Rand strolled the hallways. Something worried him, a discomfort from the back of his mind. What was it . . .
Do not be caught here, he realized. Do not be complacent. This world was not real, not completely. Not yet.
Could this have been a plan of the Dark One? To trick Rand into creating paradise for himself, only to enter it and be trapped while the Last Battle raged? People were dying as they fought.
He had to remember that. He could not let this fancy consume him. That was difficult to remember as he entered the gallery—a long hallway, lined with what appeared to be windows. Only, those windows did not look out at Caemlyn. These new glass portals allowed one to see other places, like a gateway always in place.
Rand passed one that looked out into a submerged bay, colorful fish darting this way and that. Another gave a view of a peaceful meadow high in the Mountains of Mist. Red flowers pushed up through the green, like specks of paint scattered on the floor following a painter’s daily work.
On the other wall, the windows looked at the great cities of the world. Rand passed Tear, where the Stone was now a museum to the days of the Third Age, with the Defenders as its curators. None of this generation had ever carried a weapon, and were baffled by the stories of their grandparents having fought. Another showed the Seven Towers of Malkier, built strong again—but as a monument, not a fortification. The Blight had vanished upon the Dark One’s death, and the Shadowspawn had fallen dead immediately. As if the Dark One had been linked to them all, like a Fade leading a fist of Trollocs.
Doors did not bear locks. Coinage was a nearly forgotten eccentricity. Channelers helped create food for everyone. Rand passed a window to Tar Valon, where the Aes Sedai Healed any who came and created gateways to bring loved ones together. All had everything they needed.
He hesitated beside the next window. It looked out at Rhuidean. Had this city ever been in a desert? The Waste bloomed, from Shara to Cairhien.
And here, through the window, Rand saw the Chora Fields—a forest of them, surrounding the fabled city. Though he could not hear their words, he saw the Aiel singing.
No more weapons. No more spears to dance. Once again, the Aiel were a people of peace.
He continued on. Bandar Eban, Ebou Dar, the Seanchan lands, Shara. Each nation was represented, though these days, people didn’t pay much heed to borders. Another relic. Who cared who lived in what nation, and why would someone try to “own” land? There was enough for all. The blooming of the Waste had opened up room for new cities, new wonders. Many of the windows Rand passed looked at places he did not know, though he was pleased to see the Two Rivers looking so majestic, almost like Manetheren come again.
The last window gave him pause. It looked upon a valley in what had once been the Blasted Lands. A stone slab, where a body had been burned long ago, rested here alone. Overgrown with life: vines, grass, flowers. A furry spider the size of a child’s hand scurried across the stones.
Rand’s grave. The place where his body had been burned following the Last Battle. He lingered a long while at that window before finally forcing himself to move on, leaving the Gallery and making his way to the Palace gardens. Servants were helpful whenever he spoke to them. Nobody questioned why he wanted to see the Queen.
He assumed that when he found her, she would be surrounded by people. If anyone could see the Queen, wouldn’t that demand all of her time? Yet when he approached her sitting in the Palace gardens beneath the boughs of the Palace’s chora tree, she was alone.
This was a world without problems. A world where people worked out their own grievances easily. A world of giving, not dispute. What would someone need of the Queen?
Elayne was as beautiful as she’d been when they’d last parted. She was no longer pregnant, of course. A hundred years had passed since the Last Battle. She appeared to have not aged a day.
Rand approached her, glancing at the garden wall that he had once fallen over, tumbling down to meet her for the first time. These gardens were far different, but that wall remained. It had weathered the scouring of Caemlyn and the coming of a new Age.
Elayne looked at him from her bench. Her eyes widened immediately, and her hand went to her mouth. “Rand?”
He fixed his gaze on her, hand resting on the pommel of Laman’s sword. A formal posture. Why had he taken it?
Elayne smiled. “Is this a prank? Daughter, where are you? Have you used the Mask of Mirrors to trick me again?”
“It is no trick, Elayne,” Rand said, sinking down onto one knee before her so that their heads were level. He looked into her eyes.
Something was wrong.
“Oh! But how can it be?” she asked.
That wasn’t Elayne . . . was it? The tone seemed off, the mannerisms wrong. Could she have changed so much? It had been a hundred years. “Elayne?” Rand asked. “What has happened to you?”
“Happened? Why, nothing! The day is grand, wonderful. Beautiful and peaceful. How I like to sit in my gardens and enjoy the sunlight.”
Rand frowned. That simpering tone, that vapid reaction . . . Elayne had never been like that.
“We shall have to prepare a feast!” Elayne exclaimed, clapping her hands. “I will invite Aviendha! It is her week off from singing, though she is probably doing nursery duty. She usually volunteers there.”
“Nursery duty?”
“In Rhuidean,” Elayne said. “Everyone so likes to play with the children, both here and there. There is grand competition to care for the children! But we understand the need to take turns.”
Aviendha. Tending children and singing to chora trees. There was nothing wrong with that, really. Why shouldn’t she enjoy such activities?
But it was wrong, too. He thought Aviendha would be a wonderful mother, but to imagine her seeking to spend all day playing with other people’s children . . .
Rand looked into Elayne’s eyes, looked into them deeply. A shadow lurked back there, behind them. Oh, it was an innocent shadow, but a shadow nonetheless. It was like . . . like that . . .
Like that shadow behind the eyes of someone who had been Turned to the Dark One.
Rand jumped to his feet and stumbled backward. “What have you done here?” he shouted into the sky. “Shai’tan! Answer me!”
Elayne cocked her head. She wasn’t afraid. Fear did not exist in this place. “Shai’tan? I swear I remember that name. It has been so long. I get forgetful sometimes.”
“SHAITAN!” Rand bellowed.
I HAVE DONE NOTHING, ADVERSARY. The voice was distant. THIS IS YOUR CREATION.
“Nonsense!” Rand said. “You’ve changed her! You’ve changed them all!”
DID YOU THINK THAT REMOVING ME FROM THEIR LIVES WOULD LEAVE THEM UNALTERED?
The words thundered through Rand. Aghast, he stepped away as Elayne rose, obviously concerned for him. Yes, he saw it now, the thing behind her eyes. She was not herself. . . because Rand had taken from her the ability to be herself.
I TURN MEN TO ME, Shaitan said. IT IS TRUE. THEY CANNOT CHOOSE GOOD ONCE I HAVE MADE THEM MINE IN THAT WAY. HOW IS THIS ANY DIFFERENT, ADVERSARY?
IF YOU DO THIS, WE ARE ONE.
“No!” Rand screamed, holding his head in his hand, falling to his knees. “No! The world would be perfect without you!”
PERFECT. UNCHANGING. RUINED. DO THIS, IF YOU WISH, ADVERSARY. IN KILLING ME, I WOULD WIN.
NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, I WILL WIN.
Rand screamed, curling up as the Dark One’s next attack washed over him. The nightmare Rand had created exploded outward, ribbons of light spraying away like streaks of smoke.
The darkness around him shook and trembled.
YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM.
The Pattern—glowing, vibrant—wrapped around Rand again. The real Pattern. The truth of what was happening. In creating his vision of a world without the Dark One, he had created something horrible. Something awful. Something worse than would have been before.
The Dark One attacked again.
> Mat pulled back from the fighting, resting his ashandarei on his shoulder. Karede had demanded the chance to fight—the more hopeless the situation, the better. Well, the man should be bloody well pleased with this. He should be dancing and laughing! He had his wish. Light, but he did.
Mat sat down on a dead Trolloc, the only seat available, and drank deeply from his waterskin. He had the pulse of the battle, its rhythm. The beat it played was forlorn. Demandred was clever. He had not gone for Mat’s bait at the ford, where he had positioned a smaller army. Demandred had sent Trollocs there, but held back his Sharans. Had Demandred abandoned the Heights to attack Elayne’s army, Mat would have swept his own armies across the top of the Heights from the west and the northeast to smash the Shadow from behind. Now Demandred was trying to get his troops behind Elayne’s forces, and Mat had stopped him for the time being. But how long could he hold?
The Aes Sedai were not doing well. The Sharan channelers were winning that fight. Luck, Mat thought. We’ll need more than a little of you today. Don’t abandon me now.
That would be a fitting end for Matrim Cauthon. The Pattern did like to laugh at him. He suddenly saw its grand prank, offering him luck when it meant nothing, then seizing it all away when it really mattered.
Blood and bloody ashes, he thought, putting away the empty waterskin, seeing only by a torch that Karede carried. Mat could not feel his luck at the moment. That happened sometimes. He did not know if it was with him or not.
Well, if they could not have a lucky Matrim Cauthon, they would at least have a stubborn Matrim Cauthon. He did not intend to die this day. There was still dancing to be done; there were still songs to be sung and women to be kissed. One woman, at least.
He stood and rejoined the Deathwatch Guards, the Ogier, Tam’s army, the Band, the Borderlanders—everyone he had put up here. The battle had resumed, and they fought hard, even pushing the Sharans back a couple of hundred paces. But Demandred had seen what he was doing, and had started sending Trollocs at the river up the slope to join the fray. It was the steep one—hardest to climb—but Demandred would know he had to pressure Mat.
Those Trollocs were a real danger. There were enough of them at the river to potentially surround Elayne and fight their way up to the Heights. If any one of Mat’s armies broke, he was done for.
Well, Mat h?d thrown his dice and sent out his orders. There was nothing more to do Dut fight, bleed and hope.
A spray of light, like liquid fire, flared from the western side of the Heights. Burning drops of molten stone fell through the dark air. At first, Mat thought that Demandred had decided to attack from that direction, but the Forsaken was still intent on destroying the Andorans.
Another flash of light. That was where the Aes Sedai fought. Through the darkness and smoke, Mat was certain he saw Sharans fleeing across the Heights from west to east. Mat found himself smiling.
“Look,” he said, slapping Karede on the shoulder and drawing the man’s attention.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Mat said. “But it’s setting Sharans on fire, so I’m mostly certain that I like it. Keep fighting!” He led Karede and the others in another charge against Sharan soldiers.
Olver walked hunched under the bundle of arrows tied to his back. They had to have real weight; he’d insisted. What would happen if one of the Shadow’s people inspected the goods, and found that his pack had light cloth stuffed in the middle?
Setalle and Faile didn't need to keep looking at him as if he’d break any moment. The bundle wasn’t that heavy. Of course, that wouldn’t stop him from squeezing some sympathy from Setalle once they were back. He needed to practice doing things like that, or he’d end up as hopeless as Mat.
Their line continued forward toward the supply dump here in the Blasted Lands, and as it did, he admitted to himself that he wouldn’t have minded a pack that was a little lighter. Not because he was growing tired. How was he going to fight if he needed to? He’d have to drop the pack quickly, and this didn’t seem the type of pack that let one do anything quickly.
Gray dust coated his feet. No shoes, and his clothing now wouldn’t make good rags. Earlier, Faile and the Band had attacked one of the pitiful caravans trailing toward the Shadow’s supply depot. It hadn’t been much of a fight—only three Darkfriends and one oily merchant guarding a string of worn-out, half-fed captives.
Many of their supplies bore the mark of Kandor, a red horse. In fact, many of those captives had been Kandori. Faile had offered them freedom, sending them southward, but only half had gone. The rest had insisted on joining her and marching for the Last Battle, though Olver had seen beggars on the streets with more meat on them than those fellows. Still, they helped Faile’s line look authentic.
That was important. Olver glanced up as they approached the supply dump, the path lined with torches in the cold night. Several of those red-veiled Aiel stood to the side, watching the line pass. Olver looked down again, lest they see his hatred. He’d known that Aiel couldn’t be trusted.
A couple of guards—not Aiel, but more of those Darkfriends—called out for the line to stop. Aravine walked forward, wearing the clothing of the merchant they’d killed. Faile was obviously Saldaean, and it had been decided that she might be too distinctive to play the part of the merchant Darkfriend.
“Where are your guards?” the soldier asked. “This is Lifa’s run, isn’t it? What happened?”
“Those fools!” Aravine said, then spat to the side. Olver hid a smile. Her entire countenance changed. She knew how to play a part. “They’re dead where I left them! I told them not to wander at night. I don’t know what took the three, but we found them at the edge of camp, bloated, their skin black.” She looked sick. “I think something laid eggs in their hollowed-out stomachs. We didn’t want to find what hatched.”
The soldier grunted. “You are?”
“Pansai,” Aravine said. “Lifa’s business partner.”
“Since when has Lifa had a business partner?”
“Since I stabbed her and took over her run.”
What information they had on Lifa had come from the rescued captives. It was thin. Olver felt himself sweating. The guard gave Aravine a long look, then began walking down the line of people.
Faile’s soldiers were mixed among the Kandori captives. They tried their best to hold the right posture.
“You, woman,” the guard said, pointing at Faile. “A Saldaean, eh?” He laughed. “I thought a Saldaean woman would kill a man before letting him take her captive.” He shoved Faile on the shoulder.
Olver held his breath. Oh, blood and bloody ashes! Lady Faile wasn’t going to be able to take that. The guard was looking to see if the captives were really beaten down or not! Faile’s posture, her manner, would give her away. She was noble, and—
Faile slumped down, becoming small, and whimpered a reply that Olver could not hear.
Olver found himself gaping, then forced his mouth shut and looked down at the ground. How? How had a lady like Faile learned to act like a servant?
The guard grunted. “Go on,” he said, waving to Aravine. “Wait there until we send for you.”
The group shuffled to a patch of ground nearby where Aravine ordered everyone to sit down. She stood to the side, arms folded, tapping one toe as she waited. Thunder rumbled, and Olver felt an odd chill. He looked up, and into the eyeless face of a Myrddraal.
A shock ran through Olver, like he’d been dropped into an icy lake. He couldn’t breathe. The Myrddraal seemed to glide as it moved, its cloak motionless and dead, as it rounded the group. After a horrible moment, it moved on, back toward the supply camp.
“Searching for channelers,” Faile whispered to Mandevwin.
“Light help us,” the man whispered back.
The wait was nearly insufferable. Eventually, a plump woman in white clothing strode up and wove a gateway. Aravine barked for them all to climb to their feet, then waved them through. Olver joined the line, walki
ng near Faile, and they passed from the land of red soil and cold air to a place that smelled like it was on fire.
They entered a ramshackle camp filled with Trollocs. Several large cookpots boiled nearby. Just behind the camp, a slope led up sharply to some kind of large plateau. Streams of smoke rose from the top of it, and from there and somewhere to Olver’s left could be heard the sounds of combat. Turning away from the slope, the boy saw the darkened outline of a tall, narrow mountain far in the distance, rising from the flat plain like a candle in the middle of a table.
He looked back up the slope behind the camp, and his heart leaped. A body was plummeting down from the top of the slope, still clutching in its hand a banner—a banner that bore a large red hand. The Band of the Red Hand! The man and banner fell among a group of Trollocs eating sizzling pieces of meat around a fire. Sparks flew in all directions, and the enraged beasts yanked the intruder out of the flames, but he was long past caring what they did to him.
“Faile!” he whispered.
“I see it.” Her bundle concealed the sack with the Horn in it. She added, more to herself, “Light. How are we going to reach Mat?”
They moved off to the side as the rest of her group came through the gateway. They had swords, but carried them bundled up like arrows, in packs, atop the backs of a few of the men as if they were tied-up supplies for the battlefield.
“Blood and ashes,” Mandevwin whispered, joining the two of them. Captives whimpered from a pen nearby. “Maybe they’ll put us in there? We could sneak out in the night.”
Faile shook her head. “They’ll take our bundles. Leave us unarmed.
Then what do we do?” Mandevwin asked, glancing to the side as a group of Trollocs passed, dragging corpses harvested from the front lines. “Start fighting? Hope Lord Mat sees us, and sends help?”
Olver didn’t think much of that plan. He wanted to fight, but those Trollocs were big. One passed nearby, and its wolf-featured head swung his way. Eyes that could have belonged to a man looked him up and down, as if hungry. Olver stepped back, then reached toward his bundle, where he’d hidden his knife.
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