The Gathering Storm
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Ravens and crows. Rats. Mists and clouds. Insects and corruption. Strange events and odd occurrences. The ordinary twisted and strange. Wonders!
The dead are beginning to walk, and some see them. Others do not, but more and more, we all fear the night.
These have been our days. They rain upon us beneath a dead sky, crushing us with their fury, until as one we beg: "Let it begin!"
—Journal of the Unknown Scholar,
entry for The Feast of Freia, 1000 NE
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The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose around the alabaster spire known as the White Tower. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
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But Min had seen a viewing of Rand and another man melded together.
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How could he bring peace to a people who refused to accept it?
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Honor didn't come from being punished, but accepting a punishment and bearing it restored honor.
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If even the ground itself could not be trusted, then what could?
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They didn't understand that when one tossed more balls into the air, it wasn't just the show that became more spectacular.
The fall at the end grew more spectacular as well.
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"Some acquaintances of mine—Aes Sedai who have retired from the world—are testing them trying to discover their weakness." They also had Callandor.
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Distant red light glowed from within, as if they had cores of molten lava.
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[Rand Dream]
"You are dead," Rand whispered. "I killed you."
The man didn't look from the fire as he laughed. It was a rough, low-throated laugh that held little true mirth. Once, Rand had known this man only as Ba'alzamon—a name for the Dark One—and had foolishly thought that in killing him, he had defeated the Shadow for good.
"I watched you die," Rand said. "I stabbed you through the chest with Callandor. Isha—"
"That is not my name," the man interrupted, still watching the flames. "I am known as Moridin, now."
"The name is irrelevant," Rand said angrily. "You are dead, and this is just a dream."
"Just a dream," Moridin said, chuckling. "Yes." The man was clad in a black coat and trousers, the darkness relieved only by red embroidery on the sleeves.
Moridin finally looked at him. Flames from the fire cast bright red and orange light across his angular face and unblinking eyes. "Why do you always whine that way? Just a dream. Do you not know that many dreams are more truthful than the waking world?"
"You are dead," Rand repeated stubbornly.
"So are you. I watched you die, you know. Lashing out in a tempest, creating an entire mountain to mark your cairn. So arrogant."
Lews Therin had—upon discovering that he'd killed all that he loved—drawn upon the One Power and destroyed himself, creating Dragonmount in the process. Mention of this event always brought on howls of grief and anger in Rand's mind.
But this time, there was silence.
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"We are all reborn," Moridin continued, "spun back into the Pattern time and time again. Death is no barrier to my master save for those who have known balefire. They are beyond his grasp. It is a wonder we can remember them."
So some of the others really were dead. Balefire was the key. But how had Moridin gotten into Rand's dreams? Rand set wards each night. He glanced at Moridin, noticing something odd about the man's eyes. Small black specks floated about in the whites, crossing back and forth like bits of ash blown on a leisurely wind.
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The Wheel turns, time and time again. Over and over the Ages turn, and men fight the Great L-rd. But someday, he will win, and when he does, the Wheel will stop.
"That is why his victory is assured. I think it will be this Age, but if not, then in another. When you are victorious, it only leads to another battle. When he is victorious, all things will end. Can you not see that there is no hope for you?"
"Is that what made you turn to his side?" Rand asked. "You were always so full of thoughts, Elan. Your logic destroyed you, didn't it?"
"There is no path to victory," Moridin said. "The only path is to follow the Great L-rd and rule for a time before all things end. The others are fools. They look for grand rewards in the eternities, but there will be no eternities. Only the now, the last days."
He laughed again, and this time there was joy in it. True pleasure.
Rand stood. Moridin eyed him warily, but did not get up.
"There is a way to win, Moridin," Rand said. "I mean to kill him. Slay the Dark One. Let the Wheel turn without his constant taint."
Moridin gave no reaction. He was still staring at the flames. "We are connected," Moridin finally said. "That is how you came here, I suspect, though I do not understand our bond myself."
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"In the end, I will destroy him, if possible. If not, then I will at least seal him away so tightly that the world can forget him."
He glanced down at her. "For that . . . I need the voice, Min. Lews Therin knows things. Or . . . or I know things. Whichever it is, the knowledge is there. In a way, the Dark One's own taint will destroy him, for it is what gave me access to Lews Therin."
Min glanced at her books. Herid's little slip of paper still peeked from the depths of Thoughts Among the Ruins. "Rand," she said. "You have to destroy the seals to the Dark One's prison."
He looked at her, frowning.
"I'm sure of it," she said. "I've been reading Herid's books all this time, and I believe that's what he meant by 'clearing away the rubble.' In order to rebuild the Dark One's prison, you will first need to open it. Clear away the patch made on the Bore."
She had expected him to be incredulous. Shockingly, he just nodded. "Yes," he said. "Yes, that sounds right. I doubt that many will wish to hear it. If those seals are broken, there is no way to tell what will happen. If I fail to contain him . . ."
The prophecies didn't say Rand would win. Only that he would fight. Min shivered again—blasted window!—but met Rand's gaze. "You'll win. You'll defeat him."
He sighed. "Faith in a madman, Min?"
"Faith in you, sheepherder." Suddenly viewings spun around his head. She ignored them most of the time, unless they were new, but now she picked them out. Fireflies consumed in darkness. Three women before a pyre. Flashes of light, darkness, shadow, signs of death, crowns, injuries, pain and hope. A tempest around Rand al'Thor, stronger than any physical storm.
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"I've held no Oath Rod, but it isn't the Rod that makes my words true. I have spoken the words of the oaths in my heart, and to me they are more dear, for I have nothing forcing me to hold to them. And by that oath holding me, I tell you again. I am a Dreamer, and I have Dreamed that the Seanchan will attack the White Tower."
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" 'As the plow breaks the earth shall he break the lives of men, and all that was shall be consumed in the fire of his eyes,' " Egwene said. " 'The trumpets of war shall sound at his footsteps, the ravens feed at his voice, and he shall wear a crown of swords.' "
Elaida frowned, taken aback.
"The Karaethon Cycle, Elaida," Egwene said. "When you had Rand locked away to be kept 'secure,' had he yet taken Illian? Had he yet worn what he was to name the Crown of Swords?"
"Well, no."
"And how did you expect him to fulfill the prophecies if he was hidden away in the White Tower?" Egwene said. "How was he to cause war, as the prophecies say he must? How was he to break the nations and bind them to him? How could he 'slay his people with the sword of peace' or 'bind the nine moons to serve him' if he was locked away? Do the prophecies say that he will be 'unfettered'? Do they not speak of the 'chaos of his passing'? How can anything pass at all if he is kept in chains?"
"I. . . ."
"Your logic is astounding, Elaida," Egwene said coldly. At that, Ferane smiled slyly; she was probably thinking yet again that Egwene would fit well in the White Ajah.
"Bah," Elaida said, "you ask meaningless questions. The prophecies would have to have been fulfilled. There was no other way."
"So you're saying that your attempt to bind him was destined to fail."
"No, not at all," Elaida said, red-faced again. "We shouldn't be bothering with this—it's not for you to decide upon. No, we should be talking about your rebels, and what they've done to the White Tower!"
A good turn of the conversation, an attempt to put Egwene on the defensive. Elaida wasn't completely incompetent. Just arrogant.
"I see them trying to heal the rift between us," Egwene said. "We cannot change what has happened. We can't change what you did to Siuan, even if those with me did discover a method of Healing her stilling. We can only move forward and try our best to smooth the scars. What are you doing, Elaida? Refusing talks, trying to bully the Sitters into withdrawing? Insulting Ajahs that are not your own?"
Doesine, of the Yellow, gave a quiet murmur of agreement. That drew Elaida's eyes, and she fell silent for a moment, as if realizing that she had lost control of the debate. "Enough of this."
"Coward," Egwene said.
Elaida's eyes flared wide. "How dare you!"
"I dare the truth, Elaida," Egwene said quietly. "You are a coward and a tyrant. I'd name you Darkfriend as well, but I suspect that the Dark One would perhaps be embarrassed to associate with you."
Elaida screeched, weaving in a flash of Power, slamming Egwene back against the wall, toppling the pitcher of wine from her hands. It shattered on a patch of wooden floor beside the rug, throwing a spray of bloodlike liquid across the table and half of its occupants, staining the white tablecloth with a smear of red.
"You name me Darkfriend?" Elaida screamed. "You are the Darkfriend. You and those rebels outside, who seek to distract me from doing what must be done."
A blast of woven Air slammed Egwene against the wall again, and she dropped to the ground, hitting shards of the broken pitcher that sliced open her arms. A dozen switches beat her, ripping her clothing. Blood seeped from her arms, and it began to splash into the air, smirching the wall as Elaida beat her.
"Elaida, stop it!" Rubinde said, standing, green dress swishing. "Are you mad?"
Elaida turned, panting. "Do not tempt me, Green!"
The switches continuing to beat Egwene. She bore it silently. With effort, she stood up. She could feel her face and arms swelling already. But she maintained a calm gaze at Elaida.
"Elaida!" Ferane yelled, standing. "You violate Tower law! You cannot use the Power to punish an initiate!"
"I am Tower law!" Elaida raved. She pointed at the sisters. "You mock me. I know you do it. Behind my back. You show me deference when you see me, but I know what you say, what you whisper. You ungrateful fools! After what I've done for you! Do you think I'll suffer you forever? Take this one as an example!"
She spun, pointing at Egwene, then stumbled back in shock to find Egwene calmly watching her. Elaida gasped softly, raising a hand to her breast as the switches beat. They could all see the weaves, and they could all see that Egwene did not scream, although her mouth was not gagged with Air. Her arms dripped blood, her body was beaten before them, and yet she found no reason to scream. Instead, she quietly blessed the Aiel Wise Ones for their wisdom.
"And what," Egwene said evenly, "am I to be an example of, Elaida?"
The beating continued. Oh, how it hurt! Tears formed in the corners of Egwene's eyes, but she had felt worse. Far worse. She felt it each time she thought of what this woman was doing to the institution she loved. Her true pain was not from the wounds, but from how Elaida had acted before the Sitters.
"By the Light," Rubinde whispered.
"I wish I weren't needed here, Elaida," Egwene said softly. "I wish that the Tower had a grand Amyrlin in you. I wish I could step down and accept your rule. I wish you deserved it. I would willingly accept execution, if it would mean leaving a competent Amyrlin. The White Tower is more important than I am. Can you say the same?"
"You want execution!" Elaida bellowed, recovering her tongue. "Well, you shall not have it! Death is too good for you, Darkfriend! I shall see you beaten—everyone shall see you beaten—until I am through with you. Only then will you die!" She turned to the servants, who stood, gaping, at the sides of the room. "Send for soldiers! I want this one cast into the deepest cell this Tower can provide! Let it be voiced through the city that Egwene al'Vere is a Darkfriend who has rejected the Amyrlin's grace!"
Servants ran to do as she demanded. The switches continued to beat, but Egwene was growing numb. She closed her eyes, feeling faint—she had lost much blood from her left arm, which bore the deepest of her gashes.
It had come to a head, as she'd feared that it would. She had cast her lot.
But she didn't fear for her life. Instead, she feared for the White Tower. As she leaned back against the wall, thoughts fading, she was overcome with sorrow.
Her battle from within the Tower was at an end, one way or another.
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Something snapped inside of him. He grew cold; then that coldness vanished, and he could feel nothing. No emotion. No anger.
At that moment he grew aware of a strange force. It was like a reservoir of water, boiling and churning just beyond his view. He reached toward it with his mind.
A clouded face flashed before Rand's own, one whose features he couldn't quite make out. It was gone in a moment.
And Rand found himself filled with an alien power. Not saidin, not saidar, but something else. Something he'd never felt before.
Oh, Light, Lews Therin suddenly screamed. That's impossible! We can't use it! Cast it away! That is death we hold, death and betrayal.
It is HIM.
Rand closed his eyes as he knelt above Min, then he channeled the strange, unknown force. Energy and life surged through him, a torrent of power like saidin, only ten times as sweet and a hundred times as violent. It made him alive, made him realize that he'd never been alive before. It gave him such strength as he'd never imagined. It rivaled, even, the power he'd held when drawing from the Choedan Kal.
He screamed, in both rapture and rage, and wove enormous spears of Fire and Air. He slammed the weaves against the collar at his neck, and the room exploded with flames and bits of molten metal, each one distinct to Rand. He could feel each shard of metal blast away from his neck, warping the air with its heat, trailing smoke as it hit a wall or the floor. He opened his eyes and released Min. She gasped and sobbed.
Rand stood and turned, white-hot magma in his veins—as when Semirhage had tortured him, yet somehow opposite. As painful as this was, it was also pure ecstasy.
Semirhage looked utterly shocked. "But . . . that's impossible . . ." she said. "I felt nothing. You can't—" She looked up, staring at him with wide eyes. "The True Power. Why have you betrayed me, Great L-rd? Why?"
Rand raised a hand and, filled with the power he did not understand, wove a single weave. A bar of pure white light, a cleansing fire, burst from his hand and struck Semirhage in the chest. She flashed and vanished, leaving a faint afterimage to Rand's vision. Her bracelet dropped to the floor.
Elza ran toward the door. She vanished before another bar of light, her entire figure becoming light for a moment. Her bracelet dropped to the floor, as well, the women who had held them burned completely from the Pattern.
What have you done? Lews Therin asked. Oh, Light. Better to have killed again than to do this. . . . Oh, Light. We are doomed.
Rand savored the power for a moment longer, then—regretfully—let it drop away. He would have held on, but he was simply too exhausted. The vanishing of it left him numb.
Or . . . no. That numbness had nothing to do with the power he'd held. He turned around, looking down at Min, who coughed quietly and rubbed her neck. She looked up at him, and seemed afraid. He doubted that she would ever see him the same way again.
He had been wrong; there had indeed been something more that Semirhage could do to him. He had felt himself killing one he loved dearly. Before, when he'd done it as Lews Therin, he had been mad and unable to control himself. He could barely remember slaying Ilyena, as if through a clouded dream. He'd realized what he had done only after Ishamael had awakened him.
Finally, now, he knew precisely what it was like to watch as he killed those he loved.
"It is done," Rand whispered.
"What?" Min asked, coughing again.
"The last that could be done to me," he said, surprised at his own calmness. "They have taken everything from me now."
"What are you saying, Rand?" Min asked. She rubbed her neck again. Bruises were beginning to show.
He shook his head as—finally—voices sounded in the hallway outside. Perhaps the Asha'man had sensed him channeling when he'd tortured Min.
"I have made my choice, Min," he said, turning toward the door. "You have asked for flexibility and laughter from me, but such things are no longer mine to give. I am sorry."
Once, weeks ago, he had decided that he must become stronger—where he had been iron, he had decided to become steel. It appeared that steel was too weak.
He would be harder, now. He understood how. Where he had once been steel, he became something else. From now on, he was cuendillar. He had entered a place like the void that Tam had trained him to seek, so long ago. But within this void he had no emotion. None at all.
They could not break or bend him.
It was done.
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"We can't go back, Mat. The Wheel has turned, for better or worse. And it will keep on turning, as lights die and forests dim, storms call and skies break. Turn it will. The Wheel is not hope, and the Wheel does not care, the Wheel simply is. But so long as it turns, folk may hope, folk may care. For with light that fades, another will eventually grow, and each storm that rages must eventually die. As long as the Wheel turns. As long as it turns. . . ."
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The original reason mankind had bored into the Dark One's prison had been power. A new source of energy for channeling, like the One Power, but different. Unknown and strange, and potentially vast. That source of power had turned out to be the Dark One himself.
Lews Therin whimpered.
Rand carried the access key with him for a reason. It linked him to one of the greatest sa'angreal ever created. With that power and the aid of Nynaeve, Rand had cleansed saidin. The access key had allowed him to tap an unimaginable river, a tempest as vast as the ocean. It had been the greatest thing he had ever experienced.
Until the moment when he had used the unnamed power.
That other force called to him, sang to him, tempted him. So much power, so much divine wonder. But it terrified him. He didn't dare touch it, not again.
And so he carried the key. He was not certain which of the two sources of energy was more dangerous, but as long as both called to him, he was able to resist both. Like two people, both yelling for his attention, they drowned one another out.
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The hand holding its globe aloft reached out of its depths.
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"Should I suffer for them all, Nynaeve?" he asked quietly, rising, face still half in the darkness. "Lay this death at my feet, if you wish. It will just be one of many. How many stones can you pile on a man's body before the weight stops mattering? How far can you burn a lump of flesh until further heat is irrelevant? If I let myself feel guilt for this boy, then I would need to feel guilt for the others. And it would crush me."
She regarded him in the half light. A king, certainly. A soldier, though he had only occasionally seen war. She forced down her anger. Hadn't this all been about proving to him that he could trust her?
"Oh, Rand," she said, turning away. "This thing you have become, the heart without any emotion but anger. It will destroy you."
"Yes," he said softly.
She looked back at him, shocked.
"I continue to wonder," he said, glancing down at Min, "why you all assume that I am too dense to see what you find so obvious. Yes, Nynaeve. Yes, this hardness will destroy me. I know."
"Then why?" she asked. "Why won't you let us help you?"
He looked up—not at her, but staring off at nothing. A servant knocked quietly, wearing the white and forest green of Milisair's house. She entered and deposited the new pot of tea, picked up the old one, then withdrew.
"When I was much younger," he said, voice soft, "Tam told me of a story he'd heard while traveling the world. He spoke of Dragonmount. I didn't know at the time that he'd actually seen it, nor that he had found me there. I was just a shepherd boy, and Dragonmount, Tar Valon and Caemlyn were almost mythical places to me.
"He told me of it, though, a mountain so high it made even Twinhorn's Peak back home seem a dwarf. Tam's stories claimed no man had ever climbed to Dragonmount's peak. Not because it was impossible—but because reaching the top would take every last ounce of strength a man had. So tall was the mountain that besting it would be a struggle that drained a man completely."
He fell silent.
"So?" Nynaeve finally asked.
He looked at her. "Don't you see? The stories claimed no man had climbed the mountain because in doing so, he would be without strength to return. A mountaineer could best it, reach the top, see what no man had ever seen. But then he would die. The strongest and wisest explorers knew this. So they never climbed it. They always wanted to, but they waited, reserving that trip for another day. For they knew it would be their last."
"But that's just a story," Nynaeve said. "A legend."
"That's what I am," Rand said. "A story. A legend. To be told to children years from now, spoken of in whispers." He shook his head. "Sometimes, you can't turn back. You have to keep pressing on. And sometimes, you know this climb is your last.
"You all claim that I have grown too hard, that I will inevitably shatter and break if I continue on. But you assume that there needs to be something left of me to continue on. That I need to climb back down the mountain once I've reached the top.
"That's the key, Nynaeve. I see it now. I will not live through this, and so I don't need to worry about what might happen to me after the Last Battle. I don't need to hold back, don't need to salvage anything of this beaten up soul of mine. I know that I must die. Those who wish for me to be softer, willing to bend, are those who cannot accept what will happen to me." He looked down at Min again. Many times before, Nynaeve had seen affection in his eyes when he regarded her, but this time they were blank. Set in that same, emotionless face.
"We can find a way, Rand," Nynaeve said. "Surely there is a way to win but also let you live."
"No," he growled softly. "Do not tempt me down that path again. It only leads to pain, Nynaeve. I . . . I used to think about leaving something behind to help the world survive once I died, but that was a struggle to keep living. I can't indulge myself. I'll climb this bloody mountain and face the sun. You all will deal with what comes next. That is how it must be."
She opened her mouth to object again, but he gave her a sharp glance. "That is how it must be, Nynaeve."
She closed her mouth.
"You did well tonight," Rand said. "You have saved us all a lot of trouble."
"I did it because I want you to trust me," Nynaeve said, then immediately cursed herself. Why had she said that? Was she really so tired that she blabbed the first thing that came to her mind?
Rand just nodded. "I do trust you, Nynaeve. As much as I trust anyone; more than I trust most. You think you know what is best for me, even against my wishes, but that is something I can accept. The difference between you and Cadsuane is that you actually care about me. She only cares about my place in her plans. She wants me to be part of the Last Battle. You want me to live. For that, you have my thanks. Dream on my behalf, Nynaeve. Dream for things I no longer can."
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How much had he fulfilled? He didn't seem blinded yet, so that had yet to happen. The Essanik Cycle said that he would stand on his own grave and weep.
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[Mat to Verin, about Rand cleansing Saidin]
The whole world up and changed on us, didn't it?
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[Mat to Verin, believing she used the Power to create pictures of him and Perrin. A darkfriend gave her the pictures.]
"You're Aes Sedai," Mat said, shrugging. "I figured you . . . you know, saidared it."
"Saidared it?" she asked flatly.
He shrugged.
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[Min Viewing]
The air shimmered above Rand, and a mountain appeared there. Viewings were so common around Rand that Min usually forced herself to ignore them unless they were new—though she did spend time some days trying to pick them all out and sort through them. This one was new, and it caught her attention. The towering mountain was blasted out on one side, making a jagged hole down the slope. Dragonmount? It was cloaked in dark shadows, as if shaded by clouds high above. That was odd; whenever she'd seen the mountain, it had reached higher than the clouds themselves.
Dragonmount in shadows. It would be important to Rand in the future. Was that a tiny prick of light shining from the heavens down onto the point of the mountain?
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The access key's globe burst alight with a more brilliant color, seeming crystalline. The light within was scarlet, the core brilliant and bright. As if someone had dropped a glowing rock into a pool of blood.
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[compulsion removed after balefire, but Min's bruises remain after balefire]
Something impossibly bright formed in the air before him, and Min cried out, backing away. The air itself seemed to warp, as if pulling away from Rand in fear. Dust blew from the ground in a circle around him, and the trees groaned, lit by the brilliant white light, the pine needles rattling like a hundred thousand insects scrambling over one another. Min could no longer make out Rand, only a blazing, brilliant force of light. Pure power, gathered, making the hairs on her arms rise with the force of its nebulous energy. In that moment, she felt as if she could understand what the One Power was. It was there, before her, made incarnate in the man Rand al'Thor.
And then, with a sound like a sigh, he released it. A column of pure whiteness exploded from him and burned across the silent night sky, illuminating the trees below it in a wave. It moved as quick as a snap of the fingers, striking the wall of the distant fortress. The stones came alight, as if they were breathing in the force of the energy. The entire fortress glowed, transforming into living light, an amazing, spectacular palace of unadulterated energy. It was beautiful.
And then it was gone. Burned from the landscape—and the Pattern—as if it had never been there. The entire fortress, hundreds of feet of stone and everyone who had lived in it.
Something hit Min, something like a shocking wave in the air. It wasn't a physical blast, and it didn't make her stumble, but it twisted her insides about. The forest around them—still lit by the glowing access key in Rand's hands—seemed to warp and shake. It was as if the world itself were groaning in agony.
It snapped back, but Min could still feel that tension. In that instant, it seemed as if the very substance of world had been near to breaking.
"What have you done?" Nynaeve whispered.
Rand didn't reply. Min could see his face again, now that the enormous column of balefire had vanished, leaving behind only the glowing access key. He was in ecstasy, mouth agape, and he held the access key aloft before himself as if in victory. Or in reverence.
Then he gritted his teeth, eyes opening wide, lips parted as if he were under great pressure. The light flashed once, then immediately vanished. All became dark. Min blinked in the sudden darkness, trying to get her eyes to adjust. The powerful image of Rand seemed burned into her vision. Had he really done what she thought he had? Had he burned away an entire fortress with balefire?
All those people. Men returning from the hunt . . . women carrying water . . . soldiers on the walls . . . the grooms outside . . .
They were gone. Burned from the Pattern. Killed. Dead forever. The horror of it made Min stumble back, and she pressed her back against a tree to keep herself upright.
So many lives, ended in an instant. Dead. Destroyed. By Rand.
A light appeared from Nynaeve, and Min turned, seeing the Aes Sedai illuminated by the warm, soft glow of a globe above her hand. Her eyes seemed almost afire with a light of their own. "You are out of control, Rand al'Thor," she declared.
"I do what must be done," he said, speaking now from the shadows. He sounded exhausted. "Test him, Nynaeve."
"What?"
"The fool," Rand said. "Is her Compulsion still there? Is Graendal's touch gone?"
"I hate what you just did, Rand," Nynaeve snarled. "No. 'Hate' isn't strong enough. I loathe what you've done. What has happened to you?"
"Test him!" Rand whispered, voice dangerous. "Before condemning me, let us first determine if my sins have achieved anything beyond my own damnation."
Nynaeve breathed in deeply, then glanced at Ramshalan, who was still held in the grip of several Aiel Maidens. Nynaeve reached out and touched his forehead, concentrating. "It's gone," she said. "Erased."
"Then she is dead," Rand said from the darkness.
Light! Min thought, realizing what he'd done. He didn't use Ramshalan as a courier, or as bait. He used the man as a way of proving to himself that Graendal was dead. Balefire burned someone out of the Pattern completely, making it so that their most recent actions never occurred. Ramshalan would remember visiting Graendal, but her Compulsion no longer existed. In a way, she'd been killed before Ramshalan had visited her.
Min felt at her neck, where the bruises of Rand's hand on her neck hadn't yet faded.
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[Nynaeve]
"Winning won't be winning at all if Rand becomes something as bad as the Forsaken . . ."
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Egwene felt dirtied, she felt duped. For a moment, she felt herself to be the country girl many thought her to be. If Elaida had been a pawn for the Blacks, then so had she. Light! How the Dark One must have laughed to see two rival Amyrlins, each with one of his loyal minions at her side, pitting them against one another.
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Adelorna turned hesitantly. A woman in white stood atop the rubble a short distance away, a massive halo of power surrounding her, her arm outstretched toward the fleeing soldiers, her eyes intense. The woman stood like vengeance itself, the power of saidar like a storm around her. The very air seemed alight, and her brown hair blew from the wind of the open gap in the wall beside them. Egwene al'Vere.
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She had to be as logical as a White, as thoughtful as a Brown, as passionate as a Blue, as decisive as a Green, as merciful as a Yellow, as diplomatic as a Gray. And yes, as vengeful as a Red, when necessary.
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It wasn't using the Power as a weapon, but it was close. A fine distinction. But being Aes Sedai was about fine distinctions.
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The sword was inferior as a sa'angreal, and he doubted that it was intended to be used simply as a sword. Why did the prophecies not speak of the Choedan Kal? He had used those to cleanse the taint. The access key gave Rand power well beyond what Callandor could provide, and that power came with no strings. The statuette was freedom, but Callandor was just another box. Yet talk of the Choedan Kal and their keys was absent from the prophecies.
Rand found that frustrating, for the prophecies were—in a way—the grandest and most stifling box of them all. He was trapped inside of them. Eventually, they would suffocate him.
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Tam laid a hand on Rand's shoulder. "The choice isn't always about what you do, son, but why you do it."
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[Callandar, and Rand and two female Aes Sedai]
He shall hold a blade of light in his hands, and the three shall be one.
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I think the passage refers to some way he has to use Callandor."
"I see," Cadsuane said, turning yet another page in her own book. "That is a very unconventional interpretation." Beldeine smiled thinly, turning back to her embroidery. "Of course," Cadsuane added, "you are quite right."
Min looked up.
"It was that very passage that led me to investigate Callandor," Cadsuane continued. "Through a great deal of searching I discovered that the sword could only be used properly in a circle of three. That is likely the ultimate meaning of the passage."
"But that would imply that Rand had to use Callandor in a circle sometime," Min said, looking at the passage again. He'd never done so, as far as she knew.
"It would," Cadsuane said.
Min felt a sudden thrill. A hint, perhaps. Something that Rand didn't know, that might help him! Except . . . Cadsuane had already known it. So Min hadn't discovered anything of real import after all.
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[Min viewing]
And . . . what was that vision that was suddenly hovering above Nynaeve's head? She was kneeling over someone's corpse in a posture of grief. The viewing was gone a moment later.
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The Dragon Reborn walked among this people, and they did not know him. To them, Rand al'Thor was far off. The Last Battle was secondary to whether or not they could get their chickens to market, or whether their son would recover from his cough, or whether they would be able to afford that new silk vest they had been wanting.
They would not know Rand until he destroyed them.
It will be a mercy, Lews Therin whispered. Death is always a mercy. The madman didn't sound as crazy as he once had. In fact, his voice had started to sound an awful lot like Rand's own voice.
Rand stopped atop another bridge, looking over at the city's massive white-walled palace, home to the Seanchan court. It rose four stories high, with rings of gold at the base of its four domes and more gold at the tips of its many spires. The Daughter of the Nine Moons would be found in there. He could give those walls a purity they had never known, a perfection. That would make the building complete, in a way, in the moment before it faded into nothingness.
He unwrapped the access key, just another foreigner, standing on the muddy bridge. After destroying the palace, he would have to be quick. He'd send off bursts of balefire to destroy the ships in the harbor, then use something more mundane to rain fire on the city itself, throw it into a panic. The chaos would delay his enemies' reaction. After that, he would Travel to the garrisons at the city gates and destroy them. He vaguely remembered scout reports of supply camps to the north, well stocked with both soldiers and foodstuffs. He would destroy them next.
From there, he'd need to move on to Amador, then to Tanchico and others. He'd Travel quickly, never remaining in one place long enough to be caught by the Forsaken. A flickering light of death, like a burning ember, flaring to life here, then there. Many would die, but most would be Seanchan. Invaders.
He stared down at the access key. Then he seized saidin.
The sickness washed across him more powerfully than it ever had before. The force of it knocked him to the ground like a physical blow. He cried out, barely noticing when he hit the stones. He groaned, gripping the access key, curling around it. His insides seemed to burn, and he turned his head, rolling onto his shoulder and vomiting onto the bridge.
But he held on to saidin. He needed the power. The succulent, beautiful power. Even the stench of his own vomit seemed more real to him, more sweet, for the power within him.
He opened his eyes. People were gathered around him, concerned. A Seanchan patrol was approaching. Now was the time. He had to strike.
But he could not. The people looked so concerned. So worried. They cared.
Screaming in frustration, Rand made a gateway, causing the people to jump back in shock. He stumbled to his feet and threw himself through, scrabbling on all fours, as the Seanchan soldiers drew swords and yelled unfamiliar words.
Rand landed on a large stone disc of black and white, the air around him a void of darkness. The portal closed behind, locking Ebou Dar away, and the disc began to move. It floated through the void, lit by some strange ambient light. Rand curled up on the disc, cradling the access key, breathing deeply.
Why can't I be strong enough? He didn't know if the thought was his or if it was Lews Therin's. The two were the same. Why can't I do what I must?
The disc traveled for a short time, the only sound in the void that of his breathing. The disc looked like one of the seals to the Dark One's prison, split with a sinuous line dividing the black from the white. Rand lay directly atop it. They called the black half the Dragon's Fang. To the people, it symbolized evil. Destruction.
But Rand was necessary destruction. Why had the Pattern pushed him so hard if he didn't need to destroy? Originally, he had tried to avoid killing—but there had been little chance of that working. Then he'd made himself avoid killing women. That had proven impossible.
He was destruction. He just had to accept that. Someone had to be hard enough to do what was necessary, didn't they?
A gateway opened, and he stumbled to his feet, clutching the access key. He stepped from the Skimming platform and out onto an empty meadow. The place where he'd fought the Seanchan once with Callandor. And failed.
He stared at this place for a long time, breathing in and out, then spun another gateway. This one opened onto a field of snow, and icy wind blasted at him. He stepped through, feet crunching into the snow, and let the gateway close.
Here, the world spread before him.
Why have we come here? Rand thought.
Because, Rand replied. Because we made this. This is where we died.
He stood on the very point of Dragonmount, the lone peak that had erupted where Lews Therin had killed himself three thousand years before. To one side, he could see down hundreds of feet to where the side of the mountain opened into a blasted-out chasm. The opening was enormous, larger than it looked from profile. A wide oval of red, blazing, churning rock. It was as if a chunk of the mountain were simply missing, torn away, leaving the peak to rise into the air but the entire side of the mountain gone.
Rand stared down into that seething chasm. It was like the maw of a beast. Heat burned from below and flakes of ash twisted into the sky.
The dun sky was clouded above him. The ground seemed equally distant, barely visible, like a quilt marked with patterns. Here a patch of green that was a forest. There a stitch that was a river. To the east, he saw a small speck in the river, like a floating leaf caught in the tiny current. Tar Valon.
Rand sat down, the snow crunching beneath his weight. He set the access key into the bank before him and wove Air and Fire to keep himself warm.
Then he rested his elbows on his knees and his head on his hand, staring at the diminutive statue of the man with the globe.
To think.
CHAPTER 50
Veins of Gold
Wind blew around Rand as he sat at the top of the world. His weaving of Air and Fire had melted away the snow around him, exposing a jagged gray-black tip of rock about three paces wide. The peak was like a broken fingernail jutting into the sky, and Rand sat atop it. As far as he could tell, it was the very tip of Dragonmount. Perhaps the highest point in the world.
He sat upon his small outcropping, the access key sitting on the rock in front of him. The air was thin here, and he'd had trouble breathing until he'd found a way to weave Air so that it compressed slightly around him. Like the weave that warmed him, he wasn't certain how he'd done it. He vaguely remembered Asmodean trying to teach him a similar weave, and Rand hadn't been able to get it right. Now it came naturally. Lews Therin's influence, or his own growing familiarity with the One Power?
Dragonmount's broken, open mouth lay several hundred feet beneath him, to the left. The scents of ash and sulphur were pungent, even at this distance. The maw was black with ash and red from molten rock and blazing fires.
He still held to the Source. He didn't dare let go. This last time he'd seized it had been the worst he could remember, and he feared that the sickness would overpower him if he tried again.
He had been here for hours. And yet he did not feel tired. He stared at the ter'angreal. Thinking.
What was he? What was the Dragon Reborn? A symbol? A sacrifice? A sword, meant to destroy? A sheltering hand, meant to protect?
A puppet, playing a part over and over again?
He was angry. Angry at the world, angry at the Pattern, angry at the Creator for leaving humans to fight against the Dark One with no direction. What right did any of them have to demand Rand's life of him?
Well, Rand had offered that life to them. It had taken him a great while to accept his death, but he had made his peace. Wasn't that enough? Did he have to be in pain until the end?
He had thought that if he made himself hard enough, it would take away the pain. If he couldn't feel, then he couldn't hurt.
The wounds in his side pulsed in agony. For a time, he'd been able to forget them. But the deaths he had caused rubbed his soul raw. That list starting with Moiraine. Everything had begun to go wrong at her death. Before that, he'd still had hope.
Before that, he'd never been put in a box.
He understood what would be required of him, and he'd changed in the ways he thought he needed. Those changes were to keep him from being overwhelmed. Die to protect people he didn't know? Chosen to save mankind? Chosen to force the kingdoms of the world to unite behind him, destroying those who refused to listen? Chosen to cause the deaths of thousands who fought in his name, to hold those souls upon his shoulders, a weight that must be borne? What man could do these things and remain sane? The only way he had seen had been to cut off his emotions, to make himself cuendillar.
But he had failed. He hadn't been able to stamp his feelings out. The voice inside had been so small, but it had pricked at him, like a needle making the smallest of holes in his heart. Even the smallest of holes would let the blood leak free.
Those holes would bleed him dry.
The quiet voice was gone now. It had vanished when he'd thrown Tam to the floor and nearly killed him. Without that voice, did Rand dare continue? If it was the last remnant of the old Rand—the Rand who had believed that he knew what was right and what was wrong—then what did its silence mean?
Rand picked up the access key and stood up, boots scraping stone. It was midday, though the sun still lay hidden behind the clouds. Below, he could see hills and forests, lakes and villages.
"And what if I don't want the Pattern to continue?" he bellowed. He stepped forward, right to the edge of the rock, clutching the access key to his chest.
"We live the same lives!" he yelled at them. "Over and over and over. We make the same mistakes. Kingdoms do the same stupid things. Rulers fail their people time and time again. Men continue to hurt and hate and die and kill!"
Winds buffeted him, whipping at his brown cloak and his fine Tairen trousers. But his words carried, echoing across the broken rocks of Dragonmount. It was cold and crisp, the air new. His weave kept him warm enough to survive, but it did not stop the chill. He hadn't wanted it to.
"What if I think it's all meaningless?" he demanded with the loud voice of a king. "What if I don't want it to keep turning? We live our lives by the blood of others! And those others become forgotten. What good is it if everything we know will fade? Great deeds or great tragedies, neither means anything! They will become legends, then those legends will be forgotten, then it will all start over again!"
The access key began to glow in his hands. The clouds above seemed to grow darker.
Rand's anger beat in rhythm with his heart, demanding to be set free.
"What if he is right?" Rand bellowed. "What if it's better for this all to end? What if the Light was a lie all along, and this is all just a punishment? We live again and again, growing feeble, dying, trapped forever. We are to be tortured for all time!"
Power flooded into Rand like surging waves filling a new ocean. He came to life, glorying in saidin, not caring that the display must be brilliantly visible to men everywhere who could channel. He felt himself alight with the Power, like a sun to the world below.
"NONE OF THIS MATTERS!"
He closed his eyes, drawing in more and more power, feeling as he had only twice before. Once when he had cleansed saidin. Once when he had created this mountain.
Then he drew in more.
He knew that much power would destroy him. He had stopped caring. Fury that had been building in him for two years finally boiled free, unleashed at long last. He spread his arms out wide, access key in his hand. Lews Therin had been right to kill himself and create Dragonmount. Only he hadn't gone far enough.
Rand could remember that day. The smoke, the rumbling, the sharp pains of a Healing bringing him back to lucidity as he lay in a broken palace. But those pains had paled compared with the agony of realization. Agony from seeing the beautiful walls scarred and broken. From seeing the piles of familiar corpses, tossed to the floor like discarded rags.
From seeing Ilyena a short distance away, her golden hair spread out on the ground around her.
He could feel the palace around him shaking from the earth's own sobs. Or was that Dragonmount, throbbing from the immense power he had drawn into himself?
He could smell the air thick with blood and soot and death and pain. Or was that just the scent of a dying world, spread before him?
The winds began to whip at him, spinning, enormous clouds above twisting upon themselves, like ancient leviathans passing in the profound black deep.
Lews Therin had made a mistake. He had died, but had left the world alive, wounded, limping forward. He'd let the Wheel of Time keep turning, rotating, rotting and bringing him back around again. He could not escape it. Not without ending everything.
"Why?" Rand whispered to the twisting winds around him. The Power coming to him through the access key was greater than he'd held when cleansing saidin. Perhaps greater than any man had ever held. Great enough to unravel the Pattern itself and bring final peace.
"Why do we have to do this again?" he whispered. "I have already failed. She is dead by my hand. Why must you make me live it again?"
Lightning cracked above, thunder buffeting him. Rand closed his eyes, perched above a drop that plummeted thousands of feet downward, in the middle of a tempest of icy wind. Through his eyelids, he could sense the blazing light of the access key. The Power he held inside dwarfed that light. He was the sun. He was fire. He was life and death.
Why? Why must they do this over and over? The world could give him no answers.
Rand raised his arms high, a conduit of power and energy. An incarnation of death and destruction. He would end it. End it all and let men rest, finally, from their suffering.
Stop them from having to live over and over again. Why? Why had the Creator done this to them? Why?
Why do we live again? Lews Therin asked, suddenly. His voice was crisp and distinct.
Yes, Rand said, pleading. Tell me. Why?
Maybe . . . Lews Therin said, shockingly lucid, not a hint of madness to him. He spoke softly, reverently. Why? Could it be . . . Maybe it's so that we can have a second chance.
Rand froze. The winds blew against him, but he could not be moved by them. The Power hesitated inside him, like the headsman's axe, held quivering above the criminal's neck. You may not have a choice about which duties are given you, Tam's voice, just a memory, said in his mind. But you can choose why you fulfill them.
Why, Rand? Why do you go to battle? What is the point?
Why?
All was still. Even with the tempest, the winds, the crashes of thunder. All was still.
Why? Rand thought with wonder. Because each time we live, we get to love again.
That was the answer. It all swept over him, lives lived, mistakes made, love changing everything. He saw the entire world in his mind's eye, lit by the glow in his hand. He remembered lives, hundreds of them, thousands of them, stretching to infinity. He remembered love, and peace, and joy, and hope.
Within that moment, suddenly something amazing occurred to him. If I live again, then she might as well!
That's why he fought. That's why he lived again, and that was the answer to Tam's question. I fight because last time, I failed. I fight because I want to fix what I did wrong.
I want to do it right this time.
The Power within him reached a crescendo, and he turned it upon itself, drove it through the access key. The ter'angreal was connected to a much greater force, a massive sa'angreal to the south, built to stop the Dark One. Too powerful, some had said. Too powerful ever to use. Too frightening.
Rand used its own power upon it, crushing the distant globe, shattering it as if in the grip of a giant's hands.
The Choedan Kal exploded.
The Power winked out.
The tempest ended.
And Rand opened his eyes for the first time in a very long while. He knew—somehow—that he would never again hear Lews Therin's voice in his head. For they were not two men, and never had been.
He regarded the world beneath him. The clouds above had finally broken, if only just above him. The gloom dispersed, allowing him to see the sun hanging just above.
Rand looked up at it. Then he smiled. Finally, he let out a deep-throated laugh, true and pure.
It had been far too long.
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After all this time, the clouds had finally broken. They had pulled back in a ring around Dragonmount. The sun shone down, radiant, lighting the distant, snowcapped crag. The broken maw and uppermost peak of the blasted mountainside were bathed in light. It was the first time Egwene could remember seeing direct sunlight in weeks. Perhaps longer.
"Some novices noticed it first, Mother," Silviana said, stepping up beside her. "And news spread quickly. Who would have thought that a little ring of sunlight would cause such a stir? It's such a simple thing, really. Nothing we haven't seen before. But. . . ."
There was something beautiful about it. The light streaming down in a column, strong and pure. Distant, yet striking. It was like something forgotten, but somehow still familiar, shining forth from a distant memory to bring warmth again.
"What does it mean?" Silviana asked.
"I don't know," Egwene said. "But I welcome the sight of it." She hesitated. "That opening in the clouds is too even to be natural. Mark this day on the calendars, Silviana. Something has happened. Perhaps, eventually, we shall know the truth of it."
"Yes, Mother," Silviana said, looking out through the gap again.
Egwene stood with her, rather than returning to her study immediately. It felt relaxing to stare out at that distant light, so welcoming and noble. "Storms will soon come," it seemed to say. "But for now, I am here."
I am here.
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At the end of time,
when the many become one,
the last storm shall gather its angry winds
to destroy a land already dying.
And at its center,
the blind man shall stand
upon his own grave.
There he shall see again,
and weep for what has been wrought.
—from The Prophecies of the Dragon,
Essanik Cycle. Malhavish's
Official Translation, Imperial Record
House of Seandar,
Fourth Circle of Elevation.
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