The Gathering Storm

by Robert Jordan

  “My Lord?” Ramshalan said.

  “You are to be my emissary,” Rand said, waving his hand. A gateway suddenly split the air on the far side of the room, shearing through the fine rug at the floor. “Too many of the Domani bloodborn are hiding, scattered through the country. I would have them as my allies, but it would be a drain on my time to seek each one in person. Fortunately, I have you to go on my behalf.”

  Ramshalan looked excited about the prospect. Through the gateway, Min could see towering pines, and the air on the other side was cold and crisp. Min turned and glanced at Nynaeve—dressed in blue and white again. The Aes Sedai watched the exchange with calculating eyes, and Min could read her own emotions in Nynaeve’s expression. What was Rand’s game?

  “Beyond that gateway,” Rand said, “you will find a hill leading down to an ancient palace which is inhabited by a minor Domani merchant family. It is the first of many places I shall send you. Go in my name and seek those who rule the keep. See if they are willing to support me, or if they even know about me. Offer them rewards for allegiance; since you have proven yourself clever, I will let you determine the terms. I haven’t the mind for those sorts of negotiations myself.”

  “Yes, my Lord!” the man said, swelling further, though he did eye the gateway with concern, distrustful—like most people—of the One Power, particularly when wielded by a man. If it were opportune, this man would switch loyalties as quickly as he had when Lady Chadmar had fallen. What was Rand thinking, sending a popinjay like this to meet with Graendal?

  “Go,” Rand said.

  Ramshalan took a few hesitant steps toward the gateway. “Er, my Lord Dragon, could I perhaps have something in the way of an escort?”

  “No need to frighten or alarm the people there,” Rand said without turning from the map. Cold air continued to blow through the gateway. “Go quickly and return, Ramshalan. I will leave the gateway open until you are back. My patience is not limitless, and there are many I could turn to for this mission.”

  “I. . . .” The man seemed to calculate the risks. “Of course, Lord Dragon.” He took a deep breath and walked through the portal, his steps uncomfortable, like those of a house cat venturing out into a puddle of water. Min found herself feeling sorry for the man.

  Fallen needles crackled as Ramshalan moved off into the forest. A breeze hissed through the trees; it was an odd sound to hear while standing in the comfort of the mansion. Rand left the gateway open, still staring at his map.

  “All right, Rand,” Nynaeve demanded after a few minutes, her arms folded. “What game is this?”

  “How would you beat her, Nynaeve?” Rand asked. “She won’t be goaded into fighting me, like Rahvin or Sammael were. She won’t be easily trapped either. Graendal understands people better than anyone. Twisted she may be, but she is crafty, and should not be underestimated. Torhs Margin made that mistake, I recall, and you know his fate.”

  Min frowned. “Who?” she asked, looking at Nynaeve. The Aes Sedai shrugged.

  Rand glanced at them. “I believe in history he was known as Tohrs the Broken.”

  Again, Min shook her head. Nynaeve joined her. Neither was deeply versed in history, true, but Rand acted as if they should know this name. Rand’s face hardened, and he blushed just faintly, turning away from them. “The question remains,” he said, voice soft but tense. “How would you fight her, Nynaeve?”

  “I don’t care to play your games, Rand al’Thor,” Nynaeve replied with a huff. “You’ve obviously already decided what you intend to do. Why ask me?”

  “Because what I am about to do should frighten me,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

  Min shivered. Rand nodded to the Maidens standing in the doorway. Moving lightly, they crossed the room, leaped through the gateway, and spread through the pine forest, quickly vanishing from sight. All twenty together made less noise than Ramshalan had.

  Min waited. On the other side of the gateway, a distant sun was hidden from sight, giving a late-afternoon light to the shadowed forest floor. After a few moments, white-haired Nerilea stepped into view and nodded to Rand. All clear.

  “Come,” Rand said, and walked to the gateway. Min followed, though Nynaeve—breaking into a trot—beat her to the gateway.

  They stepped out onto a carpet of brown pine needles, dirtied from a long slumber beneath the vanished winter snows. Branches nudged one another in the breeze, and the mountain air was more chilly than the breeze had indicated. Min wished for a cloak, but there wasn’t time to go fetch one. Rand strode directly through the forest, Nynaeve trotting up to him and speaking in a low voice.

  Nynaeve wouldn’t get anything useful out of Rand, not when he was in this kind of mood. They would just have to see what he revealed. Min caught sight of some Aiel in the woods, but only brief glimpses when they obviously weren’t taking care to hide. They certainly had taken well to life in the wetlands. How did a people raised in the Waste know so instinctively how to hide in a forest?

  Up ahead, the trees broke. Min hastened to join Rand and Nynaeve, who had stopped at the top of a gently sloping ridge. Here, they could see over the forest, and the trees continued down below like a sea of green and brown. The pines parted at the shores of a small mountain lake, caught in a triangular depression of the land.

  Atop a ridge of its own, high above the water, was an impressive white stone structure. Rectangular and tall, it was built in the form of several towers stacked atop one another, each one slightly thinner than the one beneath. That gave the palace an elegant shape—fortified, yet palatial. “It’s beautiful,” she said breathlessly.

  “It was built during a different time,” Rand said. “A time when people still thought that the majesty of a structure lent it strength.”

  The palace was distant, but not so distant that Min couldn’t make out the figures of men walking the battlements on guard, halberds at their shoulders, breastplates reflecting the late sunlight. A late party of hunters rode in through the gates, a fine buck deer lashed to the packhorse, and a group of workers chopped at a fallen tree nearby, perhaps for firewood. A pair of serving women in white carried poles, bucket at each end, up from the lake, and lights were winking on in windows the length of the structure. It was a living, working estate bundled up in a single massive building.

  “Do you think Ramshalan found his way?” Nynaeve said, arms folded, obviously trying not to look impressed.

  “Even a fool like him could not miss that,” Rand said, eyes narrowing. He still carried the statuette in his pocket. Min wished he had left the thing behind. It made her uncomfortable, the way he fingered it. Caressed it.

  “So you sent Ramshalan to die,” Nynaeve said. “What will that accomplish?”

  “She won’t kill him,” Rand said.

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “It isn’t her way,” Rand said. “Not when she can use him against me.”

  “You don’t expect her to believe that story you told him,” Min said. “About sending him out to test the allegiance of the Domani lords?”

  Rand slowly shook his head. “No. I hope for her to believe something of that tale, but I do not expect it. I meant what I said about her, Min—she’s more crafty than I am. And I fear that she knows me far better than I know her. She will compel Ramshalan and pull from him that entire conversation we had. From there, she will find a way to use that conversation against me.”

  “How?” Min asked.

  “I don’t know. I wish I did. She’ll think of something clever, then infect Ramshalan with a very subtle Compulsion that I won’t be able to anticipate. I’ll be left with the choice to keep him nearby and see what he does, or to send him away. But of course, she will think of that as well, and whatever I do will set in motion her other plans.”

  “You make it sound as if you can’t win,” Nynaeve said, frowning. She didn’t seem to notice the chill at all. In fact, neither did Rand. Whatever that “trick” about ignoring cold and heat was, Min had never been a
ble to figure it out. They claimed it had nothing to do with the power, but if that were so, why were Rand and the Aes Sedai the only ones who could manage it? The Aiel didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold either, but they didn’t count. They never seemed bothered by regular human concerns, though they could be very touchy about the most random and insignificant things.

  “We can’t win, you say?” Rand asked. “Is that what we’re trying to do? Win?”

  Nynaeve raised an eyebrow. “Do you not answer questions anymore?”

  Rand turned, looking at Nynaeve. Standing on the other side of him, Min couldn’t see what was in his face, but she could see Nynaeve grow pale. It was her own fault. Couldn’t she sense how on edge Rand was? Perhaps Min’s chill didn’t just come from the cold. She moved up close to him, but he didn’t put his arm around her as he might once have. When he finally turned away from Nynaeve, the Aes Sedai slumped slightly, as if she had been dangling, held up by his gaze.

  Rand did not speak for some time, and so they waited quietly on the mountain ridge as the distant sun made its way toward the horizon. Shadows lengthened, fingers stretching away from the sun. Down below, by the fortress walls, a group of grooms began walking some horses to give them exercise. More lights had been lit in the fortress windows. How many people did Graendal have in there? Scores, if not hundreds.

  A crashing sound in the brush suddenly drew Min’s attention; it was accompanied by curses. She jumped as the noise cut off quite abruptly.

  A small group of Aiel approached a few moments later, leading a disheveled Ramshalan, his fine clothing stuck with needles and scratched from branches. He dusted himself off, then took a step toward Rand.

  The Maidens held him back. He glanced at them, cocking his head. “My Lord Dragon?”

  “Is he infected?” Rand asked of Nynaeve.

  “By what?” she asked.

  “Graendal’s touch.”

  Nynaeve walked over to Ramshalan and looked at him for a moment. She hissed and said, “Yes. Rand, he’s under a heavy Compulsion. There are a lot of weaves here. Not as bad as the chandler’s apprentice, or maybe just more subtle.”

  “I say,” Ramshalan said, “my Lord Dragon, what is going on? The lady of the castle down there was quite friendly—she is an ally, my Lord. You have nothing to fear from her! Very refined, I must say.”

  “Is that so?” Rand asked quietly. It was growing dark, sun setting behind the distant mountains. Besides the dim evening light, the only illumination came from the still-open gateway behind them. It shone with lamplight, an inviting portal back to warmth, away from this place of shadow and coldness.

  Rand’s voice sounded so hard. Worse than Min had ever heard it before.

  “Rand,” she said, touching his arm. “Let’s go back.”

  “I have something I must do,” he said, not looking at her.

  “Think about it some more,” Min said. “At least take some advice. We can ask Cadsuane, or—”

  “Cadsuane held me in a box, Min,” he said very softly. His face was clasped in shadow, but as he turned toward her, his eyes reflected the light from the open gateway. Orange and red. There was an edge of anger to his tone. I shouldn’t have mentioned Cadsuane, she realized. The woman’s name was one of the few things that could still get emotion out of him.

  “A box, Min,” Rand whispered. “Though Cadsuane’s box had walls that were invisible, it was as binding as any that ever held me. Her tongue was far more painful a rod than any that was taken to my skin. I see that now.”

  Rand pulled away from Min’s touch.

  “What is the purpose of all this?” Nynaeve demanded. “You sent this man to suffer a Compulsion, knowing what it would do to him? I won’t watch another man squirm and die because of this! Whatever she has compelled him to do, I won’t remove it! It will be your own fault if it brings your death.”

  “My Lord?” Ramshalan asked. The growing terror in his voice put Min on edge.

  The sun set; Rand was now just a silhouette. The fortress was only a black profile with lanterns lighting the holes in its walls. Rand stepped up to the lip of the ridge, removing the access key from his pocket. It started to glow just faintly, a red light coming from its very heart. Nynaeve inhaled sharply.

  “Neither of you were there when Callandor failed me,” he said into the night. “It happened twice. Once I tried to use it to raise the dead, but I got only a puppeted body. Once I tried to use it to destroy the Seanchan, but I caused as much death among my own armies as I caused among theirs.

  “Cadsuane told me that the second failure came from a flaw in Callandor itself. It cannot be controlled by a lone man, you see. It only works if he’s in a box. Callandor is a carefully enticing leash, intended to make me surrender willingly.”

  The access key’s globe burst alight with a more brilliant color, seeming crystalline. The light within was scarlet, the core brilliant and bright. As if someone had dropped a glowing rock into a pool of blood.

  “I see a different answer to my problems,” Rand said, voice still almost a whisper. “Both times Callandor failed me, I was being reckless with my emotion. I allowed temper to drive me. I can’t kill in anger, Min. I have to keep that anger inside; I must channel it as I channel the One Power. Each death must be deliberate. Intentional.”

  Min couldn’t speak. Couldn’t phrase her fears, couldn’t find the words to make him stop. His eyes remained in the darkness, somehow, despite the liquid light he held before him. That light hurled shadows away from his figure, as if he was the point of a silent explosion. Min turned to Nynaeve; the Aes Sedai watched with wide eyes, mouth slightly open. She couldn’t find words either.

  Min turned back to Rand. When he’d been close to killing her with his own hand, she hadn’t feared him. But then, she’d known that it wasn’t Rand hurting her, but Semirhage.

  But this Rand—hand aflame, eyes so intent yet so dispassionate—terrified her.

  “I’ve done it before,” he whispered. “I once said that I didn’t kill women, but it was a lie. I murdered a woman long before I faced Semirhage. Her name was Liah. I killed her in Shadar Logoth. I struck her down, and I called it mercy.”

  He turned to the fortress palace below.

  “Forgive me,” he said, but it didn’t seem directed at Min, “for calling this mercy as well.”

  Something impossibly bright formed in the air before him, and Min cried out, backing away. The air itself seemed to warp, as if pulling away from Rand in fear. Dust blew from the ground in a circle around him, and the trees groaned, lit by the brilliant white light, the pine needles rattling like a hundred thousand insects scrambling over one another. Min could no longer make out Rand, only a blazing, brilliant force of light. Pure power, gathered, making the hairs on her arms rise with the force of its nebulous energy. In that moment, she felt as if she could understand what the One Power was. It was there, before her, made incarnate in the man Rand al’Thor.

  And then, with a sound like a sigh, he released it. A column of pure whiteness exploded from him and burned across the silent night sky, illuminating the trees below it in a wave. It moved as quick as a snap of the fingers, striking the wall of the distant fortress. The stones came alight, as if they were breathing in the force of the energy. The entire fortress glowed, transforming into living light, an amazing, spectacular palace of unadulterated energy. It was beautiful.

  And then it was gone. Burned from the landscape—and the Pattern—as if it had never been there. The entire fortress, hundreds of feet of stone and everyone who had lived in it.

  Something hit Min, something like a shocking wave in the air. It wasn’t a physical blast, and it didn’t make her stumble, but it twisted her insides about. The forest around them—still lit by the glowing access key in Rand’s hands—seemed to warp and shake. It was as if the world itself were groaning in agony.

  It snapped back, but Min could still feel that tension. In that instant, it seemed as if the very substance of world had bee
n near to breaking.

  “What have you done?” Nynaeve whispered.

  Rand didn’t reply. Min could see his face again, now that the enormous column of balefire had vanished, leaving behind only the glowing access key. He was in ecstasy, mouth agape, and he held the access key aloft before himself as if in victory. Or in reverence.

  Then he gritted his teeth, eyes opening wide, lips parted as if he were under great pressure. The light flashed once, then immediately vanished. All became dark. Min blinked in the sudden darkness, trying to get her eyes to adjust. The powerful image of Rand seemed burned into her vision. Had he really done what she thought he had? Had he burned away an entire fortress with balefire?

  All those people. Men returning from the hunt . . . women carrying water . . . soldiers on the walls . . . the grooms outside . . .

  They were gone. Burned from the Pattern. Killed. Dead forever. The horror of it made Min stumble back, and she pressed her back against a tree to keep herself upright.

  So many lives, ended in an instant. Dead. Destroyed. By Rand.

  A light appeared from Nynaeve, and Min turned, seeing the Aes Sedai illuminated by the warm, soft glow of a globe above her hand. Her eyes seemed almost afire with a light of their own. “You are out of control, Rand al’Thor,” she declared.

  “I do what must be done,” he said, speaking now from the shadows. He sounded exhausted. “Test him, Nynaeve.”

  “What?”

  “The fool,” Rand said. “Is her Compulsion still there? Is Graendal’s touch gone?”

  “I hate what you just did, Rand,” Nynaeve snarled. “No. ‘Hate’ isn’t strong enough. I loathe what you’ve done. What has happened to you?”

  “Test him!” Rand whispered, voice dangerous. “Before condemning me, let us first determine if my sins have achieved anything beyond my own damnation.”

  Nynaeve breathed in deeply, then glanced at Ramshalan, who was still held in the grip of several Aiel Maidens. Nynaeve reached out and touched his forehead, concentrating. “It’s gone,” she said. “Erased.”