that! What are you, a bloody Tairen High Lady? Well, I’ll name you an honorary one if you keep this up!”
Matrim stormed off toward Savara, who sat her horse with arms folded, displeasure on her dark face. Yulan, left behind, looked completely bewildered. “How does one hang a person by their toenails?” Yulan asked, softly enough that Fortuona barely heard. “I do not think that is possible. The nails would break off.” He walked away, shaking his head.
To the side, Selucia signed, Beware. Galgan approaches.
Fortuona steeled herself as Captain-General Galgan rode up. He wore black armor rather than a uniform like Mat’s, and he wore it well. Commanding, almost towering, he was her greatest rival and her strongest resource. Any man in his position would be a rival, of course. That was the way of things—the proper way of things.
Matrim would never be a rival. She still did not know how to think of that. A piece of her—small, but not without strength—thought she should have him put away for that very reason. Was not the Prince of the Ravens a check upon the Empress, to keep her strong by providing a constant threat? Sarabat shaiqen nai batain pyast. A woman was most resourceful with a knife at her throat. A proverb uttered by Varuota, her great-great-great-grandmother.
She would hate to put Matrim away. She couldn’t until she had a child by him, anyway—it would be ignoring the omens to do otherwise.
Such a strange man he was. Each time she thought she could anticipate him, she was proved wrong.
“Greatest One,” Galgan said, “we are nearly ready.”
“The Prince of the Ravens is dissatisfied with the delays,” she said. “He fears we are joining the battle too late.”
“If the Prince of the Ravens has any real understanding of armies and battlefields,” Galgan said, his tone indicating that he didn’t believe such a thing was possible, “he will realize that moving a force of this size requires no small effort.”
Up until Matrim’s arrival, Galgan had been the highest-ranking member of the Blood in these lands other than Fortuona herself. He would dislike being superseded suddenly. As of yet, Galgan had command of their armies—and Fortuona intended to let him continue to lead. Earlier today, Galgan had asked Mat how he would gather their forces, and Mat had taken it as a suggestion to do just that. The Prince of the Ravens strode about giving orders, but he did not command. Not fully; Galgan could stop him with a word.
He did not. Obviously, he wished to see how Mat handled command. Galgan watched Mat, eyes narrowed. He did not fully know how the Prince of the Ravens fit into the command structure. Fortuona had yet to make a decision on that.
Nearby, a burst of wind carried away some dust. It revealed the small skull of a rodent, peeking from the earth. Another omen. Her life had been cluttered with them lately.
This was an omen of danger, of course. It was as if she strolled through deep grasses, passing between stalking lopar and among holes dug to catch the unwary. The Dragon Reborn had knelt before the Crystal Throne, and the omen of peach blossoms—the most powerful omen she knew—had accompanied him.
Troops marched past, officers shouting orders in time to the steps. The raken calls seemed timed to the beats of the falling feet. This was what she would be leaving for an unknown war in lands she barely knew. Her lands here would be virtually undefended, a foreigner of newly minted loyalty in command.
Great change. Her decisions could end her rule and, indeed, the Empire itself. Matrim did not understand that.
Summon my consort, Fortuona signed, tapping the armrest of her throne.
Selucia Voiced the order to a messenger. After a short time, Mat rode up on his horse. He had refused the gift of a new one, with good reason. He had a better eye for horseflesh than the Imperial stablemaster herself. Still. Pips. What a silly name.
Fortuona stood up. Immediately, those nearby bowed. Galgan dismounted and went down on his knees. Everyone else prostrated themselves to the ground. The Empress standing to proclaim meant an act of the Crystal Throne.
“Blood and ashes,” Matrim said. “More bowing? Have you folks nothing better to do? I could think of a few dozen things, if you cant.”
To the side, she saw Galgan smile. He thought he knew what she was going to do. He was wrong.
“I name you Knotai, for you are a bringer of destruction to the Empire’s enemies. Let your new name only be spoken from now into eternity, Knotai. I proclaim that Knotai, Prince of the Ravens, is to be given the rank of Rodholder in our armies. Let it be published as my will.”
Rodholder. It meant that should Galgan fall, Mat would have command. Galgan was no longer smiling. He would have to keep watch over his shoulder lest Mat overcome him and take control.
Fortuona sat down.
“Knotai?” Knotai said.
She glared at him. Keep your tongue, for once, she thought at him. Please.
“I kind of like it,” Knotai said, turning his horse and trotting away.
Galgan regained his saddle. “He will need to learn to kneel,” the general muttered, then kicked his horse forward.
It was an ever-so-small offense, deliberate and calculating. Galgan had not addressed the words to Fortuona directly, instead acting as if they were just a comment to himself. He sidestepped calling her Greatest One.
It was enough to make Selucia growl softly and wiggle her fingers in a question.
No, Fortuona signed, we need him.
Once again, Knotai did not seem to realize what she had done, and the risk inherent in it. Galgan would have to consult with him on their battle plans; the Rodholder could not be left out of meetings, as he had to be ready to take control at any moment. Galgan would have to listen to his advice and incorporate it.
She bet upon her prince in this, hoping that he could manifest again the unexpected genius in battle that had so impressed Furyk Karede.
This is bold, Selucia said. But what if he fails?
We will not fail, Fortuona replied, for this is the Last Battle.
The Pattern had placed Knotai before her, had shoved her into his arms. The Dragon Reborn had seen and spoken truth about her—for all the illusion of order, her rule was like a heavy rock balanced on its smallest point. She was stretched thin, reigning over lands unaccustomed to discipline. She needed to take great risks to bring order to chaos.
She hoped that Selucia would see it that way and not publicly denounce her. Fortuona really would need to find a new Voice or appoint someone else as Truthspeaker. Having one person fill both roles was drawing criticism in court. It—
Knotai suddenly came riding back, holding to his hat. “Tuon!”
Why is it so hard for him to understand names? Selucia asked with a wiggle of her fingers. Fortuona c
ould almost read the sigh in those motions. “Knotai?” Fortuona asked. “You may approach.”
“Bloody good,” Knotai said, “since I’m already here. Tuon, we need to move now. The scouts just came back. Egwene’s army is in trouble.”
Yulan rode up just behind Knotai, then dismounted and bowed himself full to the ground.
“Rise,” Fortuona said. “Is this true?”
“The army of the marath'damane has suffered a grave defeat,” Yulan said. “The returning Fists of Heaven describe it in detail. This Amyrlin’s armies are scattered, in turmoil, and retreating at speed.”
Galgan had stopped nearby to receive a messenger, no doubt being given a similar report. The general looked at her.
“We should move in to support Egwene’s retreat,” Knotai said. “I don’t know what a Rodholder is, but from how everyone’s reacting, I think it means I have control of the armies.”
“No,” Fortuona said. “You are third. Behind me. Behind Galgan.
Then you can order a move right now,” Knotai said. “We need to go! Egwene is getting stomped.”
“How many marath'damane are there?” Fortuona asked.
“We have been watching this army,” Yulan said. “There are hundreds. The entirety of the White Tower that remains. They are exhausted, being driven forth by a new force, one we do not recognize.”
“Tuon . . .” Mat warned.
Great change. So this was the meaning of the Dragon’s omen. Fortuona could swoop in and all of those damane would be hers. Hundreds upon hundreds. With that force, she could crush the resistance to her rule back in Seanchan.
It was the Last Battle. The world hung upon her decisions. Was it truly better to support these marath'damane in their desperate fight here, or should she use the chance to retreat to Seanchan, secure her rule there, then defeat the Trollocs and the Shadow with the might of the Empire?
“You gave your word,” Knotai said softly.
“I signed a treaty,” she said. “Any treaty can be broken, particularly by the Empress.”
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