The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “Moiraine and a Green,” Sarene mused. That could indeed indicate trouble. Elaida insisted that Moiraine and Siuan had acted alone in letting al’Thor run without guidance, but if even one additional Aes Sedai was involved, it might mean others had been as well, and that was a string that might lead all the way to some, perhaps many, of those who had fled the Tower when Siuan was deposed. “Still, it is only the rumor.”

  “Perhaps not,” Galina said as she slipped into the chamber. “Have you not heard? Someone channeled at us this morning. For what purpose I cannot say, but we can imagine very closely I believe.”

  The beads worked in Sarene’s tiny dark braids made clicking noises as she shook her head. “It is not the proof of a Green, Galina. It is not even the proof of an Aes Sedai. It could be some poor wretch who was put out of the Tower for failing the test as Accepted. And you know as well as I do that some of these Aielwomen can channel.”

  Galina smiled, a sliver of teeth in night-eyed sternness. “I think it is proof of Moiraine. I have heard she had a trick of eavesdropping, and I do not believe this story of her so conveniently dead, with no corpse seen and no one able to tell details.”

  That bothered Sarene as well. Partly because she had liked Moiraine—they had been friends as novices and Accepted, though Moiraine was a year ahead, and that friendship had continued over their few meetings in the years since—and partly because it was too vague and top convenient, Moiraine dying, vanishing really, when an arrest warrant hung over her. Moiraine might well be capable of faking her own death under those circumstances. “So you believe we have both Moiraine and a Green sister whose name we do not know to deal with? It is still only the speculation, Galina.”

  Galina’s smile did not change, but her eyes glittered. She was too hard for logic—she believed what she believed whatever the evidence—yet Sarene had always believed great fires roared somewhere in Galina’s depths. “What I believe,” Galina said, “is that Moiraine is the so-called Green. What better way to hide from arrests than to die and reappear as someone else of another Ajah? I have even heard that this Green is short; we all know Moiraine is far from a tall woman.” Erian had sat up stony straight, her brown eyes large smoldering coals of outrage. “When we lay hands on this Green sister,” Galina told her, “I propose that we give her into your charge for the journey back to the Tower.” Erian nodded sharply, but the heat did not fade from her eyes.

  Sarene felt stunned. Moiraine? Claim another Ajah than her own? Surely not. Sarene had never married—it was illogical to believe two people could remain compatible for a lifetime—but the only thing she could compare that to was sleeping with another woman’s husband. But it was the charge that stunned her, not the possibility that it might be true. She was about to point out that there were many short women in the world, and that shortness was relative, when Coiren spoke in that billowing voice.

  “Sarene, you must take your turn again. We must be prepared, whatever happens.”

  “I do not like it,” Erian said firmly. “It does be like preparing for failure.”

  “It is only logical,” Sarene told her. “Dividing time into the smallest possible increments, it is impossible to say with any true certainty what will happen between one and the next. Since chasing al’Thor to Caemlyn might mean we would arrive to find that he has come here, we remain here with as much certainty as we can have that he will eventually return, yet that could be tomorrow or a month from now. Any single event in any hour of that wait, or any combination of events, could leave us with no alternative. Thus, preparation is logical.”

  “Very nicely explained,” Erian said dryly. She had no head for logic; sometimes Sarene thought that beautiful women did not, though there was no logic in the connection that she could see.

  “We have as much time as we need,” Coiren pronounced. When she was not making a speech, she made pronouncements. “Beldeine arrived today and took a room near the river, but Mayam is not due for two days. We must take care, and that gives us time.”

  “I still do not like preparing for failure,” Erian murmured into her teacup.

  “I will not take it amiss,” Galina said, “if we find time to take Moiraine to justice. We have waited this long; there is not that much hurry with al’Thor.”

  Sarene sighed. They did very well at the things they did, but she could not understand it; there was barely a logical bone in one of them.

  Retiring upstairs to her chambers, she seated herself in front of the cold fireplace and began to channel. Could this Rand al’Thor really have rediscovered how to Travel? It surpassed belief, yet it was the only explanation. What sort of man was he? That she would discover when she met him, not before. Filled with saidar nearly to the point where sweetness became pain, she began running through novice exercises. They were as good as anything. Preparation was only logical.

  CHAPTER

  26

  Connecting Lines

  Thunder rolled across the low, brown grassland hills in a continuous peal, though the sky held not a cloud, only the burning sun, still with a way to climb. On a hilltop, Rand held the reins and the Dragon Scepter on the pommel of his saddle and waited. The thunder swelled. It was hard not to look over his shoulder constantly, south toward Alanna. She had bruised her heel this morning and scraped her hand, and she was in a temper. How and what for, he had no notion; he had no real notion how he could be so sure. The thunder crested.

  The Saldaean horsemen appeared over the next rise, three abreast at a dead gallop in a long snake that kept coming, down the slope into the broad sweep between the hills. Nine thousand men made a very long snake. At the foot of the slope they divided, the center column coming on while the others peeled off to right and left, each column dividing again and again until they rode by hundreds, swooping past one another. Riders began standing on their saddles, sometimes on feet, sometimes on hands. Others swung impossibly low to slap the ground on first one side of their galloping mounts, then the other. Men left their saddles entirely to crawl underneath speeding horses, or dropped to the ground to run a pace beside the animal before leaping back into the saddle, then dropping on the other side to repeat the performance.

  Rand lifted his reins and heeled Jeade’en. As the dapple moved, so did the Aiel surrounding him. This morning the men were Mountain Dancers, Hama N’dore, more than half wearing the headband of siswai’aman. Caldin, graying and leathery, had tried to get Rand to let him bring more than twenty, what with so many armed wetlanders about; none of the Aiel wasted any time with disparaging looks for Rand’s sword. Nandera spent more time watching the two hundred-odd women who trailed after them on horses; she seemed to find more threat in the Saldaean ladies and officers’ wives than in the soldiers, and having met some of the Saldaean women, Rand was not ready to argue. Sulin would probably have agreed. It occurred to him that he had not seen Sulin in. . . . Not since returning from Shadar Logoth. Eight days. He wondered if he had done something to offend her.

  This was no time to worry about Sulin or ji’e’toh. He circled around the valley until he reached the hilltop over which the Saldaeans had first appeared to him. Bashere himself rode about down there examining first one group as they went through their paces, then another; almost coincidentally, he just happened to do this standing up on his saddle.

  For an instant Rand seized saidin, and released it a heartbeat later. With his vision enhanced, it had not been difficult to see the two white stones lying near the foot of the slope, right where Bashere had placed them personally last night, four paces apart. With luck, no one had seen him. With luck, no one would ask too many questions about this morning. Below, some men were riding two horses now, a foot on each saddle, still at a dead gallop. Others had a man on their shoulders, sometimes in a handstand.

  He looked around at the sound of a horse walking toward him. Deira ni Ghaline t’Bashere rode through the Aiel with seeming unconcern; armed only with a small knife at her silver belt, in a riding dress of gray silk embroidered in
silver down the sleeves and on the high neck, she appeared to be daring them to attack her. As tall as many of the Maidens, nearly a hand taller than her husband, she was a big woman. Not stout, nor even plump; simply big. She had wings of white in her black hair, and her dark tilted eyes were fixed on Rand. He suspected she was a beautiful woman when his presence did not turn her face to granite.

  “Is my husband . . . amusing you?” She never gave Rand a title, never used his name.

  He looked at the other Saldaean women. They watched him like a troop of cavalry ready to charge, faces also granite, tilted eyes icy. All they awaited was Deira’s command. He could well believe the stories of Saldaean women taking up fallen husbands’ swords and leading their men back into battle. Being pleasant had gotten him exactly nowhere with Bashere’s wife; Bashere himself only shrugged and said she was a difficult woman at times, all the while grinning with what could only be pride.

  “Tell Lord Bashere I am pleased,” he said. Turning Jeade’en, he started back toward Caemlyn. The Saldaean women’s eyes seemed to press against his back.

  Lews Therin was giggling; that was the only word for it. Never prod at a woman unless you must. She will kill you faster than a man and for less reason, even if she weeps over it after.

  Are you really there? Rand demanded. Is there more to you than a voice? Only that soft, mad laughter answered.

  He stewed over Lews Therin all the way back to Caemlyn, and even after they had ridden past one of the long markets of tile roofs lining the approaches to the gates and into the New City. He worried over going mad—not just the fact of it, though that was bad enough; if he went insane, how could he do what he had to do?—but he had seen no sign of it. But then, if his mind did crack, would he know it? He had never seen a madman. All he had to go by was Lews Therin maundering in his head. Did all men go mad alike? Would he end like that, laughing and weeping over things no one else saw or knew? He knew he had a chance to live, if a seemingly impossible one. If you would live, you must die; that was one of three things he knew must be true, told to him inside a ter’angreal where the answers were always true if apparently never easy to understand. But to live like that. . . . He was not sure he would not rather die.

  The crowds in the New City gave way before more than forty Aiel, and a handful recognized the Dragon Reborn as well. Maybe more did, but it was a ragged handful of cheers that went up as he rode by. “The Light shine on the Dragon Reborn!” and “The glory of the Light for the Dragon Reborn!” and “The Dragon Reborn, King of Andor!”

  That last one jolted him whenever he heard it, and he heard it more than once. He had to find Elayne. He could feel his teeth grinding. He could not look at the people in the street; he wanted to smash them to their knees, roar at them that Elayne was their queen. Trying not to hear, he studied the sky, the rooftops, anything but the crowd. And that was why he saw the man in a white cloak rise up on a red-tiled rooftop and lift a crossbow.

  Everything happened in heartbeats. Rand seized saidin and channeled as the bolt flew toward him; it struck Air, a silvery blue mass hanging above the street, with a clang as of metal against metal. A ball of fire leaped from Rand’s hand, struck the crossbowman in the chest as the bolt was bouncing away from the shield of Air. Flames engulfed the man, and he fell shrieking from the rooftop. And someone leaped into Rand, carrying him out of the saddle.

  He hit the paving stones hard with a weight atop him; breath and saidin left him together. Struggling for air, he wrestled with the weight, wrenched it off—and found himself holding Desora by the arms. She smiled at him, a beautiful smile; then her head slumped sideways. Sightless blue eyes stared at him, already glazing. The crossbow bolt standing out from her ribs pressed against his wrist. Why had she ever wanted to hide such a beautiful smile?

  Hands seized him, hauled him to his feet; Maidens and Mountain Dancers pushed him to the side of the street, close against the front of a tinsmith’s shop, and formed a tight, veiled circle around him, horn bows in hand, eyes searching street and rooftops. Shouts and screams rang everywhere, but the street was already clear for better than fifty paces either way, and then it was a milling mass of people struggling to get away. The street was clear except for bodies. Desora, and six others, three of them Aiel. One more a Maiden, he thought. It was hard to be sure from a distance with someone lying crumpled like a heap of rags.

  Rand moved, and the Aiel around him pressed together more tightly, a wall of flesh. “These places are rabbit warrens,” Nandera said conversationally, without letting her eyes stop their search above her veil. “If you join the dance in there, you can take a blade in the back before you know there is danger.”

  Caldin nodded. “This reminds me of a time near Sedar Cut, when—We have a prisoner, at least.” Some of his Hama N’dore had appeared from a tavern across the street, pushing ahead of them a man with his arms and elbows bound behind him. He continued to struggle until they shoved him to his knees on the paving stone and laid spearpoints against his throat. “Perhaps he will tell us who commanded this.” Caldin sounded as though he did not doubt it in the least.

  A moment later Maidens came out of another building with a second bound man who was limping, his face covered in blood. In short order four men knelt in the street under Aiel guard. Finally the semicircle hemming Rand loosened.

  The four were hard-faced men all, though the blood-smeared fellow swayed and rolled his eyes at the Aiel. Two others wore sullen defiance, the fourth a sneer.

  Rand’s hands twitched. “Are you sure they were part of it?” He could not believe how soft his voice sounded, how steady. Balefire would solve everything. Not balefire, Lews Therin panted at him. Never again. “Are you sure?”

  “They were,” a Maiden said; he could not see who, behind her veil. “Those we killed all wore this.” She tugged a cloak free from behind the bloodied man’s bound arms. A worn white cloak, grimy and stained, with a golden sunburst embroidered on the chest. The other three had them too.

  “These were set to watch,” a broad Mountain Dancer added, “and report if the attack went badly for the others.” He laughed, a short bark. “Whoever sent them did not know how badly it would go.”

  “None of these men fired a crossbow?” Rand asked. Balefire. No, Lews Therin shrieked in the distance. The Aiel exchanged glances, shook shoufa-wrapped heads. “Hang them,” Rand said. The bloody-faced man nearly collapsed. Rand seized him in flows of Air, dragged him to his feet. It was the first he realized that he held saidin. He welcomed the struggle for survival; he even welcomed the taint, staining his bones like acid slime. It made him less aware of things he would rather not remember, emotions he would rather not have. “What is your name?”

  “F-Faral, m-my Lord. D-Dimir Faral.” Eyes almost popping out of his head stared at Rand through that mask of blood. “P-Please don’t h-hang me, m-my Lord. I’ll w-walk in the Light, I s-swear!”

  “You are a very lucky man, Dimir Faral.” Rand’s voice sounded as distant in his own ears as Lews Therin’s cries. “You are going to watch your friends hang.” Faral began to weep. “Then you’ll be given a horse, and you will go tell Pedron Niall that one day I will hang him too for what happened here.” When he loosed the flows of Air, Faral collapsed in a heap, moaning that he would ride to Amador without stopping. The three who were to die stared contemptuously at the sobbing man. One of them spat at him.

  Rand put them out of his mind. Niall was the only one he had to remember. There was something else he had to do yet. He pushed away saidin, went through the struggle to escape it without being obliterated, the struggle to make himself release it. For what he had to do, he wanted no screen between him and his emotions.

  A Maiden was straightening Desora’s body; she had raised Desora’s veil. She reached to stop him when he touched that piece of black algode, then hesitated, looking at his face, and settled back on her haunches.

  Lifting the veil, he memorized Desora’s face. She looked as if she were sleeping now. De
sora, of the Musara sept of the Reyn Aiel. So many names. Liah, of the Cosaida Chareen, and Dailin, of the Nine Valleys Taardad, and Lamelle, of the Smoke Water Miagoma, and. . . . So many. Sometimes he ran down that list name by name. There was one name in it he had not added. Ilyena Therin Moerelle. He did not know how Lews Therin had put it there, but he would not have erased it if he knew how.

  It was both an effort and a relief to turn away from Desora, a pure relief to find that what he had thought was a second dead Maiden was instead a man, short for an Aiel man. He hurt for the men who died for him, but with them he could remember an old saying. “Let the dead rest, and care for the living.” Not easily, but he could make himself do it. He could not even make himself summon the words when it was a woman who had died.

  Skirts spread on the paving stones caught his eye. Not only Aiel had died.

  She had taken a crossbow bolt squarely between the shoulder blades. Almost no blood stained the back of her dress; it had been quick, a small mercy. Kneeling, he turned her over as gently as he could; the other end of the bolt stood out from her chest. It was a square face, a woman in her middle years, a touch of gray in her hair. Her dark eyes were open wide; she looked surprised. He did not know her name, but he memorized her face. She had died for being on the same street with him.

  He caught at Nandera’s arm, and she shook his hand free, not wanting the use of her bow impaired, but she did look at him. “Find this woman’s family and see they have whatever they need. Gold. . . .” It was not enough. What they needed was a wife back, a mother back; he could not give them that. “See to them,” he said. “And find out her name.”

  Nandera stretched a hand toward him, then put it back to her bow. When he stood, the Maidens were watching him. Oh, they were watching everything as usual, but those veiled faces turned toward him a little more often. Sulin knew how he felt, if she did not know about the list, but he had no idea whether she had told the others. If she had, he had no idea how they felt about it.