Robert Jordan - 14 - A Memory Of Light [Excerpts]

A Memory Of Light
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And the Shadow fell upon the Land, and the World was riven stone from stone. The oceans fled, and the mountains were swallowed up, and the nations were scattered to the eight corners of the World. The moon was as blood, and the sun was as ashes. The seas boiled, and the living envied the dead. All was shattered, and all but memory lost, and one memory above all others, of him who brought the Shadow and the Breaking of the World. And him they named Dragon.
—from Aleth nin Taerin alt a Camora,
The Breaking of the World.
Author unknown, the Fourth Age.
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In his years of service, he had learned contempt for most of the Chosen. They bickered like children, for all their power and supposed wisdom.
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"Do you know what this is?" Talmanes asked softly around his pipe. "This is the beginning of the end. This is the fall of nations and the unification of humankind. This is the Last Battle, you bloody fool."

The men shuffled uncomfortably.

"Do you ... do you speak for the Queen?" the leader said, trying to salvage something. "I just want to see my men taken care of."

"If you fight," Talmanes said, "I'll promise you a great reward."

The man waited.

"I promise you that you'll continue to draw breath," Talmanes said, taking another puff.

"Is that a threat, Cairhienin?"

Talmanes blew out smoke, then leaned down from his saddle, putting his face closer to the leader. "I killed a Myrddraal tonight, Andoran," he said softly. "It nicked me with a Thakan'dar blade, and the wound has gone black. That means I have a few hours at best before the blade's poison burns me from the inside out and I die in the most agonizing way a man can.

Therefore, friend, I suggest that you trust me when I tell you that I really have nothing to lose."

The man blinked.

"You have two choices," Talmanes said, turning his horse and speaking loudly to the troop. "You can fight like the rest of us and help this world see new days, and maybe you'll earn some coin in the end. I can't promise that. Your other option is to sit here, watch people be slaughtered and tell yourselves that you don't work for free. If you're lucky, and the rest of us salvage this world without you, you'll draw breath long enough to be strung up by your cowardly necks."

Silence. Horns blew from the darkness behind.

The chief sell-sword looked toward his companions. They nodded in agreement.

"Go help hold that gate," Talmanes said. "I'll recruit the other mercenary bands to help."
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"My people live with a grave misconception of the world, Bayle. In doing so, they create injustice."

"They did reject you, Leilwin," he said softly. You do no longer exist."

"I'll always be one of them. My name was revoked, but not my blood."

"I do be sorry for the insult."

She nodded curtly. "I am still loyal to the Empress, may she live forever. But the damane. . . they are the very foundation for her rule. They are the means by which she creates order, by which she holds the Empire together. And the damane are a lie."

Suldam could channel. The talent could be learned. Now, months after she had discovered the truth, her mind could not encompass all of the implications. Another might have been more interested in the political advantage; another might have returned to Seanchan and used this to gain power.

Almost, Leilwin wished she had done that. Almost.

But the pleas of the suldam . . . growing to know those Aes Sedai, who were nothing like what she'd been taught ...

Something had to be done. And yet, in doing it, did she risk causing the entire Empire to collapse? Her movements must be considered very, very carefully, like the last rounds of a game of shal.
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"All men are ignorant, Aes Sedai," Androl said. "The topics of our ignorance may change, but the nature of the world is that no man may know everything."
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"Being polite to a person is not a sign of respect for them, Pevara Sedai," Emarin said. "It is merely a sign of a good upbringing and a balanced nature."
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Thirteen Myrddraal and thirteen channelers, together in a horrifying rite, could turn any channeler to the Shadow. Against his will. "What he does is pure, undiluted evil," Pevara said. "This is no longer a division between the men who follow one leader and those who follow another. This is the Dark One's work, Androl. The Black Tower has fallen under the Shadow. You must accept that."
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It seems bad here, but most of Taim's men are not loyal to him. Men like him don't inspire loyalty. They collect cronies, others who hope to share in the power or wealth."
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Moghedien stepped onto a platform of stone floating in the middle of an open sea. Glassy and blue, the water rippled in the occasional breeze, but there were no waves. Neither was there land in sight.

Moridin stood at the side of the platform, hands clasped behind his back. In front of him, the sea burned. The fire gave off no smoke, but it was hot, and the water near it hissed and boiled. Stone flooring in the middle of an endless sea. Water that burned. Moridin always had enjoyed creating impossibilities within his dreamshards.

"Sit," Moridin said to her, not turning.

She obeyed, choosing one of the four chairs suddenly arranged near the center of the platform. The sky was deep blue, cloudless, and the sun hung at about three-quarters of the way to its zenith. How long had it been since she'd seen the sun in Tel'aran'rhiod? Lately, that omnipresent black storm had blanketed the sky. But, then, this wasn't completely Tel'aran'rhiod. Nor was it Moridin's dream, but a . . . melding of the two. Like a temporary lean-to built off the side of the dream world. A bubble of merged realities.
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"Your playthings can wait."

Demandred's expression darkened, but he did not object further.
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[Lanfear rescued from Tower of Ghenjei, Aelfinn, Eelfinn]

Moridin himself had rescued Lanfear from Sindhol, freeing her from the creatures that feasted upon her ability to channel.

In order to rescue her, and of course to punish her, Moridin had slain her. That had allowed the Great L-rd to recapture her soul and place it in a new body. Brutal, but very effective. Precisely the kind of solution the Great L-rd preferred.
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[Graendal]

Hessalam? It meant . . . "without forgiveness" in the Old Tongue.
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One of us was slain by al'Thor, Moridin, and required the Great L-rd's hand to return him. Why had Moridin never been punished for his failure? Well, it was best not to look too long for fairness in the Great L-rd's hand.
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"The last days are upon us," Moridin said, turning his back on them. "In these hours, you will earn your final rewards. If you have grudges, put them behind you. If you have plots, bring them to completion. Make your final plays, for this . . . this is the end."
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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 in the Mountains of Mist. 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.

Eastward the wind blew, descending from lofty mountains and coursing over desolate hills. It passed into the place known as the Westwood, an area that had once flourished with pine and leatherleaf. Here, the wind found little more than tangled underbrush, thick save around an occasional towering oak. Those looked stricken by disease, bark peeling free, branches drooping. Elsewhere needles had fallen from pines, draping the ground in a brown blanket. None of the skeletal branches of the Westwood put forth buds.

North and eastward the wind blew, across underbrush that crunched and cracked as it shook. It was night, and scrawny foxes picked over the rotting ground, searching in vain for prey or carrion. No spring birds had come to call, and—most telling—the howls of wolves had gone silent across the land.

The wind blew out of the forest and across Taren Ferry. What was left of it. The town had been a fine one, by local standards. Dark buildings, tall above their redstone foundations, a cobbled street, built at the mouth of the land known as the Two Rivers.

The smoke had long since stopped rising from burned buildings, but there was little left of the town to rebuild. Feral dogs hunted through the rubble for meat. They looked up as the wind passed, their eyes hungry.

The wind crossed the river eastward. Fiere, clusters of refugees carrying torches walked the long road from Baerlon to Whitebridge despite the late hour. They were sorry groups, with heads bowed, shoulders huddled. Some bore the coppery skin of Domani, their worn clothing displaying the hardships of crossing the mountains with little in the way of supplies. Others came from farther off. Taraboners with haunted eyes above dirty veils. Farmers and their wives from northern Ghealdan. All had heard rumors that in Andor, there was food. In Andor, there was hope.

So far, they had yet to find either.

Eastward the wind blew, along the river that wove between farms without crops. Grasslands without grass. Orchards without fruit.

Abandoned villages. Trees like bones with the flesh picked free. Ravens often clustered in their branches; starveling rabbits and sometimes larger game picked through the dead grass underneath. Above it all, the omnipresent clouds pressed down upon the land. Sometimes, that cloud cover made it impossible to tell if it was day or night.

As the wind approached the grand city of Caemlyn, it turned northward, away from the burning city—orange, red and violent, spewing black smoke toward the hungry clouds above. War had come to Andor in the still of night. The approaching refugees would soon discover that they'd been marching toward danger. It was not surprising. Danger was in all directions. The only way to avoid walking toward it would be to stand still.

As the wind blew northward, it passed people sitting beside roads, alone or in small groups, staring with the eyes of the hopeless. Some lay as they hungered, looking up at those rumbling, boiling clouds. Other people trudged onward, though toward what, they knew not. The Last Battle, to the north, whatever that meant. The Last Battle was not hope. The Last Battle was death. But it was a place to be, a place to go.

In the evening dimness, the wind reached a large gathering far to the north of Caemlyn. This wide field broke the forest-patched landscape, but it was overgrown with tents like fungi on a decaying log. Tens of thousands of soldiers waited beside campfires that were quickly denuding the area of timber.

The wind blew among them, whipping smoke from fires into the faces of soldiers. The people here didn't display the same sense of hopelessness as the refugees, but there was a dread to them. They could see the sickened land. They could feel the clouds above. They knew.

The world was dying. The soldiers stared at the flames, watching the wood be consumed. Ember by ember, what had once been alive turned to dust.

A company of men inspected armor that had begun to rust despite being well oiled. A group of white-robed Aiel collected water—former warriors who refused to take up weapons again, despite their toh having been served. A cluster of frightened servants, sure that tomorrow would bring war between the White Tower and the Dragon Reborn, organized stores inside tents shaken by the wind.

Men and women whispered the truth into the night. The end has come. The end has come. All will fall. The end has come.

Laughter broke the air.

Warm light spilled from a large tent at the center of the camp, bursting around the tent flap and from beneath the sides.

Inside that tent, Rand al'Thor—the Dragon Reborn—laughed, head thrown back.
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Strange, how much about a man could change while his core remained exactly the same.
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"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, Perrin. We've become what we needed to become."
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What if the answer wasn't to seal the Dark One away again?
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The land groaned, a distant rumble.

Rand felt it like a painful muscle spasm.

Thunder shook the sky, distant, like a promise of things to come. The shaking subsided. The clerks remained holding their stacks of paper, as if afraid to let go and risk them toppling.

It's really here, Rand thought. I'm not ready—we're not ready—but it's here anyway.
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The Last Battle. The end. He found himself unafraid now that it had come. Worried, but not afraid.

I'm coming for you, Rand thought.

"Tell the people," Rand said to his clerks. "Post warnings. Earthquakes will continue. Storms. Real ones, terrible ones. There will be a Breaking, and we cannot avoid it. The Dark One will try to grind this world to dust."
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"Perhaps we should simply let him do as he wishes."

"Break the seals?" Egwene asked. "Release the Dark One?"

"Why not?"

"Light, Elayne!"

"It has to happen, doesn't it?" Elayne asked. "I mean, the Dark One's going to escape. He's practically free already."

Egwene rubbed her temples. "There is a difference between touching the world and being free. During the War of Power, the Dark One was never truly released into the world. The Bore let him touch it, but that was resealed before he could escape. If the Dark One had entered the world, the Wheel itself would have been broken. Here, I brought this to show you."

Egwene retrieved a stack of notes from her satchel. The sheets had been hastily gathered by the librarians of the Thirteenth Depository. "I'm not saying that we shouldn't break the seals," Egwene said. "I'm saying that we can't afford to risk one of Rand's crackbrained schemes with this."

Elayne smiled fondly. Light, but she was smitten. I can rely on her, can't I? It was hard to tell with Elayne these days. The woman's ploy with the Kinswomen. . . .

"We have unfortunately found nothing pertinent in your library ter'angreal." The statue of the smiling bearded man had nearly caused a riot in the Tower; every sister had wanted to read the thousands of books that it held. "All of the books seem to have been written before the Bore was opened. They will keep searching, but these notes contain everything we could gather on the seals, the prison and the Dark One. If we break the seals at the wrong time, I fear it would mean an end to all things. Here, read this." She handed a page to Elayne.

"The Karaethon Cycle" Elayne asked, curious. "And light shall fail, and dawn shall not come, and still the captive rails.' The captive is the Dark One?"

"I think so," Egwene said. "The Prophecies are never clear. Rand intends to enter the Last Battle and break the seals immediately, but that is a dreadful idea. We have an extended war ahead of us. Freeing the Dark One now will strengthen the forces of the Shadow and weaken us.

"If it is to be done—and I still don't know that it has to be—we should wait until the last possible moment. At the very least, we need to discuss it. Rand has been right about many things, but he has been wrong, too. This is not a decision he should be allowed to make alone."

Elayne shuffled through the sheets of paper, then stopped on one of them. " 'His blood shall give us the Light . . .' " She rubbed the page with her thumb, as if lost in thought. " 'Wait upon the Light.' Who added this note?"

"That is Doniella Alievin's copy of the Termendal translation of The Karaethon Cycle" Egwene said. "Doniella made her own notes, and they have been the subject of nearly as much discussion among scholars as the Prophecies themselves. She was a Dreamer, you know. The only Amyrlin that we know of to have been one. Before me, anyway."

"Yes," Elayne said.

"The sisters who gathered these for me came to the same conclusion that I have," Egwene said.

"There may be a time to break the seals, but that time is not at the start of the Last Battle, whatever Rand thinks. We must wait for the right moment, and as the Watcher of the Seals, it is my duty to choose that moment. I won't risk the world on one of Rand's overly dramatic stratagems."

"He has a fair bit of gleeman in him," Elayne said, again fondly. "Your argument is a good one, Egwene. Make it to him. He will listen to you. He does have a good mind, and can be persuaded."
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An explosion of weaves burst from Nynaeve like the sudden light of a sun coming out from behind clouds. Nynaeve wove the Five Powers together in a column of radiance, then sent it driving into Talmanes' body.
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"The seals are broken, like a sword. We can't just patch the pieces. It won't work. We need to remove the shards and make something new to go in their place. Something better."
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"The Prophecies have nearly all been fulfilled. This day was seen, and our tests are known. We do not walk into them unaware."
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"Unity will preserve us. If each of us goes running off to put out fires in our homelands, then we will lose. That's what this attack is about."
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"You really think this is Demandred?"

"It's exactly the sort of thing he'd try. Separate your foes, then crush them one at a time. It's one of the oldest strategies in warfare."
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"Do you want to know the thing that twists my brain in knots, Perrin?" Rand said softly. "The thing that gives me shivers, like the cold breath of the Shadow itself? The taint is what made me mad and what gave me memories from my past life. They came as Lews Therin whispering to me. But that very insanity is the thing giving me the clues I need to win. Don't you see? If I win this, it will be the taint itself that led to the Dark One's fall."

Perrin whistled softly.

Redemption, Rand thought. When I tried this last time, my madness destroyed us. This time, it will save us.

"Go to your wife, Perrin," Rand said, glancing at the sky. "This is the last night of anything resembling peace you shall know before the end. I'll investigate and see how bad things are in Andor." He looked back at his friend. "I will not forget my promise. Unity must come before all else. I lost last time precisely because I threw unity aside."

Perrin nodded, then rested a hand on Rand's shoulder. "The Light illumine you."

"And you, my friend."
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The Aiel needed a purpose once Rand al'Thor finished with them. That was clear from the visions. She had to find a way to give this to them. Perhaps they should return to the Three-fold Land. But . . . no. No. It tore her heart, but she had to admit that if the Aiel did so, they would be going to their graves. Their death, as a people, might not be immediate, but it would come. The changing world, with new devices and new ways of fighting, would overtake the Aiel, and the Seanchan would never leave them alone. Not with women who could channel. Not with armies full of spears that could, at any time, invade.
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The more dedicated a person was to the Light before being taken, the more dedicated they will be to the Shadow after falling.
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He looked about. This didn't feel like Tel'aran'rhiod', not completely. The dead field extended into the distance on all sides, presumably into infinity. This wasn't the true World of Dreams; it was a dreamshard, a world created by a powerful Dreamer or dreamwalker.
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Rand felt a presence nearby. He continued walking, not turning, but knew that someone was now walking beside him.

"Elan," Rand said.

"Lews Therin." Elan still wore his newest body, the tall, handsome man who wore red and black. "It dies, and the dust soon will rule. The dust . . . then nothing."
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Moridin, like many of the Forsaken, had usually entered Tel'aran'rhiod in the flesh, which was dangerous. Some said that entering in the flesh was an evil thing, that it lost you a part of your humanity. It also made you more powerful.

Moridin gave no clue as to what had happened on that night. Rand remembered those days faintly, traveling toward Tear. He remembered visions in the night, visions of his friends or family that would try to kill him. Moridin . . . Ishamael . . . had been pulling him against his will into dreams intersecting Tel'aran'rhiod.

"You were mad, during those days," Rand said softly, looking into Moridin's eyes. He could almost see the fires burning there. "You're still mad, aren't you? You just have it contained. No one could serve him without being at least a little mad."

Moridin stepped forward. "Taunt as you wish, Lews Therin. The ending dawns. All will be given to the great suffocation of the Shadow, to be stretched, ripped, strangled."

Rand took a step forward as well, right up to Moridin. They were the same height. "You hate yourself," Rand whispered. "I can feel it in you, Elan. Once you served him for power; now you do it because his victory—and an end to all things—is the only release you'll ever know. You'd rather not exist than continue to be you. You must know that he will not release you. Not ever. Not you."

Moridin sneered. "He'll let me kill you before this ends, Lews Therin. You, and the golden-haired one, and the Aiel woman, and the little darkhaired—"

"You act as if this is a contest between you and me, Elan," Rand interrupted.

Moridin laughed, throwing his head back. "Of course it is! Haven't you seen that yeti By the blood falls, Lews Therin! It is about us two. Just as in Ages past, over and over, we fight one another. You and I."

No, Rand said. "Not this time. I'm done with you. I have a greater battle to fight."

"Don't try to—"

Sunlight exploded through the clouds above. There was often no sunlight in the World of Dreams, but now it bathed the area around Rand.

Moridin stumbled back. He looked up at the light, then gazed at Rand and narrowed his eyes. "Don't think . . . don't think I will believe your simple tricks, Lews Therin. Weiramon was shaken by what you did to him, but it's not such a difficult thing, holding saidin and listening for people's heartbeats to speed up."

Rand exerted his will. The crackling dead leaves began to transform at his feet, turning green again, and shoots of grass broke through the leaves.

The green spread from him like spilled paint, and clouds above boiled away.

Moridin's eyes opened wider. He stumbled, staring at the sky as the clouds retreated . . . Rand could feel his shock. This was Moridin's dream-shard.

However, to draw another in, he had had to place it close to Tel'aran'rhiod. Those rules applied. There was something else, too, something about the connection between the two of them . . .

Rand strode forward, lifting his arms out to the sides. Grass sprouted in waves, red blossoms burst from the ground like a blush upon the land. The storm stilled, the dark clouds burned away by light.

"Tell your master!" Rand commanded. "Tell him this fight is not like the others. Tell him I've tired of minions, that I'm finished with his petty movement of pawns. Tell him that I'm coming for HIM!"

"This is wrong," Moridin said, visibly shaken. "This isn't . . " He looked at Rand for a moment, standing beneath the blazing sun, then vanished.

Rand let out a deep breath. The grass died around him, the clouds sprang back, the sunlight faded. Though Moridin was gone, holding on to that transformation of the landscape had been difficult. Rand sagged, panting, recovering from the exertion.

Here, willing something to be true could make it so. If only things were that simple in the real world.

He closed his eyes and sent himself away, to sleep for the short time before he had to rise. Rise, and save the world. If he could.
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Egwene strode around a frozen pillar of glass in her dream. It almost looked like a column of light. What did it mean? She could not interpret it.

The vision changed, and she found a sphere. The world, she knew somehow. Cracking. Frantic, she tied it with cords, striving to hold it together. She could keep it from breaking, but it took so much effort . . .

She faded from the dream and started awake. She embraced the Source immediately and wove a light. Where was she?
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Sunlight shone down upon Egwene as she approached the center. She couldn't help but notice the large, perfectly broken circle of clouds above the field. Rand did affect things in strange ways. He needed no announcement to say that he was in attendance, no banner. The clouds pulled back and sunlight shone down when he was near.
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"You cannot change human nature and you cannot bend the world to your whims. Let people live their lives and choose their own paths."

"I will not, Egwene," Rand said.
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"The seals," Egwene said.

"Signing this document would mean nothing to the White Tower," Rand said, apparently ignoring the comment. "I cant very well forbid all of you to influence the others; that would be foolishness."

"Its already foolishness," Elayne said.

Elayne was not feeling so proud of him any longer, Egwene thought. "And as long as there are political games to be played," Rand continued to Egwene, "the Aes Sedai will master them. In fact, this document benefits you. The White Tower always has believed war to be, as they say, shortsighted. Instead, I demand something else of you. The seals."

"I am their Watcher."

"In name only. They were only just discovered, and I possess them. It is out of respect for your traditional title that I approached you about them first."

"Approached me? You didn't make a request," she said. "You didn't make a demand. You came, told me what you were going to do and walked away."

"I have the seals," he repeated. "And I will break them. I won't allow anything, not even you, to come between me and protecting this world."

All around them arguments over the document continued, rulers muttering with their confidants and neighbors. Egwene stepped forward, facing Rand across the small table, the two of them ignored for the moment. "You won't break them if I stop you, Rand."

"Why would you want to stop me, Egwene? Give me a single reason why it would be a bad idea."

"A single reason other than that it will let the Dark One loose on the world?"

"He was not loose during the War of Power," Rand said. "He could touch the world, but the Bore being opened will not loose him. Not immediately.

And what was the cost of letting him touch the world? What are they now? Horrors, terrors, destruction. You know what is happening to the land. The dead walking, the strange twisting of the Pattern. This is what happens with the seals only weakened! What happens if we actually break them? The Light only knows."

"It is a risk that must be taken."

"I don't agree. Rand, you don't know what releasing his seals will do— you don t know if it might let him escape. You don't know how close he was to getting out when the Bore was last secured. Shattering those seals could destroy the world itself! What if our only hope lies in the fact that he's hindered this time, not completely free?"

"It won't work, Egwene."

"You don't know that. How can you?"

He hesitated. "Many things in life are uncertain."

"So you don't know," she said. "Well, I have been looking, reading, listening. Have you read the works of those who have studied this, thought about it?"

"Aes Sedai speculation."

"The only information we have, Rand! Open the Dark One's prison and all could be lost. We have to be more careful. This is what the Amyrlin Seat is for, this is part of why the White Tower was founded in the first place!" He actually hesitated. Light, he was thinking. Could she be getting through to him?

"I don't like it, Egwene," Rand said softly. "If I go up against him and the seals are not broken, my only choice will be to create another imperfect solution. A patch, even worse than the one last time—because with the old, weakened seals there, I'll just be spreading new plaster over deep cracks. Who knows how long the seals would last this time? In a few centuries, we could have this same fight all over again."

"Is that so bad?" Egwene said. "At least it's sure. You sealed the Bore last time. You know how to do it."

"We could end up with the taint again."

"We're ready for it, this time. No, it wouldn't be ideal. But Rand ... do we really want to risk this? Risk the fate of every living being? Why not take the simple path, the known path? Mend the seals again. Shore up the prison."

"No, Egwene." Rand backed away. "Light! Is this what it's about? You want saidin to be tainted again. You Aes Sedai . . . you're threatened by the idea of men who can channel, undermining your authority!"

"Rand al'Thor, don't you dare be that level of a fool."

He met her eyes. The rulers seemed to be paying little attention to this conversation, despite the fact that the world depended on it. They pored over Rand's document, muttering in outrage. Perhaps that was what he had intended, to distract them with the document, then pounce for the real fight.

Slowly, the rage melted from his face, and he raised his hand to the side of his head. "Light, Egwene. You can still do it, like the sister I never had—tie my mind in knots and have me raving at you and loving you at the same time."

"At least I'm consistent," she said. They were now speaking very softly, leaning across the table toward one another. To the side, Perrin and Nynaeve were probably close enough to hear, and Min had joined them. Gawyn had returned, but he kept his distance. Cadsuane rounded the room, looking in the other direction—too pointedly. She was listening in.

"I am not making this argument in some fool hope to restore the taint," Egwene said. "You know I'm better than that. This is about protecting humankind. I can't believe you are willing to risk everything on a slender chance."

"A slender chance?" Rand said. "We're talking about entering darkness instead of founding another Age of Legends. We could have peace, an end to suffering. Or we could have another Breaking. Light, Egwene. I don't know for certain if I could mend the seals, or make new ones, in the same way. The Dark One has to be ready for that plan."

"And you have another one?"

"I've been telling it to you. I break the seals to get rid of the old, imperfect plug, and try again in a new way."

"The world itself is the cost of failure, Rand." She thought a moment. "There's more here. What aren't you telling me?"

Rand looked hesitant, and for a moment, he seemed the child she'd once caught sneaking bites of Mistress Cauthon's pies with Mat. "I'm going to kill him, Egwene."

"Who? Moridin?"

"The Dark One."

She drew back in shock. "I'm sorry. What did you—"

"I'm going to kill him," Rand said passionately, leaning in. "I'm going to end the Dark One. We will never have true peace so long as he is there, lurking. I'll rip open the prison, I'll enter it and I'll face him. I'll build a new prison if I have to, but first, I'm going to try to end all of this. Protect the Pattern, the Wheel, for good."

"Light, Rand, you're insane!"

"Yes. That is part of the price I have paid. Fortunately. Only a man with shaken wits would be daring enough to try this."

"I'll fight you, Rand," she whispered. "I won't let you pull all of us into this. Listen to reason. The White Tower should be guiding you here."

"I've known the White Tower's guidance, Egwene," he replied. "In a box, beaten each day."

The two locked eyes across the table.
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"I have something you want, something you need. Me. My blood. I will die. We've all known this from the start; the Prophecies demand it. As you wish this of me, I will sell it to you in exchange for a legacy of peace to balance out the legacy of destruction I gave the world last time."
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He's going do it, she thought. They'll complain, but they'll bend.
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"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, Rand. Have you forgotten that?"

"I . . ."

"Not as you will, Dragon Reborn," she said gently. "Not as any of us will. Perhaps one day it will weave itself out of existence. I do not believe that day is today, nor a day soon."
__________________________________________

" 'And it shall come to pass that what men made shall be shattered,' " Moiraine whispered. " 'The Shadow shall lie across the Pattern of the Age, and the Dark One shall once more lay his hand upon the world of man. Women shall weep and men quail as the nations of the earth are rent like rotting cloth. Neither shall anything stand nor abide.' "

The people shuffled their feet. Perrin looked questioningly at Rand.

" 'Yet one shall be born to face the Shadow,'" Moiraine said more loudly. " 'Born once more as he was born before and shall be born again, time without end! The Dragon shall be Reborn, and there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth at his rebirth. In sackcloth and ashes shall he clothe the people, and he shall break the world again by his coming, tearing apart all ties that bind!

" 'Like the unfettered dawn shall he blind us, and burn us, yet shall the Dragon Reborn confront the Shadow at the Last Battle, and his blood shall give us the Light. Let tears flow, O ye people of the world. Weep for your salvation!' "

"Aes Sedai," Darlin said, "pardon, but that is very ominous."

"At least it shall be a salvation," Moiraine said. "Tell me, Your Majesty. That prophecy commands you to shed tears. Are you to weep because your salvation comes with such pain and worry? Or, instead, are you to weep for your salvation? For the man who will suffer for you? The only one we know for certain will not walk away from this fight?"

She turned to Rand.

"These demands are unfair," Gregorin said. "He requires us to keep our borders as they are!"

" 'He shall slay his people with the sword of peace,' " Moiraine said, " and destroy them with the leaf.' "

It's The Karaethon Cycle. I've heard these words before.

"The seals, Moiraine," Egwene said. "He's planning to break them. He defies the authority of the Amyrlin Seat."

Moiraine did not look surprised. Perrin suspected she'd been listening outside before entering. It was very like her.

"Oh, Egwene," Moiraine said. "Have you forgotten? 'The unstained tower breaks and bends knee to the forgotten sign . . "

Egwene blushed.

" 'There can be no health in us, nor any good thing grow,' " Moiraine quoted, " 'for the land is one with the Dragon Reborn, and he one with the land. Soul of fire, heart of stone.' "

She looked to Gregorin. " 'In pride he conquers, forcing the proud to yield.' "

To the Borderlanders. " 'He calls upon the mountains to kneel . . .' "

To the Sea Folk. " '. . . and the seas to give way.' "

To Perrin, then Berelain. " '. . . and the very skies to bow.' "

To Darlin. " 'Pray that the heart of stone remembers tears . . .' "

Then, finally, to Elayne. " . and the soul of fire, love.' You cannot fight this. None of you can. I am sorry. You think he came to this on his own?" She held up the document. "The Pattern is balance. It is not good nor evil, not wisdom nor foolishness. To the Pattern, these things matter not, yet it will find balance. The last Age ended with a Breaking, and so the next one will begin with peace—even if it must be shoved down your throats like medicine given to a screaming babe."
__________________________________________

"I want two provisions added. First, this document is void if not signed by either the Seanchan Daughter of the Nine Moons or the Empress. Second . . . the Aiel—all but the Shaido—are to be written into the document as enforcers of the peace and mediators of disputes between nations. Any nation may call upon them if they feel abused, and the Aiel—not enemy armies—will provide redress. They can hunt criminals across national borders. They are to be subject to the laws of the nations in which they reside at the time, but they are not subjects of that nation."

He turned to Elayne. "There is your enforcement, Elayne, the way to keep your small pressures from building."

"The Aiel?" she asked skeptically.
"Will you agree to this, Rhuarc?" Rand asked. "Bael, Jheran, the rest of you? You claim to be left without purpose, and Perrin sees you as a tool that needs to be worked. Will you take this charge? To prevent war, to punish those who do wrong, to work with the rulers of nations to see justice served?

Justice as we see it, Rand al'Thor," Rhuarc said, "or as they see it?"

"It will have to be according to the conscience of the Aiel," Rand said. "If they call for you, they will have to know that they'll receive your justice. This will not work if the Aiel simply become pawns. Your autonomy will be what makes this effective."
__________________________________________

"We will speak of it," Rhuarc said, nodding to the other Aiel chiefs.

"This will mean an end to the Aiel."

"A beginning as well," Rand said.

The Aiel clan chiefs and the Wise Ones gathered separately to one side, and spoke in soft voices. Aviendha lingered, with Rand staring away, troubled. Perrin heard him whisper something, so soft Perrin's ears barely made it out.

". . . your dream now . . . when you wake from this life, we will be no more . . ."
__________________________________________

"Do not worry, Egwene," Moiraine said, smiling. "He is not going to break the seals."

Rand's face darkened.

Egwene smiled.

"You are going to break them," Moiraine said to Egwene.

"What? Of course I'm not!"

"You are the Watcher of the Seals, Mother," Moiraine said. "Did you not hear what I said earlier? 'It shall come to pass that what men made shall be shattered, and the Shadow shall lie across the Pattern of the Age, and the Dark One shall once more lay his hand upon the world of man . . .' It must happen."

Egwene seemed troubled.

"You have seen this, have you not?" Moiraine whispered. "What have you dreamed, Mother?"

Egwene didn't respond at first.

"What did you see?" Moiraine pressed, stepping closer to her.

"His feet crunching," Egwene said, staring Moiraine in the eyes. "As he strode forward, Rand's feet stepped on the shards of the Dark One's prison. I saw him, in another dream, hacking away at it to open it. But I never actually saw him opening it, Moiraine."

"The shards were there, Mother," Moiraine said. "The seals had been broken "

"Dreams are subject to interpretation."

You know the truth of this one. It does need to be done, and the seals are yours. You will break them, when the time is right. Rand, L-rd Dragon Reborn, it is time to give them to her."

"I don't like this, Moiraine," he said.

"Then not much has changed, has it?" she asked lightly. "I believe you have often resisted doing what you are supposed to. Particularly when I am the one to point it out to you."

He paused for a moment, then laughed, reaching into the pocket of his coat. He slipped out three discs of cuendillar; each split by a sinuous line down the center. He set them on the table.

"How will she know the time?" he asked.

"She will," Moiraine said.
__________________________________________

[Rand - Green Man]

"These trees," Perrin said, stepping forward and resting his hand on the thick, ribbed bark. "I've seen Great Trees like this before. Inside a stedding!'

Elayne embraced the Source. The glow of saidar was there, a warmth alongside that of the sun. She breathed in the Power, and was amused to notice that most of the women who could channel had done as she had the moment a stedding was mentioned.

"Well, whatever Rand is now," Egwene said, folding her arms, "he can't just make stedding appear."
__________________________________________

"An argument must have opposition if it is to prove itself, my son," she said. "One who argues truly learns the depth of his commitment through adversity."
__________________________________________

"But we shall follow you, Dai Shan. Until the sky is rent asunder, until the rocks split underfoot, and until the Wheel itself stops turning. Or, Light send its blessing, until every sword is favored with peace."
__________________________________________

The bare rock ground near Lan split. He jumped back in alarm as the shaking continued, watching tiny rents appear in the rock—hairline cracks. There was something profoundly wrong about the cracks. They were too dark, too deep. Though the area was still shaking, he stepped up, looking at the tiny cracks, trying to make them out in detail through the rumbling earthquake.

They seemed to be cracks into nothingness. They drew the light in, sucked it away. It was as if he was looking at fractures in the nature of reality itself.

The quakes subsided. The darkness within the cracks lingered for a few breaths, then faded away, the hairline fractures becoming just ordinary breaks in stone. Wary, Lan knelt down, inspecting them closely. Had he seen what he'd thought? What did it mean?

Chilled, he rose to his feet and continued on his way. It is not men alone who grow tired, he thought. The mother is weakening.
__________________________________________

Rand rifled through the pile of maps, notes and reports. He stood with his arm folded behind his back, a single lamp burning on the desk. Sheathed in glass, the flame danced as breezes eddied through the tent where he stood alone.

Was the flame alive? It ate, it moved on its own. You could smother it, so in a way, it breathed. What was it to be alive?

Could an idea live?

A world without the Dark One. A world without evil.
__________________________________________

How was a man supposed to react to this news? Was it supposed to shake him, upend him? Rand had been given his share of surprises in life. It seemed he could no longer take two steps without the world changing on him.

But this . . . this wasn't a surprise. He found that deep down, he'd hoped that someday he would be a father. It had happened. That gave him warmth. One thing was going right in the world, even if so many had gone wrong.

Children. His children. He closed his eyes, breathing in, enjoying the thought.

He would never know them. He would leave them fatherless before they were even born. But, then, Janduin had left Rand fatherless—and he had turned out all right. Just a few rough edges, here and there.

"What will you name them?" Rand asked.

"If there is a boy, I've been thinking of naming him Rand."

Rand let himself go still as he felt her womb. Was that motion? A kick? "No," Rand said softly. "Please do not name either child after me, Elayne. Let them live their own lives. My shadow will be long enough as it is.

"Very well."

He looked up to meet her eyes, and he found her smiling with fondness. She rested a smooth hand on his cheek. "You will be a fine father."

"Elayne—"

"Not a word of it," she said, raising a finger. "No talk of death, of duty.

We cannot ignore what will happen."

"We needn't dwell on it either," she said. "I taught you so much about being a monarch, Rand. I seem to have forgotten one lesson. It is all right to plan for the worst possibilities, but you must not bask in them. You must not fixate on them. A queen must have hope before all else."

"I do hope," Rand said. "I hope for the world, for you, for everyone who must fight. That does not change the fact that I have accepted my own death."
__________________________________________

"For me to win, I must care. That, unfortunately, means I must allow myself pain at their deaths."

"And you remember Lews Therin now?" she whispered. "Everything he knew? That is not just an air you put on?"

"I am him. I always was. I remember it now."

Elayne breathed out, eyes widening. "What an advantage Of all the people he had told that to, only she had responded in such a way. What a wonderful woman.

"I have all of this knowledge, yet it doesn't tell me what to do." He stood up, pacing. "I should be able to fix it, Elayne. No more should need to die for me. This is my fight. Why must everyone else go through such suffering?

You deny us the right to fight?" she said, sitting up straight.

"No, of course not," Rand said. "I could deny you nothing. I just wish that somehow . . . somehow I could make this all stop. Shouldn't my sacrifice be enough?"
__________________________________________

Rand walked to her and took the cup from her fingers. He held it for a moment, but did not channel. "I brought you something. I forgot to mention it."

"Tea?"

"No, this is just an aside." He handed the cup back to her and she took a sip.

Her eyes widened. "It's wonderful. How do you do it?"

"I don't," Rand said, sitting. "The Pattern does."

"But—"

"I am taveren," Rand said. "Things happen around me, unpredictable things. For the longest time, there was a balance. In one town, someone would discover a great treasure unexpectedly under the stairs. In the next I visited, people would discover that their coins were fakes, passed to them by a clever counterfeiter.

"People died in terrible ways; others were saved by a miracle of chance. Deaths and births. Marriages and divisions. I once saw a feather drift down from the sky and fall point-first into the mud so it stuck there. The next ten that fell did the same thing. It was all random. Two sides to a flipping coin.

This tea is not random."

"Yes, it is," Rand said. "But, you see, I get only one side of the coin these days. Someone else is doing the bad. The Dark One injects horrors into the world, causing death, evil, madness. But the Pattern ... the Pattern is balance. So it works, through me, to provide the other side. The harder the Dark One works, the more powerful the effect around me becomes."

"The growing grass," Elayne said. "The splitting clouds. The food unspoiled . . ."

"Yes." Well, some other tricks helped on occasion, but he didn't mention them. He fished in his pocket for a small pouch.

"If what you say is true," Elayne replied, "then there can never be good in the world."

"Of course there can."

"Will the Pattern not balance it out?"

He hesitated. That line of reasoning cut too close to the way he had begun thinking before Dragonmount—that he had no options, that his life was planned for him. "So long as we care," Rand said, "there can be good. The Pattern is not about emotions—it is not even about good or evil. The Dark One is a force from outside of it, influencing it by force."

And Rand would end that. If he could.

"Here," Rand said. "The gift I mentioned." He pushed the pouch toward her.

She looked at him, curious. She untied the strings, and took from it a small statue of a woman. She stood upright, with a shawl about her shoulders, though she did not look like an Aes Sedai. She had a mature face, aged and wise, with a wise look about her and a smile on her face.

"An angreal?" Elayne asked.

"No, a Seed."

"A . . . seed?"

"You have the Talent of creating ter'angreal," Rand said. "Creating angreal requires a different process. It begins with one of these, an object created to draw your Power and instill it into something else. It takes time, and will weaken you for several months, so you should not attempt it while we are at war. But when I found it, forgotten, I thought of you. I had wondered what I could give you."

"Oh, Rand, I have something for you as well." She hurried over to an ivory jewelry chest that rested on a camp table and took a small object from it. It was a dagger with a short, dull blade and a handle made of deerhorn wrapped in gold wire.

Rand glanced at the dagger quizzically. "No offense, but that looks like a poor weapon, Elayne."

"It's a ter'angreal, something that may be of use when you go to Shayol Ghul. With it, the Shadow cannot see you." She reached up to touch his face. He placed his hand on hers.

They stayed together long into the night.
__________________________________________

"Draghkar are Shadowspawn," Bryne said. "I've been told that they'd die passing through the gateway."

"I guess that's true," Egwene said, "but you'd have a flock of dead Draghkar in here. Regardless, channelers can still attack through it."
__________________________________________

"You have ever been a king, my friend. Elayne taught me to rule, but you . . . you taught me how to stand. Thank you."
__________________________________________

[Rand - Jesus - Life and Death, Alpha and Omega]

Seas grew choppy when different streams of water crashed into one another. Winds grew powerful when hot air and cool mixed. And where Light confronted Shadow . . . storms grew. Rand shouted, letting his nature stir the tempest. The Dark One pressed upon the land, seeking to smother it. The Pattern needed equalization. It needed balance.

It needed the Dragon.

The winds grew more powerful, lightning breaking the air, black dust and burned stalks flipping up, twisting about in the maelstrom. Rand finally channeled as Myrddraal forced the Trollocs to attack him; the beasts charged against the wind, and Rand directed the lightning.

It was so much easier to direct than control. With a storm already in place, he didn't need to force the lightning—he needed only to cajole it.

Strikes destroyed the front groups of Trollocs, a hundred bolts of lightning in succession. The pungent scent of burned flesh soon swirled in the storm, joining the charred stalks of grain. Rand roared as the Trollocs kept coming. Deathgates sprang up around him, gateways that zipped across the ground like water striders, sweeping Trollocs into death. Shadowspawn could not survive Traveling.

The stormwinds rose around Rand as he struck down those Trollocs who tried to reach him. The Dark One thought to rule here? He would see that this land already had a king! He would see that the fight would not—

A shield tried to sever Rand from the Source. He laughed, spinning, trying to pinpoint the shield's origin. "Taim!" he yelled, though the storm captured his voice and overwhelmed it. "I had hoped you would come!"

This was the fight that Lews Therin had constantly demanded of him, a fight Rand hadn't dared begin. Not until now, not until he had control. He summoned his strength, but then another shield struck at him, and another.

Rand drew in more of the One Power, tapping nearly all that he could through the fat man angreal. Shields continued to snap at him like biting flies. None were strong enough to sever him from the Source, but there were dozens of them.

Rand calmed himself. He sought peace, the peace of destruction. He was life, but he was also death. He was the manifestation of the land itself.
__________________________________________

Lews Therin had known how to create dreamshards like this. Though he had not been a Dreamer, most Aes Sedai of that era had made use of Tel'aran'rhiod in one way or another. One thing they learned was how to slice out a dream for themselves, a haven within their own mind, more controlled than regular dreams. They learned how to enter a fragment like this while meditating, somehow giving the body rest as real as sleep.

Lews Therin had known these things, and more. How to reach into someone's mind if they entered his dreamshard. How to tell if someone else had invaded his dreams. How to expose his dreams to others. Lews Therin had liked to know things, like a traveler who wanted to have one of everything useful in his rucksack.
__________________________________________

"You do not know me so well as you think that you do," she said, watching him as he rounded the perimeter of her prison. "You never did." 

"Then prove it to me," Rand said, stopping. "Show me your mind, Mierin. Open it to me completely. Give me control over you here, in this place of mastered dreams. If your intentions are pure, I will free you." 

"What you ask is forbidden."

Rand laughed. "When has that ever stopped you?"

She seemed to consider it; she must actually have been worried about her imprisonment. Once, she would have laughed at a suggestion such as this. Since this was, ostensibly, a place where he had complete control, if she gave him leave, he could strip her down, delve within her mind.

"I . . ." Lanfear said.

He stepped forward, right to the lip of the prison. That tremble in her voice . . . that felt real. The first genuine emotion from her.

Light, he thought, searching her eyes. Is she actually going to do it?

"I cannot," she said. "I cannot." She said it the second time more softly. Rand exhaled. He found his hand shaking. So close. So close to the Light, like a feral cat in the night, stalking back and forth before the fire-lit barn! He found himself angry, angrier than before. Always, she did this! Flirting with what was right, but always choosing her own path.

"I am done with you, Mierin," Rand said, turning away and walking from the chamber. "Forever."

"You mistake me!" she called out. "You have always mistaken me! Would you show yourself to someone in that way? I cannot do it. I have been slapped too many times by those I should have trusted. Betrayed by those who should have loved me."

"You blame this on me?" Rand asked, spinning on his heel.

She did not look away. She sat, imperious, as if her prison were a throne. "You really remember it that way, don't you?" Rand said. "You think I betrayed you for her?"

"You said that you loved me."

"I never said that. Never. I could not. I did not know what love was. Centuries of life, and I never discovered it until I met her." He hesitated, then continued, speaking so softly his voice did not echo in the small cavern. "You have never really felt it, have you? But of course. Who could you love? Your heart is claimed already, by the power you so strongly desire. There is no room left."

Rand let go.

He let go as Lews Therin never had been able to. Even after discovering Ilyena, even after realizing how Lanfear had used him, he had held on to hatred and scorn. You expect me to pity you? Rand had asked her.

He now felt just that. Pity for a woman who had never known love, a woman who would not let herself know it. Pity for a woman who could not choose a side other than her own.

"I . . ." she said softly.

Rand raised his hand, and then he opened himself to her. His intentions, his mind, his self appeared as a swirl of color, emotions and power around him.

Her eyes opened wide as the swirl played before her, like pictures on a wall. He could hold nothing back. She saw his motives, his desires, his wishes for mankind. She saw his intentions. To go to Shayol Ghul, to kill the Dark One. To leave a better world than he had the last time.

He did not fear revealing these things. He had touched the True Power, and so the Dark One knew his heart. There were no surprises here, at least nothing that should have been a surprise.

Lanfear was surprised anyway. Her jaw dropped as she saw the truth— the truth that, down deep, it was not Lews Therin who made up Rand's core. It was the sheepherder, raised by Tam. His lives played out in moments, his memories and feelings exposed.

Last, he showed her his love for Ilyena—like a glowing crystal, set upon a shelf and admired. Then his love for Min, Aviendha, Elayne. Like a burning bonfire, warming, comforting, passionate.

There was no love for Lanfear in what he exposed. Not a sliver. He had squelched Lews Therin's loathing of her as well. And so, to him, she really was nothing.

She gasped.

The glow around Rand faded. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really did mean it. I am finished with you, Mierin. Keep your head down during the storm to come. If I win this fight, you will no longer have reason to fear for your soul. There will be no one left to torment you."

He turned from her again, and walked from the cave, leaving her silent.
__________________________________________

"Why is it evil?" Perrin said.

"To enter into the world of dreams in the flesh costs you part of what makes you human. What's more, if you die while in that place—and you are in the flesh—it can make you die forever. No more rebirth, Perrin Aybara. Your thread in the Pattern could end forever, you yourself destroyed. This is not a thing you should contemplate."

"The servants of the Shadow do this, Edarra," Perrin said. "They take these risks to dominate. We need to take the same risks in order to stop them."

Edarra hissed softly, shaking her head. "Do not cut off your foot for fear that a snake will bite it, Perrin Aybara. Do not make a terrible mistake because you fear something that seems worse. This is all I will say on the topic."

She stood and left him sitting by the fire.
__________________________________________

Then Egwene returned to rupturing the earth. There was something energizing about using raw power, sending weaves in their most basic forms. In that moment—maiming, destroying, bringing death upon the enemy—she felt as if she were one with the land itself That she was doing the work it had longed for someone to do for so long. The Blight, and the Shadowspawn it grew, were a disease. An infection. Egwene—afire with the One Power, a blazing beacon of death and judgment—was the cauterizing flame that would bring healing to the land.
__________________________________________

"Being in charge isn't always about telling people what to do. Sometimes, it's about knowing when to step out of the way of people who know what they're doing."
__________________________________________

"All right, back to Merrilor, then," Perrin said.

Neald nodded, concentrating.

As he worked, Perrin turned to the men. "I hate to leave you, but I have these hooks in me, pulling me north. I have to go to Rand, and there's just no arguing with it. I'll try to come back. If I can't . . . well, I want you all to know that I'm proud of you. All of you. You're welcome in my home when this is over. We'll open a cask or two of Master al'Vere's best brandy. We'll remember those who fell, and we'll tell our children how we stood when the clouds turned black and the world started to die. We'll tell them we stood shoulder to shoulder, and there was just no space for the Shadow to squeeze through."

He raised Mah'alleinir toward them, and he bore their cheering. Not because he deserved it, but because they certainly did.
__________________________________________


"You take care of him, you two," Perrin said, looking toward Nynaeve and Moiraine as he pulled back from the embrace. "You hear me?"

"Oh, now you want me to watch after Rand?" Nynaeve said, hands on hips. "I don't believe I ever stopped, Perrin Aybara. Don't think I didn't hear you two whispering over there. You're doing something foolish, aren't you?"

"Always," Perrin said, raising a hand in farewell to Thom. "Gaul, you certain you want to do this?"

"I am," the Aielman said, loosening his spears and looking through Rand's gateway.

Without another word, the two hefted their heavy packs and stepped into the World of Dreams.
__________________________________________

[Rand]

He breathed in the deep scents of a world wounded, but not dead.
__________________________________________

"The Dark One is beyond killing," Moiraine said.

"I think I can do it," Rand said. "I remember what Lews Therin did, and there was a moment ... a brief moment ... It can happen, Moiraine. I'm more confident that I can do that than I am that I could seal the Dark One away." That was true, though he had no real confidence that he could manage either.

Questions. So many questions. Shouldn't he have some answers by now? "The Dark One is part of the Wheel," Moiraine said.

"No. The Dark One is outside the Pattern," Rand countered. "Not part of the Wheel at all."

"Of course the Dark One is part of the Wheel, Rand," Moiraine said. "We are the threads that make up the Pattern's substance, and the Dark One affects us. You cannot kill him. That is a fool's task."

"I have been a fool before," Rand said. "And I shall be one again. At times, Moiraine, my entire life—all that I've done—feels like a fool's task. What is one more impossible challenge? I've met all the others. Perhaps I can accomplish this one too."

She tightened her grip on his arm. "You have grown so much, but you are still just a youth, are you not?"

Rand immediately seized control of his emotions, and did not lash back at her. The surest way to be thought of as a youth was to act like one. He stood straight-backed, and spoke softly. "I have lived for four centuries," he said. "Perhaps I am still a youth, in that all of us are, compared to the timeless age of the Wheel itself. That said, I am one of the oldest people in existence."

Moiraine smiled. "Very nice. Does that work on the others?"

He hesitated. Then, oddly, he found himself grinning. "It worked pretty well on Cadsuane."

Moiraine sniffed. "That one . . . Well, knowing her, I doubt you fooled her as well as you assume. You may have the memories of a man four centuries old, Rand al'Thor, but that does not make you ancient. Otherwise, Matrim Cauthon would be the patriarch of us all."

"Mat? Why Mat?"

"It is nothing," Moiraine said. "Something I am not supposed to know. You are still a wide-eyed sheepherder at heart. I would not have it any other way. Lews Therin, for all of his wisdom and power, could not do what you must."
__________________________________________

"What did you do to your hand, by the way?"

"What did you do to your eye?"

"A little accident with a corkscrew and thirteen angry innkeepers. The hand?"

"Lost it capturing one of the Forsaken."

"Capturing?" Mat said. "You're growing soft."

Rand snorted. "Tell me you've done better."

"I killed a gholam," Mat said.

"I freed Illian from Sammael."

"I married the Empress of the Seanchan."

"Mat," Rand said, "are you really trying to get into a bragging contest with the Dragon Reborn?" He paused for a moment. "Besides, I cleansed saidin. I win."

"Ah, that's not really worth much," Mat said.

"Not worth much? It's the single most important event to happen since the Breaking."

"Bah. You and your Asha'man are already crazy," Mat said, "so what does it matter?" He glanced to the side. "You look nice, by the way. You've been taking better care of yourself lately."

"So you do care," Rand said.

"Of course I do," Mat grumbled, looking back at Tuon. "I mean, you have to keep yourself alive, right? Go have your little duel with the Dark One and keep us all safe? It's good to know you're looking up to it."

"That's nice to hear," Rand said, smiling. "No wisecracks about my nice coat?"

"What? Wisecracks? You aren't still sore because I teased you a little a couple of years ago?"

"Teased?" Rand said. "You spent weeks refusing to talk to me."

"Here now," Mat said. "It wasn't all that bad. I remember that part easily."

Rand shook his head, as if bemused. Bloody ungrateful was what he was. Mat had gone off to fetch Elayne, as Rand had asked, and this was the thanks he was given. Sure, Mat had been a little sidetracked after that. He had still done it, had he not?

"All right," Mat said very softly, tugging at the bonds of Air holding him. "I'll get us out of this, Rand. I'm married to her. Let me do the talking, and—"

"Daughter of Artur Hawkwing," Rand said to Tuon. "Time spins toward the end of all things. The Last Battle has begun, and the threads are being woven. Soon, my final trial will begin."

Tuon stepped forward, Selucia waving a few last finger-talk words toward her. "You will be taken to Seanchan, Dragon Reborn," Tuon said. Her voice was collected, firm.

Mat smiled. Light, but she made a good Empress. There was no need to filch my medallion, though, he thought. They were going to have words about that. Assuming he survived this. She would not really execute him, would she?

Again, he tried the invisible bonds tying him.

"Is that so?" Rand asked.

"You have delivered yourself to me," Tuon said. "It is an omen." She seemed almost regretful. "You did not truly think that I would allow you to stroll away, did you? I must take you in chains as a ruler who resisted me— as I have done to the others I found here. You pay the price of your ancestors' forgetfulness. You should have remembered your oaths."

"I see," Rand said.

You know, Mat thought, he does a fair job of sounding like a king, too. Light, what kind of people had Mat surrounded himself with? What had happened to the fair barmaids and carousing soldiers?

"Tell me something, Empress," Rand said. "What would you all have done if you'd returned to these shores and found Artur Hawkwing's armies still ruling? What if we hadn't forgotten our oaths, what if we had stayed true? What then?"

"We would have welcomed you as brothers," Tuon said.

"Oh?" Rand said. "And you would have bowed to the throne here? Hawkwing's throne? If his empire still stood, it would have been ruled over by his heir. Would you have tried to dominate them? Would you instead have accepted their rule over you?"

"That is not the case," Tuon said, but she seemed to find his words intriguing.

"No, it is not," Rand said.

"By your argument, you must submit to us." She smiled.

"I did not make that argument," Rand said, "but let us do so. How do you claim the right to these lands?"

"By being the only legitimate heir of Artur Hawkwing."

"And why should that matter?"

"This is his empire. He is the only one to have unified it, he is the only leader to have ruled it in glory and greatness."

"And there you are wrong," Rand said, voice growing soft. "You accept me as the Dragon Reborn?"

"You must be," Tuon said slowly, as if wary of a trap.

"Then you accept me for who I am," Rand said, voice growing loud, crisp. Like a battle horn. "I am Lews Therin Telamon, the Dragon. I ruled these lands, unified, during the Age of Legends. I was leader of all the armies of the Light, I wore the Ring of Tamyrlin. I stood first among the Servants, highest of the Aes Sedai, and I could summon the Nine Rods of Dominion."

Rand stepped forward. "I held the loyalty and fealty of all seventeen Generals of Dawn's Gate. Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag, my authority supersedes your own!"

"Artur Hawkwing—"

"My authority supersedes that of Hawkwing! If you claim rule by the name of he who conquered, then you must bow before my prior claim. I conquered before Hawkwing, though I needed no sword to do so. You are here on my land, Empress, at my sufferance!"

Thunder broke in the distance. Mat found himself shaking. Light, it was just Rand. Just Rand . . . was it not?

Tuon backed away, eyes wide, her lips parted. Her face was full of horror, as if she had just seen her own parents executed.

Green grass spread around Rand's feet. The guards nearby jumped back, hands to swords, as a swath of life extended from Rand. The brown and yellow blades colored, as if paint had been poured on them, then came upright—stretching as if after long slumber.

The greenness filled the entire garden clearing. "He's still shielded!" the sul'dam cried. "Honored One, he is still shielded!"

Mat shivered, and then noticed something. Very soft, so easy to miss.

"Are you singing?" Mat whispered to Rand.

Yes ... it was unmistakable. Rand was singing, under his breath, very softly. Mat tapped his foot. "I swear I've heard that tune somewhere, once ... Is it 'Two Maids at the Water's Edge'?"

"You're not helping," Rand whispered. "Quiet."

Rand continued his song. The green spread to the trees, the firs strengthening their limbs. The other trees began to shoot out leaves—they were indeed peach trees—growing at great speed, life flooding into them.

The guards looked about themselves, spinning, trying to watch all of the trees at once. Selucia had cringed. Tuon remained upright, her eyes focused on Rand. Nearby, the frightened sul'dam and damane must have stopped concentrating, for the bonds holding Mat vanished.

"Do you deny my right?" Rand demanded. "Do you deny that my claim to this land precedes your own by thousands of years?"

"I . . ." Tuon took a deep breath and stared at him defiantly. "You broke the land, abandoned it. I can deny your right."

Behind her, blossoms exploded onto the trees like fireworks, white and deep pink. The bursts of color surrounded them. Petals sprayed outward with their growth, breaking from the trees, catching in the wind and swirling through the clearing.

"I allowed you to live," Rand said to Tuon, "when I could have destroyed you in an instant. This is because you have made life better for those under your rule, though you are not without guilt for the way you have treated some. Your rule is as flimsy as paper. You hold this land together only through the strength of steel and damane, but your homeland burns.

"I have not come here to destroy you. I come to you now to offer you peace, Empress. I have come without armies, I have come without force. I have come because I believe that you need me, as I need you." Rand stepped forward and, remarkably, went down on one knee, bowing his head, his hand extended. "I extend my hand to you in alliance. The Last Battle is upon us. Join me, and fight."

The clearing fell still. The wind stopped blowing, the thunder stopped rumbling. Peach blossoms wafted to the now-green grass. Rand remained where he was, hand extended. Tuon stared at that hand as if at a viper.

Mat hurried forward. "Nice trick," he said under his breath to Rand. "Very nice trick." He approached Tuon, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to the side. Nearby, Selucia looked stunned. Karede was not in much better shape. They would not be any help.

"Hey, look," Mat said to her softly. "He's a good fellow. Hes rough at the corners sometimes, but you can trust his word. If he's offering you a treaty, he'll make good on it."

That was a very impressive display," Tuon said softly. She was trembling faintly. "What is he?"

"Burn me if I know," Mat said. "Listen, Tuon. I grew up with Rand. I vouch for him."

"There is a darkness in that man, Matrim. I saw it when last he and I last met."

"Look at me, Tuon. Look at me."

She looked up, meeting his gaze.

"You can trust Rand al'Thor with the world itself," Mat said. "And if you can't trust him, trust me. Hes our only choice. We don't have time to take him back to Seanchan.

"I've been in the city long enough to have a little peek at your forces. If you're going to fight the Last Battle and recapture your homeland, you're going to need a stable base here in Altara. Take his offer. He just claimed this land. Well, make him secure your borders as they are and announce it to the others. They might listen. Take a little pressure off you. Unless, that is, you want to fight the Trollocs, the nations of this land, and the rebels in Seanchan at the same time."

Tuon blinked. "Our forces."

"What?"

"You called them my forces," she said. "They are our forces. You are one of us now, Matrim."

"Well, I guess I am at that. Listen, Tuon. You have to do this. Please." She turned, looking at Rand, kneeling in the middle of a pattern of peach blossoms that seemed to have circled out from him. Not a one had fallen on him.

"What is your offer?" Tuon asked.

"Peace," Rand said, standing, hand still out. "Peace for a hundred years. Longer, if I can make it so. I have persuaded the other rulers to sign a treaty and work together to fight the armies of the Shadow."

"I would have my borders secured," Tuon said.

"Altara and Amadicia shall be yours."

"Tarabon and Almoth Plain as well," Tuon said. "I hold them now. I will not be forced from them by your treaty. You wish peace? You will give me this."

"Tarabon and half of Almoth Plain," Rand said. "The half you already control."

"I would have the all of the women this side of the Aryth Ocean who can channel as damane," Tuon said.

"Do not strain your luck, Empress," Rand said dryly. "I ... I will allow you to do what you will in Seanchan, but I will require you to relinquish any damane you have taken while in this land."

"Then we have no agreement," Tuon said.

Mat held his breath.

Rand hesitated, hand lowering. "The fate of the world itself could hang on this, Fortuona. Please."

"If it is that important," she said firmly, "you can agree to my demand. Our property is our own. You wish a treaty? Then you will get it with this clause: We keep the damane we already have. In exchange, I will allow you to leave in freedom."

Rand grimaced. "You're as bad as one of the Sea Folk."

"I should hope I'm worse," Tuon said, no emotion in her voice. "The world is your charge, Dragon, not mine. I care for my empire. I will greatly need those damane. Choose now. As I believe you said, your time is short."

Rand's expression darkened; then he thrust his hand outward. "Let it be done. Light be merciful, let it be done. I will carry this weight too. You may keep the damane you already have, but you shall not take any from among my allies while we fight the Last Battle. Taking any afterward who are not in your own land will be seen as breaking the treaty and attacking the other nations."

Tuon stepped forward, then took Rand's hand in her own. Mat let out his breath.

"I have documents for you to review and sign," Rand said.

"Selucia will take them," Tuon said. "Matrim, with me. We must prepare the Empire for war." Tuon walked away down the path, her step controlled, though Mat suspected that she wanted to be away from Rand as quickly as possible. He understood the sentiment.

He followed, but stopped beside Rand. "Seems you have a bit of the Dark One's luck yourself," he muttered to Rand. "I can't believe that worked."

"Honestly?" Rand said softly. "I can't either. Thank you for the good word."

"Sure," Mat said. "By the way, I saved Moiraine. Chew on that as you try to decide which of the two of us is winning."

Mat followed Tuon, and behind him rose the laughter of the Dragon Reborn.
__________________________________________

"The rings are dangerous," Leilwin said. "I do not know much of them, but they are said to kill those who use them. Do not let your blood touch the ring, or you will activate it, and that could be deadly, Warder." She handed him the bowl of stew, then strode away.
__________________________________________

And then the Shadowspawn had come.

The monsters continued burning, limbs twitching.

Still, Rand worried that these things might be humans reborn. Aginor had used people to create the Trollocs and Myrddraal. Was this the fate of some? To be reborn as twisted creations such as this? The idea sickened him.

He checked the sky. The clouds had begun to withdraw, as they did near him. He could force them to not do so, but... no. Men needed the Light, and he could not fight here too long, lest it become obvious that one of the Asha'man was too strong for the face he wore.

Rand let the light come.

All across the battlefield near the river, people glanced toward the sky as sunlight fell on them, the dark clouds pulling back.

No more hiding, Rand thought, removing his Mask of Mirrors and raising his hand in a fist above his head. He wove Air, Fire and Water, creating a column of light extending from himself high into the sky. Soldiers across the battlefield cheered.

He would not bring down the traps the Dark One had waiting for him. He moved through a gateway back to Merrilor. He never stayed long at a battlefront, but he always revealed himself before he left. He let the clouds break above, proving he had been there, then withdrew.
__________________________________________

[Shortly after, he gives ribbon to Egwene, symbolizing womanhood in Two Rivers at Bel Tine

"You've been giving things to people," Cadsuane said, "in preparation for death. It's common for the elderly or for men riding into a battle they don't think they can win. A sword for your father, a ter'angreal for the Queen of Andor, a crown for Lan Mandragoran, jewelry for the Aiel girl, and for this one." She nodded at Min.
__________________________________________

Rand held up the seal, staring at it, as if seeking wisdom in that sinuous line. "I crafted these," he whispered. "I made them to never break. But I knew, as I did it, that they would eventually fail. Everything eventually fails when he touches it . . "

Egwene hefted another of the seals, holding it gingerly. It would not do to break the thing by accident. She kept them wrapped and the pouch stuffed with cloth; she worried about breaking them while carrying them, but Moiraine had indicated that Egwene would break them.

She felt that was foolish, but the words she had read, the things Moiraine had said . . . Well, if the moment did come to break them, Egwene would need to have them at hand. And so she carried them—carried with her the potential death of the world itself.

Rand suddenly went as white as a sheet. "Egwene," he said. "This does not fool me."

"What doesn't?"

He looked at her. "This is a fake. Please, it is all right. Tell me the truth. You made a copy and gave it to me."

"I did nothing of the sort," she said.

"Oh . . . Oh, Light" Rand raised the seal again. "Its a fake."

"What!" Egwene snatched it from his hand, feeling it. She sensed nothing wrong. "How can you be sure?"

"I made them," Rand said. "I know my handiwork. That is not one of the seals. It is . . . Light, someone took them."

"I've had these with me each moment since you gave them to me!" Egwene said.

"Then it happened before," Rand whispered. "I didn't look them over carefully after I fetched them. He knew, somehow, where I'd put them." Taking the other one from her, he shook his head. "It's not real either." He took the third. "Nor this one."

He looked at her. "He has them, Egwene. He's stolen them back, somehow. The Dark One holds the keys to his own prison."
__________________________________________

They ducked through Romanda's gateway, followed by their Warders. Romanda came last, leaping through as a group of Trollocs claimed their hilltop. One of the beasts, a shaggy-furred bearlike monstrosity, stumbled through the gateway after her.

The thing dropped dead immediately, a faint wisp of smoke rising from its carcass. Its fellows hooted and growled on the other side. Egwene glanced at the other women, then shrugged and released flame straight through the gateway.
__________________________________________

Shayol Ghul itself dominated the valley, its black slopes rising like a serrated knife into the sky. The sides were rent with cuts, like the skin of a man who had been whipped a hundred times, each score leaving a gash that spat steam. Perhaps that steam created the fog that lay over the valley. The fog churned and surged, as if the valley were a cup holding liquid.

"Such a terrible place," Amys whispered.

Aviendha had never heard such dread in the woman's voice. That chilled Aviendha nearly as much as the bitter wind that ruffled their clothing. Distant pings broke the air, the workers forging. A black column of smoke rose from the nearest forge, and did not dissipate. It rose like an umbilical cord to the clouds above, which rained down lightning with dreadful frequency.
__________________________________________

If the end of the Aiel was the sacrifice required for Rand to win, she would make it. She would scream and curse the Creator's own name, but she would pay that price. Any warrior would. Better that one people should end than the world fall completely under Shadow.
__________________________________________

Rand turned and looked upward, toward the peak of Shayol Ghul. Staring at it, his emotions changed. He seemed a man looking at a fountain in the Three-fold Land, savoring the idea of cool water.
__________________________________________

Men or women could not know themselves, not truly, until they were strained to their absolute limit. Until they danced the spears with death, felt their blood seeping out to stain the ground, and drove the weapon home into the beating heart of an enemy. Rand al'Thor wanted this, and she understood him because of it. Strange to realize, after all of this time, just how alike they were.
__________________________________________

The Pattern weaves us all where we need to be.
__________________________________________

"You are taking Callandor when you attack him? Its weakness ... so long as you are channeling into that . . . thing, anyone can seize control of you. They can use you, and can draw the One Power through Callandor into you until it burns you out—leaving you powerless, and leaving them with the strength to level mountains, destroy cities.

"I will take it," Rand said.

"But it's a trap!" Nynaeve said.

"Yes," Rand said, sounding tired. "A trap I must stride into and allow to spring shut upon me." He laughed, suddenly, throwing his head back. "As always! Why should I be surprised? Spread the word, Nynaeve. Tell Ituralde, Rhuarc, King Darlin. Tomorrow, we invade Shayol Ghul and claim it as our own! If we must put our head into the lion's mouth, let us make certain that he chokes upon our flesh!"
__________________________________________

A hundred and twenty Aes Sedai dead in a matter of hours? The White Tower would require a very long time to recover from that.

"I'm sorry, Siuan," Bryne said.

"Bah," Siuan said, "most of them treated me like fish guts anyway. They resented me as Amyrlin, laughed when I was cast down, and then made a servant of me when I returned."

Bryne nodded, still rubbing her shoulder. He could feel that she was hurt, despite her words. There were good women among the dead. Many good sisters.
__________________________________________

"A man who thinks all day about the catch he missed because of stormy weather ends up wasting time when the sky is clear."
__________________________________________

[Asha'man]

We fight not to die, but to live.
__________________________________________

"I am Bao, the Wyld. He Who Is Owned Only by the Land. The dragonslayer. He knew me once by a name I have scorned, the name Barid Bel."

Barid Bel? Egwene thought, memories from her lessons in the White Tower returning to her. Barid Bel Medar . . . Demandred.
__________________________________________

She released a white-hot bar of light, but Perrin bent it around himself.

The woman started. They always did that. Didn't they realize that nothing was real here except what you thought to be real?
__________________________________________

"The ability to channel is not a thing of the body, but a thing of the soul."
__________________________________________

"Time passes oddly here," she said, "and the barriers of time itself are fraying. The closer you are to the Bore, the more time will distort. For those who approach Shayol Ghul in the real world, it will be just as bad. For every day that passes to them, three or four might pass to those more distant."
__________________________________________

My authority is not drawn from my power to channel, she told herself. My strength is in control, understanding, and care. I will escape this camp, and I will continue the fight.
__________________________________________

She thrust her hands forward, letting loose a raw weave, only half-formed. This was almost too much power for her to shape. Air and Fire spurted from her hands, a column of it as wide as a man with arms outstretched. The fire flared as a thick, hot near-liquid. Not balefire—she was smarter than that but dangerous nonetheless. The air contained the fire in a concentrated mass of destruction.

The column streaked across the battlefield, melting the stone beneath and starting corpses aflame. A huge swath of fog vanished with a hiss, and the ground shook as the column plowed into the side of the valley wall where the enemy channeler—Aviendha could only assume it was one of the Forsaken, from her strength—had been attacking the back ranks of Aiel.

Aviendha released the weave, her skin slick with sweat. A smoldering black column of smoke rose from the valley wall. Molten rock trickled down the slope. She grew still, waiting, alert. The One Power inside of her actually started to strain, as if trying to escape her. Was that because some of the energy she used came from men? Never before had the One Power seemed to want to destroy her.

She had only a brief warning: a frantic moment of channeling from the other side of the valley, followed by an enormous rush of wind.

Aviendha sliced that wind down the center with an invisible weave the size of a great forest tree. She followed it with another blast of fire, this time more controlled. No, she didn't dare use balefire. Rand had warned her. That could widen the Bore, break the framework of reality in a place where that membrane was already thin.

Her enemy didn't have the same restriction. The woman's next attack came as a white-hot bar, narrowly missing Aviendha—drilling through the air a finger's width from her head—before hitting the wall of the forge behind. The balefire sliced a wide swath of stone and brick from the wall, and the building collapsed with a crash.

Good riddance, Aviendha thought, throwing herself to the ground.
__________________________________________

"I name you Knotai, for you are a bringer of destruction to the Empire's enemies. Let your new name only be spoken from now into eternity, Knotai. I proclaim that Knotai, Prince of the Ravens, is to be given the rank of Rodholder in our armies. Let it be published as my will."
__________________________________________

[sun burned through black clouds]

The sun finally burned out from behind the blackness above, like a drop of molten steel.
__________________________________________

"No," Rand said, stopping. "I will not come to you on my knees, Shai'tan."

The cavern rumbled. The cavern's dark reaches seemed to press inward, pushing against Rand. He stood motionless. It was as if he were a stuck gear, and the rest of the machine strained to keep turning the hands on the clock. He held firm.

The rocks trembled, then retreated. Rand stepped forward, and released a breath as the pressure lessened. This thing he had begun could not be stopped now. Slowing strained both him and the Dark One; his adversary was caught up in this inevitability as much as he was. The Dark One didn't exist within the Pattern, but the Pattern still affected him.
__________________________________________

Turned, Perrin thought. Like those men at the Black Tower. He frowned, walking up and taking the head of one of the men in his hands. Could he will the man back to the Light? If he could be forced to be evil, could he be restored?
__________________________________________

"What of a girl whom you discover to be able to channel? If she does not wish to be made damane, will you let her leave your lands and join ours?"

"That would be like letting an enraged grolm free in a city square.

"You said that people will see the truth," Egwene said. "If your way of life is strong, your ideals true, then people will see them for what they are. If they don't, you shouldn't force them. Let any who wish to be free go free, and I'll let your people speak in Tar Valon. Light! I'll give them room and free board, and I'll see the same done in every city!"

Fortuona eyed Egwene. "Many of our sul'dam have come to this war anticipating the chance to capture new damane from among those who serve the Shadow. These Sharans, perhaps. You would have us let them, or your sisters of the Shadow, free? To destroy, murder?"

"To be tried and executed, under the Light."

"Why not let them be put to use? Why waste their lives?"

"What you do is an abomination!" Egwene said, feeling exasperated. "Not even the Black Ajah deserves that."

"Resources should not be discarded so idly."

"Is that so?" Egwene said. "Do you realize that every one of your sul'dam, your precious trainers, is herself a marath'damane?"

Fortuona spun on her. "Do not spread such lies."

"Oh? Shall we test it, Fortuona? You said you trained them yourself. You are a sul'dam, I presume? Put the a'dam on your neck. I dare you. If I am wrong, it will do nothing to you. If I am right, you will be subject to its power, and will prove to be marath'damane."

Fortuona's eyes widened in anger. She had ignored Egwene's barbs calling her a criminal, but this accusation seemed to dig into her ... so Egwene made certain to twist the knife a little deeper.

"Yes," Egwene said. "Let us do it and test the real strength of your commitment. If you prove to be able to channel, will you do as you claim others should? Will you stroll up to the collar and snap it around your own neck, Fortuona? Will you obey your own laws?"

"I have obeyed them," Fortuona said coldly. "You are very ignorant. Perhaps it is true, that sul'dam can learn to channel. But this is not the same thing as being a marath'damane—any more than a man who can become a murderer is to be considered one."

"We shall see," Egwene said, "once more of your people realize the lies they've been told."

"I will break you myself," Fortuona said softly. "Someday, your people will turn you over to me. You will forget yourself, and your arrogance will lead you to our borders. I will be waiting."

"I plan to live centuries," Egwene hissed. "I will watch your empire crumble, Fortuona. I will watch it with joy."
__________________________________________

"The people of this world need you two, and they need you levelheaded, you hear me? This is bigger than any of us. When you fight each other, the Dark One wins, and that is that. So stop behaving like children."
__________________________________________

"I don't see anything new around you," she said, "though I assume the eye on a balance scale finally makes sense to you."

"Yes," Mat said, wincing. "That one is bloody obvious. What about Galgan?"

"A dagger rammed through the heart of a raven."

"Bloody ashes . . ."

"I don't think it means you," she added. "I can't say why."
__________________________________________

"You're sure that bloody dagger doesn't mean me? Ravens . . . well, ravens kind of mean me, right? Sometimes? I'm the flaming Prince of the bloody Ravens now."

"It's not you."
__________________________________________

"'Say the name of Darkness, and his eye is upon you.' Yalu kazath d'Zamon patra Dae-seia asa darshi. "

". . . What?" Min asked.

"You don't know that one either?" Mat said. "Doesn't anyone bloody read anymore?"
__________________________________________

"Mat, a bloody flower."

"What?" he said, still shoving her.

"A bloody flower around her head," Min said. "A death lily. Someone is going to try to kill her very soon."

Mat froze. Fortuona turned sharply.
__________________________________________

"I see a bloody death lily, as I told Mat," Min said. "And three ships, sailing. An insect in the darkness. Red lights, spread across a field that should be lush and ripe. A man with the teeth of a wolf." Fortuona drew in a sharp breath. She looked up at Mat. "This is a great gift you have brought me, Knotai. Enough to pay your penance. Enough for credit beyond. Such a grand gift."
__________________________________________

The Ogier sang a song of mourning. It was the dirge they sang for forests that had to be leveled or for great trees that died in a storm. It was a song of loss, of regret, of inevitability. He joined in the final refrain.

"All rivers run dry,
All songs must end,
Every root will die,
Every branch must bend. . ."
__________________________________________

[Mat]

Maybe, if the damane belonged to him, he could let her free or something.
__________________________________________

Rand clashed with Moridin, sword against sword, standing before the darkness that was the essence of the Dark One. The cold expanse was somehow both infinite and empty.
__________________________________________

Time slipped around them like a stream. Rand felt as if he could see it. Each blow here took moments, yet hours passed outside.
__________________________________________

Blade against blade. Rand's leg slipped backward, and brushed the darkness behind, which waited like a pool of ink.

All went black.
__________________________________________

She forced her mind to work. The Asha'man were here. "Did Rand send you?"

"We sent ourselves," Logain said. "The Shadow has been planning this trap for a long time, according to notes in Taim's study. I only just managed to decipher them." He looked at her. "We came to you first. The Black Tower stands with the Lion of Andor."
__________________________________________

The Trollocs grew angry, did they? Well, they would not know anger until they had felt that of the Amyrlin Seat. Egwene pulled in more and more of the Power until she was at the very edges of her ability. She put heat into her tempest so that the scalding water burned Trolloc eyes, hands, hearts. She felt herself yelling, Vora's sa'angreal thrust before her like a spear.
__________________________________________

The sun drooped low in the sky, like an eyelid that refused to stay open.
__________________________________________

"The . . . Aes Sedai . . . may not like this," General Galgan said. He too hesitated upon using the words Aes Sedai. They had started using the term instead of marath'damane by Mat's order, one that he'd expected Tuon to rescind. She had not.
__________________________________________

"You will be executed," Tuon Voiced through Selucia, speaking to the soldier.

Mat nearly fell off of his chair. He grabbed the table in front of him, the chair's front legs slamming down on the ground.

"What?" Min demanded. "No!"

"You saw the sign of the white boar," Tuon said.

"I don't know the meaning!"

"The boar is the symbol of one Handoin, one of my rivals in Seanchan," Tuon explained patiently. "The white boar is an omen of danger, perhaps betrayal. This woman works for him, or will in the future."

"You can't just execute her!"

Tuon blinked once, looking straight at Min. The room seemed to drop into shade, feeling colder. Mat shivered. He didn't like it when Tuon got like this. That stare of hers ... it seemed like the stare of another person. A person without compassion. A statue had more life to it.

Nearby, Selucia wiggled her fingers at Tuon. Tuon glanced at them, then nodded.

"You are my Truthspeaker," she said to Min, almost reluctantly. "You may correct me in public. Do you see error in my decisions?"

"Yes, I do," Min said, not missing a beat. "You do not use my skills as you should."

"And how should I?" Tuon asked. The soldier who had been given a death sentence continued lying prostrate. She didn't object—she was not of a rank that could address the Empress. She was lowly enough that speaking to someone else in Tuon's presence would be a breach of honor.

"What someone may do is not grounds to kill them," Min said. "I intend no disrespect, but if you are going to kill people because of what I tell you, I will not speak."

"You can be made to speak."

"Try it," Min said softly. Mat started. Bloody ashes, she looked as cold as Tuon had a moment ago. "Let us see how the Pattern treats you, Empress, if you torture the bearer of omens."

Instead, Tuon smiled. "You take to this well. Explain to me what you desire, bringer of omens."

"I will tell you my viewings," Min said, "but from now on, the interpretations—whether my own, or those you read into the images—are to be kept quiet. Between the two of us would be best. You are allowed to watch someone because of what I've said, but not to punish them—not unless you catch them doing something. Set this woman free."

"Let it be so," Tuon said. "You are free," she Voiced through Selucia. "Walk in loyalty to the Crystal Throne. You will be watched."
__________________________________________

Whatever he had inside of him that allowed him to see the right of things was obviously a gift of the Light, and holding others to scorn because they had not been born with it was wrong.
__________________________________________

People spoke of the land becoming unstable, the groanings of the earth coming to match the breaking of the sky by lightning and thunder. She had heard more than one account of the spiderweb cracks that appeared in rocks, pure black, as if they extended on into eternity itself.
__________________________________________

Logically, she knew that the Dark One was not nearby, not really. That wasn't what the Bore was. He didn't live in this place; he existed outside the Pattern, inside his prison.
__________________________________________

These aren't Aiel, Aviendha thought. They're something different. Her mind wrestled with the concept. Aiel who were not Aiel? Men who could channel?

The men we send, she realized with horror. Men discovered among the Aiel with the ability to channel were sent to try to kill the Dark One. Alone, they came to the Blight. Nobody knew what happened to them after that.
__________________________________________

"Sorilea," Aviendha said softly to the elder Wise One as the women began to build the circles, "I was attacked in camp just now by three Aiel men. The battle we are about to fight, it will probably involve other Aiel who fight for the Shadow."

Sorilea turned sharply, meeting Aviendha's eyes. "Explain."

"I think they must be the men we sent to kill Sightblinder," Aviendha said.

Sorilea hissed softly. "If this is true, child, then this night will mark great toh for us all. Toh toward the Car'a'carn, toh toward the land itself."
__________________________________________

"Who do we trust if we cannot trust our own minds?"
__________________________________________

Rand stood in a place that was not.

A place outside of time, outside of the Pattern itself.

All around him spread a vast nothingness. Voracious and hungry, it longed to consume. He could actually see the Pattern. It looked like thousands upon thousands of twisting ribbons of light; they spun around him, above him, undulating and shimmering, twisting together. At least, that was how his mind chose to interpret it.

Everything that had ever been, everything that could be, everything that could have been ... it all lay right there, before him.

Rand could not comprehend it. The blackness around it sucked on him, pulled him toward it. He reached out to the Pattern and somehow anchored himself in it, lest he be consumed.

That changed his focus. It locked him, slightly, into a time. The pattern before him rippled, and Rand watched it being woven. It was not actually the Pattern, he knew, but his mind saw it that way. Familiar, as it had been described, the threads of lives weaving together.

Rand anchored himself in reality again and moved with it. Time had meaning again, and he could not see ahead or behind. He still could see all places, like a man standing above a globe as it turned.
__________________________________________

There were a surprising number of these red-veils. Whatever their origins, they were not Aiel. They did not follow ji'e'toh.
__________________________________________

These red-veils were an affront, a crime. The Seanchan, who would dare take Wise Ones captive, were not as disgusting as these. Somehow, the Shadow had taken the bravest of the Aiel and made them into these . . . these things.
__________________________________________

"Do you know why the Dark One was originally freed?"

Aviendha looked as if remembering something. "Ah . . . yes. Then they are channeling the Dark One's power?"

"It is called the True Power," Cadsuane said. "The accounts say that Traveling by True Power works in the way you have seen this woman move. Few saw it happen. The Dark One was miserly with his essence during the War of Power, and only the most favored were granted access."
__________________________________________

Nynaeve clutched the stalagmite deep within the Pit of Doom, holding herself from being pulled by the winds into that nothingness in front of her. Moiraine had called it the Dark One's essence, but wouldn't that make it the True Power?
__________________________________________

His foot had touched the darkness. At that moment, he had frozen, and so had Moridin. They were like statues.
__________________________________________

Nynaeve glanced at Rand, who was still locked in stasis with Moridin, then approached the woman. The greater number of stalagmites here meant that Nynaeve could crawl more safely, the stones blocking the pull of the nothingness.

Nynaeve reached the woman. She was chained to the wall. "Alanna?" Nynaeve shouted over the wind. "Light, what are you doing here?"

The Aes Sedai blinked reddened eyes at Nynaeve. Her eyes stared dully, as if she had no mind. As Nynaeve examined the woman, she noticed that the entire left side of Alanna's body was bloodied from a knife wound to the gut. Light! Nynaeve should have known that from the paleness of the woman's face.

Why stab her and leave her here? She bonded Rand, Nynaeve realized. Oh, Light. It was a trap. Moridin had left Alanna bleeding, then confronted Rand. When Alanna died, Rand—as her Warder—would be driven mad with rage, making him easy for Moridin to destroy.
__________________________________________

Mat had been given his choice of battlefields, though, and this Merrilor place would work best.

Like picking the plot for your own grave, Mat thought. Sure, I'd rather not have to choose in the first place.
__________________________________________

"If he does what he's supposed to, we could still lose—we will lose, if we don't stop the Shadow's armies."
__________________________________________

Mat turned northward again. A cool, somehow familiar wind blew across him, rippling his long coat, brushing at his hat. He narrowed his eye. Rand was tugging on him.

The dice still tumbled in his head.

"They're here," Mat said.

"What did you say?" Egwene asked.

"They're here."

"The scouts—"

"The scouts are wrong" Mat said. He looked up, and noticed a pair of taken speeding back toward the camp. They had seen it. The Trollocs must have marched through the night.

Sharans will come first, Mat thought, to give the Trollocs a breather. They'll have arrived through gateways.

"Send runners," Mat said, pointing at the Deathwatch Guards, "get the men and women to their posts. And warn Elayne that I'm going to change the battle plan."

"What?" Egwene said.

"They're here!" Mat said, turning on the Guards. "Why aren't you bloody running! Go, go!" Above, the raken screeched. Gelen, to his credit, saluted, then ran—pounding in that massive armor—with his companions.

"This is it, Egwene," Mat said. "Take a deep breath, a last pull on the brandy, or burn your final pinch of tabac. Have a good look at the ground before you, as it's soon going to be covered in blood. In an hour, we'll be in the thick of it. The Light watch over us all."
__________________________________________

Dawn broke that morning on Polov Heights, but the sun did not shine on the Defenders of the Light. Out of the west and out of the north came the armies of Darkness, to win this one last battle and cast a Shadow across the earth; to usher in an Age where the wails of suffering would go unheard.
—from the notebook of Loial, son of Arent
son of Halan, the Fourth Age
__________________________________________

They had been bloodied, but not beaten. Knock a man down, and you saw what he was made of.
__________________________________________

A nation's strength came from the strength of its people; break them, and you were breaking your own back.
__________________________________________

"You're going to keep it in your head," Elayne said, her legs feeling weak. "You're going to lead the battle, and none of us are going to know what in the Light you're planning, are we? Otherwise, someone might overhear, and the news would travel to the Shadow."

He nodded.

"Creator shelter us," she whispered.

Mat scowled. "You know, that's what Tuon said."
__________________________________________

The man waved his hand, and the stream of fire deflected; then he pointed—almost indifferently—and something thin, hot and white connected him to Kwamesa. Her form glowed, and then she was gone, motes drifting toward the ground.
__________________________________________

A bar of white-hot light cut through the broken dragon, vaporizing it and striking Einar. The man was gone in an instant, and Uno scrambled back, cursing.
__________________________________________

The Dark One attacked.

It was an attempt to tear Rand apart, to destroy him bit by bit. The Dark One sought to claim the very elements that made up Rand's essence, then annihilate them.

Rand couldn't gasp, couldn't cry out. This attack wasn't at his body, for he had no true body in this place, just a memory of one.

Rand held himself together. With difficulty. In the face of this awesome attack, any notion of defeating the Dark One—of killing him— vanished. Rand couldn't defeat anything. He could barely hold on.

He could not have described the sensation if he'd tried. It was as if the Dark One was shredding him while at the same time trying to crush him entirely, coming at Rand from infinite directions, all at once, in a wave.
__________________________________________

Egwene's anger poured through the bond. Gawyn smiled. He had not expected her to be pleased. As he ran, arrows slicing the earth around him, he found peace with his choice. Once, perhaps, he would have done this for the pride of the battle and the chance to pit himself against Demandred.

That was not his heart now. His heart was the need. Someone had to fight this creature, someone had to kill him or they would lose this battle. They could all see it. Risking Egwene or Logain would be too great a gamble.

Gawyn could be risked. No one would send him to do this—no one would dare—but it was necessary. He had a chance to change things, to really matter. He did it for Andor, for Egwene, for the world itself.
__________________________________________

Demandred spun, suddenly, and looked toward Gawyn. A second later, the man thrust his hand forward, and a beam of white-hot fire—thin as a twig—shot for Gawyn.

It missed, striking just beside Gawyn as he leaped away. Cracks opened all across the ground nearby. Deep, black cracks, that seemed to open into eternity itself.
__________________________________________

"I wasn't sent by the Dragon Reborn."

"With Night's Shade surrounding you, a weave that none from this Age remember? Do you know that what Lews Therin has done to you will leak your life away? You are dead, little man."

"Then you can join me in the grave," Gawyn said.
__________________________________________

Her mirth died down, however, as she happened to glance at the sky. He was reminded, suddenly, of the empty fields below. The dead trees. The growling thunder. This was not a time for mirth, not a time for love. For some reason, though, he found himself clinging to both precisely because of that.
__________________________________________

As Rhuarc walked, his feet crunched on sand that had been turned to shards of glass by the lightning.
__________________________________________

Demandred knew how to gamble. Mat could sense it through the movements of troops. Mat was playing against one of the best who had ever lived, and the stake this time was not wealth. They diced for the lives of men, and the final prize was the world itself. Blood and bloody ashes, but that excited him. He did feel guilty about that, but it was exciting.
__________________________________________

"Logain," Mat said. "I need you to fight alongside the White Tower army. Those Sharans are pounding them."

Logain had locked eyes with Tuon.

"Logain!" Mat said. "If you haven't noticed, we're fighting a bloody war here."

"It is not my war."

"This is our war," Mat snapped. "Every one of us."

"I stood forth to fight," Logain said. "And what was my reward? Ask the Red Ajah. They will tell you the reward of a man abused of the Pattern." He barked a laugh. "The Pattern demanded a Dragon! And so I came! Too soon. Just a little too soon."

"Listen here," Mat said, stepping up to Logain. "You're angry because you didn't get to be the Dragon?"

"Nothing so petty," Logain said. "I follow the L-rd Dragon. Let him die. I wish no part of that feast. I and mine should be with him, not fighting here. This battle for the little lives of men is nothing compared to the battle happening at Shayol Ghul."

"And yet, you know we need you here," Mat said. "You would already be gone, otherwise."

Logain said nothing.

"Go to Egwene," Mat said. "Take everyone you have and keep those Sharan channelers busy!'

"What of Demandred?" Logain asked softly. "He cries out for the Dragon. He has the power of a dozen men. None of us can face him."

"But you want to try, don't you?" Mat replied. "That's why you're really here, right now. You want me to send you against Demandred."

Logain hesitated, then nodded. "He cannot have the Dragon Reborn. He will have to take me instead. The Dragon's . . . replacement, if you will."
__________________________________________

"Glory of men . . ." Min whispered. "It's still to come."
__________________________________________

Farewell, Siuan, Min thought, looking back as Guards ushered her away from the fighting below Dashar Knob. May the Creator shelter your soul.
__________________________________________

Her voice seemed to imply that perhaps, once Lews Therin was dead, Demandred would be able to become his own man again.

He was not certain. Rule only interested him insofar as he could use it against his ancient enemy. The Sharans, devoted and faithful, were just a tool. But within him, there was something that wished it was not so. That was new. Yes, it was.
__________________________________________

Demandred turned his hand and launched a stream of balefire with the gathered True Power. The white-hot line of liquid destruction burned through the armies at the river below, vaporizing each man or woman it touched. Their forms became points of light, then dust, hundreds of them vanishing.
__________________________________________

The Dark One wrapped around the Pattern, unable to take it and destroy it, but able to touch it. Tendrils of darkness, spines, touched the world at points all along its length. The Dark One lay like shadow upon the Pattern.

When the Dark One touched the Pattern, time existed for him. And so, while time was nothing to the Dark One, he—or it, as the Dark One had no gender—could only work within its bounds. Like . . . like a sculptor who had marvelous visions and dreams but was still bound by the reality of the materials he worked with.
__________________________________________

They started forward, running, and Tam was reminded of another battlefield. Snow, cutting into his face, blown by terrible winds. In a way, that battlefield had begun this all. Now it ended here.
__________________________________________

[Tuon learning, on the path of enlightenment]

Fortuona waved away the so'jhin who tried to replace her regal clothing. She smelled of smoke from the fire, and her arms had been burned and scored in several places. She would not accept damane Healing. Fortuona thought Healing to be a useful development—and some of her people were changing their attitudes toward it—but she was not certain the Empress should submit to it. Besides, her wounds were not dire.

The Deathwatch Guards kneeling before her would need some form of punishment. This was the second time they had allowed an assassin to reach her, and while she did not blame them for the failure, to deny them punishment would be to deny them their honor. It twisted her heart about, but she knew what she would have to do.

She gave the order herself. Selucia, as her Voice, should have done it— but Selucia's wounds were being tended. And Karede deserved this small honor of receiving his execution order from Fortuona herself.

"You will go to engage the enemy marath'damane directly," she ordered Karede. "Each of you who was on duty. Fight valiantly for the Empire there, and try to slay the enemy's marath'damane."

She could see Karede relax. It was a way to continue serving; he would probably have fallen on his own sword, if given the choice himself. This was a mercy.

She turned away from the man who had cared for her during her youth, the man who had defied what was expected of him. All for her. She would find her own penance for what she must do later. At this point, she would grant him the honor she could.
__________________________________________

[Knotai is Mat]

Fortuona thought she was the only one who saw the twin lines of smoke rising exactly behind him from the Heights. An appropriate omen for Knotai: a large gamble would yield large rewards. Or a great cost.
__________________________________________

The men of the Two Rivers pushed forward, a thorn to the Dark One's foot and a bramble to his hand.
__________________________________________

Tam al'Thor became the void. He brought it to the Trollocs, showed it to them and sent them into its depths.
__________________________________________

Nearby, a black horse trotted up. Its rider, Lan Mandragoran—with standard-bearer and guards behind—looked over the Two Rivers men.

"I had long wondered," Lan said to Tam. "About the man who had given Rand that heron-marked blade. I wondered if he had truly earned it. Now I know." Lan raised his own sword in salute.
__________________________________________

"Go," Mat called as they rode. "Ride to Lan; he's upriver. Tell him to engage those Trollocs trying to move around the Andorans' right flank! And tell him I'll have other orders for him coming soon."

"But I—"

"I don't care if you've bloody been touched by the Shadow!" Mat said. "Every man has had the Dark One's fingers on his heart, and that's the bloody truth. You can fight through it. Now ride to Lan and tell him what needs to be done!"
__________________________________________

"You did well, Loial," Mat said. "Thank you."

He waited for a reply. Something long-winded and eager, no doubt. Loial stood breathing in and out with lungs that could hold enough air to fill a room. No words. The others with him, though many were senior to Loial, offered no words either. Some lifted torches. The glow of the sun had vanished beneath the horizon. Night was fully upon them.
__________________________________________

All things turned and came again. That was the meaning of the Wheel of Time. What was the point of winning a single battle against the Dark One, only to know that he would return?
__________________________________________

DID YOU THINK THAT REMOVING ME FROM THEIR LIVES WOULD LEAVE THEM UNALTERED?

The words thundered through Rand. Aghast, he stepped away as Elayne rose, obviously concerned for him. Yes, he saw it now, the thing behind her eyes. She was not herself. . . because Rand had taken from her the ability to be herself.

I TURN MEN TO ME, Shaitan said. IT IS TRUE. THEY CANNOT CHOOSE GOOD ONCE I HAVE MADE THEM MINE IN THAT WAY. HOW IS THIS ANY DIFFERENT, ADVERSARY?

IF YOU DO THIS, WE ARE ONE.

"No!" Rand screamed, holding his head in his hand, falling to his knees. "No! The world would be perfect without you!"

PERFECT. UNCHANGING. RUINED. DO THIS, IF YOU WISH, ADVERSARY. IN KILLING ME, I WOULD WIN.

NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, I WILL WIN.
__________________________________________

Leane carefully made her way over to the group, joining Raechin Connoral, who crouched next to a boulder while launching weaves of Fire at the advancing Sharans. Leane watched for return weaves, then deflected one with a quick weave of Water, making the ball of fire burn away in tiny sparks.

Raechin nodded to her. 'And here I thought you'd stopped being useful for anything other than batting your eyes at men."

"The Domani art is about achieving what you want, Raechin," Leane said coolly, "with as little effort as possible."

Raechin snorted and launched a few fireballs toward the Sharans. "I should ask advice from you on that sometime," she said. "If there really is a way to make men do as you like, I should like very much to know it."

That idea was so absurd as to nearly make Leane laugh, despite the terrible circumstances. A Red? Putting on paints and powders and learning the Domani arts of manipulation? Well, why not? Leane thought, striking down another fireball. The world was changing, and the Ajahs—ever so subtly—changing with it.
__________________________________________

Wait. What was that? Leane sensed powerful channeling nearby. Had the Sharans created a circle? She squinted; they were well into night now, but enough of the landscape burned to give firelight. It also raised a lot of smoke. Leane wove Air to blow the smoke out of the way, but it lifted on its own, split as if by a powerful wind.

Egwene al'Vere strode past them up the slope, glowing with the power of a hundred bonfires. That was more than Leane had ever seen a woman hold. The Amyrlin walked forward with her hand thrust out, holding a white rod. Egwene's eyes seemed to shine.

With a burst of light and force, Egwene released a dozen separate flows of fire. A dozen. They battered the hillside above, throwing the bodies of Sharan channelers into the air.

"Manda," Leane said, "I think we have found you a better rallying point."
__________________________________________

Inch by inch, she gained on Aravine. Bela snorted and puffed, sweat darkening her coat. The Saldaean cavalry was among the best in the land, and Faile knew horses. She'd ridden all breeds. In those minutes on the battlefield, she would have put Bela up against the Tairen best. The shaggy mare, of no particular breed of note, moved like a champion runner.
__________________________________________

"I'm . . . sorry . . .'' Aravine whispered, rolling over. Her legs did not move. "Don't tell Aldin what I did. He has . . . such terrible taste ... in women . . "

Faile stood up, then looked down with pity. "Pray that the Creator shelters your soul, Aravine," Faile said, and climbed back onto Bela's back. "For if not, the Dark One will have you as his. I leave you to him."
__________________________________________

Egwene led an assault the likes of which had not been seen in millennia. The Aes Sedai pulled themselves out of their defensive fortifications and joined with her, pushing up the western slope in a steady stride. Weaves flew in the air like an explosion of ribbons caught in the wind.

The sky broke with the light of a thousand bolts, the ground groaning and trembling with the hits. Demandred continued to fire upon the Andorans from the other side of the plateau, and each shot of balefire sent ripples through the air. The ground cracked with spiderwebs of black, but now tendrils of something sickly began to sprout from those cracks. It spread like a disease across the broken stones of the hillside.

The air felt alive with the Power, the energy so thick that Egwene almost thought the One Power had become visible to all. Through this, she drew as much strength as she could hold through Vora's sa'angreal. She felt as she had when fighting the Seanchan, only somehow more in control. Then, her rage had been fringed by desperation and terror.

This time, it was a white-hot thing, like a metal heated beyond the point of being worked by a smith.

She, Egwene al'Vere, had been given stewardship of this land.

She, the Amyrlin Seat, would not be bullied by the Shadow any longer.

She would not retreat. She would not bow as her resources failed.

She would fight.

She channeled Air, building a swirling storm of dust, smoke and dead plants. She held it before herself, obscuring the view of those above as they tried to pinpoint her. Lightning crashed down around her, but she wove Earth, digging deeply in the rock and bringing up a spurt of iron that cooled in a spire next to her. The lightning struck at the spire, sparing her as she sent the windstorm howling up the incline.
__________________________________________

Nearby, Raen stopped, raising his lantern to examine a full quiver of arrows that a soldier had been carrying as he died. Ila hissed, lifting her skirts up to step around corpses and reach her husband. "Raen!"

"Peace, Ila," he said. "I'm not going to pick it up. Yet, I wonder." He looked up, toward the distant flashes of light downriver and atop the Heights where the armies continued their terrible acts of murder. So many flashes in the night, like hundreds of lightning bolts. It was well past midnight now. They'd been on this field, looking for the living, for hours.

"You wonder?" Ila asked. "Raen . . ."

"What would we have them do, Ila? Trollocs will not follow the Way of the Leaf."

"There is plenty of room to run," Ila said. "Look at them. They came to meet the Trollocs when the Shadowspawn were barely out of the Blight. If that energy had been spent gathering the people and leading them away to the south . . ."

"The Trollocs would have followed," Raen said. "What then, Ila?"

"We have accepted many masters," Ila said. "The Shadow might treat us poorly, but would it really be worse than we have been treated at the hands of others?"

"Yes," Raen said softly. "Yes, Ila. It would be worse. Far, far worse."

Ila looked at him.

He shook his head, sighing. "I am not going to abandon the Way, Ila. It is my path, and it is right for me. Perhaps . . . perhaps I will not think quite so poorly of those who follow another path. If we live through these times, we will do so at the bequest of those who died on this battlefield, whether we wish to accept their sacrifice or not."

He trailed away. It's just the darkness of the night, she thought. He will overcome it, once the sun shines again. That's the right of it. Isn't it?

She looked up at the night sky. That sun . . . would they be able to tell when it rose? The clouds, lit from the fires below, seemed to be growing thicker and thicker. She pulled her bright yellow shawl closer, feeling suddenly cold.

Perhaps I will not think quite so poorly of those who follow another path . . .

She blinked a few tears from her eyes. "Light," she whispered, something twisting inside. "I shouldn't have turned my back on him. I should have tried to help him return to us, not cast him out. Light, oh Light. Shelter him . . ."
__________________________________________

Ila shook her head. She had always felt as if she knew the answers in life. Today, most of those had slipped from her. Saving a person's life, though . . . that she could cling to.

She headed back among the bodies, searching for the living among the dead.
__________________________________________

Egwene stepped forward, swollen with power. She began two weaves, one above each hand, and spouted fire at him.

He responded with a bar of pure whiteness, wire-thin, which missed her by less than a handspan. The balefire left an afterimage in Egwene's eyes, and the ground groaned beneath them as the air warped. Those spiderwebs sprang out across the ground, fractures into nothingness.

"Fool!" she yelled at him. "You will destroy the Pattern itself!" Already, their clash threatened that. This wind was not natural, this sizzling air. Those cracks in the ground spread from M'Hael, widening.

"He's weaving it again!" Narishma cried, voice caught in the tempest.

M'Hael released this second weave of balefire, fracturing the ground, but Egwene was ready. She sidestepped, her anger building. Balefire. She needed to counter it!

They don't care what they ruin. They are here to destroy. That is their master's call. Break. Burn down. Kill.

Gawyn . . .

She screamed in fury, weaving column after column of fire, one after another. Narishma shouted what M'Hael was doing, but Egwene couldn't hear for the rush of sound in her ears. She saw soon, anyway, that he had constructed a barrier of Air and Fire to deflect her attacks.

Egwene strode forward, sending repeated strikes at him. That gave him no time to recover, no time to attack. She stopped the rhythm only to form a shield that she held at the ready. A spray of fire off his barrier made him stumble back, his weave cracking, and he raised his hand, perhaps to attempt balefire again.

Egwene slammed the shield between him and the Source. It didn't quite cut him off, for he held it back by force of will. They were near enough now that she could see his incredulity, his anger. He fought back, but was weaker than she. Egwene pushed, bringing that shield closer and closer to the invisible thread that connected him to the One Power. She forced it with all her strength. . .

M'Hael, straining, released a small stream of balefire upward, through the gap where the shield had not yet fallen into place. The balefire destroyed the weave—as it did the air, and indeed, the Pattern itself.

Egwene stumbled back as M'Hael directed the weave toward her, but the white-hot bar was too small, too weak, to reach her. It faded away before hitting. M'Hael snarled, then vanished, warping the air in a form of Traveling Egwene did not know.
__________________________________________

"You say she has a sa'angreal," Demandred said. "With this, you will have one as well. I grant you Sakarnen to take from you any excuse for failure. Succeed or die in this, M'Hael. Prove yourself worthy to stand among the Chosen."

M'Hael licked his lips. "And if the Dragon Reborn finally comes to you?"

Demandred laughed. "You think I would use this to fight him? What would that prove? Our strengths must be matched if I am to show myself the better. By all accounts, he cannot use Callandor safely, and he foolishly destroyed the Choedan Kal. He will come, and when he does, I will face him unaided and prove myself the true master of this realm."

Darkness within. . . Taim thought. He's gone completely mad, hasn't he? Strange to look into those eyes, which seemed so lucid, and hear complete insanity from his lips. When Demandred had first come to M'Hael, offering him the chance to serve the Great L-rd, the man had not been like this. Arrogant, yes. All of the Chosen were arrogant. Demandred's determination to kill al'Thor personally had burned like a fire within him.
__________________________________________

"Do not channel through that toward me. I have bonded Sakarnen to me. If you try to use it against me, it will burn you from the Pattern."

Did Demandred lie? Could a sa'angreal be attuned to a specific person? He did not know. He considered, then lowered Sakarnen, bitter despite the power surging through him.
__________________________________________

Egwene launched a wave of fire like a moving wall. Corpses went up in flames as the wall passed, leaving behind smoking piles of bones. Her attack scored the ground, blackening it, and the Sharans banded together to fight back against the weave. She killed a few of them before they shattered the attack.

The other Aes Sedai deflected or destroyed their return weaves, and Egwene gathered her strength to try again. So tired... a piece of her whispered. Egwene, you're so tired. This is becoming dangerous.

Leilwin stepped up, stumbling on broken rock but joining her at the front. "I bring word, Mother," she said in that Seanchan drawl. "The Asha'man have recovered the seals. Their leader carries them."

Egwene let out a relieved breath. She wove Fire and sent it forth in pillars this time, the flames illuminating the broken ground around them. Those cracks that M'Hael had caused worried her deeply. She began another weave, then stopped. Something was wrong.

She spun around as balefire—a column as wide as a man's arm—ripped through the Aes Sedai line, vaporizing half a dozen women. Explosions all around appeared as if from nowhere, and other women went from battle to death in a heartbeat.

The balefire burned away women who had stopped weaves from killing us . . . but those women had been removed from the Pattern before they could weave those, and could no longer have stopped the Sharan attacks. Balefire burned a thread backward in the Pattern.

The chain of events was catastrophic. Sharan channelers who had been dead were now alive again, and they surged forward—men clawing across the broken ground like hounds, women walking in linked groups of four or five. Egwene sought out the source of the balefire. She had never seen such an immense bar of it, so powerful it must have burned threads a few hours back.

She found M'Hael standing atop the Heights, the air warped in a bubble around him. Black tendrils—like moss or lichen—crept out of gaps in the rock around him. A spreading sickness. Darkness, nothing. It would consume them all.

Another bar of balefire burned a hole through the ground and touched women, making their forms glow, then vanish. The air itself broke, like a bubble of force that exploded from M'Hael. The storm from before returned, stronger.

"I thought that I'd taught you to run," Egwene snarled, climbing to her feet and gathering her power. At her feet, the ground cracked and opened into nothing.

Light! She could feel the emptiness in that hole. She began a weave, but another strike of balefire coursed across the battlefield, killing women she loved. The trembling underfoot threw Egwene to the ground. Screams grew loud as Sharan attacks slaughtered Egwene's followers. Aes Sedai scattered, seeking safety.

The cracks on the ground spread, as if the top of the Heights here had been hit by a hammer.

Balefire. She needed her own. It was the only way to fight him! She rose to her knees and began crafting the forbidden weave, though her heart lurched as she did it.

NO. Using balefire would only push the world toward destruction.

Then what?

It's only a weave, Egwene. Perrin's words, when he had seen her in the World of Dreams and stopped balefire from hitting him. But it wasn't just another weave. There wasn't anything like it.

So exhausted. Now that she'd stopped for a moment, she could feel her numbing fatigue. In its depths, she felt the loss, the bitter loss, of Gawyn's death.

"Mother!" Leilwin said, pulling her shoulder. The woman had stayed with her. "Mother, we must go! The Aes Sedai have broken! The Sharans overrun us."

Ahead, M'Hael saw her. He smiled, striding forward, a scepter in one hand, the other pointed toward her, palm up. What would happen if he burned her away with balefire? The last two hours would vanish. Her rally of the Aes Sedai, the dozens upon dozens of Sharans she had killed . . .

Just a weave . . .

No other like it.

That isn't the way it works, she thought. Two sides to every coin. Two halves to the Power. Hot and cold, light and dark, woman and man.

If a weave exists, so must its opposite.

M'Hael released balefire, and Egwene did . . . something. The weave she'd tried before on the cracks, but of a much greater power and scope: a majestic, marvelous weave, a combination of all Five Powers. It slid into place before her. She yelled, releasing it as if from her very soul, a column of pure white that struck M'Hael's weave at its center.

The two canceled one another, like scalding water and freezing water poured together. A powerful flash of light overwhelmed all else, blinding Egwene, but she could feel something from what she did. A shoring up of the Pattern. The cracks stopped spreading, and something welled up inside of them, a stabilizing force. A growth, like scab on a wound. Not a perfect fix, but at least a patch.

She yelled, forcing herself to her feet. She would not face him on her knees! She drew every scrap of the Power she could hold, throwing it at the Forsaken with the fury of the Amyrlin.

The two streams of power sprayed light against one another, the ground around M'Hael cracking as the ground near Egwene rebuilt itself. She still did not know what it was she wove. The opposite of balefire. A fire of her own, a weave of light and rebuilding.

The Flame of Tar Valon.

They matched one another, in stasis, for an eternal moment. In that moment, Egwene felt a peace come upon her. The pain of Gawyn's death faded. He would be reborn. The Pattern would continue. The very weave she wielded calmed her anger and replaced it with peace. She reached more deeply into saidar,; that glowing comfort that had guided her so long.

And she drew on more of the Power.

Her stream of energy pushed its way through M'Hael's balefire like a sword thrust, spraying the Power aside and traveling right up the stream into M'Hael's outstretched hand. It pierced the hand and shot through his chest.

The balefire vanished. M'Hael gaped, stumbling, eyes wide, and then he crystallized from the inside out, as if freezing in ice. A multihued, beautiful crystal grew from him. Uncut and rough, as if from the core of the earth itself. Somehow Egwene knew that the Flame would have had much less effect on a person who had not given himself to the Shadow.

She clung to the Power she'd held. She had pulled in too much. She knew that if she released her grip, she would leave herself burned out, unable to channel another drop. The Power surged through her in this last moment.

Something trembled far to the north. Rand's fight continued. The gaps in the land expanded. M'Hael and Demandred's balefire had done its work. The world here was crumbling. Black lines radiated across the Heights, and her mind's eye saw them opening, the land shattering, and a void appearing here that sucked into it all life.

"Watch for the light," Egwene whispered.

"Mother?" Leilwin still knelt beside her. Around them, hundreds of Sharans picked themselves up off the ground.

"Watch for the light, Leilwin," Egwene said. "As the Amyrlin Seat, I command you—find the seals of the Dark One's prison and break them. Do it the moment the light shines. Only then can it save us."

"But . . "

Egwene wove a gateway and wrapped Leilwin in Air, shoving her through to safety. As she went, Egwene released the woman's bond, severing their brief tie.

"No!" Leilwin cried.

The gateway closed. Black cracks into nothingness expanded all around Egwene as she faced the hundreds of Sharans. Her Aes Sedai had fought with strength and valor, but those Sharan channelers still remained. They surrounded her, some timid, others smiling in triumph.

She closed her eyes and drew in the power. More than a woman should be able to, more than was right. Far beyond safety, far beyond wisdom. This sa'angreal had no buffer to prevent this.

Her body was spent. She offered it up and became a column of light, releasing the Flame of Tar Valon into the ground beneath her and high into the sky. The Power left her in a quiet, beautiful explosion, washing across the Sharans and sealing the cracks created by her fight with M'Hael.

Egwene's soul separated from her collapsing body and rested upon that wave, riding it into the Light.
__________________________________________

Leane raised her arm, shading her eyes against the magnificent burst of light. It washed the hillside of its darkness and—for a moment—left only brilliance. Sharans froze in place, casting shadows behind them as they crystallized.

The column of power rose high in the air, a beacon, then faded.

Leane dropped to her knees, one hand resting on the ground to steady herself. A blanket of crystals coated the ground, growing over broken rock, coating the scarred landscape. Where cracks had opened, they were now filled with crystal, looking like tiny rivers.

Leane climbed to her feet and crept forward, passing the Sharans frozen in crystal, dead in time.

At the very center of the explosion, Leane found a column of crystal as wide as an ancient leatherleaf tree, rising some fifty feet in the air. Frozen at its center was a fluted rod, Vora's sa'angreal. There was no sign of the Amyrlin herself, but Leane knew.
__________________________________________

Lan did not consider what he was doing. The void did not allow such things. Some men would call it brash, foolhardy, suicidal. The world was rarely changed by men who were unwilling to try being at least one of the three. He sent what comfort he could to distant Nynaeve through the bond, then prepared to fight.
__________________________________________

You march to your death. Yet you forbid anyone else from doing so?

"I . . "

Let go, Rand. Let us die for what we believe, and do not try to steal that from us.

You have embraced your death. Embrace mine.
__________________________________________

One by one—first slowly, but with increasing speed—he counted backward through the list he had once maintained in his head. The list had once been only women, but had grown to include everyone he knew had died for him. He hadn't realized how large it had become, how much he had let himself carry.

The names ripped from him like physical things, like doves aflight, and each one carried away a burden. Weight vanished from his shoulders. His breathing grew steadier. It was as if Perrin had come with his hammer and shattered a thousand chains that had been dragging behind Rand.

Ilyena was last. We are reborn, Rand thought, so we can do better the next time.

So do better.

He opened his eyes and placed his hand before him, palm against blackness that felt solid. His self that had fuzzed, becoming indistinct as the Dark One ripped at it, pulled together. He placed his other arm down, then heaved himself to his knees.

And then, Rand al'Thor—the Dragon Reborn—stood up once again to face the Shadow.
__________________________________________

The Dark One was not a being, but a force—an essence as wide as the universe itself, which Rand could now see in complete detail. Planets, stars in their multitudes, like the motes above a bonfire.

The Dark One still strove to destroy him. Rand felt strong despite the attacks. Relaxed, complete. With his burdens gone, he could fight again. He held himself together. It was difficult, but he was victorious.

Rand stepped forward.

The Darkness shuddered. It quivered, vibrated, as if disbelieving.

I DESTROY THEM.

The Dark One was not a being. It was the darkness between. Between lights, between moments, between eyeblinks.

ALL IS MINE THIS TIME. IT WAS EVER MEANT TO BE. IT WILL EVER BE.

Rand saluted those who died. The blood running across rocks. The weeping of those who witnessed others fall. The Shadow threw all of it at Rand, intent on Rand's destruction. But it did not destroy him.

"We will never give in," Rand whispered. "I will never give in."

The vast Shadow thundered and shook. It sent jolts through and across the world. The ground rent, the laws of nature fractured. Swords turned against their owners, food spoiled, rock turned to mud.

It came upon Rand again, the force of nothingness itself trying to pull him apart. The strength of the attack did not lessen. And yet, suddenly, it felt like an idle buzzing.

They would not give up. It wasn't just about Rand. All of them would keep fighting. The Dark One's attacks lost meaning. If they could not make him yield, if they could not make him relent, then what were they?

Within the tempest, Rand sought the void as Tam had taught him. All emotion, all worry, all pain. He took it and fed it into the flame of a single candle.

He felt peace. The peace of a single drop of water hitting a pond. The peace of moments, the peace between eyeblinks, the peace of the void.

"I will not give up," he repeated, and the words seemed a wonder to him.

I CONTROL THEM ALL. I BREAK THEM BEFORE ME. YOU HAVE LOST, CHILD OF HUMANKIND.

"If you think that," Rand whispered into the darkness, "then it is because you cannot see."
__________________________________________

HERE IS WHY YOU FAIL! IT WAS NOT ABOUT ME. IT'S NEVER BEEN ABOUT ME!

It was about a woman, torn and beaten down, cast from her throne and made a puppet—a woman who had crawled when she had to. That woman still fought. [Morgaise]

It was about a man that love repeatedly forsook, a man who found relevance in a world that others would have let pass them by. A man who remembered stories, and who took fool boys under his wing when the smarter move would have been to keep on walking. That man still fought. [Lan]

It was about a woman with a secret, a hope for the future. A woman who had hunted the truth before others could. A woman who had given her life, then had it returned. That woman still fought. [Moiraine]

It was about a man whose family was taken from him, but who stood tall in his sorrow and protected those he could. [Perrin]

It was about a woman who refused to believe that she could not help, could not Heal those who had been harmed. [Nynaeve]

It was about a hero who insisted with every breath that he was anything but a hero. [Mat]

It was about a woman who would not bend her back while she was beaten, and who shone with the Light for all who watched. Including Rand. [Egwene]

It was about them all.

He saw this, over and over, in the Pattern arrayed about him. Rand walked through eons and ages, his hand passing through ribbons of the Patterns light.

HERE IS THE TRUTH, SHAITAN, Rand said, taking another step forward, arms out, woven Pattern spreading around them. YOU CANNOT WIN UNLESS WE GIVE UP. THAT'S IT, ISN'T IT? THIS FIGHT ISN'T ABOUT A VICTORY IN BATTLE. TAKING ME . . . IT WAS NEVER ABOUT BEATING ME. IT WAS ABOUT BREAKING ME.

THAT'S WHAT YOU'VE TRIED TO DO WITH ALL OF US. IT'S WHY AT TIMES YOU TRIED TO HAVE US KILLED, WHILE OTHER TIMES YOU DIDN'T SEEM TO CARE. YOU WIN WHEN YOU BREAK US. BUT YOU HAVEN'T. YOU CAN'T.

The darkness trembled. The nothingness shook, as if the arches of the heavens themselves were cracking. The Dark One's shout was defiant.

Within the void, Rand continued forward, and the darkness trembled.

I CAN STILL KILL, the Dark One bellowed. I CAN STILL TAKE THEM ALL! I AM L-rd OF THE GRAVE. THE BATTLE L-rd, HE IS MINE. ALL ARE MINE EVENTUALLY!

Rand stepped forward, hand stretched out. In his palm sat the world, and upon that world a continent, and upon that continent a battlefield, and upon that battlefield two bodies on the ground.
__________________________________________

Cornered and alone, a boy huddled in a cleft in the rock. Horrors with knives and fangs—the Shadow itself made flesh—dug at his hiding place, reaching with nails like knives and ripping his skin.

Terrified, crying, bloodied, the boy raised a golden horn to his lips.
__________________________________________

That one you have tried to kill many times, Rand said, that one who lost his kingdom, that one from whom you took everything . . .

Lurching, bloodied from the sword strike to his side, the last king of the Malkieri stumbled to his feet. Lan thrust his hand into the air, holding by its hair the head of Demandred, general of the Shadow's armies.

That man, Rand shouted. That man still fights!

Mat felt the battlefield grow still. All were frozen in place.

At that moment, there rang out a soft but powerful sound, a clear note, golden, one long tone that encompassed everything. The sound of a horn, pure and beautiful.

Mat had heard that sound once before.
__________________________________________

The Horn. How had the bloody Horn been sounded? Well, it looked like Mat wasn't tied to the thing any longer. His death at Rhuidean must have broken him from it.
__________________________________________

"I did die," Mat said, rubbing at the scar on his neck. "Apparently that tree claimed me."

"Not the tree, Gambler," Hawkwing said. "Another moment, one that you cannot remember. It is fitting, as Lews Therin did save your life both times."

"Remember him," Amaresu snapped. "I have seen you murmur that you fear his madness, but all the while you forget that every breath you breathe—every step you take—comes at his forbearance. Your life is a gift from the Dragon Reborn, Gambler. Twice over."

Blood and bloody ashes. Even dead women treated him the way Nynaeve did. Where did they learn it? Were there secret lessons?
__________________________________________

"I'm going to join the other heroes," Birgitte said. "You stay here and recover."

"Light burn that!" Elayne said, forcing herself to her feet. "I'm not bloody staying behind now. The babes are all right. I'm riding."

"Elayne—"

"My soldiers think I'm dead," Elayne said. "Our lines are breaking, our men dying. They have to see me to know that there is still hope. They won't know what this mist means. If they have ever needed their queen, this is the moment. Nothing short of the Dark One could stop me from returning now."

Birgitte frowned.

"You're not my Warder any longer," Elayne said. "But you're still my friend. Will you ride with me?"

"Stubborn fool."

"I'm not the one who just refused to stay dead. Together?"

"Together," Birgitte said, nodding.
__________________________________________

The white clouds brought in by the Windfinders churned among the jet black storm clouds above, swirling together in a massive, writhing pattern above the mountain peak. From what she'd heard of the Windfinders— they had withdrawn up Shayol Ghul to a ledge far above the cave entrance, still working the Bowl of Winds—they were at a breaking point. More than two thirds of their numbers had collapsed from exhaustion. Soon, the storm would consume everything.
__________________________________________

Mat thundered forward across the top of the Heights with the remains of a once-great army, pushing southwest. The Trollocs were massed ahead on his left side, the Sharan army ahead on the right. Facing the enemy were the heroes, Borderlanders, Karede and his men, Ogier, Two Rivers archers, Whitecloaks, Ghealdanin and Mayeners, mercenaries, Tinna and her Dragonsworn refugees. And the Band of the Red Hand. His own men.

He remembered, within those memories that were not his, leading forces far grander. Armies that were not fragmented, half-trained, wounded and exhausted. But Light help him, he had never been so proud. Despite all that had happened, his men took up the shouts of attack and threw themselves into the battle with renewed vigor.
__________________________________________

Over the battle, Mat heard sounds that must have made the enemy's blood run cold: hundreds, maybe thousands of animal horns blared out in the night their call to war; a thunderstorm of drums began to beat out a unified cadence that became louder and louder; and a rumble of footfalls made by an advancing army, man and animal alike, slowly approaching Polov Heights in the dark. No one could see them in the pre-dawn blackness, but everyone on the battlefield knew who they were.

Mat let out a whoop of joy. He could see the Seanchan movements playing out in his mind's eye now. Half their army would march directly north from the Erinin, joining with Elayne's harried army at the Mora to crush the Trollocs trying to force their way into Shienar. The other half would swing to the west around the bogs to the western side of the Heights, crushing the Trollocs in the corridor from behind.

Now the falling hail of arrows was accompanied by glowing lights popping into existence in the air—damane, making more light for their army to see by—a display that would have done the Illuminators proud! Indeed, the ground shook as the massive Seanchan army marched across the Field of Merrilor.

Thunder shattered the air off Mat's right flank on the Heights—a deeper thunder. Talmanes and Aludra had mended the dragons and were firing directly from the cavern through gateways into the Sharan army.

The pieces were almost all in place. There was one more bit of business that needed tending to before the final toss of the dice.

Mat's armies pressed forward.
__________________________________________

As she crept, she heard a low thrumming sound coming from the mountain. The ground began to tremble, chips of stone bouncing about. Aviendha stayed low, only to see that the valley had begun to sprout—incredibly—new plants. The once-barren ground turned vibrantly green, the plants seeming to writhe as they grew tall.

Patches of those plants sprouted all across the valley, violent bursts of greenery. Above, the white and black clouds swirled together, white on black, black on white. Lighting crashed, then froze to the ground. The lightning, impossibly, seemed to have become a towering glass column, jagged, in the shape of the bolt that had struck, though it was no longer glowing.

Those clouds above formed a pattern that looked familiar. Black on white, white on black . . .

It's the symbol, she realized with a start. The ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai.

Under this sign . . . shall he conquer.

Aviendha held tightly to the One Power. That thrumming sound was him, somehow. The life growing was him. As the Dark One ripped the land apart, Rand stitched it back together.
__________________________________________

Besides, Mishraile didn't like the . . . feeling he got when looking at Donalo or the others who had been Turned. It was as if there was something unnatural deep within them, looking out at the world, seeking prey.
__________________________________________

"I'm not bloody . . . one of you, am I?" he asked Hend the Striker. "You know . . . since heroes are born sometimes, then die and ... do whatever you do."

The big man laughed, riding a bay horse that could have almost gone shoulder-to-shoulder with a Seanchan boar-horse. "I knew that you would ask this thing, Gambler!"

"Well, then you should bloody well have an answer prepared." Mat felt his face flush as he anticipated the reply.

"No, you are not one of us," Hend said. "Be at ease. Though you have done more than enough to earn a place, you have not been chosen. I do not know why."
__________________________________________

"Rand should have just released you all from your vows."

"He does not have that power," she said hotly.

"What good is honor if the Dark One wins the Last Battle?" Perrin snapped, pulling up his trousers.

"It is everything," Chiad said softly. "It is worth death, it is worth risking the world itself. If we have no honor, better that we lose."
__________________________________________

[Perrin]

"I could fail because I've run myself out of strength."

"Then at least you didn't fail because you held back."
__________________________________________

A wave of wind blew through the valley, ruffling the cadin'sor of Aiel fighting red-veiled enemies. Lightning surged, pounding at the Dragon-sworn line holding the path up to the cave entrance. Those flashes sent men flying into the air. Then, that lightning started striking at the Trollocs instead. The clouds went back and forth like that, the Windfinders seizing control of the weather, the Shadow taking it back. Neither side yet had managed a clear advantage for long.
__________________________________________

There was heroism in every line, in every pull of the bowstring and every hand that held a weapon. How to convey that?
__________________________________________

"Ahhhh . . ." Shaisam rolled onto the battlefield at Thakan'dar. So perfect. So pleasurable. His enemies were killing one another. And he ... he had grown vast.

His mind was in every tendril of mist that rolled down the side of the valley. The souls of Trollocs were . . . well, unsatisfying. Still, simple grain could be filling in plentitude. And Shaisam had consumed quite a number of them.

His drones stumbled down the hillside, cloaked in mists. Trollocs with their skin pocked, as if it had boiled. Dead white eyes. He hardly needed them any longer, as their souls had given him fuel to rebuild himself. His madness had retreated. Mostly. Well, not mostly. Enough.

He walked at the center of the bank of mist. He was not reborn yet, not completely. He would need to find a place to infest, a place where the barriers between worlds was thin. There, he could seep his self into the very stones and embed his awareness into that location. The process would take years, but once it happened, he would become more difficult to kill.

Right now, Shaisam was frail. This mortal form that walked at the center of his mind ... he was bound to it. Fain, it had been. Padan Fain.
__________________________________________

[Shaisam]

They could not reach him. No living thing could withstand his mist. Once, it had been a mindless thing. It had not been him. But it had been trapped with him, inside of a seed carried away, and that death—that wonderful death—had been given fertile ground in the flesh of a man.

The three entwined within him. Mist. Man. Master. That wonderful dagger—his physical form carried it now—had grown something delightful and new and ancient all at once.

So, the mist was him, but the mist was also not him. Mindless, but it was his body, and it carried his mind. Wonderfully, with those clouds in the sky he did not have to worry about the sun burning him away.

So nice of his old enemy to welcome him so! His physical form laughed at the heart of the creeping mists, while his mind—the mists themselves— gloried in how perfect everything was.

This place would become his. But only after he had feasted upon Rand al'Thor, the strongest soul of them all.

What a wonderful celebration!
__________________________________________

"I can . . " Alanna said. "I can release him . . ."

The light faded from her eyes.

Nynaeve looked at Moridin and Rand. Rand glanced at the dead woman with pity and sorrow, but Nynaeve saw no rage in his eyes. Alanna had released the bond before Rand could feel the effects of her death.

Moridin turned back to Rand, another knife in his left hand. Rand raised Callandor to strike Moridin down.

Moridin dropped his sword, and stabbed his own right hand with the knife. Rand twitched suddenly, and Callandor dropped from his grip as if his hand somehow hurt from Moridin's attack.

The glow emanating from the blade winked out, and the crystalline blade rang as it hit the ground.
__________________________________________

A howl rose in the same pitch as that of the sounded Horn. He looked upon a field suddenly filled with a multitude of glowing wolves. They were great pale beasts, the size of Darkhounds. The spirits of those wolves who had died, then gathered here, waiting for the sign, waiting for the chance to fight.

The Horn had called them.

Perrin let loose a yell of his own, a howl of pleasure, then charged forward to meet the Darkhounds.

The Last Hunt had finally, truly arrived.
__________________________________________

Cauthon rammed the dagger right between the ribs, into Shaisam's heart. Tied to this pitiful mortal form, Mordeth screamed. Padan Fain howled, and felt his flesh melting from his bones. The mists trembled, began to swirl and shake.

Together they died.
__________________________________________

The sword's glow turned a violent crimson. Rand could feel the power emanating from Moridin as he drew in the True Power.

This was the most dangerous part of the plan. Min had figured it out. Callandor had such flaws, such incredible flaws. Created so that a man using it needed women to control him, created so that if Rand used it, others could take control of him . . .

Why was Rand to need a weapon with such flaws? Why did the prophecies mention it so? A sa'angreal for the True Power. Why would he ever need such a thing?

The answer was so simple.

"Now!" Rand yelled.

Nynaeve and Moiraine channeled together, exploiting the flaw in Callandor as Moridin tried to bring it to bear against Rand. Wind whipped in the tunnel. The ground quivered, and Moridin yelled, eyes going wide.

They took control of him. Callandor was flawed. Any man using it could be forced to link with women, to be placed in their control. A trap . . . and one he used on Moridin.

"Link!" Rand commanded.

They fed it to him. Power.

Saidar from the women.

The True Power from Moridin.

Saidin from Rand.

Moridin's channeling the True Power here threatened to destroy them all, but they buffered it with saidin and saidar; then directed all three at the Dark One.

Rand punched through the blackness there and created a conduit of light and darkness, turning the Dark Ones own essence upon him.

Rand felt the Dark One beyond, his immensity. Space, size, time . . . Rand understood how these things could be irrelevant now.

With a bellow—three Powers coursing through him, blood streaming down his side—the Dragon Reborn raised a hand of power and seized the Dark One through the Bore, like a man reaching through water to grab the prize at the rivers bottom.

The Dark One tried to pull back, but Rand's claw was gloved by the True Power. The enemy could not taint saidin again. The Dark One tried to withdraw the True Power from Moridin, but the conduit flowed too freely, too powerfully to shut off now. Even for Shai'tan himself.

So it was that Rand used the Dark One's own essence, channeled in its full strength. He held the Dark One tightly, like a dove in the grip of a hawk.

And light exploded from him.
__________________________________________

Elayne trotted her horse among heaps of dead Trollocs. The day was won. She had everyone who could stand searching for the living among the dead.

So many dead. Hundreds of thousands of men and Trollocs, lying in piles all across Merrilor. The rivers banks were slaughterhouses, the bogs mass graves, floating with corpses. Ahead of her, across the river, the Heights groaned and rumbled. She'd pulled her people away from there. She could barely sit on her horse.
The entire plateau collapsed upon itself, burying the dead. Elayne watched, feeling numb, feeling the ground shake. It—

Light.

She sat up straight, feeling the swelling of power in Rand. Her attention flew away from the Heights, instead focused on him. The feeling of supreme strength, the beauty of control and domination. A light shot into the sky far to the north, so bright that she gasped.

The end had come.
__________________________________________

Thom stumbled back from the entrance to the Pit of Doom, shading his eyes with his arm as light—radiant as the sun itself—burst out of the cavern. Moiraine!

"Light," Thom whispered.

Light it was, breaking out of the top of the mountain of Shayol Ghul, a radiant beam that melted the mountain's tip and shot straight into the sky.
__________________________________________

Min raised her hand to her breast, stepping away from the rows of wounded for whom she'd been changing linens.

Rand, she thought, feeling his agonized determination. Far to the north, a beam of light rose into the air, so bright that it lit the Field of Merrilor even such a great distance away. The helpers and the wounded alike blinked, stumbling to their feet, shading their faces.

That light, a brilliant lance in the heavens, burned away the clouds and opened up the sky.
__________________________________________

Aviendha blinked at the light, and knew it was Rand.
__________________________________________

Logain stepped from the ruins, holding a toddler—maybe two years of age—in his arms. The child's weeping mother took her son from his hands. "Thank you. Bless you, Asha'man. Light bless you."

Logain stumbled to a halt amid the people. The air stank of burned flesh and dead Trollocs. "The Heights are gone?" he asked.

"Gone," Androl said reluctantly from beside him. "The earthquakes took them."

Logain sighed. The prize . . . was it lost, then? Would he ever be able to dig it out?

I am a fool, he thought. He had abandoned that power for what? To save these refugees? People who would spurn him and hate him for what he was. People who . . .

. . . who looked at him with awe.

Logain frowned. These were common people, not like folk from the Black Tower who were accustomed to men who could channel. In that moment, he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.

Logain watched with wonder as the people flocked around his Asha'man, weeping for their salvation. Elderly men took Asha'man by the hands, overcome, praising them.

Nearby a youth looked at Logain with admiration. A dozen youths. Light, a hundred' Not a hint of fear in their eyes.

"Thank you," the young mother said again. "Thank you."

"The Black Tower protects," Logain heard himself say. "Always."

"I will send him to you to be tested when he is of age," the woman promised, holding her son. "I would have him join you, if he has the talent."

The talent. Not the curse. The talent.

Light bathed them.

He stopped. That beam of light to the north . . . channeling like none he'd ever felt before, not even at the cleansing. Such power.

"It's happening," Gabrelle said, stepping up to him.

Logain reached to his belt, then took three items from his pouch. Discs, half white, half black. The nearby Asha'man turned toward him, pausing in Healing and comforting the people.

"Do it," Gabrelle said. "Do it, Sealbreaker."

Logain snapped the once unbreakable seals, one by one, and dropped the pieces to the ground.
__________________________________________

YOU REALLY ARE NOTHING, Rand said, knowing the Dark Ones secrets completely. YOU WOULD NEVER HAVE GIVEN ME REST AS YOU PROMISED, FATHER OF LIES. YOU WOULD HAVE ENSLAVED ME AS YOU WOULD HAVE ENSLAVED THE OTHERS. YOU CANNOT GIVE OBLIVION. REST IS NOT YOURS. ONLY TORMENT.

The Dark One trembled in his grip.

YOU HORRIBLE, PITIFUL MITE, Rand said.

Rand was dying. His lifeblood flowed from him, and beyond that, the amount of the Powers he held would soon burn him away.
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Rand yelled, thrusting the Dark One back through the pit from where it had come. Rand pushed his arms to the side, grabbing twin pillars of saidar and saidin with his mind, coated with the True Power drawn through Moridin, who knelt on the floor, eyes open, so much power coursing through him he couldn't even move.

Rand hurled the Powers forward with his mind and braided them together. Saidin and saidar at once, the True Power surrounding them and forming a shield on the Bore.

He wove something majestic, a pattern of interlaced saidar and saidin in their pure forms. Not Fire, not Spirit, not Water, not Earth, not Air. Purity. Light itself. This didn't repair, it didn't patch, it forged anew.

With this new form of the Power, Rand pulled together the rent that had been made here long ago by foolish men.

He understood, finally, that the Dark One was not the enemy.

It never had been.
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Thom turned Moiraine away from the corridor, but she refused to look away. She opened her eyes, though she knew that the light was too intense, and she saw something. Rand and Moridin, standing in the light as it expanded outward to consume the entire mountain in its glow.

The blackness in front of Rand hung like a hole, sucking in everything. Slowly, bit by bit, that hole shrank away until it was just a pinprick.

It vanished.
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He could . . . see, just faintly. A figure kneeling down beside him. "Yes," a woman whispered. He did not recognize the voice. "Yes, that's good. That is what you need to do."

He blinked, his vision fuzzy. Was that Aiel clothing? An old woman, with gray hair? Her form retreated, and Rand reached toward her, not wanting to be alone. Wanting to explain himself. "I see the answer now," he whispered. "I asked the Aelfinn the wrong question. To choose is our fate. If you have no choice, then you aren't a man at all. You're a puppet . . ." Shouting.

Rand felt heavy. He plunged into unconsciousness.
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He looked upward through the vanishing wisps and found the sun directly overhead.

"Well, you're a sight," he said to it. "You should come out more often. You have a pretty face." He smiled, then looked down at the dead man by his feet. Padan Fain looked like a bundle of sticks and moss, the flesh slipping from his bones. The blackness of the dagger had spread across his rotting skin. It stank.

Almost, Mat reached for that dagger. Then he spat. "For once," he said, "a gamble I don't want to touch." He turned his back on it and walked off.

Three steps away, he found his hat. He grinned, snatched it up and set it on his head, then began whistling as he rested the ashandarei on his shoulder and strolled away. The dice had stopped rolling in Mat's head.

Behind, the dagger, ruby and all, melted away into the mess that had been Padan Fain.
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What of Rand?

No colors swirled in his vision. No image of Rand. Perrin felt no more tugging, pulling him in any direction.
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He knelt down, resting a hand on Rand's shoulder.

I couldn't feel your tugging, or see the visions, Perrin thought. You're no longer ta'veren. I suspect neither am I.
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[Loial]

The day was coming to an end. The day of the Last Battle! It was the Fourth Age now, wasn't it? Could an age start in the middle of a day? That would be inconvenient for the calendars, wouldn't it? But everyone agreed. Rand had sealed the Bore at noon.
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The sounds of the display washed over them.

"Fireworks?" Tuon said.

"The best bloody firework show in the history of my land or yours," Mat said.

Tuon frowned. The explosions reflected in her dark eyes. "I'm with child," she said. "The Doomseer has confirmed it."

Mat felt a jolt, as sure as if a firework had gone off inside of his stomach. An heir. A son, no doubt! What odds that it was a boy? Mat forced a grin. "Well, I guess I'm off the hook, now. You have an heir."

"I have an heir," Tuon said, "but I am the one off that hook. Now I can kill you, if I want."

Mat felt his grin widen. "Well, we'll have to see what we can work out. Tell me, do you ever play dice?"
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"I sent Olver away," Birgitte said. "With guards I trust. I told Olver to find someplace nobody would look, a place he could forget, and toss the Horn into it. Preferably the ocean."

Elayne exhaled softly, then turned back toward the pyre. "Insufferable woman." She hesitated. "Thank you for saving me from having to make that decision."

"I thought you'd feel that way." Actually, Birgitte had assumed it would take a long time before Elayne understood. But Elayne had grown in the last few weeks."
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"I've seen this," Min said. "I knew it would come the day I first met him. We three, together, here."

Elayne nodded. "So now what?"

"Now . . ." Aviendha said. "Now we make sure that everyone well and truly believes he is gone."

Min nodded, feeling the pulsing throb of the bond in the back of her mind. It grew stronger each moment.
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Rand al'Thor—just Rand al'Thor—woke in a dark tent by himself. Someone had left a candle burning beside his pallet.

He breathed deeply, stretching. He felt as if he'd just slept long and deep. Shouldn't he be hurting? Stiff? Aching? He felt none of that.

He reached to his side and felt no wounds there. No wounds. For the first time in a long while, there was no pain. He almost didn't know what to make of it.

Then he looked down and saw that the hand prodding his side was his own left hand. He laughed, holding it up before him. A mirror, he thought.

I need a mirror.

He found one beyond the next partition of the tent. Apparently, he'd been left completely alone. He held up the candle, looking into the small mirror. Moridin's face looked back at him.

Rand touched his face, feeling it. In his right eye hung a single saa, black, shaped like the dragon's fang. It didn't move.

Rand slipped back into the portion of the tent where he'd awakened. Laman's sword was there, sitting atop a neat pile of mixed clothing. Alivia apparently hadn't known what he would want to wear. She had been the one to leave these things, of course, along with a bag of coins from a variety of nations. She hadn't ever cared much for either clothing or coin, but she had known he'd need both.

She will help you die. Rand shook his head, dressing and gathering the coins and the sword, then slipping out of the tent. Someone had left a good horse, a dappled gelding, tied not far away. That would do him well. From Dragon Reborn to horsethief. He chuckled to himself. Bareback would have to do.

He hesitated. Nearby, in the darkness, people were singing. This was Shayol Ghul, but not as he remembered it. A blooming Shayol Ghul, full of life.

The song they sang was a Borderlander funeral song. Rand led the horse through the night to get a little closer. He peered between the tents to where three women stood around a funeral pyre.

Moridin, he thought. He's being cremated with full honors as the Dragon Reborn.

Rand backed away, then mounted the dapple. As he did so, he noticed one figure who was not standing by the fire. A solitary figure, who looked toward him when all other eyes were turned away.

Cadsuane. She looked him up and down, eyes reflecting firelight from the glow of Rand's pyre. Rand nodded, waited for a moment, then turned the horse and heeled it away.
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Cadsuane watched him go.

Curious, she thought. Those eyes had confirmed her suspicions. That would be information she could use. No need to keep watching this sham of a funeral, then.
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Rand breathed a sigh of relief as he left Cadsuane behind. She did not raise an alarm, though she had continued to study him as he put distance between them. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed her walking off with some other Aes Sedai.

She worried him; she probably suspected something he wished she did not. It was better than her raising an alarm, though.

He sighed, fishing in his pocket, where he found a pipe. Thank you, Alivia, for that, he thought, packing it with tabac from a pouch he found in the other pocket. By instinct, he reached for the One Power to light it.

He found nothing. No saidin in the void, nothing. He paused, then smiled and felt an enormous relief. He could not channel. Just to be certain, he tentatively reached for the True Power. Nothing there either.

He regarded his pipe, riding up a little incline to the side of Thakandar, now covered in plants. No way to light the tabac. He inspected it for a moment in the darkness, then thought of the pipe being lit. And it was.

Rand smiled and turned south. He glanced over his shoulder. All three women at the pyre had turned from it to look directly at him. He could make them out, though not much else, by the light of the burning body.

I wonder which of them will follow me, he thought, then smiled deeper. Rand al'Thor, you've built up quite a swelled head, haven't you? Assuming that one, or more, would follow.

Maybe none of them would. Or maybe all of them would, in their own time. He found himself chuckling.

Which would he pick? Min ... but no, to leave Aviendha? Elayne. No. He laughed. He couldn't pick. He had three women in love with him, and didn't know which he would like to have follow him. Any of them. All of them. Light, man. You're hopeless. Hopelessly in love with all three, and there's no way out of it.

He heeled the horse into a canter, heading farther south. He had a purse full of coin, a good horse and a strong sword. Laman's sword, which was a better sword than he'd have wanted. It might draw attention. It was a true heron-marked sword with a fine blade.

Did Alivia realize how much money she'd given him? She didn't know a thing about coins. She'd probably stolen the lot of it, so he wasn't just a horsethief. Well, he'd told her to get him some gold, and she'd done it. He could buy an entire farm in the Two Rivers with what he carried.

South. East or west would do, but he figured he wanted to go someplace away from it all for good. South first, then maybe out west, along the coast. Maybe he could find a ship? There was so much of the world he hadn't seen. He'd experienced a few battles, he'd gotten caught up in a huge Game of Houses. Many things he hadn't wanted anything to do with. He'd seen his father's farm. And palaces. He'd seen a lot of palaces.

He just had not had the leisure to have a real look at much of the world. That will be new, he thought. Traveling without being chased, or having to rule here or there. Traveling where he could just sleep in a barn in exchange for splitting someone's firewood. He thought about that, and found himself laughing, riding on south and smoking his impossible pipe. As he did so, a wind rose up around him, around the man who had been called L-rd, Dragon Reborn, king, killer, lover and friend.

The wind rose high and free, to soar in an open sky with no clouds. It passed over a broken landscape scattered with corpses not yet buried. A landscape covered, at the same time, with celebrations. It tickled the branches of trees that had finally begun to put forth buds.

The wind blew southward, through knotted forests, over shimmering plains and toward lands unexplored. This wind, it was not the ending. There are no endings, and never will be endings, to the turning of the Wheel of Time.

But it was an ending.
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And it came to pass in those days, as it had come before and would come again, that the Dark lay heavy on the land and weighed down the hearts of men, and the green things failed, and hope died. And men cried out to the Creator, saying, O Light of the Heavens, Light of the World, let the Promised One be born of the mountain, according to the prophecies, as he was in ages past and will be in ages to come. Let the Prince of the Morning sing to the land that green things will grow and the valleys give forth lambs. Let the arm of the L-rd of the Dawn shelter us from the Dark, and the great sword of justice defend us. Let the Dragon ride again on the winds of time.
—from Charal Drianaan te Calamon, 
The Cycle of the Dragon.
Author unknown, the Fourth Age.

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He came like the wind, like the wind touched everything, and like the wind was gone.

—from The Dragon Reborn.
By Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, 
the Fourth Age.

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