The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  As the strings of spare horses began to pass him, on long leads held by mounted grooms, a Maiden appeared in the mist coming down the line of carts. Slowly she resolved into Sulin, shoufa around her neck to bare her short white hair and black veil hanging down onto her chest. A fresh slash across her left cheek would add another scar to her face unless she accepted Healing from one of the sisters. She might not. Maidens seemed to have odd attitudes about Wise Ones’ apprentices, or maybe it was just that these apprentices were Aes Sedai. They even saw Annoura as an apprentice, though she was not.

  “The Shaido sentries to the north are dead, Perrin Aybara,” she said. “And the men who were going out to replace them. They danced well, for Shaido.”

  “You took casualties?” he asked quietly.

  “Elienda and Briain woke from the dream.” She might have been speaking of the weather rather than two deaths among women she knew. “We all must wake eventually. We had to carry Aviellin the last two miles. She will need Healing.” So. She would accept it.

  “I’ll send one of the Aes Sedai with you,” he said, looking around in the fog. Aside from the line of horses passing him, he could see nothing. “As soon as I can find one.”

  They found him almost as he spoke, Annoura and Masuri striding out of the fog leading their horses with Berelain and Masema, his shaven head glistening damply. Even in the mist, there was no mistaking the rumpled nature of the man’s brown coat, or the crude darn on the shoulder. None of the gold his followers looted stuck to his hands. It all went to the poor. That was the only good that could be said of Masema. But then, a fair number of the poor that gold went to feed had been made poor by having their possessions stolen and their shops or farms burned by Masema’s people. For some reason, Berelain was wearing the coronet of the First of Mayene this morning, the golden hawk in flight above her brow, though her riding dress and cloak were plain dark gray. Beneath her light, flowery perfume, her scent was patience and anxiety, as odd a combination as Perrin had ever smelled. The six Wise Ones were with them, too, dark shawls draped over their arms, folded kerchiefs around their temples holding back their long hair. With all their necklaces and bracelets of gold and ivory, they made Berelain appear simply dressed for once. Aram was one of their number as well, the wolfhead pommel of his sword rising above one red-striped shoulder, and the fog could not hide the absence of his habitual glower. The man gravitated toward Masema and seemed almost to bask in some light that Masema gave off. Perrin wondered whether he should have sent Aram with the carts. But if he had, he was sure Aram would have leaped off and sneaked back as soon as he was out of Perrin’s sight.

  He explained Aviellin’s need to the two Aes Sedai, but to his surprise, when Masuri said she would come, fair-haired Edarra raised a hand that stopped the slim Brown in her tracks. Annoura shifted uncomfortably. She was no apprentice, and uneasy over Seonid and Masuri’s relationship with the Wise Ones. They tried to include her in it, and sometimes succeeded.

  “Janina will see to it,” Edarra said. “She has more skill than you, Masuri Sokawa.”

  Masuri’s mouth tightened, but she kept silent. The Wise Ones were quite capable of switching an apprentice for speaking up at the wrong time, even if she did happen to be an Aes Sedai. Sulin led Janina, a flaxen-haired woman who never seemed to be ruffled by anything, off into the fog, Janina striding as quickly as Sulin despite her bulky skirts. So the Wise Ones had learned Healing, had they? That might be useful later in the day; the Light send it was not needed often.

  Watching the pair disappear into the murk, Masema grunted. The thick mist hid the ever-burning intensity of his deep-set eyes and obscured the triangular white scar on his cheek, but his scent was full in Perrin’s nose, hard and sharp as a freshly stropped razor yet twitching in a frenzy. That smell of madness sometimes made him think his nose must bleed from breathing it.

  “Bad enough you use these blasphemous women who do what only the Lord Dragon, blessed be his name, may do,” Masema said, his voice full of the heat that the fog concealed in his eyes.

  The colors spinning in Perrin’s head turned into a brief image of Rand and Min and a tall man in a black coat, an Asha’man, and he felt a shock right down to his boots. Rand’s left hand was gone! No matter. Whatever had happened, had happened. And today his business lay elsewhere.

  “. . . but if they know Healing,” Masema continued, “it will be that much harder to kill the savages. A pity you won’t let the Seanchan leash all of them.”

  His sidelong glance at Annoura and Masuri said he included them, despite the fact both had visited him in secret more than once. They regarded him with Aes Sedai calm, though Masuri’s slim hands moved once as if to smooth her brown skirts. She said she had changed her mind and now believed the man must be killed, so why was she meeting him? Why was Annoura? Why did Masema allow them? He more than hated Aes Sedai. Perhaps answers could be found now that Haviar and Nerion no longer needed protection.

  Behind Masema, the Wise Ones stirred. Fire-haired Carelle, who looked as if she possessed a temper though she did not, actually stroked the hilt of her belt knife, and Nevarin, who could have given Nynaeve lessons in getting angry, gripped hers. Masema should have felt those eyes boring into his back, but his scent never shifted. Insane he might be, but never a coward.

  “You wanted to speak to Lord Perrin, my Lord Prophet,” Berelain said gently, though Perrin could smell the strain of her smile.

  Masema stared at her. “I am simply the Prophet of the Lord Dragon, not a lord. The Lord Dragon is the only lord, now. His coming has shattered all bonds and destroyed all titles. King and queens, lords and ladies, are but dust beneath his feet.”

  Those whirling hues threatened again, but Perrin crushed them. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. There was no way to soften moments with Masema. The man was as hard as a good file. “You’re supposed to be with your men. You risked being seen by coming here, and you’ll risk it again going back. I don’t trust your people to hold for five minutes without you there to stiffen their spines. They’ll run as soon as they see the Shaido coming their way.”

  “They are not my people, Aybara. They are the Lord Dragon’s people.” Light, being around Masema meant having to stomp on those colors every few minutes! “I left Nengar in charge. He has fought more battles than you have dreamed of. Including against the savages. I also gave the women orders to kill any man who tries to run and have let it be known that I will hunt down anyone who escapes the women. They will hold to the last man, Aybara.”

  “You sound as if you’re not going back,” Perrin said.

  “I intend to stay close to you.” Fog might hide the heat in Masema’s eyes, but Perrin could feel it. “A pity if any misfortune should befall you just as you reclaim your wife.”

  So a small part of his plan had unraveled already. A hope really, rather than part of the plan. If all else went well, the Shaido who managed to flee would carve a way through Masema’s people without more than slowing a step, but instead of taking a Shaido spear through his ribs, Masema would be . . . keeping an eye on him. Without any doubt, the man’s bodyguard was not far off in the fog, two hundred or so ruffians better armed and better mounted than the rest of his army. Perrin did not look at Berelain, but the scent of her worry had strengthened. Masema had reason to want both of them dead. He would warn Gallenne that his primary task today would be protecting Berelain from Masema’s men. And he would have to watch his own back.

  Off in the fog, a brief flash of silver-blue light appeared, and he frowned. It was too early yet for Grady. Two figures coalesced out of the mist. One was Neald, not strutting for once. In fact, he stumbled. His face looked tired. Burn him, why was he wasting his strength this way? The other was a young Seanchan in lacquered armor with a single thin plume on the peculiar helmet he carried beneath his arm. Perrin recognized him, Gueye Arabah, a lieutenant Tylee thought well of. The two Aes Sedai gathered their skirts as if to keep him from brushing against them, though he wen
t nowhere near them. For his part, he missed a step when he came close enough to make out their faces, and Perrin heard him swallow hard. He smelled skittish, of a sudden.

  Arabah’s bow included Perrin and Berelain, and he frowned slightly at Masema as though wondering what such a ragged fellow was doing in their company. Masema sneered, and the Seanchan’s free hand drifted toward his sword hilt before he stopped it. They seemed touchy folk, Seanchan did. But Arabah did not waste time. “Banner-General Khirgan’s compliments, my Lord, my Lady First. Morat’raken report those bands of Aiel are moving faster than expected. They will arrive some time today, possibly as soon as noon. The group to the west is perhaps twenty-five or thirty thousand, the one to the east larger by a third. About half of them are wearing white, and there will be children, of course, but that is still a lot of spears to have behind you. The Banner-General wishes to know if you would like to discuss altering the deployments. She suggests moving a few thousand of the Altaran lancers to join you.”

  Perrin grimaced. There would be at least three or four thousand algai’d’siswai with each of those bands. A lot of spears to have at his back for certain sure. Neald yawned. “How are you feeling, Neald?”

  “Oh, I’m ready to do whatever needs doing, I am, my Lord,” the man said with just a hint of his usual jauntiness.

  Perrin shook his head. The Asha’man could not be asked to make one gateway more than necessary. He prayed that they would not fall one short. “By noon, we’ll be done here. Tell the Banner-General we go ahead as planned.” And pray that nothing else went amiss. He did not add that aloud, though.

  Out in the fog, wolves howled, an eerie cry that rose all around Malden. It was truly begun, now.

  “You’re doing wonderfully, Maighdin,” Faile croaked. She felt light-headed, and her throat was dry from encouraging the woman. Everyone’s throat was dry. By the slant of the light coming through the gaps overhead, it was near midmorning, and they had been talking without cease for most of that. They had tried tapping the unbroken barrels, but the wine inside was too rancid even for wetting lips. Now they were taking turns with the encouragement. She was sitting alongside her sun-haired maid while the others rested against the back wall, as far from that leaning jumble of boards and timbers as they could get. “You’re going to save us, Maighdin.”

  Above them, the red scarf was just visible through that narrow gap in the tangle. It had hung limply for some time, now, except when the breeze caught it. Maighdin stared at it fixedly. Her dirty face glistened with sweat, and she breathed as if she had been running hard. Suddenly the scarf went taut and began to swing, once, twice, three times. Then the breeze sent it fluttering, and it fell. Maighdin continued to stare.

  “That was beautiful,” Faile said hoarsely. The other woman was getting tired. More time was passing between each success, and the successes were lasting a shorter time. “It was—”

  Abruptly a face appeared beside the scarf, one hand gripping the length of red. For a moment, she thought she must be imagining it. Aravine’s face framed by her white cowl.

  “I see her!” the woman said excitedly. “I see the Lady Faile and Maighdin! They’re alive!” Voices raised a cheer, quickly stilled.

  Maighdin swayed as if she might fall over, but a beautiful smile wreathed her face. Faile heard weeping behind her, and wanted to weep with joy herself. Friends had found them, not Shaido. They might escape yet.

  Pushing herself to her feet, she moved closer to the leaning pile of charred rubble. She tried to work moisture into her mouth, but it was thick. “We’re all alive,” she managed in husky voice. “How in the Light did you find us?”

  “It was Theril, my Lady,” Aravine replied. “The scamp followed you despite your orders, and the Light bless him for it. He saw Galina leave, and the building fall in, and he thought you were dead. He sat down and cried.” A voice protested in rough Amadician accents, and Aravine turned her head for a moment. “I know someone who’s been crying when I see him, boy. You just be thankful you stopped to cry. When he saw the scarf move, my Lady, he came running for help.”

  “You tell him there’s no shame in tears,” Faile said. “Tell him I’ve seen my husband cry when tears were called for.”

  “My Lady,” Aravine said hesitantly, “he said Galina pulled on a timber when she came out. It was set like a lever, he said. He said she made the building collapse.”

  “Why would she do that?” Alliandre demanded. She had helped Maighdin to her feet and half supported her to reach Faile’s side. Lacile and Arrela joined them, alternating between tears and laughter. Alliandre’s face was a thunderhead.

  Faile grimaced. How often in the last few hours had she wished she had that slap back? Galina had promised! Could the woman be Black Ajah? “That doesn’t matter now. One way or another, I’ll see her repaid.” How was another matter. Galina was Aes Sedai, after all. “Aravine, how many people did you bring? Can you—?”

  Large hands took Aravine by the shoulders and moved her aside. “Enough talk.” Rolan’s face appeared in the gap, shoufa around his neck and veil hanging onto his chest. Rolan! “We cannot clear anything with you standing there, Faile Bashere. This thing may fall in when we start. Go to the other end and huddle against the far wall.”

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  The man chuckled. He chuckled! “You still wear white, woman. Do as you are told, or when I have you out of there, I will smack your bottom soundly. And then maybe we will soothe your tears with a kissing game.”

  She showed him her teeth, hoping he did not take it for a grin. But he was right about them needing to move away, so she led her companions across the board-strewn stone floor to the far end of the basement where they crouched against the wall. She could hear voices muttering outside, likely discussing exactly how to go about clearing a path without making the rest of the building collapse on her head.

  “All this for nothing,” Alliandre said bitterly. “How many Shaido do you suppose are up there?”

  Wood scraped loudly, and with a groan, the leaning pile of rubble leaned inward a little more. The voices began again.

  “I haven’t any idea,” Faile told her. “But they must all be Mera’din, not Shaido.” The Shaido did not mingle with the Brotherless. “There might be some hope in that.” Surely Rolan would let her go once he learned about Dairaine. Of course, he would. And if he remained stubborn. . . . In that case, she would do whatever was necessary to convince him. Perrin would never have to find out.

  Wood scraped on wood again, and once more the heap of burned timbers and boards tilted inward a little further.

  The fog hid the sun, but Perrin estimated it must be near midmorning. Grady would be coming soon. He should have been there by now. If the man had grown too tired to make another gateway. . . . No. Grady would come. Soon. But his shoulders were as tight as if he had been working a forge for a full day and longer.

  “I tell you, I don’t like this one bit,” Gallenne muttered. In the thick mist, his red eyepatch was just another shadow. His heavy-chested bay nosed his back, impatient to be moving, and he patted the animal’s neck absently. “If Masema really wants to kill the Lady First, I say we finish him now. We outnumber him. We can overwhelm his bodyguard in minutes.”

  “Fool,” Arganda growled, glancing off to his right as if he could see Masema and his men through the curling grayness. Unlike the Mayener, he had put on his silvered helmet with its three fat white plumes. It and his breastplate, worked in gold and silver, glistened with condensation. Fog or no fog, his armor seemed almost to glow. “You think we can kill two hundred men without making a sound? Shouts will be heard the other side of this ridge. You have your ruler where you can surround her with nine hundred men and maybe get her away. Alliandre is still in that bloody town, and surrounded by Shaido.”

  Gallenne bristled, hand going to his sword hilt, as though he might practice on Arganda before moving on to Masema.

  “We’re not killing anybody
but Shaido today,” Perrin said firmly. Gallenne grunted, but he did not try to argue. He stank of discontent, though. Protecting Berelain would keep the Winged Guards out of the fighting.

  Off to the left, a bluish flash appeared, dimmed by the thick mist, and the tightness in Perrin’s shoulders loosened. Grady appeared in the fog, peering about him. His step picked up when he saw Perrin, but it was unsteady. Another man was with him, leading a tall, dark horse. Perrin smiled for the first time in a long while.

  “It’s good to see you, Tam,” he said.

  “Good to see you, too, my Lord.” Tam al’Thor was still a blocky man who looked ready to work from sunup to sundown without slacking, but the hair on his head had gone completely gray since Perrin had seen him last, and he had a few more lines on his bluff face. He took in Arganda and Gallenne with a steady gaze. Fancy armor did not impress him.

  “How are you holding up, Grady?” Perrin asked.

  “I’m holding up, my Lord.” The weathered man’s voice sounded bone weary. Shadowed by the fog as it was, his face still looked older than Tam’s.

  “Well, as soon as you’re done here, join Mishima. I want somebody keeping an eye on him. Somebody who makes him too nervous to think they can change what they agreed to.” He would have liked to tell Grady to tie off this gateway. It would make a short path to take Faile back to the Two Rivers. But if things went wrong today, it would make a short path for the Shaido, too.

  “Don’t know as I could make a cat nervous right now, my Lord, but I’ll do what I can.”

  Frowning, Tam watched Grady vanish into the gray murk. “I could wish I’d had some other way to get here,” he said. “Fellows like him visited the Two Rivers a while back. One called himself Mazrim Taim, a name we’d all heard. A false Dragon. Only now he wears a black coat with fancy embroidery and calls himself the M’Hael. They talked everywhere about teaching men to channel, about this Black Tower.” He freighted the words with sourness. “The Village Councils tried to put a stop to it, and the Women’s Circles, but they ended up taking above forty men and boys with them. Thank the Light some listened to sense, or I think they’d have had ten times that.” His gaze shifted to Perrin. “Taim said Rand sent him. He said Rand is the Dragon Reborn.” There was a touch of questioning in that, perhaps a hope for denial, perhaps a demand to know why Perrin had kept silent.