Al’Thor. She had to face the truth: she had bungled her handling of him. Of course, she hadn’t made any mistakes with the male a’dam, whatever al’Thor claimed. Whoever had stolen the collar had been exceedingly powerful and crafty. Anyone capable of such a feat could just as easily have fetched another male a’dam from the Seanchan. They were likely to have plenty of them.
No, the a’dam had been taken from her own room in an effort to sow distrust; of that she was certain. Perhaps, even, the theft had been intended to mask something else: the returning of the figurine to al’Thor. His temperament had become so dark, there was no telling what destruction he could cause with that.
The poor, foolish boy. He should never have had to suffer collaring at the hands of one of the Forsaken; that would only remind him of the times he had been beaten and caged by Aes Sedai. It would make her job more difficult. If not impossible.
That was the question she had to face now. Was he beyond saving? Was it too late to change him? And if it was, what—if anything—could she do? The Dragon Reborn had to meet the Dark One at Shayol Ghul. If he did not, all was lost. But what if allowing him to meet the Dark One would be equally disastrous?
No. She refused to believe that their battle had already been lost. There had to be something that could be done to change al’Thor’s direction. But what?
Al’Thor hadn’t reacted like most peasants suddenly granted power; he hadn’t grown selfish or petty. He hadn’t hoarded wealth, nor had he struck with childish vengeance against any who had slighted him in his youth. Indeed, there had actually been a wisdom to many of his decisions—the ones that didn’t involve gallivanting into danger.
Cadsuane continued down the boardwalk, passing Domani refugees in their incongruously bright clothing. She occasionally had to step around clusters of them sitting on the damp logs, an impromptu camp growing up around the mouth to an alleyway or the unused side door of a building. None made way for her. What good was an Aes Sedai face if you covered it up? This city was just too packed.
Cadsuane slowed near a row of pennants which spelled out the name of the dock registrar. The docks themselves were just ahead, lined by twice as many Sea Folk ships as before, many of them rakers, the largest of Sea Folk vessels. More than a few were converted Seanchan ships, likely stolen from Ebou Dar during the mass escape a short while back.
The docks were crowded with people eager for grain. The crowds jostled and yelled, not looking at all worried about the “poisons” Quillin had mentioned. Of course, starvation could overcome a great number of fears. Dock workers controlled the crowds; among them were Aiel in brown cadin’sor, holding their spears and glaring as only Aiel could. There also appeared to be a fair number of merchants on the docks, probably hoping to secure some of the handouts for storage and later sale.
The docks looked much as they had every day since al’Thor’s arrival. What had made her pause? There seemed to be a prickling sensation on her back, as if. . . .
She spun to find a procession riding down the muddy street. Al’Thor sat proudly on his dark gelding, his clothing colored to match, with only a little red embroidery. As usual, he led a score of soldiers, advisors and a growing number of Domani sycophants.
She seemed to encounter him very frequently traveling the streets. She forced herself to hold her ground, not shying away into an alley, though she did pull her hood down a little lower to shade her face. Al’Thor gave no sign that he recognized her as he rode just in front of her. He seemed troubled by his own thoughts, as he often was. She wanted to yell at him that he needed to move more quickly, secure the crown of Arad Doman and move on, but she held her tongue. She would not let her nearly three hundred years of life end with an execution at the hands of the Dragon Reborn!
His retinue passed. As before, when she turned away from him, she thought she saw . . . from the corner of her eye . . . darkness around him, like too much shade from the clouds above. Whenever she looked directly at him, it vanished—in fact, whenever she tried to see it, she couldn’t make it out. It only appeared when she saw him indirectly, and by happenstance.
She had never read or heard of such a thing in all of her years. To see it around the Dragon Reborn terrified her. This had grown bigger than her pride, much larger than her failures. No. It had always been larger than she was. Guiding al’Thor wasn’t like guiding a galloping horse, it was like trying to guide a deep sea tempest itself!
She would never be able to change his course. He didn’t trust Aes Sedai, and with good reason. He didn’t seem to trust anyone, save perhaps for Min—but Min had resisted every attempt that Cadsuane had made at involving her. The girl was almost as bad as al’Thor.
Visiting the docks was useless. Talking to her informants was useless. If she didn’t do something soon, they were all doomed. But what? She leaned back against the building behind her, triangular banners blowing in front of her, pointing north. Toward the Blight and al’Thor’s ultimate destiny.
An idea struck her. She seized it like a drowning woman in the churning waves. She didn’t know what it was attached to, but it was her only hope.
She spun on her heels and hurried back the way she had come, her head bowed, barely daring to think about her plan. It could fail so easily. If al’Thor really was as dominated by his rage as she feared, then even this would not help him.
But if he really was that far gone, then there wasn’t anything that would help him. That meant she had nothing to lose. Nothing but the world itself.
Pushing her way through crowds and occasionally taking to the muddy street to avoid them, she arrived at the mansion. Some Aiel had taken the camp where Dobraine’s armsmen had staged until his withdrawal. They camped all about, some on the grounds, some in a wing of the mansion, others in nearby buildings.
Cadsuane made her way to the wing that belonged to the Aiel, and she was not stopped. She enjoyed privileges among the Aiel that none of the other sisters had been given. She found Sorilea and the other Wise Ones in conference in one of the libraries. They were sitting on the floor, of course. Sorilea nodded to Cadsuane as she entered. She was all bone, thin and leathery, yet never could a person think her frail. Not with those eyes, set into a face that, despite being worn by wind and sun, was too young for her age. How was it that the Wise Ones could live so long, yet not obtain the Aes Sedai agelessness? That was a question Cadsuane had not been able to answer.
She lowered her hood and joined the Wise Ones, seating herself on the floor, eschewing cushions. She looked Sorilea in the eyes. “I have failed,” she said.
The Wise One nodded, as if she had thought this same thing. Cadsuane forced herself not to show her annoyance.
“There is no shame in failure,” Bair said, “when that failure was the fault of another.”
Amys nodded. “The Car’a’carn is stubborn beyond all men, Cadsuane Sedai. You have no toh toward us.”
“Shame or toh,” Cadsuane said, “it will all be irrelevant soon. But I have a plan. Will you help me?”
The Wise Ones shared a look among them.
“What is this plan?” Sorilea asked.
Cadsuane smiled, then began to explain.
Rand glanced over his shoulder, watching Cadsuane scuttle away. She probably thought that he hadn’t noticed her hiding there at the side of the street. The cloak hid her face, but nothing could conceal that self-assured posture, not even the clumsy footgear. Even as she hurried, she seemed in control, and others moved out of her way reflexively.
She flirted with his prohibition, following him through the town like this. However, she had not shown him her face, and so he let her go. It had probably been a poor move to exile her in the first place, but there was no going back now. He would just have to control his temper in the future. Keep it wrapped in ice, steaming deep inside his chest, pulsing like a second heart.
He turned back to the docks. Perhaps there was no reason for him to check on the food distribution directly. However, he had found that the grain
had a distinctly higher chance of getting to those who needed it if everyone knew they were being watched. This was a people who had been without a king for too long; they deserved to see that someone was in control.
Upon reaching the wharf, he turned Tai’daishar to angle along the back of the docks, moving at an unhurried pace. He glanced at the Asha’man riding beside him. Naeff had a strong, rectangular face and the lean build of a warrior; he’d been a soldier in the Queen’s Guard of Andor before resigning in disgust during the reign of “Lord Gaebril.” Naeff had found his way to the Black Tower, and now wore both the Sword and Dragon.
Eventually, Rand would probably have to either let Naeff return to his Aes Sedai—he had been among the first ones bonded—or bring her to him. He was loath to have another Aes Sedai nearby, although Nelavaire Demasiellin, a Green, was relatively pleasant as Aes Sedai went.
“Continue,” Rand said to Naeff as they rode. The Asha’man had been running messages and meeting with the Seanchan with Bashere.
“Well, my Lord,” Naeff said, “it’s just my gut feeling, but I don’t think they’ll accept Katar for the meeting place. They always grow difficult when Lord Bashere or I mention it, claiming they will have to seek further instructions from the Daughter of the Nine Moons. Their tones imply that the ‘instructions’ will be that the location is unacceptable.”
Rand spoke softly. “Katar is neutral ground, neither in Arad Doman nor deep within Seanchan lands.”
“I know, my Lord. We’ve tried. I promise that we have.”
“Very well,” Rand said. “If they continue to be bullheaded about this, I will choose another location. Return to them and say we will meet at Falme.”
From behind, Flinn whistled quietly.
“My Lord,” Naeff said. “That’s well within the Seanchan border.”
“I know,” Rand said, glancing at Flinn. “But it has a . . . certain historic significance. We will be safe; these Seanchan are bound rigidly by their honor. They will not attack if we arrive under a banner of truce.”
“Are you certain?” Naeff asked quietly. “I don’t like the way they look at me, my Lord. There’s contempt in their eyes, every one of them. Contempt and pity, as if I’m some lost hound, searching for scraps behind the inn. Burn me, but it makes me sick.”
“They’ve got those collars of theirs handy, my Lord,” Flinn said. “Flag of truce or not, they’ll be itching to bind us all.”
Rand closed his eyes, keeping the rage inside, feeling the salty sea air blow across him. He opened his eyes to a sky bounded by dark clouds. He would not think of the collar at his neck, his hand strangling Min. That was the past.
He was harder than steel. He could not be broken.
“We must have peace with the Seanchan,” he said. “Differences notwithstanding.”
“Differences?” Flinn asked. “I don’t rightly think I’d call that a difference, my Lord. They want to enslave every one of us, maybe execute us. They think it’s a favor to do either!”
Rand held the man’s gaze. Flinn was not rebellious; he was as loyal as they came. But still Rand made him wilt and bow his head. Dissension could not be tolerated. Dissension and lies had brought him to the collar. No more.
“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Flinn finally said. “Burn me if Falme isn’t a fine choice! You’ll have them watching the skies with fear, you will.”
“Go with the message now, Naeff,” Rand said. “I want this settled.”
Naeff nodded, turning his horse and trotting away from the column, a small group of Aiel guards joining him. One could only Travel from a place one knew well, and so he couldn’t simply leave from dockside. Rand continued his ride, troubled by Lews Therin’s silence. The madman had been unusually distant lately. That should have pleased Rand, but it disturbed him instead. It had to do with the unnamed power that Rand had touched. He still often heard the madman weeping, whispering to himself, terrified.
“Rand?”
He turned, not having heard Nynaeve’s horse approach. She wore a bold green dress, modest by Domani standards, but still far more revealing than she’d ever have considered during her days in the Two Rivers. She has a right to change, Rand thought. What is a loosening of dress compared to the fact that I have ordered exiles and executions?
“What did you decide?” she asked.
“We will meet them at Falme,” he said.
She muttered quietly.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Oh, just something about you being a wool-headed fool,” she said, looking at him with defiant eyes.
“Falme will be agreeable to them,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “It puts you perfectly within their hands.”
“I cannot afford to wait, Nynaeve,” he said. “This is a risk we must take. But I doubt they will attack.”
“Did you doubt it last time too?” she asked. “The time when they took your hand?”
He glanced down at his stump. “They are unlikely to have one of the Forsaken with them this time.”
“You can be sure?”
He met her eyes, and she held them, something few people could seem to manage these days. Finally, he shook his head. “I cannot be sure.”
She sniffed in response, indicating that she’d won that argument. “Well, we’ll just have to be extra careful. Perhaps memories of the last time you visited Falme will make them uncomfortable.”
“I hope so,” he said.
She muttered something else to herself, but he didn’t catch it. Nynaeve would never make an ideal Aes Sedai; she was far too free with her emotions, particularly her temper. Rand did not find it a fault; at least he always knew where he stood with Nynaeve. She was terrible at games, and that made her valuable. He trusted her. She was one of the few.
We do trust her, don’t we? Lews Therin asked. Can we?
Rand didn’t answer. He completed his review of the docks. Nynaeve stayed at his side. She seemed to be in a dark mood, though Rand couldn’t see why. With Cadsuane’s banishment, Nynaeve could fill the role as his primary advisor. Didn’t that please her?
Perhaps she was worried about Lan. As Rand turned his procession back toward the center of town, he asked, “Have you heard from him?”
Nynaeve glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “Who?”
“You know who,” Rand said, riding past a row of bright red banners waving atop a line of homes, each holding scions of the same family.
“His actions are none of your concern,” Nynaeve said.
“The entire world is my concern, Nynaeve.” He looked at her. “Would you not agree?”
She opened her mouth, no doubt to snap at him, but faltered as she met his eyes. Light, he thought, seeing the apprehension in her face. I can do it to Nynaeve, now. What is it that they see when they look at me? That look in her eyes almost made him frightened of himself.
“Lan will be well,” Nynaeve said, looking away.
“He has ridden to Malkier, hasn’t he?”
She flushed.
“How long?” Rand asked. “He hasn’t gotten to the Blight already, has he?” Turned loose to follow what he saw as both his duty and destiny, Lan would ride straight to Malkier alone. The kingdom—his kingdom—had been consumed by the Blight decades ago, when he’d been a babe.
“Two or three more months,” she said. “Perhaps a little longer. He rides to Shienar to stand at the Gap, even if he has to do so alone.”
“He seeks vengeance,” Rand said softly. “ ‘To avenge what cannot be defended.’ ”
“He does his duty!” Nynaeve said. “But . . . I do worry at his brashness. He insisted that I take him to the Borderlands, so I did, but I left him in Saldaea. I wanted him as far from the Gap as possible. He’ll have to cross some difficult terrain to get where he’s going.”
Rand felt an icy coldness as he considered Lan riding to the Gap. To his death, essentially. But there was nothing to be done about that. “I am sorry, Nynaeve,” he said, though he did not f
eel it. He had trouble feeling anything lately.
“You think I’d send him alone?” she snapped. “Wool-headed, both of you! I’ve seen that he’ll have his own army, although he doesn’t want one.”
And she was perfectly capable of it. Perhaps she’d sent warning to the remnants of the Malkieri in Lan’s name. Lan was a strange mixture; he refused to raise the banner of Malkier or claim his place as its king, for he feared leading the last of his countrymen to their deaths. Yet he would be perfectly willing to ride to that same death himself in the name of honor.
Is that what I do? Rand thought. Ride to my death in the name of honor? But no, it’s different. Lan has a choice. There were no prophecies saying that Lan would die, whatever the man’s assumptions about his own fate.
“He could use some help regardless,” Nynaeve said uncomfortably. Asking for help always made her uncomfortable. “His army will be small. I doubt they’ll stand long against the Trollocs.”
“Will he attack?” Rand asked.
Nynaeve hesitated. “He didn’t say,” she said. “But yes, I think he will. He thinks you are wasting time here, Rand. If he arrives and gathers an army, and finds Trollocs gathered at Tarwin’s Gap . . . yes, I think he’ll attack.”
“Then he deserves what he will get, for riding without the rest of us,” Rand said.
Nynaeve scowled at him. “How can you say that?”
“I must,” Rand replied softly. “The Last Battle is imminent. Perhaps my own attack on the Blight will happen at the same time as Lan’s. Perhaps not.” He paused thoughtfully. If Lan and whatever army he brought engaged at the Gap . . . perhaps that would draw attention. If Rand didn’t attack there, it would throw off the Shadow. He could strike them where they didn’t expect it while their eyes were on Lan.
“Yes,” Rand said thoughtfully. “His death could serve me well indeed.”
Nynaeve’s eyes widened in fury, but Rand ignored her. A very quiet place, deep inside of him, was struck with worry over his friend. He had to ignore that worry, silence it. But that voice whispered to him.
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