The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  It was best to keep Alliandre and her people with him for now, both for her safety and his own, at least until Grady and Neald recovered. The snakebites from the bubble of evil had affected the two of them and Masuri—the only one of the Aes Sedai who had been bitten—worse than the others.

  Still, Grady was starting to look hale again. Soon he’d be able to make a gateway large enough to move the army through. Then Perrin could send Alliandre and the Two Rivers men home. He himself could Travel back to Rand, pretend to make up—most people would still think that he and Rand had parted ways angrily—and then finally be rid of Berelain and her Winged Guards. Everything could go back to the way it should be.

  Light send it all went that easily. He shook his head, dispelling the swirling colors and visions that appeared to his eyes whenever he thought of Rand.

  Nearby, Berelain and her force were marching out onto the road, looking very pleased to reach some solid footing. The beautiful dark-haired woman wore a fine green dress and a belt of firedrops. Her neckline was discomfortingly low. He’d started relying on her during Faile’s absence, once she’d stopped treating him like a prize boar to be hunted and skinned.

  Faile was back now, and it appeared his truce with Berelain was over. As usual, Annoura rode near her, though she didn’t spend the time chatting with Berelain as she once had. Perrin never had figured out why she’d been meeting with the Prophet. Probably never would, considering what had happened to Masema. A day out of Malden, Perrin’s scouts had run across a group of corpses that had been killed with arrows and robbed of their shoes, belts, and any valuables. Though ravens had gotten the eyes, Perrin had smelled Masema’s scent through the rot.

  The Prophet was dead, killed by bandits. Well, perhaps that was a fitting end for him, but Perrin still felt he’d failed. Rand had wanted Masema brought to him. The colors swirled again.

  Either way, it was time for Perrin to return to Rand. The colors swirled, showing Rand standing in front of a building with a burned front, staring westward. Perrin banished the image.

  His duty was done, the Prophet seen to, Alliandre’s allegiance secure. Only, Perrin felt as if something were still very wrong. He fingered the blacksmith’s puzzle in his pocket. To understand something…you have to figure out its parts…

  He smelled Faile before she reached him, heard her horse on the soft earth. “So, Gill turned toward Lugard?” she asked, stopping beside him.

  He nodded.

  “That may have been wise. Perhaps we should turn that way too. Were those more sell-swords who joined us?”

  “Yes.”

  “We must have picked up five thousand people these last few weeks,” she said thoughtfully. “Perhaps more. Odd, in this desolate landscape.”

  She was beautiful, with her raven hair and strong features—a good Saldaean nose set between two tilted eyes. She was dressed for riding in deep wine red. He loved her dearly, and praised the Light that he’d gotten her back. Why did he feel so awkward around her now?

  “You’re troubled, my husband,” she noted. She understood him so well, it was almost as if she could read scents. It seemed to be a thing of women, though. Berelain could do it too.

  “We’ve gathered too many people,” he said with a grunt. “I should start turning them away.”

  “I suspect they’d find their way back to our force anyway.”

  “Why should they? I could leave orders.”

  “You can’t give orders to the Pattern itself, my husband.” She glanced over at the column of people as they moved onto the road.

  “What do—” He cut off, catching her meaning. “You think this is me? Being ta’veren?”

  “Every stop along our trip, you’ve gained more followers,” Faile said. “Despite our losses against the Aiel, we came out of Malden with a stronger force than when we started. Haven’t you found it odd that so many of the former gai’shain are taking to Tam’s training with weapons?”

  “They were beaten down so long,” Perrin said. “They want to stop that from happening again.”

  “And so coopers learn the sword,” Faile said, “and find they have a talent for it. Masons who never thought of fighting back against the Shaido now train with the quarterstaff. Sell-swords and armsmen flock to us.”

  “It’s coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?” She sounded amused. “With a ta’veren at the army’s head?”

  She was right, and as he fell silent, he could smell her satisfaction at winning the argument. He didn’t think of it as an argument, but she’d see it as one. If anything, she’d be mad that he hadn’t raised his voice.

  “This is all going to end in a few days, Faile,” he said. “Once we have gateways again, I’ll send these people to their proper places. I’m not gathering an army. I’m helping some refugees to get home.” The last thing he needed was more people calling him “my Lord” and bowing and scraping.

  “We shall see,” she said.

  “Faile.” He sighed and lowered his voice. “A man’s got to see a thing for what it is. No sense in calling a buckle a hinge or calling a nail a horseshoe. I’ve told you; I’m not a good leader. I proved that.”

  “That’s not how I see it.”

  He gripped the blacksmith’s puzzle in his pocket. They’d discussed this during the weeks since Malden, but she refused to see sense. “The camp was a mess while you were gone, Faile! I’ve told you how Arganda and the Maidens nearly killed one another. And Aram—Masema corrupted him right under my nose. The Aes Sedai played at games I can’t guess, and the Two Rivers men…you see how they look at me with shame in their eyes.”

  Faile’s scent spiked with anger when he said that, and she turned sharply toward Berelain.

  “It’s not her fault,” Perrin said. “If I’d been able to think of it, I’d have stopped the rumors dead. But I didn’t. Now I’ve got to sleep in the bed I made for myself. Light! What is a man if his own neighbors don’t think well of him? I’m no lord, Faile, and that’s that. I’ve proven it soundly.”

  “Odd,” she said. “But I’ve been speaking to the others, and they tell a different story. They say that you kept Arganda contained and put out flare-ups in camp. Then there’s the alliance with the Seanchan; the more I learn of that, the more impressed I am. You acted decisively in a time of great uncertainty, you focused everyone’s efforts, and you accomplished the impossible in taking Malden. Those are the actions of a leader.”

  “Faile…” he said, suppressing a growl. Why wouldn’t she listen? When she’d been a captive, nothing had mattered to him but recovering her. Nothing. It didn’t matter who had needed his help, or what orders he’d been given. Tarmon Gai’don itself could have started, and he’d have ignored it in order to find Faile.

  He realized now how dangerous his actions had been. Trouble was, he’d take those same actions again. He didn’t regret what he’d done, not for a moment. A leader couldn’t be like that.

  He never should have let them raise that wolfhead banner in the first place. Now that he’d completed his tasks, now that Faile was back, it was time to put all of that foolishness behind him. Perrin was a blacksmith. It didn’t matter what Faile dressed him in, or what titles people gave him. You couldn’t make a drawknife into a horseshoe by painting it, or by calling it something different.

  He turned to the side, where Jori Congar rode before the column, that blasted red wolfhead banner flapping proudly from a pole taller than a cavalryman’s lance. Perrin opened his mouth to shout for him to take it down, but Faile spoke suddenly.

  “Yes, indeed,” she said, musingly. “I’ve been thinking on this for the last few weeks, and—odd though it seems—I believe my captivity may have been precisely what we needed. Both of us.”

  What? Perrin turned to her, smelling her thoughtfulness. She believed what she’d said.

  “Now,” Faile said, “we need to speak of—”

  “Scouts returning,” he said, perhaps more abruptly than he intended. “Aiel up ahe
ad.”

  Faile glanced as he pointed, but of course she couldn’t see anything yet. She knew of his eyes, though. She was one of the few who did.

  The call went up as others noticed the three figures in cadin’sor approaching alongside the road, the ones Perrin had sent to scout. Two Maidens hurried for the Wise Ones and one loped up to Perrin.

  “There is something beside the road, Perrin Aybara,” the woman said. She smelled concerned. That was a dangerous sign. “It is something that you will wish to see.”

  Galad woke to the sound of a tent flap rustling. Sharp pains burned at his side where he had been repeatedly kicked; they matched the duller aches on his shoulder, left arm, and thigh where he’d been wounded by Valda. His pounding headache was almost strong enough to drown out all else.

  He groaned, rolling onto his back. All was dark around him, but pinprick lights shone in the sky. Stars? It had been overcast for so long.

  No…something was wrong about them. His head pulsed with pain, and he blinked tears from the corner of his eyes. Those stars looked so faint, so distant. They made no familiar patterns. Where could Asunawa have taken him that the very stars were different?

  As his mind cleared, he began to make out his surroundings. This was a heavy sleeping tent, constructed to be dark during the daylight hours. The lights above weren’t stars at all, but sunlight through the occasional pinholes of wear in the canvas.

  He was still naked, and with tentative fingers he determined that there was dried blood on his face. It had come from a long gash in his forehead. If he didn’t wash it soon, infection was likely. He lay on his back, breathing in and out with care. If he took in too much air at once, his side screamed.

  Galad did not fear death or pain. He had made the right choices. It was unfortunate that he’d needed to leave the Questioners in charge; they were controlled by the Seanchan. However, there had been no other option, not after he’d walked into Asunawa’s hands.

  Galad felt no anger at the scouts who had betrayed him. The Questioners were a valid source of authority in the Children, and their lies had no doubt been convincing. No, the one he was angry at was Asunawa, who took what was true and muddied it. There were many who did that in the world, but the Children should be different.

  Soon the Questioners would come for him, and then the true price for saving his men would be exacted with their hooks and knives. He had been aware of that price when he’d made his decision. In a way, he had won, for he had manipulated the situation best.

  The other way to ensure his victory was to hold to the truth under their questioning. To deny being a Darkfriend with his final breath. It would be difficult, but it would be right.

  He forced himself to sit up, expecting—and weathering—the dizziness and nausea. He felt around. His legs were chained together, and that chain was locked to a spike that had been driven deep into the earth, piercing the rough canvas tent bottom.

  He tried yanking it free, just in case. He pulled so hard that his muscles failed him and he nearly passed out. Once he had recovered, he crawled to the side of the tent. His chains gave him enough room to reach the flaps. He took one of the cloth ties—used to hold the flaps up when they were opened—and spat on it. Then, methodically, he wiped the grime and blood from his face.

  The cleaning gave him a goal, kept him moving and stopped him from thinking about the pain. He carefully scrubbed the crusted blood from his cheek and nose. It was difficult; his mouth was dry. He bit down on his tongue to get saliva. The strips were not canvas, but a lighter material. They smelled of dust.

  He spat on a fresh section, then worked the spittle into the cloth. The wound to his head, the dirt on his face…these things were marks of victory for the Questioners. He would not leave them. He would go into their tortures with a clean face.

  He heard shouts outside. Men preparing to break down the camp. Would that delay their questioning? He doubted it. Striking camp could take hours. Galad continued cleaning, soiling the lengths of both straps, using the work as a kind of ritual, a rhythmic pattern to give him a focus for meditation. His headache withdrew, the pains of his body becoming less significant.

  He would not run. Even if he could escape, fleeing would invalidate his bargain with Asunawa. But he would face his enemies with self-respect.

  As he finished, he heard voices outside the tent. They were coming for him. He scrabbled quietly back to the stake in the ground. Taking a deep breath despite the pain, he rolled onto his knees. Then he took the top of the iron spike in his left hand and pushed, heaving himself to his feet.

  He wobbled, then steadied himself, standing up all the way. His pains were nothing, now. He had felt insect bites that were worse. He put his feet wide in a warrior’s stance, his hands held before himself with his wrists crossed. He opened his eyes, back straight, staring at the tent flaps. It wasn’t the cloak, the uniform, the heraldry, or the sword that made a man. It was the way he held himself.

  The flaps rustled, then drew open. The outside light was brilliant to Galad’s eyes, but he did not blink. He did not flinch.

  Silhouettes moved against an overcast sky. They hesitated, backlit. He could tell they were surprised to see him standing there.

  “Light!” one exclaimed. “Damodred, how is it that you’re awake?” Unexpectedly, the voice was familiar.

  “Trom?” Galad asked, his voice ragged.

  Men spilled into the room. As his eyes adjusted, Galad made out stocky Trom, along with Bornhald and Byar. Trom fumbled with a set of keys.

  “Stop!” Galad said. “I gave orders to you three. Bornhald, there is blood on your cloak! I commanded you not to try to free me!”

  “Your men obeyed your orders, Damodred,” a new voice said. Galad looked up to see three men entering the room: Berab Golever, tall and bearded; Alaabar Harnesh, his bald, shadowed head missing its left ear; Brandel Vordarian, a blond hulk of a man from Galad’s native Andor. All three were Lords Captain, all three had stood with Asunawa.

  “What is this?” Galad asked them.

  Harnesh opened a sack and dumped something bulbous to the ground in front of Galad. A head.

  Asunawa’s.

  All three men drew swords and knelt before him, the points of their weapons stabbing the canvas. Trom unlocked the manacles at Galad’s feet.

  “I see,” Galad said. “You have turned your swords on fellow Children.”

  “What would you have had us do?” Brandel asked, looking up from his kneeling position.

  Galad shook his head. “I do not know. Perhaps you are right; I should not chide you on this choice. It may have been the only one you could have made. But why did you change your minds?”

  “We have lost two Lords Captain Commander in under half a year,” Harnesh said in a gruff voice. “The Fortress of the Light has become a playground for the Seanchan. The world is in chaos.”

  “And yet,” Golever said, “Asunawa marched us all the way out here to have us battle our fellow Children. It was not right, Damodred. We all saw how you presented yourself, we all saw how you stopped us from killing one another. Faced with that, and with the High Inquisitor naming as Darkfriend a man we all know to be honorable…Well, how could we not turn against him?”

  Galad nodded. “You accept me as Lord Captain Commander?”

  The three men bowed their heads. “All the Lords Captain are for you,” Golever said. “We were forced to kill a third of those who wore the red shepherd’s crook of the Hand of the Light. Some others united with us; some tried to flee. The Amadicians did not interfere, and many have said they’d rather join with us than return to the Seanchan. We have the other Amadicians—and the Questioners who tried to run—held at swordpoint.”

  “Let free those who wish to leave,” Galad said. “They may return to their families and their masters. By the time they reach the Seanchan, we will be beyond their grasp.”

  The men nodded.

  “I accept your allegiance,” Galad said. “Gather the other
Lords Captain and fetch me supply reports. Strike camp. We march for Andor.”

  None of them asked whether he needed rest, though Trom did look worried. Galad accepted the white robe a Child brought to him, and then sat in a hastily supplied chair as another—Child Candeiar, a man expert in wounds—entered to inspect his injuries.

  Galad didn’t feel wise or strong enough to bear the title he did. But the Children had made their decision.

  The Light would protect them for it.

  Chapter 3

  The Amyrlin’s Anger

  Egwene floated in blackness. She was without form, lacking shape or body. The thoughts, imaginings, worries, hopes, and ideas of all the world extended into eternity around her.

  This was the place between dreams and the waking world, a blackness pinpricked with thousands upon thousands of distinct lights, each more focused and intense than the stars of the skies. They were dreams, and she could look in on them, but did not. The ones she wanted to see were warded, and most of the others were mysteries to her.

  There was one dream she longed to slip into. She restrained herself. Though her feelings for Gawyn were still strong, her opinion of him was muddled recently. Getting lost in his dreams would not help.

  She turned about, looking through the expanse. Recently, she’d started coming here to float and think. The dreams of all the people here—some from her world, some from shadows of it—reminded her why she fought. She must never forget that there was an entire world outside the White Tower’s walls. The purpose of Aes Sedai was to serve that world.

  Time passed as she lay bathed in the light of dreams. Eventually, she willed herself to move, and located a dream she recognized—though she wasn’t certain how she did it. The dream swept up toward her, filling her vision.

  She pressed her will against the dream and sent a thought into it. Nynaeve. It is time to stop avoiding me. There is work to be done, and I have news for you. Meet me in two nights in the Hall of the Tower. If you do not come, I will be forced to take measures. Your dalliance threatens us all.