“I—”
“Enough.” He did not yell the word. He spoke firmly, but quietly. He made her feel the full force of his displeasure, his gaze seizing her own. She suddenly slumped in her saddle, looking up at him with wide eyes.
There was a loud cracking noise from the side, followed by a sudden crash. Screams broke the air. Rand turned with alarm. A balcony filled with onlookers had broken free of its supports and fallen to the street, smashing like a barrel hit by a boulder. People groaned in pain, others called out for help. But the sounds had come from both sides of the street. Rand frowned and turned; a second balcony—directly across from the first—had fallen as well.
Merise paled, then turned her horse hastily, heading to help the wounded. Other Aes Sedai were already hurrying to Heal those who had fallen.
Rand kneed Tai’daishar forward. That had not been caused by the Power, but by his ta’veren nature changing probability. Wherever he visited, remarkable and random events occurred. Large numbers of births, deaths, weddings and accidents. He had learned to ignore them.
He had rarely seen an occurrence quite so . . . violent, however. Could he be sure it wasn’t due to some interaction with the new force? That unseen yet tempting well of power Rand had tapped, used and enjoyed? Lews Therin thought what happened should have been impossible.
The original reason mankind had bored into the Dark One’s prison had been power. A new source of energy for channeling, like the One Power, but different. Unknown and strange, and potentially vast. That source of power had turned out to be the Dark One himself.
Lews Therin whimpered.
Rand carried the access key with him for a reason. It linked him to one of the greatest sa’angreal ever created. With that power and the aid of Nynaeve, Rand had cleansed saidin. The access key had allowed him to tap an unimaginable river, a tempest as vast as the ocean. It had been the greatest thing he had ever experienced.
Until the moment when he had used the unnamed power.
That other force called to him, sang to him, tempted him. So much power, so much divine wonder. But it terrified him. He didn’t dare touch it, not again.
And so he carried the key. He was not certain which of the two sources of energy was more dangerous, but as long as both called to him, he was able to resist both. Like two people, both yelling for his attention, they drowned one another out. For the moment.
Besides, he would not be collared again. The access key wouldn’t have helped him against Semirhage—no amount of the One Power would aid a man if he were caught unaware—but perhaps it would in the future. Once, he hadn’t dared carry it for fear of what it offered. He no longer had room to indulge such weakness.
The destination was easy to pick out; about five hundred Cairhienin armsmen were camped on the grounds of a spacious, stately mansion. Aiel also had tents on the grounds—but they had also claimed nearby buildings, and several nearby roofs. For the Aiel, camping in a place was essentially the same thing as guarding it, as an Aiel resting was about twice as alert as a regular soldier on patrol. Rand had left the larger bulk of his force outside the city; he would leave it to Dobraine and his stewards to find quarters for Rand’s men within the walls.
Rand halted Tai’daishar, then surveyed his new home.
We have no home, Lews Therin whispered. We destroyed it. Burned it away, melted to slag, like sand in a fire.
The mansion was certainly a step up from the mostly log manor. Its large grounds were bordered by iron gates. The flower beds were empty—flowers were hesitant to bloom this spring—but the lawn was greener than most he had seen. Oh, it was mostly yellow and brown, but there were patches of green. The groundskeepers were trying very hard, their efforts also manifest in the rows of Aryth yews cut in the shapes of fanciful animals at the sides of the lawn.
The mansion itself was nearly a palace; there was one of those in the city, of course, belonging to the king. But it was said to be inferior to the homes of the Council of Merchants. The banner flapping tall atop the manor was of brilliant gold and black, and it proclaimed this to be the seat of House Chadmar. Perhaps this Milisair had seen the departure of the others as an opportunity. If so, the only real opportunity she’d gained was the chance to be taken by Rand.
The gates to the mansion grounds were open, and the Aiel in his entourage were already hurrying in, joining clusters of society or clan members. It was irksome that they rarely waited on Rand’s commands or orders, but Aiel were Aiel. Any suggestion that they should wait was simply met with laughter, as if he had made a grand joke. It would be easier to tame the wind itself than to get them to behave like wetlanders.
That made him think of Aviendha. Where had she gone, so suddenly? He could feel her through the bond, but it was faint—she was very far away. To the east. What business was there for her in the Waste?
He shook his head. All women were difficult to understand, and an Aiel woman was tenfold more incomprehensible. He had hoped that he would be able to spend some time with her, but she’d pointedly avoided him. Well, perhaps it was Min’s presence that kept her away. Perhaps he would be able to keep himself from hurting her before death came. Better that Aviendha fled. His enemies didn’t know of her yet.
He urged Tai’daishar through the gates, riding up the drive to the manor house itself. He dismounted, plucking the statuette from its strap and sliding it into the oversized pocket of his coat, which had been quickly tailored to hold it. He handed his mount off to a groom—one of the manor house’s own servants, wearing a coat of green with a bright white shirt beneath, the collar and cuffs ruffled. The manor’s servants had already been apprised that Rand would be using the place as his own, now that its former occupant had been . . . given his protection.
Dobraine joined him as he strode up the steps to the building. It was washed a crisp white, with wooden pillars lining the front landing. He stepped inside the front doors. After living in several palaces, he was still impressed. And disgusted. The opulence he found beyond the manor’s front doors would never have indicated that the people of the city starved. A line of very nervous servants stood in a row along the back of the entryway. He could sense their fear. It was not every day that one’s dwelling was annexed by the Dragon Reborn himself.
Rand pulled off his riding glove by tucking his hand between his arm and his side, then slipped the glove in his belt. “Where is she?” he asked, turning to the pair of Maidens—Beralna and Riallin—who were keeping an eye on the servants.
“Second floor,” one of the Maidens said. “Sipping tea while her hand shakes so much it threatens to break the porcelain.”
“We keep telling her she’s not a prisoner,” the other Maiden said. “She just can’t leave.”
Both of them found that amusing. Rand glanced to the side as Rhuarc joined him in the entryway. The tall, fire-haired clan chief inspected the room, with its twinkling chandelier and ornamented vases. Rand knew what he was thinking. “You may take the fifth,” he said. “But only from the rich who live in this district.”
That wasn’t how it was done; the Aiel should have been allowed the fifth from everyone. But Rhuarc did not argue. What the Aiel had done in taking Bandar Eban hadn’t really been a true conquest, though they had fought gangs and thugs. Perhaps he shouldn’t have given them anything. But considering the mansions like this one, there was wealth to spare for the Aiel here, among the wealthy at least.
The Maidens nodded, as if they had expected it, then loped off, probably to begin selecting their share. Dobraine watched them with consternation. Cairhien had suffered the Aiel fifth on several occasions.
“I never can understand why you let them plunder like highwaymen who find the caravan guards asleep,” Corele said, sweeping into the room with a smile. She raised an eyebrow at the impressive furnishings. “And such a pretty place as this. Like letting soldiers trample spring buds, isn’t it?”
Had she been sent to deal with him now that he’d shaken Merise? She met Rand’s gaze in
her pleasant way, but he held it until she broke and turned away. He could remember a time when that had never worked with Aes Sedai.
He turned to Dobraine. “You have done well here,” he said to the lord. “Even if you haven’t brought order as widely as I wish. Gather your armsmen. Narishma has been instructed to provide a gateway for you to Tear.”
“Tear, my Lord?” Dobraine asked, surprised.
“Yes,” Rand said. “Tell Darlin to stop pestering me with messengers. He is to keep gathering his forces; I’ll bring him to Arad Doman when I decide the time is right.” That would be after he met with the Daughter of the Nine Moons, which meeting would determine much.
Dobraine looked faintly crestfallen. Or was that just Rand’s interpretation? Dobraine’s expression rarely changed. Was he imagining his hopes of this kingdom withering away? Was he plotting against Rand? “Yes, my Lord. I assume I’m to leave immediately?”
Dobraine has never given us reason to doubt him. He even gathered support for Elayne to take the Sun Throne!
Rand had been away from him too long. Too long to trust him. But best to get him out for now; he’d had too much time to get a foothold here, and Rand didn’t trust any Cairhienin to avoid games with politics.
“Yes, you leave within the hour,” Rand said, turning to walk up the graceful white stairs.
Dobraine saluted, stoic as always, and left out the front doorway. He obeyed immediately. No word of complaint. He was a good man. Rand knew he was.
Light, what is happening to me? Rand thought. I need to trust some people. Don’t I?
Trust . . . ? Lews Therin whispered. Yes, perhaps we can trust him. He cannot channel. Light, the one we can’t trust at all is ourselves. . . .
Rand clenched his jaw. He would reward Dobraine with the kingdom if Alsalam couldn’t be found. Ituralde didn’t want it.
The stairs rose straight and broad to a landing, then split and twisted up to the second floor, touching the landing there on two separate sides. “I need an audience chamber,” Rand said to the servants below, “and a throne. Quickly.”
Less than ten minutes later, Rand sat in a plushly decorated sitting room on the second floor, waiting for the merchant Milisair Chadmar to be brought to him. His ornately carved white wood chair wasn’t quite a throne, but it would do. Perhaps Milisair had used it for audiences herself. The room did seem laid out like a throne room, with a shallowly raised dais for him to sit on. Both dais and floor below were covered in a textured green and red rug of fanciful design which matched the Sea Folk porcelain on pedestals at the corner. Four broad windows behind him—each large enough to walk through—ushered overcast sunlight into the room, and it fell on his back as he sat in the chair and leaned forward, one arm resting across his knees. The figurine sat on the floor just before him.
Shortly, Milisair Chadmar walked through the doorway past the Aiel guards. She wore one of those famous Domani dresses. It covered her body from neck to toe but was barely opaque and clung to every curve—of which she had more than her fair share. The dress was of deep green, and she wore pearls at her neck. Her dark hair, in tight curls, hung down past her shoulders, several locks framing her face. He hadn’t expected her to be so young, barely into her thirties.
It would be a shame to execute her.
Just one day, he thought to himself, and already I think of executing a woman for not agreeing to follow me. There was a time when I could barely stand to execute deserving criminals. But he would do what must be done.
Milisair’s deep curtsy seemed to imply that she accepted his authority. Or perhaps it was simply a means of allowing him a better view of what the dress accentuated. A very Domani thing to do. Unfortunately for her, he already had more problems with women than he knew how to handle.
“My Lord Dragon,” Milisair said, rising from her curtsy. “How may I serve you?”
“When was the last communication you had from King Alsalam?” Rand asked. He pointedly didn’t give her leave to sit in one of the room’s chairs.
“The King?” she asked, surprised. “It has been weeks now.”
“I will need to speak to the messenger who brought the latest message,” Rand said.
“I am not certain he can be found.” The woman sounded flustered. “I do not keep track of the coming and going of every messenger in the city, my Lord.”
Rand leaned forward. “Do you lie to me?” he asked softly.
Her mouth opened, perhaps in shock at his bluntness. The Domani were no Cairhienin—who had a seemingly inborn political craftiness—but they were a subtle people. Particularly the women.
Rand was neither subtle nor crafty. He was a sheepherder turned conqueror, and his heart was that of a Two Rivers man, even if his blood was Aiel. Whatever politicking she was used to playing, it wouldn’t work on him. He had no patience for games.
“I . . .” Milisair said, staring at him. “My Lord Dragon. . . .”
What was she hiding? “What did you do with him?” Rand asked, making a guess. “The messenger?”
“He knew nothing of the King’s location,” Milisair said quickly, the words seeming to spill from her. “My questioners were quite thorough.”
“He is dead?”
“I. . . . No, my Lord Dragon.”
“Then you will have him brought to me.”
She paled further, and glanced to one side, perhaps reflexively seeking escape. “My Lord Dragon,” she said hesitantly, bringing her eyes back to him. “Now that you are here, perhaps the King will remain . . . hidden. Perhaps there is no need to seek him out further.”
She thinks he’s dead too, Rand thought. It has made her take risks.
“There is need to find Alsalam,” Rand said, “or at least discover what happened to him. We need to know his fate so that you can choose a new king. That is how it happens, correct?”
“I’m certain you can be crowned quickly, my Lord Dragon,” she said smoothly.
“I will not be king here,” Rand said. “Bring me the messenger, Milisair, and perhaps you will live to see a new king crowned. You are dismissed.”
She hesitated, then curtsied again and withdrew. Rand caught a glimpse of Min standing outside with the Aiel, watching the merchant depart. He caught her eyes, and she looked troubled. Had she seen any viewings about Milisair? He almost called to her, but she vanished, walking away with a quick step. To the side, Alivia watched her go with curiosity. The former damane had stayed aloof recently, as if biding her time, waiting until she could fulfill her destiny in helping Rand die.
He found himself standing. That look in Min’s eyes. Was she angry with him? Was she remembering his hand at her neck, his knee pressing her against the floor?
He sat back down. Min could wait. “All right,” he said, addressing the Aiel. “Bring me my scribes and stewards, along with Rhuarc, Bael and whatever city worthies haven’t fled the city or been killed in riots. We need to go over the grain distribution plans.”
The Aiel sent runners and Rand settled back into his chair. He would see the people fed, restore order and gather the Council of Merchants. He would even see that a new king was chosen.
But he would also find out where Alsalam had gone. For there, his instincts said, was the best place to find Graendal. It was his best lead.
If he did find her, he would see that she died by balefire, just like Semirhage. He would do what must be done.
CHAPTER 30
Old Advice
Gawyn remembered very little of his father—the man had never been much of a father, to him at least—but he did have a strong memory of a day in the Caemlyn palace gardens. Gawyn had been standing beside a small pond, pitching pebbles into it. Taringail had walked past down the Rose March, young Galad at his side.
The scene was still vivid in Gawyn’s mind. The heavy scent of the roses in full bloom. The silver ripples on the pond, the minnows scattering away from the miniature boulder he’d just tossed at them. He could picture his father well. Tall, handsome, h
air with a slight wave to it. Galad had been straight-backed and somber even then. A few months later, Galad would rescue Gawyn from drowning in that very pond.
Gawyn could hear his father speak words that he’d never forgotten. Whatever else one thought of Taringail Damodred, this bit of advice rang true. “There are two groups of people you should never trust,” the man had been saying to Galad as they passed. “The first are pretty women. The second are Aes Sedai. Light help you, son, if you ever have to face someone who is both.”
Light help you, son.
“I simply cannot see disobeying the Amyrlin’s express will in this matter,” Lelaine said primly, stirring ink in the small jar on her desk. No man trusted beautiful women, for all their fascination with them. But few realized what Taringail had said—that a pretty girl, like a coal that had cooled just enough to no longer look hot, could be far, far more dangerous.
Lelaine wasn’t beautiful, but she was pretty, particularly when she smiled. Slender and graceful, without a speck of gray in her dark hair, an almond face with full lips. She looked up at him with eyes that were far too comely to belong to a woman of her craftiness. And she seemed to know. She understood that she was just attractive enough to draw attention, but not stunning enough to make men wary.
She was a woman of the most dangerous type. One who felt real, who made men think they might be able to hold her attention. She wasn’t pretty like Egwene, who made you want to spend time with her. This woman’s smile made you want to count the knives on your belt and in your boot, just to make sure none of them had found their way into your back while you were distracted.
Gawyn stood beside her writing table, shaded by the straight-topped blue tent. He hadn’t been invited to sit, and he had not asked for the privilege. Talking to an Aes Sedai, particularly an important one, required wits and sobriety. He’d rather stand. Perhaps it would keep him more alert.
“Egwene is trying to protect you,” Gawyn said, controlling his frustration. “That’s why she commanded you to forgo a rescue. She obviously doesn’t want you to risk yourselves. She is self-sacrificing to a fault.” If she weren’t, he added in his mind, she’d never have let you all bully her into pretending to be the Amyrlin Seat.
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