“Speaking of wool-brained, do you mean to continue with this plan to go into the Waste?”
“I do,” the girl said firmly. She needed to be back in the Tower, training her strength. What was Siuan thinking of? She will probably give me one of those sayings about boats and fish, when I can ask her.
At least Egwene would be out of the way, too, and the Aiel girl would look after her. Perhaps the Wise Ones really could teach her something of Dreaming. That had been the most astounding letter from them, not that she could afford to heed most of it. Egwene’s journey into the Waste might be useful in the long run.
The last line of Tairens gave way, making a little hollow, and she and Egwene faced the open area under the vast dome. The nobles’ ill ease was most evident here; many studied their feet like sulky children, and others stared at nothing, looking at anything but where they were. Here was where Callandor had been kept before Rand took it. Here beneath this dome, untouched by any hand for more than three thousand years, untouchable by any hand but that of the Dragon Reborn. Tairens did not like admitting that the Heart of the Stone existed.
“Poor woman,” Egwene murmured.
Moiraine followed the girl’s gaze. The High Lady Alteima, already gowned and ruffed and capped in shimmering white as Tairen widows were though her husband still lingered, was perhaps the most composed of all the nobles. She was a slender, lovely woman, made more so by her small sad smile, with large brown eyes and long black hair hanging halfway to her waist. A tall woman, though Moiraine admitted she did tend to judge such things by her own height, and rather too full-bosomed. Cairhienin were not a tall people, and she had been considered short even among them.
“Yes, a poor woman,” she said, but she did not mean it for sympathy. It was good to see Egwene had not yet grown sophisticated enough to see beneath the surface all the time. The girl was already far less malleable than she should have been for years yet. She needed to be shaped before she was hardened.
Thom had missed, with Alteima. Or perhaps he had not wanted to see; he seemed to have a strange reluctance to move against women. The High Lady Alteima was far more dangerous than her husband or her lover, both of whom she had manipulated without either knowing it. Perhaps more dangerous than anyone else in Tear, man or woman. She would find others to use soon enough. It was Alteima’s style to remain in the background and pull strings. Something would have to be done about her.
Moiraine shifted her gaze along the rows of High Lords and Ladies, until she found Estanda, in brocaded yellow silks with a large ivory lace ruff and a tiny matching cap. A certain sternness marred the beauty of her face, and the occasional glances she gave Alteima were iron hard. Feelings between the two went beyond mere rivalry; had they been men, one would have shed the other’s blood in a duel years since. If that antagonism could be sharpened, Alteima would be too busy to make trouble for Rand.
For an instant she regretted sending Thom away. She did not like having to waste her time with these petty affairs. But he had too much influence with Rand; the boy had to depend on her counsel. Hers, and hers alone. The Light knew he was difficult enough without interference. Thom had been settling the boy down to rule Tear when he needed to be moving on to greater things. But that was dealt with for now. The problem of bringing Thom Merrilin to heel could be managed later. Rand was the dilemma now. What did he mean to announce?
“Where is he? He has learned the first art of kings, it seems. Making people wait.”
She did not realize she had spoken aloud until Egwene gave her a startled look. She smoothed the irritation from her face immediately. Rand would appear eventually, and she would learn what he meant to do. Learn along with everyone else. She nearly ground her teeth. That blind fool of a boy, running headlong through the night with never a care for cliffs, never thinking he could carry the world over as well as himself. If only she could keep him from rushing back to save his village. He would want to, but he could not afford to do so now. Perhaps he did not know; it could be hoped.
Mat stood across from them, uncombed and slouching with his hands in the pockets of his high-collared green coat. It was half-unbuttoned, as usual, and his boots were scuffed, in sharp contrast to the precise elegance around him. He shifted nervously as he saw her looking at him, then gave one of his rudely defiant grins. At least he was here, under her eye. Mat Cauthon was an exhausting young man to keep track of, avoiding her spies with ease; he never gave any sign that he knew they were there, but her eyes-and-ears reported that he seemed to slide out of sight whenever they got too close.
“I think he sleeps in his coats,” Egwene said disapprovingly. “On purpose. I wonder where Perrin is.” She went on tiptoes, trying to search over the heads of the assemblage. “I don’t see him.”
Frowning, Moiraine scanned the crowd, not that she could make out much beyond the front row. Lan could have been back among the columns. She would not strain, though, or jump up on her toes like an anxious child. Lan was due a talking-to he would not soon forget when she laid hands on him. With Nynaeve tugging at him one way and ta’veren—Rand, at least—seemingly pulling another, she sometimes wondered how well their bond still held. At least his time with Rand was useful; it gave her another string to the young man.
“Perhaps he is with Faile,” Egwene said. “He won’t have run away, Moiraine. Perrin has a strong sense of duty.”
Almost as strong as a Warder’s, Moiraine knew, which was why she did not keep eyes-and-ears on him as she tried to with Mat. “Faile has been trying to talk him into leaving, girl.” Quite possibly he was with her; he usually was. “Do not look so surprised. They often talk—and argue—where they can be overheard.”
“I am not surprised you know,” Egwene said dryly, “only that Faile would try to talk him out of what he knows he has to do.”
“Perhaps she does not believe it as he does.” Moiraine had not believed it herself, at first, had not seen it. Three ta’veren, all the same age, coming out of one village; she must have been blind not to realize they had to be connected. Everything had become much more complicated with that knowledge. Like trying to juggle three of Thom’s colored balls one-handed and blindfolded; she had seen Thom do that, but she would not want to try. There was no guide to how they were connected, or what they were supposed to do; the Prophecies never mentioned companions.
“I like her,” Egwene said. “She is good for him, just what he needs. And she cares for him deeply.”
“I suppose she does.” If Faile became too troublesome, Moiraine would have to have a talk with her, about the secrets Faile had been keeping from Perrin. Or have one of her eyes-and-ears do it. That should settle her down.
“You say it as if you don’t believe it. They love each other, Moiraine. Can’t you see that? Can’t you even recognize a human emotion when you see one?”
Moiraine gave her a firm look, one that settled her on her heels in a satisfactory manner. The girl knew so little and thought she knew so much. Moiraine was about to tell her so in withering fashion when startled, even fearful, gasps rose from among the Tairens.
The crowd gave way hurriedly, more than eagerly, those in front ruthlessly forcing those behind farther back, opening a wide passage to the space beneath the dome. Rand strode down that corridor, looking straight ahead, imperious in a red coat embroidered with golden scrolls up his sleeves, cradling Callandor in his right arm like a scepter. It was not only he that made the Tairens give way, though. Behind him came perhaps a hundred Aiel, spears and arrow-nocked bows in hand, shoufa wrapped around their heads, black veils hiding everything but their eyes. Moiraine thought she recognized Rhuarc at the front, just behind Rand, but only by the way he moved. They were anonymous. Ready for killing. Plainly, whatever he meant to say, Rand intended to quell any resistance before it had a chance to coalesce.
The Aiel halted, but Rand kept on until he stood centered under the dome, then ran his eye around the gathering. He seemed surprised, and perhaps upset, at the sight of Egwene
, but he gave Moiraine an infuriating smile, and Mat one that made the pair of them look like boys when Mat returned it. The Tairens were white-faced, not knowing whether to stare at Rand and Callandor or the veiled Aiel; either could be death in their midst.
“The High Lord Sunamon,” Rand said suddenly, and loudly, making that plump fellow jump, “has guaranteed me a treaty with Mayene, strictly following lines I gave him. He has guaranteed this with his life.” He laughed as if he had made a joke, and most of the nobles laughed with him. Not Sunamon, who looked distinctly ill. “If he fails,” Rand announced, “he has agreed to be hanged, and he will be obliged.” The laughter stopped. Sunamon’s face took on a sickly tinge of green. Egwene gave Moiraine a troubled glance; she was gripping her skirt with both hands. Moiraine only waited; he had not brought every noble within ten miles together to tell them of a treaty or threaten a fat fool. She made her hands let go of her own skirts.
Rand turned in a circle, weighing the faces he saw. “Because of this treaty, ships will soon be available to carry Tairen grain west, to find new markets.” There were a few appreciative murmurs at that, quickly stifled. “But there is more. The armies of Tear are to march.”
A cheer rose, tumultuous shouts ringing from the ceilings. Men capered, even the High Lords, and shook their fists over their heads, and tossed up peaked velvet hats. Women, smiling as rapturously as the men, bestowed kisses on the cheeks of those who would go to war, and delicately sniffed the tiny porcelain bottles of smelling salts no Tairen noblewoman would be without, pretending to be made faint by the news. “Illian shall fall!” someone cried, and hundreds of voices seized it like thunder. “Illian shall fall! Illian shall fall! Illian shall fall!”
Moiraine saw Egwene’s lips moving, the words crushed beneath the jubilation. She could read them, though. “No, Rand. Please, no. Please don’t.” On the far side of Rand, Mat was frowning in disapproving silence. They and she were the only ones not celebrating, aside from the ever-watchful Aiel and Rand himself. Rand’s smile was twisted contemptuously, and never touched his eyes. There was fresh sweat on his face. She met his sardonic stare and waited. There would be more, and not, she suspected, to her liking.
Rand raised his left hand. Slowly quiet fell, those in front anxiously shushing those behind. He waited for absolute silence. “The armies will move north, into Cairhien. The High Lord Meilan will command, and under him, the High Lords Gueyam, Aracome, Hearne, Maraconn and Simaan. The armies will be generously financed by the High Lord Torean, the wealthiest of you, who will accompany the armies to see that his money is spent wisely.”
Dead silence greeted this pronouncement. No one moved, though plain-faced Torean seemed to be having trouble standing.
Moiraine had to give Rand a mental bow for his choices. Sending those seven out of Tear neatly eviscerated the seven most dangerous plots against him, and none of those men trusted each other enough to scheme among themselves. Thom Merrilin had given him good advice; obviously her spies had missed some of the notes he had had slipped into Rand’s pockets. But the rest? It was madness. He could not have had this for an answer on the other side of that ter’angreal. It was not possible, surely.
Meilan obviously agreed with her, if not for the same reasons. He stepped forward hesitantly, a lean hard man but so frightened that the whites of his eyes showed all the way around. “My Lord Dragon . . . .” He stopped, swallowed, and began again in a marginally stronger voice. “My Lord Dragon, intervening in a civil war is stepping into a bog. A dozen factions contend for the Sun Throne, with as many shifting alliances, each one betrayed every day. Besides that, bandits infest Cairhien as fleas on a wild boar. Starving peasants have stripped the land bare. I am reliably informed that they eat bark and leaves. My Lord Dragon, ‘a quagmire’ barely begins to describe—”
Rand cut him off. “You do not want to extend Tear’s sway all the way to Kinslayer’s Dagger, Meilan? That is all right. I know who I mean to sit on the Sun Throne. You do not go to conquer, Meilan, but to restore order, and peace. And to feed the hungry. There is more grain in the granaries now than Tear could sell, and the farmers will harvest as much more this year, unless you disobey me. Wagons will carry it north behind the armies, and those peasants . . . those peasants will not have to eat bark any longer, my Lord Meilan.” The tall High Lord opened his mouth again, and Rand swung Callandor down, grounding its crystal point in front of him. “You have a question, Meilan?” Shaking his head, Meilan backed into the crowd as though trying to hide.
“I knew he would not start a war,” Egwene said fiercely. “I knew it.”
“You think there will be less killing in this?” Moiraine muttered. What was the boy up to? At least he was not running off to save his village while the Forsaken had their way with the rest of the world. “The corpses will be piled as high, girl. You will not know the difference between this and a war.”
Attacking Illian and Sammael would have gained him time even if it grew into a stalemate. Time to learn his power, and perhaps to bring down one of his strongest enemies, to cow the rest. What did he gain by this? Peace for the land of her birth, starving Cairhienin fed; she would have applauded another time. It was laudably humane—and utterly senseless, now. Useless bloodshed, rather than confronting an enemy who would destroy him given the slightest opening. Why? Lanfear. What had Lanfear said to him? What had she done? The possibilities chilled Moiraine’s heart. Rand would take closer watching than ever now. She would not allow him to turn to the Shadow.
“Ah, yes,” Rand said as if just remembering something. “Soldiers don’t know much about feeding hungry people, do they? For that, I think a kind, woman’s heart is needed. My Lady Alteima, I regret intruding on your grief, but will you undertake to oversee distributing the food? You will have a nation to feed.”
And power to gain, Moiraine thought. This was his first slip. Aside from deciding on Cairhien over Illian, of course. Alteima would certainly return to Tear on an equal footing with Meilan or Gueyam, ready for more plotting. She would have Rand assassinated before that, if he was not careful. Perhaps an accident could be arranged in Cairhien.
Alteima swept a graceful curtsy, spreading her full white skirts, only a touch of her surprise showing. “As my Lord Dragon commands, so do I obey. It will please me greatly to serve the Lord Dragon.”
“I was sure it would,” Rand said wryly. “As much as you love your husband, you’ll not want him with you in Cairhien. Conditions will be hard, for a sick man. I took the liberty of having him moved to the High Lady Estanda’s apartments. She will care for him while you are away, and send him to meet you in Cairhien when he is well.” Estanda smiled, a tight smile of triumph. Alteima’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she crumpled in a heap.
Moiraine shook her head slightly. He truly was harder than he had been. More dangerous. Egwene started toward the fallen woman, but Moiraine put a hand on her arm. “I think she was only overcome by emotion. I can recognize it, you see. The ladies are tending her.” Several of them had clustered around, patting Alteima’s wrists and passing smelling salts under her nose. She coughed and opened her eyes, and looked ready to faint again when she saw Estanda standing over her.
“Rand just did something very clever, I think,” Egwene said in a flat voice. “And very cruel. He has a right to look ashamed.”
Rand did look it at that, grimacing at the floorstones under his boots. Perhaps he was not as hard as he was trying to be.
“Not undeserved, however,” Moiraine observed. The girl showed promise, picking up on what she did not understand. But she still needed to learn to control her emotions, to see what had to be done as well as she saw what she wished could be done. “Let us hope he is finished with being clever for today.”
Very few in the great chamber understood exactly what had happened, only that Alteima’s fainting had upset the Lord Dragon. A few in the back raised shouts of “Cairhien shall fall!” but the cry did not take hold.
“With you to l
ead us, my Lord Dragon, we shall conquer the world!” a lumpy-faced young man shouted, half-supporting Torean. Estean, Torean’s eldest son; the lumpy-faced resemblance was clear, though the father was still mumbling to himself.
Jerking his head up, Rand appeared startled. Or perhaps angry. “I will not be with you. I am . . . going away for a time.” That certainly brought silence again. Every eye was on him, but his attentions were all on Callandor. The crowd flinched as he lifted the crystal blade before his face. Sweat rolled down his face, much more sweat than before. “The Stone held Callandor before I came. The Stone should hold it again, until I return.”
Suddenly the transparent sword blazed in his hands. Whirling it hilt uppermost, he drove it down. Into the stone floor. Bluish lightning arced wildly toward the dome above. The stone rumbled loudly, and the Stone shook, dancing, heaving screaming people from their feet.
Moiraine pushed Egwene off of her while tremors still reverberated through the chamber, and scrambled erect. What had he done? And why? Going away? It was the worst of all her nightmares.
The Aiel had already regained their feet. Everyone else lay stunned or huddled on hands and knees. Except for Rand. He was on one knee, both hands holding Callandor’s hilt, with the blade driven halfway into the floorstones. The sword was clear crystal again. Sweat glistened on his face. He pried his hands away one finger at a time, held them cupped around the hilt yet not touching it. For a moment Moiraine thought he was going to take hold of it again, but instead he forced himself to his feet. He did have to force himself; she was certain of it.
“Look at this while I am gone.” His voice was lighter, more the way it had been when she first found him in his village, but no less sure or firm than it had been moments before. “Look at it, and remember me. Remember I will come back for it. If anyone wants to take my place, all they have to do is pull it out.” He waggled a finger at them, grinning almost mischievously. “But remember the price of failure.”
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