The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  He chose one of the doors at random—he knew that it wouldn’t matter which one he picked—and pushed it open. There was a room beyond, of modest size. The far side was a series of gray stone arches, beyond them a little courtyard and a sky of burning red clouds. The clouds grew and sprang from one another like bubbles in boiling water. They were the clouds of an impending storm, unnatural though they were.

  He looked more closely, and saw that each new cloud formed the shape of a tormented face, the mouth open in a silent scream. The cloud would swell, expanding upon itself, face distorting, jaw working, cheeks twisting, eyes bulging. Then it would split, other faces swelling out of its surface, yelling and seething. It was transfixing and horrifying at the same time.

  There was no ground beyond the courtyard. Just that terrible sky.

  Rand did not want to look toward the left side of the room. The fireplace was there. The stones that formed floor, hearth and columns were warped, as if they had been melted by an extreme heat. At the edges of his vision, they seemed to shift and change. The angles and proportions of the room were wrong. Just as they had been when he’d come here, long ago.

  Something was different this time, however. Something about the colors. Many of the stones were black, as if they’d been burned, and cracks laced them. Distant red light glowed from within, as if they had cores of molten lava. There had once been a table here, hadn’t there? Polished and of fine wood, its ordinary lines a discomforting contrast to the distorted angles of the stones?

  The table was gone, but two chairs sat before the fireplace, high backed and facing the flames, obscuring whomever might be sitting in them. Rand forced himself to walk forward, his boots clicking on stones that burned. He felt no heat, either from them or the fire. His breath caught and his heart pounded as he approached those chairs. He feared what he would find.

  He rounded them. A man sat in the chair on the left. Tall and youthful, he had a square face and ancient blue eyes that reflected the hearthfire, turning his irises almost purple. The other chair was empty. Rand walked to it and sat down, calming his heart and watching the dancing flames. He had seen this man before in visions, not unlike the ones that appeared when he thought of Mat or Perrin.

  The colors did not appear on this thought of his friends. That was odd, but somehow not unexpected. The visions he’d seen of the man in the other chair were different from the ones involving Perrin and Mat. They were more visceral, somehow, more real. At times during those visions, Rand had felt almost as if he could reach out and touch this man. He’d been afraid of what would happen if he did.

  He had met the man only once. At Shadar Logoth. The stranger had saved Rand’s life, and Rand had often wondered who he had been. Now, in this place, Rand finally knew.

  “You are dead,” Rand whispered. “I killed you.”

  The man didn’t look from the fire as he laughed. It was a rough, low-throated laugh that held little true mirth. Once, Rand had known this man only as Ba’alzamon—a name for the Dark One—and had foolishly thought that in killing him, he had defeated the Shadow for good.

  “I watched you die,” Rand said. “I stabbed you through the chest with Callandor. Isha—”

  “That is not my name,” the man interrupted, still watching the flames. “I am known as Moridin, now.”

  “The name is irrelevant,” Rand said angrily. “You are dead, and this is just a dream.”

  “Just a dream,” Moridin said, chuckling. “Yes.” The man was clad in a black coat and trousers, the darkness relieved only by red embroidery on the sleeves.

  Moridin finally looked at him. Flames from the fire cast bright red and orange light across his angular face and unblinking eyes. “Why do you always whine that way? Just a dream. Do you not know that many dreams are more truthful than the waking world?”

  “You are dead,” Rand repeated stubbornly.

  “So are you. I watched you die, you know. Lashing out in a tempest, creating an entire mountain to mark your cairn. So arrogant.”

  Lews Therin had—upon discovering that he’d killed all that he loved—drawn upon the One Power and destroyed himself, creating Dragonmount in the process. Mention of this event always brought on howls of grief and anger in Rand’s mind.

  But this time, there was silence.

  Moridin turned back to watch the heatless flames. To the side, in the stones of the fireplace, Rand saw movement. Flickering bits of shadow, just barely visible through the cracks in the stones. The red-hot heat shone behind, like rock turned molten, and those shadows moved, frantic. Just faintly, Rand could hear scratching. Rats, he realized. There were rats behind the stones, being consumed by the terrible heat trapped on the other side. Their claws scratched, pushing through the cracks, as they tried to escape their burning.

  Some of those tiny hands seemed almost human.

  Just a dream, Rand told himself forcefully. Just a dream. But he knew the truth of what Moridin had said. Rand’s enemy still lived. Light! How many of the others had returned as well? Anger made him grip the armrest of the chair. Perhaps he should have been terrified, but he had stopped running from this creature and his master long ago. Rand had no room left for fear. In fact, it should be Moridin who feared, for the last time they had met, Rand had killed him.

  “How?” Rand demanded.

  “Long ago, I promised you that the Great Lord could restore your lost love. Do you not think that he can easily recover one who serves him?”

  Another name for the Dark One was Lord of the Grave. Yes, it was true, even if Rand wished he could deny it. Why should he be surprised to see his enemies return, when the Dark One could restore the dead to life?

  “We are all reborn,” Moridin continued, “spun back into the Pattern time and time again. Death is no barrier to my master save for those who have known balefire. They are beyond his grasp. It is a wonder we can remember them.”

  So some of the others really were dead. Balefire was the key. But how had Moridin gotten into Rand’s dreams? Rand set wards each night. He glanced at Moridin, noticing something odd about the man’s eyes. Small black specks floated about in the whites, crossing back and forth like bits of ash blown on a leisurely wind.

  “The Great Lord can grant you sanity, you know,” Moridin said.

  “Your last gift of sanity brought me no comfort,” Rand said, surprising himself with the words. That had been Lews Therin’s memory, not his own. Yet Lews Therin was gone from his mind. Oddly, Rand felt more stable—somehow—here in this place where all else appeared fluid. The pieces of himself fit together better. Not perfectly, of course, but better than they had in recent memory.

  Moridin snorted softly, but said nothing. Rand turned back to the flames, watching them twist and flicker. They formed shapes, like the clouds, but these were headless bodies, skeletal, backs arching in pain, writhing for a moment in fire, spasming, before flashing into nothing.

  Rand watched that fire for a time, thinking. One might have thought that they were two old friends, enjoying the warmth of a winter hearth. Except that the flames gave no heat, and Rand would someday kill this man again. Or die at his hands.

  Moridin tapped his fingers on the chair. “Why have you come here?”

  Come here? Rand thought, with shock. Hadn’t Moridin brought him?

  “I feel so tired,” Moridin continued, closing his eyes. “Is that you, or is it me? I could throttle Semirhage for what she did.”

  Rand frowned. Was Moridin mad? Ishamael had certainly seemed crazy, at the end.

  “It is not time for us to fight,” Moridin said, waving a hand at Rand. “Go. Leave me in peace. I do not know what would happen to us if we killed one another. The Great Lord will have you soon enough. His victory is assured.”

  “He has failed before and will fail again,” Rand said. “I will defeat him.”

  Moridin laughed again, the same heartless laugh as before. “Perhaps you will,” he said. “But do you think that matters? Consider it. The Wheel turns, time
and time again. Over and over the Ages turn, and men fight the Great Lord. But someday, he will win, and when he does, the Wheel will stop.

  “That is why his victory is assured. I think it will be this Age, but if not, then in another. When you are victorious, it only leads to another battle. When he is victorious, all things will end. Can you not see that there is no hope for you?”

  “Is that what made you turn to his side?” Rand asked. “You were always so full of thoughts, Elan. Your logic destroyed you, didn’t it?”

  “There is no path to victory,” Moridin said. “The only path is to follow the Great Lord and rule for a time before all things end. The others are fools. They look for grand rewards in the eternities, but there will be no eternities. Only the now, the last days.”

  He laughed again, and this time there was joy in it. True pleasure.

  Rand stood. Moridin eyed him warily, but did not get up.

  “There is a way to win, Moridin,” Rand said. “I mean to kill him. Slay the Dark One. Let the Wheel turn without his constant taint.”

  Moridin gave no reaction. He was still staring at the flames. “We are connected,” Moridin finally said. “That is how you came here, I suspect, though I do not understand our bond myself. I doubt you can understand the magnitude of the stupidity in your statement.”

  Rand felt a flash of anger, but fought it down. He would not be goaded. “We shall see.”

  He reached for the One Power. It was distant, far away. Rand seized it, and felt himself yanked away, as if on a line of saidin. The room vanished, and so did the One Power, as Rand entered a deep blackness.

  Rand finally stopped thrashing in his sleep, and Min held her breath, hoping that he wouldn’t start again. She sat, legs tucked underneath her, wrapped in a blanket as she read in her chair at the corner of the room. A small lamp flickered and danced on the short table beside her, illuminating her stack of musty books. Falling Shale, Marks and Remarks, Monuments Past. Histories, most of them.

  Rand sighed softly, but did not move. Min released her breath and settled back into her chair, finger marking her place in a copy of Pelateos’s Ponderings. With the shutters closed for the night, she could still hear the wind sough in the pines. The room smelled faintly of smoke from the strange fire. Aviendha’s quick thinking had made a potential disaster into a mere inconvenience. Not that she was being rewarded for it. The Wise Ones continued to work her as hard as a merchant’s last mule.

  Min hadn’t been able to get close enough to her to have a conversation, despite the fact that they’d been in the camp together for some time now. She didn’t know how to think of the other woman. They had become a little more comfortable with one another that evening, sharing oosquai. But one day did not friends make, and she was definitely uncomfortable about sharing.

  Min glanced again at Rand, lying on his back, eyes closed, breath coming evenly now. His left arm lay across his blankets, the stump exposed. She didn’t know how he managed to sleep, with those wounds in his side. As soon as she thought of them, she could feel the pain—it was all part of the rolled-up ball of Rand’s emotions in the back of her mind. She had learned to ignore the pain. She’d had to. For him, it would be much, much stronger. How he could stand it, she didn’t know.

  She wasn’t Aes Sedai—thank the Light—but somehow she had bonded him. It was amazing; she could tell where he was, tell if he was distraught. She could mostly keep his emotions from overwhelming her except when they were passionate. But what woman didn’t want to be overwhelmed during those moments? It was a particularly . . . exhilarating experience with the bond, which let her feel both her own desire and the raging tempest of fire that was Rand’s desire for her.

  The thought made her blush, and she pulled open Ponderings to distract herself. Rand needed his sleep, and she was going to let him have it. Besides, she needed to study, although she was confronted by conclusions that she didn’t like.

  These books had belonged to Herid Fel, the kindly old scholar who had joined Rand’s school in Cairhien. Min smiled, remembering Fel’s distracted way of talking and his confused—yet somehow brilliant—discoveries.

  Herid Fel was dead now, murdered, torn apart by Shadowspawn. He’d discovered something in these books, something he’d intended to tell Rand. Something about the Last Battle and the seals on the Dark One’s prison. Fel had been killed just before he could pass on the information. Perhaps it was coincidence; perhaps the books had nothing to do with his death. But perhaps they did. Min was determined to find the answers. For Rand, and for Herid himself.

  She put down Ponderings and picked up Thoughts Among the Ruins, a work from over a thousand years ago. She’d marked a place with a small slip of paper, the very same now-worn note that Herid had sent to Rand shortly before the murder. Min turned it over in her fingers, reading it again.

  Belief and order give strength. Have to clear rubble before you can build. Will explain when see you next. Do not bring girl. Too pretty.

  She figured—from reading among his books—that she could trace his thoughts. Rand had wanted information on how to seal the Dark One’s prison. Could Fel have discovered what she thought she had?

  She shook her head. What was she doing trying to solve a scholarly mystery? But who else was there? One of the Brown Ajah might be better suited, but could they be trusted? Even those who had made their oaths to him might decide that it was in Rand’s best interests to keep secrets from him. Rand himself was far too busy, and he was too impatient for books lately anyway. That left Min. She was beginning to piece together some of what he would have to do, but there was more—so much more—that was still unknown. She felt she was getting close, but it worried her to reveal what she’d discovered to Rand. How would he respond?

  She sighed, scanning the book. She’d never thought that she, of all people, would become a fool for some man. Yet here she was, following him wherever he went, putting his needs before her own. That didn’t mean she was his pet, regardless what some of the people in camp said. She followed Rand because she loved him, and she could feel—literally—that he returned her love. Despite the harshness that was invading him bit by bit, despite the anger and the bleakness of his life, he loved her. And so she did what she could to help him.

  If she could help solve this one puzzle, the puzzle of sealing the Dark One’s prison, she could achieve something not just for Rand, but for the world itself. What did it matter if soldiers in the camp didn’t know what her value was? It was probably better if everyone assumed her to be dismissible. Any assassin who came to kill Rand should think that he could ignore Min. The would-be killer would soon discover the knives hidden in Min’s sleeves. She wasn’t as good with them as Thom Merrilin was, but she knew more than enough to kill.

  Rand turned in his sleep, but settled down again. She loved him. She hadn’t chosen to do so, but her heart—or the Pattern, or the Creator, or whatever was in charge of these things—had made the decision for her. And now she wouldn’t change her feelings if she could. If it meant danger, if it meant suffering the looks of men in the camp, if it meant . . . sharing him with others.

  Rand stirred again. This time, he groaned and opened his eyes, sitting up. He raised his hand to his head, somehow managing to look more weary now than he had when he’d gone to sleep. He wore only his smallclothes, and his chest was bare. He sat like that for a long moment, then stood up, walking to the shuttered window.

  Min pushed her book closed. “And what do you think you’re doing, sheepherder? You barely slept for a couple of hours!”

  He opened the shutters and the window, exposing the dark night beyond. A stray curl of wind made her lamp flame shiver.

  “Rand?” Min asked.

  She could barely hear his voice when he replied. “He’s inside my head. He was gone during the dream. But he’s back now.”

  She resisted sinking down in her chair. Light, but she hated hearing about Rand’s madness. She’d hoped that when he healed saidin, he would be f
ree of the taint’s insanities. “He?” she asked, forcing her voice to be steady. “The voice of . . . Lews Therin?”

  He turned, clouded night sky outside the window framing his face, the lamp’s uneven illumination leaving his features mostly in shadows.

  “Rand,” she said, setting her book aside and joining him beside the window. “You have to talk to someone. You can’t keep it all inside.”

  “I have to be strong.”

  She tugged on his arm, turning him toward her. “Keeping me away means you’re strong?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes you are. There are things going on in there, behind those Aiel eyes of yours. Rand, do you think I will stop loving you because of what you hear?”

  “You’ll be frightened.”

  “Oh,” she said, folding her arms. “So I’m a fragile flower, am I?”

  He opened his mouth, struggling for words, in the way he once had. Back when he’d been nothing more than a sheepherder on an adventure. “Min, I know you’re strong. You know I do.”

  “Then trust me to be strong enough to bear what is inside you,” she said. “We can’t just pretend nothing has happened.” She forced herself onward. “The taint left marks on you. I know it did. But if you can’t share it with me, who can you share it with?”

  He ran his hand through his hair, then turned away, beginning to pace. “Burn it all, Min! If my enemies discover my weaknesses, they will exploit them. I feel blind. I’m running in the dark on an unfamiliar path. I don’t know if there are breaks in the road, or if the whole cursed thing ends in a cliff!”

  She laid a hand on his arm as he passed, stopping him. “Tell me.”

  “You’ll think I’m mad.”

  She snorted. “I already think you’re a wool-headed fool. Can it be much worse than that?”

  He regarded her, and some of the tension left his face. He sat down on the edge of the bed, sighing softly. But it was progress.

  “Semirhage was right,” Rand said. “I hear . . . things. A voice. The voice of Lews Therin, the Dragon. He speaks to me and responds to the world around me. Sometimes, he tries to seize saidin from me. And . . . and sometimes he succeeds. He’s wild, Min. Insane. But the things he can do with the One Power are amazing.”