The wheel of time, p.1180
The Wheel of Time, page 1180
Who is this woman? It was not unusual to find Aiel traveling the Three-fold Land; even children learned to protect themselves. But should Nakomi not be traveling with friends, family? She did not wear the clothing of a Wise One, but there was something about her…
Nakomi stirred the tea, then repositioned Aviendha’s shellback, placing it over the coals to cook it more evenly. From inside her pack, she drew forth several deepearth roots. Aviendha’s mother had always cooked those. Nakomi placed them in a small ceramic baking box, then slid this into the coals. Aviendha hadn’t realized the fire had grown so warm. Where had all those coals come from?
“You seem troubled,” Nakomi said. “Far be it from me to question an apprentice Wise One. But I do see worry in your eyes.”
Aviendha stifled a grimace. She would have preferred to be left alone. And yet, she had invited this woman to share her water and shade. “I am worried about our people. Dangerous times come.”
“The Last Battle,” Nakomi said softly. “The thing the wetlanders speak of.”
“Yes. I worry about something beyond that. The wetlands, corrupting our people. Making them soft.”
“But the wetlands are part of our destiny, are they not? The things the Car’a’carn is said to have revealed…they link us to the wetlands in curious ways. Assuming what he said was true.”
“He would not lie about this,” Aviendha said.
A small wake of buzzards cawed and flapped past in the dark night air. Aviendha’s people’s history—the things Rand al’Thor had revealed—still caused many of the Aiel grief. In Rhuidean, Aviendha would soon see this history for herself: that the Aiel had broken their vows. Aviendha’s people had once followed, then abandoned, the Way of the Leaf.
“Interesting thoughts you raise, apprentice,” Nakomi said, pouring the tea. “Our land here is called the Three-fold Land. Three-fold, for the three things it did to us. It punished us for sin. It tested our courage. It formed an anvil to shape us.”
“The Three-fold Land makes us strong. So, by leaving it, we become weak.”
“But if we had to come here to be forged into something of strength,” Nakomi said, “does that not suggest that the tests we were to face—in the wetlands—were as dangerous as the Three-fold-land itself? So dangerous and difficult that we had to come here to prepare for them?” She shook her head. “Ah, but I should not argue with a Wise One, not even an apprentice. I have toh.”
“There is never toh for speaking wise words,” Aviendha said. “Tell me, Nakomi, where is it you travel? Which sept is your own?”
“I am far from my roof,” the woman said, wistful, “yet not far at all. Perhaps it is far from me. I cannot answer your question, apprentice, for it is not my place to give this truth.”
Aviendha frowned. What kind of answer was that?
“It seems to me,” Nakomi said, “that by breaking our ancient oaths to do no violence, our people have gained great toh.”
“Yes,” Aviendha said. What did you do when your entire people had done something so awful? This realization was what had caused so many of the Aiel to be taken by the bleakness. They had thrown down their spears, or refused to remove the white of gai’shain, implying that their people had such great toh, it could never be met.
But they were wrong. The Aiel toh could be met—it had to be met. That was the purpose of serving the Car’a’carn, the representative of the ones to whom the Aiel had originally sworn their oaths.
“We will meet our toh,” Aviendha said. “By fighting in the Last Battle.”
The Aiel would therefore regain their honor. Once you paid toh, you forgot it. To remember a fault that had been repaid was arrogant. They would be finished. They could return and no longer feel shame for what had happened in the past. Aviendha nodded to herself.
“And so,” Nakomi said, handing over a cup of tea, “the Three-fold Land was our punishment. We came here to grow so that we could meet our toh.”
“Yes,” Aviendha said. It felt clear to her.
“So, once we have fought for the Car’a’carn, we will have met that toh. And therefore will have no reason to be punished further. If that is the case, why would we return to this land? Would that not be like seeking more punishment, once toh is met?”
Aviendha froze. But no, that was silly. She did not want to argue with Nakomi on the point, but the Aiel belonged in the Three-fold Land.
“People of the Dragon,” Nakomi said, sipping her tea. “That is what we are. Serving the Dragon was the point behind everything we did. Our customs, our raids on each other, our harsh training…our very way of life.”
“Yes,” Aviendha said.
“And so,” Nakomi said softly, “once Sightblinder is defeated, what is left for us? Perhaps this is why so many refused to follow the Car’a’carn. Because they worried at what it meant. Why continue the old ways? How do we find honor in raiding, in killing one another, if we are no longer preparing for such an important task? Why grow harder? For the sake of being hard itself?”
“I…”
“I’m sorry,” Nakomi said. “I’ve let myself ramble again. I am prone to it, I fear. Here, let us eat.”
Aviendha started. Surely the roots weren’t done yet. However, Nakomi pulled them out, and they smelled wonderful. She cut the shellback, fishing a pair of tin plates from her pack. She seasoned the meat and roots, then passed a plate to Aviendha.
She tasted hesitantly. The food was delicious. Wonderful, even. Better than many a feast she’d had in fine palaces back in the wetlands. She stared at the plate, amazed.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Nakomi said. “I need to see to nature.” She smiled, rising, then shuffled off into the darkness.
Aviendha ate quietly, disturbed by what had been said. Was not a wonderful meal like this, cooked over a fire and made from humble ingredients, proof that the luxury of the wetlands wasn’t needed?
But what was the purpose of the Aiel now? If they did not wait for the Car’a’carn, what did they do? Fight, yes. And then? Continue to kill one another on raids? To what end?
She finished her meal, then thought for a long time. Too long. Nakomi did not return. Worried, Aviendha went to search for her, but found no trace of the woman.
Upon returning to the fire, Aviendha saw that Nakomi’s pack and plate were gone. She waited up for a time, but the woman did not return.
Eventually, Aviendha went to sleep, feeling troubled.
Chapter 40
A Making
Perrin sat alone on a tree stump, eyes closed and face to the dark sky. The camp was situated, the gateway closed, and reports taken. Perrin finally had time to rest.
That was dangerous. Resting let him think. Thinking brought him memories. Memories brought pain.
He could smell the world on the wind. Layers of scents, swirling together. The camp around him: sweaty people, spices for cooking, soaps for cleaning, horse dung, emotions. The hills around them: dried pine needles, mud from a stream, the carcass of a dead animal. The world beyond: hints of dust from the distant road, a stand of lavender that somehow survived in the dying world.
There was no pollen. There were no wolves. Both seemed terrible signs to him.
He felt sick. Physically ill, as if his stomach were filled with muddy swamp water, rotting moss and bits of dead beetles. He wanted to scream. He wanted to find Slayer and kill him, pound fists on the man’s face until the blood engulfed it.
Footsteps approached. Faile. “Perrin? Do you want to talk?”
He opened his eyes. He should be crying, screaming. But he felt so cold. Cold and furious. Those two didn’t go together for him.
His tent had been set up nearby; its flaps fluttered in the wind. Nearby, Gaul reclined against a leatherleaf sapling. In the distance, one of the farriers worked late. Soft peals in the night.
“I failed, Faile,” Perrin whispered.
“You got the ter’angreal,” she said, kneeling beside him. “You saved the people.”
“And still Slayer beat us,” he said bitterly. “A pack of five of us together weren’t enough to fight him.”
Perrin had felt this way when he’d found his family dead, killed by Trollocs. How many was the Shadow going to take from him by the time this was done? Hopper should have been safe in the wolf dream.
Foolish cub, foolish cub.
Had there even really been a trap for Perrin’s army? Slayer’s dreamspike could have been meant for another purpose entirely. Just a coincidence.
There are no coincidences for ta’veren…
He needed to find something to do with his anger and his pain. He stood, turning, and was surprised to see how many lights still shone in camp. A group of people waited nearby, far enough away from him that he hadn’t made out their scents specifically. Alliandre in a golden gown. Berelain in blue. Both sat on chairs beside a small wooden travel table, set with a lantern. Elyas sat on a rock beside them, sharpening his knife. A dozen of the Two Rivers men—Wil al’Seen, Jon Ayellin and Grayor Frenn among them—huddled around a firepit, glancing at him. Even Arganda and Gallenne were there, speaking softly.
“They should be sleeping,” Perrin said.
“They’re worried about you,” Faile said. She smelled worried as well. “And they’re worried you will send them away, now that gateways work again.”
“Fools,” Perrin whispered. “Fools to follow me. Fools not to hide.”
“You’d really have them do that?” Faile said, angry. “Cower someplace while the Last Battle happens? Didn’t you say every man would be needed?”
She was right. Every man would be needed. He realized that part of his frustration was that he didn’t know what he’d escaped. He’d gotten away, but from what? For what had Hopper died? Not knowing the enemy’s plan made Perrin feel blind.
He walked away from the stump, over to where Arganda and Gallenne were talking. “Bring me our map,” he said. “Of the Jehannah Road.”
Arganda called over Hirshanin and told him where to find one. Hirshanin ran off, and Perrin began to walk through camp. Toward the sound of metal hitting metal, the farrier working. Perrin seemed drawn to it. The scents of camp swirled around him, the sky rumbling above him.
The others trailed after him. Faile, Berelain and Alliandre, the Two Rivers men, Elyas, Gaul. The group grew, other Two Rivers men joining it. Nobody spoke, and Perrin ignored them, until he came to Aemin working at an anvil, one of the camp’s horse-pulled forges set up beside him and burning with a red light.
Hirshanin caught up to Perrin as he arrived, carrying the map. Perrin unrolled it, holding it before him as Aemin stopped his work, smelling curious. “Arganda, Gallenne,” Perrin said. “Tell me. If you were going to set up the best ambush for a large group moving along this road toward Lugard, where would you place it?”
“Here,” Arganda said without hesitation, pointing to a location several hours from where they’d been camping. “See here? The road turns to follow an old, dried-out streambed. An army passing through there would be totally exposed to an ambush; you’d be able to attack them from the heights here and here.”
Gallenne nodded. “Yes. This is marked as an excellent place for a large group to camp. At the base of that hill where the road bends. But if someone’s on the heights above with a mind to do you harm, you might not wake up in the morning.”
Arganda nodded.
The heights rose flat-topped to the north of the road; the old riverbed had cut a wide, level pathway that was washed out to the south and west. You could fit an army on those heights.
“What are these?” Perrin asked, pointing to some marks south of the road.
“Old ruins,” Arganda said. “Nothing of relevance; they’ve degraded too far to provide cover. They’re really just a few moss-covered boulders.”
Perrin nodded. Something was coming together for him. “Are Grady and Neald asleep?” he asked.
“No,” Berelain said. “They said they wanted to stay awake, just in case. I think your mood gave them a fright.”
“Send for them,” Perrin said to nobody in particular. “One of them needs to check on the Whitecloak army. I remember someone telling me they had broken camp.” He didn’t wait to see if the order was followed. He stepped up to the forge, laying a hand on Aemin’s shoulder. “Get some sleep, Aemin. I need something to work on. Horseshoes, is it?”
The man nodded, looking perplexed. Perrin took the man’s apron and gloves, and Aemin departed. Perrin got out his own hammer. The hammer he’d been given in Tear, a hammer that had been used to kill, but hadn’t been used to create in such a long time.
The hammer could be either a weapon or a tool. Perrin had a choice, just as everyone who followed him had a choice. Hopper had had a choice. The wolf had made that choice, risking more in defense of the Light than any human—save Perrin—would ever understand.
Perrin used the tongs to pull a small length of metal from the coals, then placed it on the anvil. He raised his arm and began to pound.
It had been a long time since he’d found his way to a forge. In fact, the last he could remember doing any substantial work at one was back in Tear, on that peaceful day when he’d left his responsibilities for a short time and worked at that smithy.
You are like a wolf, husband. Faile had told him that, referring to how focused he became. That was a thing of wolves; they could know the past and the future, yet keep their attention on the hunt. Could he do the same? Allow himself to be consumed when needed, yet keep balance in other parts of his life?
The work began to absorb him. The rhythmic beating of hammer on metal. He flattened the length of iron, occasionally returning it to the coals and getting out another one, working on several shoes at once. He had the measurements nearby for the sizes of what was needed. He slowly bent the metal against the side of the anvil, shaping it. His arms began to sweat, his face warmed by the fire and the work.
Neald and Grady arrived, along with the Wise Ones and Masuri. As Perrin worked, he noticed them sending Sulin through a gateway to check on the Whitecloaks. She returned a short time later, but delayed her report, since Perrin was busy with his work.
Perrin held up a horseshoe, then frowned. This wasn’t difficult enough work. It was soothing, yes, but today he wanted something more challenging. He felt a need to create, as if to balance the destruction he’d seen in the world, the destruction he’d helped create. There were several lengths of unworked steel stacked beside the forge, finer material than what was used for shoes. They were probably waiting to be turned into swords for the former refugees.
Perrin took several of those lengths of steel and set them into coals. This forge wasn’t as nice as what he was accustomed to; though he had a bellows and three barrels for quenching, the wind cooled the metal, and the coals didn’t get as hot as he’d like. He watched with dissatisfaction.
“I can help you with that, Lord Perrin,” Neald said from the side. “Heat the metal up, if you want.”
Perrin eyed him, then nodded. He plucked out a length of steel, holding it up with his tongs. “I want it a nice yellow-red. Not so hot it goes white, mind you.”
Neald nodded. Perrin set the bar on the anvil, took out his hammer, and began to pound again. Neald stood at the side, concentrating.
Perrin lost himself in the work. Forge the steel. All else faded. The rhythmic pounding of hammer on metal, like the beating of his heart. That shimmering metal, warm and dangerous. In that focus, he found clarity. The world was cracking, breaking further each day. It needed help, right now. Once a thing shattered, you couldn’t put it back together.
“Neald,” Grady’s voice said. It was urgent, but distant to Perrin. “Neald, what are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” Neald replied. “It feels right.”
Perrin continued to pound, harder and harder. He folded the metal, flattening pieces against one another. It was wonderful the way the Asha’man kept it at exactly the right temperature. That freed Perrin from needing to rely on only a few moments of perfect temperature between heatings.
The metal seemed to flow, almost as if shaped by his will alone. What was he making? He took the other two lengths out of the flames, then began to switch between the three. The first—and largest—he folded upon itself, molding it, using a process known as shrinking where he increased its girth. He made it into a large ball, then added more steel to it until it was nearly as large as a man’s head. The second he drew, making it long and thin, then folded it into a narrow rod. The final, smallest piece he flattened.
He breathed in and out, his lungs working like bellows. His sweat was like the quenching waters. His arms were like the anvil. He was the forge.
“Wise Ones, I need a circle,” Neald said urgently. “Now. Don’t argue! I need it!”
Sparks began to fly as Perrin pounded. Larger showers with each blow. He felt something leaking from him, as if each blow infused the metal with his own strength, and also his own feelings. Both worries and hopes. These flowed from him into the three unwrought pieces.
The world was dying. He couldn’t save it. That was Rand’s job. Perrin just wanted to go back to his simple life, didn’t he?
No. No, he wanted Faile, he wanted complexity. He wanted life. He couldn’t hide, any more than the people who followed him could hide.
He didn’t want their allegiance. But he had it. How would he feel if someone else took command, and then got them killed?
Blow after blow. Sprays of sparks. Too many, as if he were pounding against a bucket of molten liquid. Sparks splashed in the air, exploding from his hammer, flying as high as treetops and spreading tens of paces. The people watching withdrew, all save the Asha’man and Wise Ones, who stood gathered around Neald.
I don’t want to lead them, Perrin thought. But if I don’t, who will? If I abandon them, and they fall, then it will be my fault.
Perrin saw now what he was making, what he’d been trying to make all along. He worked the largest lump into a brick shape. The long piece became a rod, thick as three fingers. The flat piece became a capping bracket, a piece of metal to wrap around the head and join it to the shaft.
