The wheel of time, p.1033
The Wheel of Time, page 1033
The Last Battle. Light! “I won’t take it if you kill the king there,” Ituralde said. “If the Whitecloaks have already killed him, or if the Seanchan have, then perhaps.”
King! What was he saying? Burn you! he thought to himself. At least wait until the proof is given before agreeing to accept thrones! There was a way about this man, the way he discussed events like the Last Battle—events that mankind had been fearing for thousands of years—as if they were items on the daily camp report.
Soldiers arrived with their horses, and Ituralde mounted, as did al’Thor, Wakeda, Rajabi, Ankaer, Melarned, Lidrin and a half-dozen lesser officers.
“I’ve brought a large number of Aiel into your lands,” Rand al’Thor said as they began to ride. “I had hoped to use them to restore order, but they are taking longer than I’d wished. I’m planning to secure the members of the merchant council; perhaps once I have them in hand, I’ll be able to improve the stability of the area. What do you think?”
Ituralde didn’t know what to think. Securing the merchant council? That sounded like kidnapping them. What had Ituralde gotten himself into? “It could work,” he found himself saying. “Light, it’s probably the best plan, all things considered.”
Al’Thor nodded, looking forward as they passed out of the palisade and moved out along a trail toward the edge of the stedding. “I’ll have to secure the Borderlands, anyway. I will care for your homeland. Burn those Borderlanders! What are they up to? No. No, not yet. They can wait. No, he’ll do. He can hold it. I’ll send him with Asha’man.” Suddenly, al’Thor turned to Ituralde. “What could you do if I gave you a hundred men who could channel?”
“Madmen?”
“No, most of them are stable,” al’Thor said, taking no apparent offense. “Whatever madness they incurred before I cleansed the taint is still there—removing the taint didn’t heal them—but few of them were far gone. And they won’t get worse, now that saidin is clean.”
Saidin? Clean? If Ituralde had his own men who could channel. . . . His own damane, in a way. Ituralde scratched his chin. It was coming at him quickly—but, then, a general had to be able to react quickly. “I could use them well,” he said. “Very well.”
“Good,” al’Thor said. They had left the stedding; the air felt different. “You’ve got a lot of land to watch, but many of the channelers I’ll give you can spin gateways.”
“Gateways?” Ituralde asked.
Al’Thor glanced at him, then seemed to grit his teeth, closing his eyes, shaking as if nauseated. Ituralde sat upright, suddenly alert, hand on his sword. Poison? Was the man wounded?
But no, al’Thor opened his eyes, and there seemed to be a look of ecstasy in those depths. He turned, waving his hand, and a line of light split the air in front of him. Men around Ituralde cursed, backing up. It was one thing for a man to claim he could channel; it was another to see him do so in front of you!
“That’s a gateway,” al’Thor said as the line of light turned around, opening a large black hole in the air. “Depending on the Asha’man’s strength, a gateway can be made wide enough to drive wagons through. You can travel nearly anywhere with speed, sometimes instantly, depending on circumstances. With a few trained Asha’man, your army could dine in Caemlyn in the morning, then have lunch in Tanchico a few hours later.”
Ituralde rubbed his chin. “Well now, that’s a thing to see. A thing to see indeed.” If this man spoke truthfully, and these gateways really did work. . . . “With this I could clear the Seanchan out of Tarabon, and maybe off the land entirely!”
“No,” al’Thor snapped. “We make peace with them. From what my scouts say, it’s going to be hard enough to bring them to agreement without promising them your head. I won’t rile them further. There is no time for squabbling. We have more important matters to be about.”
“Nothing is more important than my homeland,” Ituralde said. “Even if those orders are forged, I know Alsalam. He would agree with me. We won’t stand for foreign troops on the soil of Arad Doman.”
“A promise, then,” al’Thor said. “I will see the Seanchan out of Arad Doman. I promise you this. But we don’t fight them away any further than that. In exchange, you go to the Borderlands and protect against an invasion there. Hold back the Trollocs if they come, and lend me some of your officers to help secure Arad Doman. It will be easier to restore order if the people see that their own lords are working with me.”
Ituralde considered, though he knew already what his answer would be. That gateway could spirit his men away from this death trap. With Aiel on his side—with the Dragon Reborn as an ally—he really did have a chance of keeping Arad Doman secure. An honorable death was a good thing. But the ability to keep on fighting with honor . . . that was a prize far more precious.
“Agreed,” Ituralde said, holding out a hand.
Al’Thor took it. “Go break camp. You’re to be in Saldaea by nightfall.”
CHAPTER 11
The Death of Adrin
I think he should be beaten again, said Lerian, moving her fingers in the complex motions of Maiden handtalk. He is like a child, and when a child touches something dangerous, the child is beaten. If a child hurts himself because he was not taught properly to stay away from knives, then the shame is upon his parents.
The previous beating did not seem to do any good, Surial replied. He accepted it like a man, not a child, but did not change his actions.
Then we must try again, Lerian replied.
Aviendha dropped her rock into the pile by the watchpost, then turned around. She did not acknowledge the Maidens who watched the way into the camp, and they did not acknowledge her. Speaking to her while she was being punished would only heighten her shame, and her spear-sisters would not do that.
She also didn’t indicate that she understood their conversation. While nobody expected a former Maiden to forget handtalk, it was best to be unobtrusive. The handtalk belonged to the Maidens.
Aviendha selected a large stone from a second pile, then began to walk back into camp. If the Maidens continued their conversation, she could not tell, as she could no longer see their hands. But their discussion lingered with her. They were angered that Rand al’Thor had gone to meet with the general Rodel Ituralde without guards. It was not the first time he had acted so foolishly, and yet he seemed unwilling—or unable—to learn the proper way. Each time he put himself in danger without protection, he insulted the Maidens as surely as if he had slapped each one in the face.
Aviendha probably had some small toh toward her spear-sisters. Teaching Rand al’Thor of Aiel ways had been her task, and she had quite obviously failed. Unfortunately, she had a much greater toh toward the Wise Ones, even if she still didn’t know the reason. Her lesser duty to her spear-sisters would have to wait for an appropriate time.
Her arms ached from carrying rocks. They were smooth and heavy; she had been required to dig them out of the river beside the manor house. Only her time spent with Elayne—when she had been forced to bathe in water—had given her the strength to walk into that river. In that, she had not shamed herself. And at least this river was a small one—wetlanders might inaccurately call it a stream. A stream was a tiny mountain runoff in which you could dip your hands or fill a waterskin. Anything too large to step across was definitely a river.
The day was overcast, as usual, and the camp was subdued. Men who had bustled just days before—when the Aiel had arrived—were more lethargic now. The camp wasn’t by any means unkempt; Davram Bashere was too careful a commander to allow that, wetlander though he was. However, the men did move more slowly. She had heard some of them complain that the dark sky was dampening their moods. How strange wetlanders were! What did the weather have to do with one’s mood? She could understand being displeased that no raids were approaching, or that a hunt had gone poorly. But because there were clouds in the sky? Was shade so poorly appreciated here?
She shook her head, continuing on her way. She had chosen stones which would strain her muscles. To do otherwise would have been to make light of her punishment, and she wouldn’t do that—although each step pained her honor. She had to cross through the entire camp, in full sight, doing work that was useless! She would rather have been naked before them all outside of the sweat tent. She would rather have run a thousand laps, or been beaten so hard that she couldn’t walk.
She reached the side of the manor house and deposited her stone with a hidden sigh of relief. Two wetlander soldiers from Bashere’s army stood guarding the door into the manor, a counterpart to the two Maidens at the other end of Aviendha’s trek. As she stooped and picked up a large stone from a second pile by the wall, she overheard them speaking.
“Burn me, but it’s hot,” one of the men complained.
“Hot?” the other replied, glancing at the overcast sky. “You’re jesting.”
The first guard waved his hand at himself, puffing out and sweating. “How can you not feel that?”
“You must have a fever or something.”
The first guard shook his head. “I just don’t like the heat, that’s all.”
Aviendha picked up her rock and began to walk back across the green. After some contemplation, she had determined that being a wetlander required one common attribute: a fondness for complaining. During her first months in the wetlands, she had considered this shameful. Did that guard not care that he was losing face in front of his fellow by exposing his weakness?
They were all like that, even Elayne. If you listened to her talk about the aches, sicknesses and frustrations of her pregnancy, you would almost think she was approaching death! However, if complaining was something that Elayne did, then Aviendha refused to accept it as a sign of weakness. Her first-sister would not act in such a shameful way.
Therefore, there had to be some hidden honor in it. Perhaps the wetlanders exposed their weaknesses to their companions as a means of offering friendship and trust. If your friends knew of your weaknesses, it would give them an advantage should you dance the spears with them. Or, perhaps, the complaining was a wetlander way of showing humility, much as the gai’shain showed honor by being subservient.
She had asked Elayne about her theories and had received only a fond laugh in return. Was it some aspect of wetlander society that she was forbidden to discuss with outsiders, then? Had Elayne laughed because Aviendha had figured out something she was not meant to?
Either way, it was certainly a way to show honor, and that satisfied Aviendha. If only her own problems with the Wise Ones were as simple! It was expected that the wetlanders would act in erratic, unnatural ways. But what was she to do when Wise Ones behaved so strangely?
She was growing frustrated—not with the Wise Ones, but with herself. She was strong and brave. Not as brave as some others, of course; she could only wish to be as bold as Elayne. Still, Aviendha could think of only a few problems which she hadn’t been able to solve with the application of spears, the One Power or her wits. Yet she had failed utterly at deciphering her current predicament.
She reached the other side of the camp and deposited her stone, then brushed off her hands. The Maidens stood motionless and contemplative. Aviendha moved to the other pile and picked up an oblong rock with a jagged edge. It was three handspans wide, and the smooth surface threatened to slip in her fingers. She had to shift it several times before getting a good purchase. She headed back across the trampled winter thatch, past Saldaean tents, toward the manor house.
Elayne would say that Aviendha hadn’t thought the problem through. Elayne was calm and thoughtful when other people were tense. Aviendha sometimes grew frustrated with how much her first-sister liked to talk before committing to action. I need to be more like her. I need to remember that I’m not a Maiden of the Spear any longer. I can’t charge in with weapon held high.
She needed to approach problems as Elayne did. That was the only way she was going to get her honor back, and only then could she claim Rand al’Thor and make him hers as much as he was Elayne’s or Min’s. She could feel him through the bond; he was in his room, but was not sleeping. He pushed himself hard and slept too little.
The stone slipped in her fingers, and she nearly stumbled as she rebalanced her weight, hefting it in tired arms. Some of Bashere’s soldiers walked past, bemused expressions on their faces, and Aviendha felt herself blush. Although they might not know that she was being punished, she was shamed before them.
How would Elayne reason out this situation? The Wise Ones were angry at Aviendha for not “learning quickly enough.” And yet they didn’t teach her. They just asked those questions. Questions about what she thought of their situation, questions about Rand al’Thor or about the way Rhuarc had handled meeting with the Car’a’carn.
Aviendha couldn’t help feeling that the questions were tests. Was she answering incorrectly? If so, why didn’t they instruct her in the proper responses?
The Wise Ones didn’t think she was soft. What was left? What would Elayne say? Aviendha wished for her spears back so that she could stab something. Attack, test herself against another, work out her anger.
No, she thought forcefully. I am going to learn to do this as a Wise One. I will find honor again!
She reached the manor and dropped her rock. She wiped her brow; ignoring heat and cold as Elayne had taught her didn’t keep her from sweating when she worked her body this hard.
“Adrin?” one door guard asked his companion. “Light, you don’t look well. Truly.”
Aviendha glanced toward the doorway into the manor. The guard who had been complaining about the heat was sagging against the doorway, hand on his forehead. He really didn’t look well. Aviendha embraced saidar. She wasn’t the best at Healing, but perhaps she could—
The man reached up suddenly, scratching at the skin of his temples. His eyes rolled up in his head and his fingers tore gashes in his flesh. Only, instead of blood, the wounds spat out a black charcoal-like substance. Aviendha could feel the intense heat even from a distance.
The other guard gaped in horror as his friend ripped lines of black fire down the sides of his head. A blackish tar oozed out, boiling and hissing. The man’s clothing burst into flames and his flesh shriveled from the heat.
He didn’t utter a sound.
Aviendha shrugged off her shock, immediately weaving Air in a simple pattern to pull the unaffected guard to safety. His friend was now just a pulsing mound of black tar which, in places, sprouted blackened bones. There was no skull. The heat was so strong that Aviendha had to back away, pulling the guard with her.
“We . . . we’re being attacked!” the man whispered. “Channelers!”
“No,” Aviendha said, “this is something far more evil. Run for help!”
He seemed too shocked to move, but she shoved him into motion and he began to move. The tar itself didn’t seem to be spreading, which was a blessing, but it had already ignited the doorframe of the manor. It could have the entire building in flames before anyone inside was aware of the danger.
Aviendha wove Air and Water, intending to extinguish the flame. However, her weaves frazzled and wavered when they got near the fire. They didn’t unweave, but this fire somehow resisted them.
She took another step back from the awesome, burning intensity. Her brow prickled with sweat, and she had to raise her arm to shade her face from the heat. She could barely make out the black char at the center as it began to glow with the deep red and white of extremely hot coals. Soon, only hints of the black remained. The fire spread across the front wall of the building. Aviendha heard screams from inside.
Aviendha shook herself, then growled and wove Earth and Air, pulling chunks of the ground up around her. She hurled these at the fire, seeking to smother it. Her weave could not draw the heat out, but that did not stop her from using weaves to cast items into the fire. Chunks of grass-covered earth sizzled and hissed, wan blades flashing to ash before the incredible heat. Aviendha continued to work, sweating from both the exertion and the temperature.
In the distance, she heard people—perhaps the guard among them—calling for buckets.
Buckets? Of course! In the Three-fold Land, water was far too valuable to use in fighting fires. Dirt or sand was used. But here, they would use water. Aviendha took several steps backward, searching out the curling river that ran beside the manor. She could just barely make out its surface, reflecting the dancing reds and oranges of the flames. Already, the entire front of the manor was aflame! She felt channeling from inside—Aes Sedai or Wise Ones. Hopefully, they would escape out of the back of the building. The fire had engulfed the inner hallway, and the rooms off of it had no doors out.
Aviendha wove a massive column of Air and Water, pulling a spout of crystalline liquid from the river and drawing it toward her. The column of water undulated in the air like the creature on Rand’s banner, a glassy serpentine dragon that slammed against the flames. Steam hissed outward in an explosion, washing over her.
The heat was powerful and the wave of steam scalded her skin, but she did not back down. She pulled more water, hurling a thick column of it at the darkened mound, which she could only just make out through the steam.
That heat was so intense! Aviendha stumbled backward a few steps, gritting her teeth, continuing to work. Then there was a sudden explosion as another column of water burst from the river and slammed into the fire. This, along with her own, diverted nearly the entire flow of the river. Aviendha blinked. The other column was being directed by weaves she could not see, but she did notice a figure standing in a window up on the second floor, hand forward, face concentrating intensely. Naeff, one of Rand’s Asha’man. It was said he was particularly strong with Air.
