With a heave, he swung his left arm up, trying to catch the edge of the hole. Pain no longer buffered by the Void stabbed through his side like a dagger going in. Spots danced in his vision. Worse, his right hand slipped on crumbling stone, and he could feel his fingers weakening. He was going to have to…
A hand grabbed his right wrist. "You are a fool," a man's deep voice said. "Count yourself lucky I don't care to see you die today." The hand began drawing him up. "Are you going to help?" the voice demanded. "I don't intend to carry you on my shoulders, or kill Sammael for you."
Shaking off his shock, Rand reached up and grabbed the rim of the hole, pulling despite the agony of his side. Despite the agony, he managed to acquire the Void again, too, and seize saidin. He did not channel, but he wanted to be ready.
His head and shoulders came above the floor, and he could see the other man, a big fellow little older than he, with hair black as the night and a coat black as an Asha'man's. Rand had never seen him before. At least he was not one of the Forsaken; those faces he knew. He thought he did, anyway. "Who are you?" he demanded.
Still heaving, the man barked a laugh. "Just say I'm a wanderer passing through. Do you really want to talk now?"
Saving his breath, Rand struggled upward, getting his chest over the lip, his waist. Abruptly he realized that a glow bathed the floor around them like the glow of a full moon.
Twisting to look over his shoulder, he saw Mashadar. Not a tendril, but a shining silver-gray wave rolling out of one of the balconies, arching over their heads. Descending.
Without a thought, his free hand rose, and balefire shot upward, a bar of liquid white fire slicing across the wave sinking toward them. Dimly he was aware of another bar of pale solid fire rising from the other man's hand that was not clasping his, a bar slashing the opposite way from his. The two touched.
Head ringing like a struck gong, Rand convulsed, saidin and the Void shattering. Everything was doubled in his eyes, the balconies, the chunks of stone lying about the floor. There seemed to be a pair of the other man overlapping one another, each clutching his head between two hands. Blinking, Rand searched for Mashadar. The wave of shining mist was gone; a glow remained in the balconies above, but dimming, receding, as Rand's eyes began to clear. Even mindless Mashadar fled balefire, it seemed.
Unsteadily, he got to his feet and offered a hand. "I think we best move quickly. What happened there?"
The other man pushed himself up with a grimace at Rand's proffered hand. He was easily as tall as Rand, rare except among the Aiel. "I don't know what happened," he snarled. "Run, if you want to live." He suited his own words immediately, dashing toward a row of open arches. Not in the nearest wall. Mashadar had come from that one.
Fumbling for the Void, Rand limped after him as fast as he could, but before they were completely across the floor, the lightnings fell again, a storm of silver arrows. The two of them darted through the archways pursued by the thunder of walls and floor collapsing behind them, by clouds of dust and a hail of stones. Shoulders hunched and an arm across his face, Rand ran coughing through a broad room where trembling arches supported the ceiling and bits of stone rained down.
He burst out into a street before he knew it, stumbling three steps before stopping. The pain in his side made him want to bend over, but he thought his legs might give way if he did. His wounded foot throbbed; it seemed a year ago that that red wire of Fire and Air had stabbed his heel. His rescuer stood watching him; covered with dust head to toe, the fellow managed to look a king.
"Who are you?" Rand asked again. "One of Taim's men? Or did you teach yourself? You can go to Caemlyn, you know, to the Black Tower. You don't have to live afraid of Aes Sedai." For some reason, saying that made him frown; he could not understand why.
"I have never been afraid of Aes Sedai," the man snapped, then drew a deep breath. "You probably should leave here now, but if you intend to stay and kill Sammael, you had better try thinking like him. You have shown you can. He always liked destroying a man in sight of one of that man's triumphs, if he could. Lacking that, somewhere the man had marked as his would do."
"The Waygate," Rand said slowly. If he could be said to have marked anything in Shadar Logoth, it had to be the Waygate. "He's waiting near the Waygate. And he has traps set." Wards as well, it seemed, like those in Illian, to detect a man channeling. Sammael had planned this well.
The man laughed wryly. "You can find the way, it seems. If you're led by the hand. Try not to stumble. A great many plans will have to be relaid if you let yourself be killed now." Turning, he started across the street for an alleyway just ahead of them.
"Wait," Rand called. The fellow kept on, not looking back. "Who are you? What plans?" The man vanished into the alley.
Rand teetered after him, but when he reached the mouth of the narrow alley, it was empty. Unbroken walls ran a good hundred paces to another street, where a glow told of yet another part of Mashadar abroad, but the man was gone. Which was purely impossible. The fellow had had time to make a gateway, of course, if he knew how, but the residue would have been visible, and besides, that much of saidin being woven so near would have shouted at him.
Suddenly he realized that he had not felt saidin when the man made balefire, either. Just thinking of that, of the two streams touching, made his vision double again. Just for an instant, he could see the man's face again, sharp where everything else blurred. He shook his head until it cleared. "Who in the Light are you?" he whispered. And after a moment, "What in the Light are you?"
Whoever or whatever, the man was gone, though. Sammael was still in Shadar Logoth. With an effort he managed to regain the Void once more. The taint on saidin vibrated now, humming its way deep into him; the Void itself vibrated. But the weakness of watery muscles and the pain of injuries faded. He was going to kill one of the Forsaken before this night was done.
Limping, he ghosted through the dark streets, placing his feet with great care. He still made noise, but the night was full of noise now. Shrieks and guttural cries sounded in the distance. Mindless Mashadar killed whatever it found, and Trollocs were dying in Shadar Logoth tonight as they had once long, long ago. Sometimes down a crossing street he saw Trollocs, two or five or a dozen, occasionally with a Halfman but most often not. None saw him, and he did not bother them. Not simply because Sammael would detect any channeling. Those Trollocs and Myrddraal that Mashadar did not kill were still dead. Sammael had almost certainly brought them by the Ways, but apparently he did not realize just how Rand had marked the Waygate here.
Well short of the square where the Waygate lay, Rand stopped and looked around. Nearby, a tower stood seemingly whole. Not nearly as tall as some, its top still rose more than fifty paces above the ground. The dark doorway at its base was empty, the wood long rotted away and the hinges gone to dust. Through blackness relieved only by faint starlight through the windows, he climbed the winding stairs slowly, small clouds puffing up beneath his boots, every second step a stab of pain up his leg. Distant pain. On the tower top, he leaned against the smooth parapet to catch his breath. The idle thought came that he would never hear the end if Min learned of this. Min, or Amys, or Cadsuane for that matter.
Across missing rooftops, he could see the great square that had been one of the most important in Aridhol. Once an Ogier grove had covered this part of the land, but within thirty years after the Ogier who had built the oldest parts of the city departed, the residents had cut down the trees to make room for expanding Aridhol. Palaces and the remains of palaces surrounded the huge square, the glow of Mashadar shining deep inside a few windows, and a huge mound of rubble covered one end, but in the center stood the Waygate, apparently a tall broad piece of stone. He was not close enough to see the delicately carved leaves and vines that covered it, but he could make out the toppled pieces of high fence that had once surrounded it. Power-wrought metal lying in a heap, they gleamed untarnished in the night. He could also see the trap he had woven around the Waygate
, inverted so no eye but his could see it. No way to tell by looking whether the Trollocs and Halfmen really had passed through it, yet if they had, they would die before long. A nasty thing. Whatever traps Sammael had made down there were invisible to him, but that was expected. Likely they were not very pleasant either.
At first, he could not see Sammael, but then someone moved among the fluted, flaring columns of a palace. Rand waited. He wanted to be sure; he had only one chance. The figure stepped forward, out of the columns and a pace into the square, head swinging this way and that. Sammael, with snowy lace shining at his throat, waiting to see Rand walk into the square, into the traps. Behind him, the glow in the windows of the palace brightened. Sammael peered into the darkness lying across the square, and Mashadar oozed out of the windows, thick billows of silver-gray fog sliding together, merging as they loomed above his head. Sammael walked a little to one side, and the wave began to descend, slowly picking up speed as it fell.
Rand shook his head. Sammael was his. The flows needed for balefire seemed to gather themselves, despite the far echo of Cadsuane's voice. He raised his hand.
A scream tore the darkness, a woman shrieking in agony beyond knowing. Rand saw Sammael turn to stare toward the great mound of rubble even as his own eyes flashed that way. Atop the mound a shape stood outlined against the night sky in coat and breeches, a single thin tendril of Mashadar touching her leg. Arms outstretched, she thrashed about, unable to move from the spot, and her wordless wail seemed to call Rand's name.
"Liah," he whispered. Unconsciously he reached out, as though he could stretch his arm across the intervening distance and pull her away. Nothing could save what Mashadar touched, though, no more than anything could have saved him had Fain's dagger plunged into his heart. "Liah," he whispered. And balefire leaped from his hand.
For less than a heartbeat, the shape of her still seemed to be there, all in stark blacks and snowy whites, and then she was gone, dead before her agony began.
Screaming, Rand swept the balefire down toward the square, the rubble collapsing on itself, swept down death out of time — and let saidin go before the bar of white touched the lake of Mashadar that now rolled across the square, billowing past the Waygate toward rivers of glowing gray that flowed out from another palace on the other side. Sammael had to be dead. He had to be. There had not been time for him to run, no time to weave a gateway, and if he had, Rand would have felt saidin being worked. Sammael was dead, killed by an evil almost as great as himself. Emotion raced across the outside of the Void; Rand wanted to laugh, or perhaps cry. He had come here to kill one of the Forsaken, but instead he had killed a woman he had abandoned here to her fate.
For a long time he stood on the tower top while the waning moon crossed the sky, almost at its half, stood watching Mashadar fill the square completely, till only the very top of the Waygate rose above the surface of the fog. Slowly it began to ebb away, hunting elsewhere. If Sammael had been alive, he could have killed the Dragon Reborn easily then. Rand was not sure that he would have cared. Finally he opened a gateway for Skimming and made a platform, a railless disc, half white and half black. Skimming was slower than Traveling; it took him at least half an hour to reach Illian, and the whole way, he burned Liah's name into his mind again and again, flailing himself with it. He wished he could cry. He thought he had forgotten how.
They were waiting for him in the King's Palace, in the throne room. Bashere, and Dashiva and the Asha'man. It was exactly like the room he had seen at the other end of the square, down to the stand-lamps and the scenes carved into the marble walls and the long white dais. Exactly the same except for being slightly larger in every dimension, and instead of nine chairs on the dais, there was only a great gilded throne with leopards for its arms and nine fist-sized golden bees that would stand above the head of whoever sat in it. Wearily Rand sat himself down on the steps at the front of the dais.
"I take it Sammael is dead," Bashere said, looking him up and down in his ragged coat and dust.
"He's dead," Rand said. Dashiva sighed loudly with relief.
"The city is ours," Bashere went on. "Or I should say, yours." He laughed suddenly. "The fighting stopped quick enough once the right people found out it was you. Not much to it, in the end." Dried blood made a black stain down one torn sleeve of his coat. "The Council has been waiting eagerly for you to come back. Anxiously, you might say," he added with a wry grin.
Eight sweating men had been standing at the far end of the throne room since Rand came in. They wore dark silk coats with gold or silver embroidery on the lapels and sleeves, and falls of lace at their throats and wrists. Some wore a beard that left the upper lip shaved clean, but every one had a broad sash of green silk slanted across his chest, with nine golden bees marching up it.
At Bashere's gesture they came forward, bowing to Rand at about every third step, for all the world as though he wore the finest garments sewn. A tall man seemed to be the leader, a round-faced fellow with one of those beards, with a natural dignity that appeared strained by worry. "My Lord Dragon," he said, bowing again and pressing both hands to his heart. "Forgive me, but Lord Brend do be nowhere to be found, and —"
"He won't be," Rand said flatly.
A muscle in the man's face jumped at Rand's tone, and he swallowed. "As you do say, my Lord Dragon," he murmured. "I do be Lord Gregorin den Lushenos, my Lord Dragon. In Lord Brend's absence, I do speak for the Council of Nine. We do offer you…" A hand at his side waved vigorously at a shorter, beardless man, who stepped forward bearing a cushion draped with a length of green silk. "… we do offer you Illian." The shorter man whipped the cloth away, revealing a heavy gold circlet, two inches wide, of laurel leaves. "The city do be yours, of course," Gregorin went on anxiously. "We did put an end to all resistance. We do offer you the crown, and the throne, and all of Illian."
Rand stared at the crown on its cushion, not moving a muscle. People had thought he meant to make himself a king in Tear, feared he would in Cairhien and Andor, but no one had offered him a crown before. "Why? Is Mattin Stepaneos so willing to give up his throne?"
"King Mattin did disappear two days ago," Gregorin said. "Some of us do fear… We do fear Lord Brend may have something to with it. Brend does have…" He stopped to swallow. "Brend did have a great deal of influence with the king, some might say too much, but he did be distracted in recent months, and Mattin had begun to reassert himself."
Strips of grimy coatsleeve and pieces of shirtsleeve dangled as Rand reached to pick up the Laurel Crown. The Dragon wound around his forearm glittered in the lamplight as brightly as the golden crown. He turned it in his hands. "You still haven't said why. Because I conquered you?" He had conquered Tear, and Cairhien too, but some turned on him in both lands still. Yet it seemed to be the only way.
"That do be part," Gregorin said dryly. "Even so, we might have chosen one of our own; kings have come from the Council before. But the grain you did order sent from Tear has your name on every lip with the Light. Without that, many would be dead of starvation. Brend did see every stick of bread go to the army."
Rand blinked, and snatched one hand from the crown to suck on a pricked finger. Almost buried among the laurel leaves of the crown were the sharp points of swords. How long ago had he commanded the Tairens to sell grain to their ancient enemy, sell it or die for refusing? He had not realized they kept on after he began preparations to invade Illian. Maybe they feared to bring it up, but they had feared to stop, too. Maybe he had earned some right to this crown.
Gingerly he set the circle of laurel leaves on his head. Half those swords pointed up, half down. No head would wear this crown casually or easily.
Gregorin bowed smoothly. "The Light illumine Rand al'Thor, King of Illian," he intoned, and the seven other lords bowed with him, murmuring, "The Light illumine Rand al'Thor, King of Illian."
Bashere contented himself with a bow of his head — he was uncle to a queen, after all — but Dashiva cried out, "All hail
Rand al'Thor, King of the World!" Flinn and the other Asha'man took it up.
"All hail Rand al'Thor, King of the World!"
"All hail the King of the World!"
That had a good sound to it.
The story spread as stories will, and changed as stories change with time and distance, spreading out from Illian by coasting ships, and merchant trains of wagons, and pigeons sent in secret, spreading in ripples that danced with other ripples and made new. An army had come to Illian, the stories said, an army of Aiel, of Aes Sedai appearing from thin air, of men who could channel riding winged beasts, even an army of Saldaeans, though not many believed that one. Some tales said the Dragon Reborn had been presented the Laurel Crown of Illian by the Council of Nine, and others by Martin Stepaneos himself on bended knee. Some said the Dragon Reborn had wrenched the crown from Martin's head, then stuck that head on a spike. No, the Dragon Reborn had razed Illian to the ground and buried the old king in the rubble. No, he and his army of Asha'man had burned Illian out of the earth. No, it was Ebou Dar he had destroyed, after Illian.
One fact, though, turned up again and again in those tales. The Laurel Crown of Illian had been given a new name. The Crown of Swords.
And for some reason, men and women who told the tales often found a need to add almost identical words. The storm is coming, they said, staring southward in worry. The storm is coming.
Master of the lightnings, rider on the storm, wearer of a crown of swords, spinner-out of fate. Who thinks he turns the Wheel of Time, may learn the truth too late.
From a fragmentary translation of The Prophecies of the Dragon, attributed to Lord Mangore Kiramin, Sword-bard of ramaelle and Warder to Caraighan Maconar, into what was then called the vulgar tongue (circa 300 AB).
The End of the Seventh Book of The Wheel of Time
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A Crown of Swords twot-7 Page 83