The wheel of time, p.756
The Wheel of Time, page 756
Bashere’s bay trotted up the slope almost as though it were level ground. Bashere’s helmet hung from his saddle, and the man himself looked tired. Without preamble, he spoke in a flat voice. “We’re finished, here. Part of fighting is knowing when to go, and it’s time. I’ve left five hundred dead behind, near enough, and two of your Soldiers for salt. I sent three more to find Semaradrid, Gregorin and Weiramon and tell them to rally on you. I doubt they’re in any better condition than I am. How does your butcher’s bill run?”
Rand ignored the question. His own dead topped Bashere’s by close to two hundred. “You had no right sending orders to the others. So long as there are half a dozen Asha’man left—so long as there’s me!—I have enough! I mean to find the rest of the Seanchan army and destroy it, Bashere. I won’t let them add Altara to Tarabon and Amadicia.”
Bashere knuckled his thick mustaches with a wry laugh. “You want to find them. Look out there.” He swept a gauntleted hand across the hills to the west. “I can’t point to a particular spot, but there are ten, maybe fifteen thousand close enough to see from here, if those trees weren’t in the way. I danced with the Dark One getting through them unseen to reach you. Maybe a hundred damane down there. Maybe more. More coming, for sure, and more men. Seems their general has decided to concentrate on you. I suppose it isn’t always cheese and ale being ta’veren.”
“If they’re out there . . .” Rand scanned the hills. The rain fell more heavily. Where had he seen movement? Light, he was tired. Saidin hammered at him. Unconsciously he touched the wrapped bundled beneath his stirrup leather. His hand jerked away of its own accord. Ten thousand, even fifteen . . . Once Semaradrid reached him, and Gregorin, and Weiramon . . . More important, once the rest of the Asha’man did . . . “If they’re out there, that’s where I’ll destroy them, Bashere. I’ll hit them from all sides, the way we intended in the first place.”
Frowning, Bashere reined his horse closer, until his knee almost touched Rand’s. Flinn moved his mount away, but Adley was too focused on staring through the rain to notice anything so near, and Dashiva, still wiping his face incessantly, stared with open interest. Bashere lowered his voice to a murmur. “You aren’t thinking straight. That was a good plan, in the beginning, but their general thinks fast. He spread out to blunt our attacks before we could fall on him spread out marching. We’ve cost him even so, it seems, and he now he’s pulling everything together. You won’t catch him by surprise. He wants us to come at him. He’s out there waiting for it. Asha’man or no Asha’man, if we stand nose-to-nose with this fellow, I think maybe the vultures grow fat and nobody rides away.”
“Nobody stands nose-to-nose with the Dragon Reborn,” Rand growled. “The Forsaken could tell him that, whoever he is. Right, Flinn? Dashiva?” Flinn nodded uncertainly. Dashiva flinched. “You think I can’t surprise him, Bashere? Watch!” Pulling the long bundle loose, he stripped away the cloth covering, and Rand heard gasps as raindrops glistened on a sword seemingly made of crystal. The Sword That Is Not a Sword. “Let’s see if he’s surprised by Callandor in the hands of the Dragon Reborn, Bashere.”
Cradling the translucent blade in the crook of his elbow, Rand rode Tai’daishar forward a few steps. There was no reason to. He had no clearer view from there. Except . . . Something spidered across the outer surface of the Void, a wriggling black web. He was afraid. The last time he had used Callandor, really used it, he had tried to bring the dead back to life. He had been sure he could do anything, then, anything at all. Like a madman thinking he could fly. But he was the Dragon Reborn. He could do anything. Had he not proved it time and again? He reached for the Source through the Sword That Is Not a Sword.
Saidin seemed to leap into Callandor before he touched the Source through it. From pommel to point, the crystal sword shone with a white light. He had only thought the Power filled him before. Now he held more than ten men could have unaided, a hundred, he did not know how many. The fires of the sun, searing through his head. The cold of all of the winters of all the Ages, eating into his heart. In that torrent, the taint was all the midden heaps in the world emptying into his soul. Saidin still tried to kill him, tried to scour away, burn away, freeze away, every scrap of him, but he fought, and he lived for a moment more, and another moment, another. He wanted to laugh. He could do anything!
Once, holding Callandor, he had made a weapon that searched out Shadowspawn through the Stone of Tear, struck them dead with hunting lightning wherever they stood or ran or hid. Surely there must be something like that, to use against his enemies here. But when he called to Lews Therin, only anguished whimpers answered, as if that disembodied voice feared the pain of saidin.
With Callandor blazing in his hand—he did not remember raising the blade overhead—he stared at the hills where his enemies hid. They were gray now, with thickening rain, and dense black clouds blocking the sun. What was it he had told Eagan Padros?
“I am the storm,” he whispered—a shout in his ears, a roar—and he channeled.
Overhead, the clouds boiled. Where they had been the black of soot, they became midnight, the heart of midnight. He did not know what he was channeling. So often, he did not, in spite of Asmodean’s teaching. Maybe Lews Therin was guiding him, in spite of the man’s weeping. Flows of saidin spun across the sky, Wind and Water and Fire. Fire. The sky truly did rain lightning. A hundred bolts at once, hundreds, forked blue-white shafts stabbing down as far as he could see. The hills before him erupted. Some flew apart under the torrent of lightning like kicked anthills. Flames sprang up in thickets, trees turning to torches in the rain, flames racing through olive orchards.
Something struck him hard, and he realized he was picking himself up from the ground. The crown had fallen from his head. Callandor still blazed in his hand, though. Vaguely, he was aware of Tai’daishar scrambling to his feet, trembling. So they thought to strike back at him, did they.
Shoving Callandor high, he screamed at them. “Come against me, if you dare! I am the storm! Come if you dare, Shai’tan! I am the Dragon Reborn!” A thousand sizzling lightning bolts hailed down from the clouds.
Again something struck him down. He tried to fight up again. Callandor, still shining, lay a pace from his outstretched hand. The sky shattered with lightnings. Suddenly, he realized that the weight atop him was Bashere, that the man was shaking him. It must have been Bashere who had flung him down!
“Stop it!” the Saldaean shouted. Blood fanned down his face from a split across his scalp. “You’re killing us, man! Stop!”
Rand turned his head, and one stunned look was enough. Lightnings flashed all around him, in every direction. A bolt stabbed down onto the reverse slope, where Denharad and the armsmen were; the screams of men and horses rose. Anaiyella and Ailil were both afoot, trying vainly to quiet mounts that reared, eyes rolling, trying to rip reins free. Flinn was bending over someone, not far from a dead horse with legs already stiff.
Rand let saidin go. He let it go, but for moments it still flowed into him, and lightning raged. The flow into him dwindled, tailed off and vanished. Dizziness swept through him in its place. For three more heartbeats, two of Callandor shone where they lay on the ground, and lightning fell. Then, silence except for the rising drum of the rain. And the screams from behind the hill.
Slowly Bashere climbed off of him, and Rand rose unaided on tottering legs, blinking as his sight returned to normal. The Saldaean watched him as he might have a rabid lion, fingering his sword hilt. Anaiyella took one look at Rand on his feet and collapsed in a faint; her horse dashed away, reins dangling. Ailil, still fighting her rearing animal, spared few glances for Rand. Rand let Callandor lie where it was for the moment. He was not sure he dared pick it up. Not yet.
Flinn straightened, shaking his head, then stood silently as Rand went unsteadily to stand beside him. The rain fell on Jonan Adley’s sightless eyes, bulging as if in horror. Jonan had been one of the first. Those screams from behind the hill seemed to slice through the rain. How many more, Rand wondered. Among the Defenders? The Companions? Among . . . ?
Rain thick as a blanket hid the hills where the Seanchan army lay. Had he hurt them at all, striking out blindly? Or were they still waiting out there with all their damane? Waiting to see how many more of his own he could kill for them.
“Set whatever guard you think we need,” Rand told Bashere. His voice was iron. One of the first. His heart was iron. “When Gregorin and the others reach us, we’ll Travel to where the carts are waiting as fast as we can.” Bashere nodded without speaking, and turned away in the rain.
I’ve lost, Rand thought dully. I’m the Dragon Reborn, but for the first time, I’ve lost.
Suddenly, Lews Therin raged up inside him, sly digs forgotten. I’ve never been defeated, he snarled. I am the Lord of the Morning! No one can defeat me!
Rand sat in the rain, turning the Crown of Swords in his hands, looking at Callandor lying in the mud. He let Lews Therin rage.
Abaldar Yulan wept, grateful for the downpour that hid the tears on his cheeks. Someone would have to give the order. Eventually someone would have to apologize to the Empress, might she live forever, and maybe to Suroth sooner. Those were not why he wept, though, nor even for a dead comrade. Roughly ripping a sleeve from his coat, he laid it across Miraj’s staring eyes so the rain would not fall in them.
“Send out orders for retreat,” Yulan ordered, and saw the men standing around him jerk. For the second time on these shores, the Ever Victorious Army had suffered a devastating defeat, and Yulan did not think he was the only one who wept.
CHAPTER
25
An Unwelcome Return
Seated behind her gilded writing table, Elaida fingered an age-dark ivory carving of a strange bird with a beak as long as its body and listened with some amusement to the six women standing on the other side on the table. Each a Sitter for her Ajah, they frowned sideways at one another, shifted velvet slippers on the brightly patterned carpet that covered most of the russet floor tiles, twitched at vine-worked shawls so the colored fringes danced, and generally looked and sounded like a gaggle of peevish serving girls wishing they had the nerve to go for each others’ throats in front of their mistress. Frost coated the glassed casements fitted into the windows so that it was hardly possible to see the snow swirling outside, though sometimes the winds howled with an icy rage. Elaida felt quite warm, and not just for the thick logs blazing in the white marble fireplace. Whether these women knew it or not—well, Duhara knew, certainly, and perhaps the others did—she was their mistress. The elaborate gold-covered case clock that Cemaile had commissioned ticked away. Cemaile’s vanished dream would come true; The Tower returned to its glory. And firmly in the capable hands of Elaida do Avriny a’Roihan.
“No ter’angreal has ever been found that can ‘control’ a woman’s channeling,” Velina was saying in a voice cool and precise but almost girlishly high-pitched, a voice at strong odds with her eagle’s beak of a nose and her sharp, tilted eyes. She sat for the White, and was the very model of a White sister, in all but her fierce appearance. Her plain, snowy dress seemed stark and cold. “Very few have ever been found that perform the same function. Therefore, logically, if such a ter’angreal were found, or more than one, improbable as that must be, there could not be sufficient of them to control more than two or three women at most. It follows that the reports of these so-called Seanchan are exaggerated wildly. If women on ‘leashes’ exist, they cannot channel. Plainly not. I do not deny these people hold Ebou Dar, and Amador, and perhaps more, but clearly they are but a creation of Rand al’Thor, perhaps to frighten people into flocking to him. Like this Prophet of his. It is simple logic.”
“I am very glad you don’t deny Amador and Ebou Dar at least, Velina,” Shevan said drily. And she could be very dry indeed. As tall as most men, and bonily thin with it, the Brown Sitter had an angular face and a long chin, not improved by a cap of curls. With spidery fingers she rearranged her shawl and smoothed skirts of dark golden silk, and her voice took on pointed amusement. “I’m uncomfortable saying what can and can’t be. For example, not long gone, everyone ‘knew’ only a shield woven by a sister could stop a woman channeling. Then comes a simple herb, forkroot, and anyone at all can feed you a tea that leaves you unable as a stone to channel for hours. Useful with unruly wilders or the like, I suppose, but a nasty little surprise for those who think they knew everything, eh? Maybe next, someone will learn to make ter’angreal again.”
Elaida’s mouth tightened. She did not concern herself with impossibilities, and if no sister had managed to rediscover the making of ter’angreal in three thousand years, one never would and that was that. It was knowledge slipping through her fingers when she wanted it held close that curled Elaida’s tongue. In spite of all her efforts, every last initiate in the Tower had learned of forkroot, now. No one liked knowing in the least. No one liked suddenly being vulnerable to anyone with a knowledge of herbs and a little hot water. That knowledge was worse than poison, as the Sitters here made clear.
At mention of the herb, Duhara’s big, dark eyes grew uneasy in her coppery face, and she held herself more stiffly than usual, hands clutching skirts so red they seemed nearly black. Sedore actually swallowed, and her fingers tightened on the worked leather folder Elaida had handed her, though the round-faced Yellow usually carried herself with a frosty elegance. Andaya shivered! She actually wrapped her gray-fringed shawl around her convulsively.
Elaida wondered what they would do if they learned the Asha’man had rediscovered Traveling. As it was, they were barely able to make themselves speak of them. At least she had managed to hold that knowledge to a handful.
“I think we might better concern ourselves with what we know to be true, yes?” Andaya said firmly, back in control of herself. Her light brown hair, brushed till it gleamed, hung flowing down her back, and her silver-slashed blue dress was cut in the style of Andor, but Tarabon still rested strongly on her tongue. Though neither particularly small nor particularly slim, she somehow always reminded Elaida of a sparrow about to hop on a branch. A most unlikely-appearing negotiator, though her reputation had been earned. She smiled at the others, not very pleasantly, and that seemed sparrowlike, too. Perhaps it was how she held her head. “Idle speculation, it wastes precious time. The world hangs by a thread, and myself, I do not wish to fritter away valuable hours prattling about supposed logic or chattering over what every fool and novice knows. Does anyone have anything useful to say?” For a sparrow, she could put acid on her words. Velina’s face went red, and Shevan’s darkened.
Rubinde twisted her lips at the Gray. Perhaps they were meant to make a smile, but they merely seemed to writhe. With raven-black hair and eyes like sapphires, the Mayener usually looked as if she intended to walk through a stone wall, and planting her fists on her hips now, she seemed ready to walk through two. “We’ve dealt with what we can for the time being, Andaya. Most of it, anyway. The rebels are caught by the snows in Murandy, and we’ll make winter hot enough for them that in the spring they’ll come crawling back to apologize and beg penance. Tear will be taken care of as soon as we find where the High Lord Darlin has vanished to, and Cairhien once we root Caraline Damodred and Toram Riatin out of their hiding places. Al’Thor has the crown of Illian for the moment, but that’s in work. So, unless you have a scheme for snaffling the man into the Tower or making these so-called Asha’man’ vanish, I have the business of my Ajah to be about.”
Andaya drew herself up, her feathers well and truly ruffled. For that matter, Duhara’s eyes narrowed; mention of men who could channel always lit fires in her head. Shevan clicked her tongue as if at children squabbling—though she looked pleased to see it—and Velina frowned, for some reason sure Shevan had aimed at her. This was amusing, but getting out of hand.
“The business of the Ajahs is important, daughters.” Elaida did not raise her voice, but every head swiveled toward her. She replaced the ivory carving with the rest of her collection in the large box covered with roses and golden scrolls, carefully adjusted the positions of her writing case and correspondence box so the three lacquered boxes lined up just so on the table, and once their silence was perfect she went on. “The business of the Tower is more important, though. I trust you will effect my decrees promptly. I see too much sloth in the Tower. I fear Silviana may find herself very busy if matters do not come right soon.” She did not voice any further threat. She merely smiled.
“As you command, Mother,” murmured six voices not so steady as their owners might have wished. Even Duhara’s face was pasty pale as they made their curtsies. Two Sitters had been stripped of their chairs, and half a dozen had served days of Labor for penance—which was humiliating enough in their position to be Mortification of the Spirit besides; Shevan and Sedore certainly wore tight mouths as they remembered all too well scrubbing floors and working in the laundries—but none had been sent to Silviana for Mortification of the Flesh. No one wanted to be. The Mistress of Novices had two or three visits each week from sisters who had been given penance by their Ajahs or set one for themselves—a dose of the strap, however painful, was done with much more quickly than raking garden paths for a month—but Silviana possessed considerably less mercy with sisters than with the novices and Accepted in her charge. More than one sister must have spent the next few days wondering whether a month pulling a rake might not have been preferable after all.
They scurried toward the doors, eager to be away. Sitters or no, not one would have set foot this high in the Tower without Elaida’s direct summons. Fingering her striped stole, Elaida let her smile become one of pleasure. Yes, she was the mistress in the White Tower. As was only proper for the Amyrlin Seat.
Before that fast-stepping knot of Sitters reach the doorway, the left-hand door opened, and Alviarin stepped in, the narrow white stole of the Keeper almost vanishing against a silk dress that made Velina’s seem dingy.
