A Promise to Lews Therin

Cadsuane kept her cloak on, hood up, despite the mugginess that strained her ability to “ignore” the heat. She dared not lower the hood or remove the cloak. Al’Thor’s words had been specific; if he saw her face, she would be executed. She wouldn’t risk her life to prevent a few hours of discomfort, even if she thought al’Thor was safely back in his newly appropriated mansion. The boy often appeared where he wasn’t expected or wanted.

She wasn’t about to let him exile her, of course. The more power a man held, the more likely he was to be an idiot with it. Give a man one cow, and he’d care for it with concern, using its milk to feed his family. Give a man ten cows, and he was likely to think himself rich—then let all ten starve for lack of attention.

She clomped down the boardwalk, passing bannered buildings like boxes stacked atop one another. She wasn’t particularly pleased to be in Bandar Eban again. She had nothing against the Domani; she just preferred cities that weren’t so crowded. And with the problems in the countryside, the place was more packed than normal. Refugees continued to trickle in despite the rumors regarding al’Thor’s arrival in the city. She passed a cluster of them in the alley to her left, a family, faces darkened by dirt.

Al’Thor promised food. That brought hungry mouths, none eager to return to their farms, even after they were given food. The countryside was still too chaotic, and the food here too new. The refugees couldn’t be certain the grain wouldn’t just spoil, as so much did recently. No, they stayed, packing the city, crowding it.

Cadsuane shook her head, continuing down the boardwalk, those wretched clogs clattering against the wood. The city was famous for these long, sturdy walkways, which allowed foot traffic to avoid the mud of the streets. Cobbles would have fixed that, but the Domani often prided themselves on being different from the rest of the world. Indigestibly spicy food with dreadful eating utensils. A capital filled with frivolous banners, set on a huge port. Scandalous dresses on the women; long, thin mustaches on the men and an almost Sea Folk–like fondness for earrings.

Hundreds of those banners flapped in the wind as Cadsuane passed, and she gritted her teeth against the temptation to pull off her hood and feel the wind on her face. Light-cursed ocean air. Normally, Bandar Eban was chilly and rainy. Rarely had she felt it this warm. The humidity was dreadful either way. Rational people stayed inland!

She made her way down several streets, crossing through the mud at intersections. That was the irredeemable flaw of boardwalks, in her opinion. The locals knew which streets to cut across and which ones were deep in mud, but Cadsuane had to just tramp across wherever she could. That’s why she’d hunted out these clogs, built after the Tairen style, to go over her shoes. It had been surprisingly hard to find a merchant selling them; the Domani obviously had little interest in them, and most people she passed either went barefoot in the mud or knew where to cross and keep from soiling their shoes.

Halfway down to the docks, she finally reached her destination. The fine banner flapping out front proclaimed the inn’s name as The Wind’s Favor, beating against an inlaid wood front. Cadsuane made her way inside and took off the clogs in the muddy entryway before stepping up into the inn proper. There, finally, she allowed herself to lower her hood. If al’Thor randomly happened to visit this particular inn, then he’d just have to hang her.

The inn’s common room was decorated more like a king’s dining hall than a tavern. White tablecloths coated the tables, and the varnished wooden floor was mopped to a shine. The walls were hung with tasteful still-life paintings—a bowl of fruit on the wall behind the bar, a vase of flowers on the wall opposite it. The bottles on the ledge behind the bar were almost all wine, very few bottles of brandy or other liquors.

The slender innkeeper, Quillin Tasil, was a tall, oval-faced Andoran man. Thinning on top with dark, short hair at the sides of his head, he wore a full beard, trimmed short, which was almost all gray. His fine lavender coat had white ruffled cuffs peeking out from the sleeves, but he wore an innkeeper’s apron over the front. He generally had had good information, but was also willing to look into inquiries for her among his associates. A very useful man indeed.

He smiled at Cadsuane as she entered, wiping his hands on a towel. He gestured her toward a table, then went back to the bar to fetch some wine. Cadsuane settled herself as two men on the other side of the room began to argue loudly. The other patrons—only four, two women at a table on the far side, two more men at the bar—paid the argument no heed. One couldn’t spend much time in Arad Doman without learning to ignore the frequent flares in temper. Domani men were as hotheaded as volcanoes, and most people agreed that Domani women were the reason. These two men did not turn to a duel, as would have been common in Ebou Dar. Instead, they shouted for a few moments, then began to agree with each other, then insisted on buying one another wine. Fights were common; bloodshed infrequent. Injuries were bad for business.

Quillin approached, bearing a cup of wine—it would be one of his finest vintages. She never requested such from him, but never complained either.

“Mistress Shore,” he said with his affable voice, “I wish I’d known earlier that you were back in town! The first I heard of it was your letter!”

Cadsuane took the offered cup. “I am not accustomed to giving reports on my whereabouts to every acquaintance, Master Tasil.”

“Of course not, of course not,” he said, and seemed completely unoffended at her sharp response. She’d never been able to get a rise out of him. That had always made her curious.

“The inn seems to be doing well,” she said politely, causing him to turn and look over his few patrons. They seemed uncomfortable to be sitting at immaculate tables atop a gleaming floor. Cadsuane wasn’t certain if it was the intimidating cleanliness that kept people away from The Wind’s Favor, or if it was Quillin’s insistence on never hiring gleemen or musicians to perform. He claimed they spoiled the atmosphere. As she watched, he noticed that a new patron entered, tracking in mud. She could see Quillin’s fingers itching to go scrub the floor.

“You there,” Quillin called to the man. “Scrape your shoes before coming in, if you please.”

The man froze, frowning, but went back to do as instructed. Quillin sighed and moved over to sit at her table. “Frankly, Mistress Shore, it gets a little too busy here lately for my tastes. Can’t keep track of all my patrons sometimes! People go without drink, waiting for me to get to them.”

“You could hire help,” she noted. “A serving girl or two.”

“What? And let them have all the fun?” He said it in all seriousness.

Cadsuane took a sip of her wine. An excellent vintage indeed, perhaps expensive enough that an inn—no matter how splendid—shouldn’t have had it readily available behind the bar. She sighed. Quillin’s Domani wife was one of the most accomplished silk merchants in the city; many Sea Folk vessels sought her out personally to trade with her. Quillin had kept accounts for his wife’s business for some twenty years before he had retired, both of them wealthy.

And what did he do with it? Open an inn. It had apparently always been a dream of his. Cadsuane had learned long ago to stop questioning the odd penchants of people with too much free time.

“What news of the city, Quillin?” she asked, sliding a small bag of coins across the table toward him.

“Mistress, you offend,” he said, raising his hands. “I couldn’t take your coin!”

She raised an eyebrow. “I have little patience for games today, Master Tasil. If you don’t want it yourself, then give it to the poor. Light knows there are enough of those in the city these days.”

He sighed, but reluctantly pocketed the purse. Perhaps that was why his common room was often empty; an innkeeper who had no regard for money was a strange beast. Many of the common men would find Quillin as discomforting as the immaculate floor and tasteful decorations.

Quillin was, however, very good for information. His wife shared her gossip with him. With her face, he obviously knew she was Aes Sedai. Namine—his eldest daughter—had gone to the White Tower, eventually choosing the Brown and settling into the library there. A Domani librarian was nothing unusual—the Terhana library in Bandar Eban was one of the greatest in the world. However, Namine’s casual, yet keen, understanding of current events had been enough of a curiosity that Cadsuane had followed the connection, hoping to discover well-placed parents. Ties such as a daughter in the White Tower often made people amiable toward other Aes Sedai. That had led her to Quillin. Cadsuane didn’t trust him entirely, but she was fond of him.

“What news of the city?” Quillin asked. Honestly, what innkeeper wore a silk embroidered vest beneath his apron? No wonder people found the inn strange. “Where should I start? There has almost been too much to keep track of lately!”

“Start with Alsalam,” Cadsuane said, sipping her wine. “When was he last seen?”

“By credible witnesses, or by hearsay?”

“Tell me both.”

“There have been lesser windborn and merchants who claim to have received personal communication from the King as recently as a week ago, my Lady, but I regard such claims with skepticism. Very soon after the King’s . . . hiatus began you could find forged letters claiming to dictate his wishes. I have seen some few sets of orders with my own eyes that I trust—or, at least, I trust the seal on them—but the King himself? I’d say it has been almost half a year since anyone I can vouch for has seen him.”

“His whereabouts, then?”

The innkeeper shrugged, looking apologetic. “For a while, we were certain that the Council of Merchants was behind the disappearance. They rarely let the King out of their sight, and with the troubles to the south, we all assumed they’d taken His Majesty to safety.”

“But?”

“But my sources,” that meant his wife, “aren’t convinced any longer. The Council of Merchants has been too disorganized lately, each member trying to keep their own chunk of Arad Doman from unraveling. If they’d had the King, they’d have revealed him by now.”

Cadsuane tapped the side of her cup with a fingernail, annoyed. Could there be truth, then, to the al’Thor boy’s belief that one of the Forsaken had Alsalam? “What else?”

“There are Aiel in the city, Lady,” Quillin said, scrubbing at an invisible spot on the tabletop.

She gave him a flat stare. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He chuckled. “Yes, yes, obvious, I suppose. But the exact number in the area is twenty-four thousand. Some say the Dragon Reborn has them here just to prove his power and authority. After all, who ever heard of Aiel distributing food? Half the poor in the city are too frightened to go to the handouts, for fear the Aiel have used some of their poisons on the grain.”

“Aiel poisons?” She’d never heard that particular rumor before.

Quillin nodded. “Some claim that as the reason for the food spoilages, my Lady.”

“But food was spoiling in the country long before the Aiel arrived, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Quillin said. “But it can be hard to remember things like that in the face of so much bad grain. Besides, spoilage has grown much worse since the Lord Dragon arrived.”

Cadsuane covered her frown by taking a sip of wine. It had grown worse with al’Thor’s arrival? Was that just rumor, or was it the truth? She lowered her cup. “And the other strange occurrences in the city?” she asked carefully, to see what she could discover.

“You’ve heard of those, then?” Quillin said, leaning in. “People don’t like to speak of them, of course, but my sources hear things. Stillborn children, men dying from falls that should barely have caused a bruise, stones toppling from buildings and striking women dead as they trade. Dangerous times, my Lady. I hate to pass on mere hearsay, but I’ve seen the numbers myself!”

The events were not, in themselves, unexpected. “Of course, there are the balances.”

“Balances?”

“Marriages on the rise,” she said, waving a hand, “children who encounter wild beasts but escape unharmed, unexpected fortunes discovered beneath the floorboards of a pauper’s home. That sort of thing.”

“That certainly would be nice,” Quillin said, chuckling. “We can wish and hope, my Lady.”

“You’ve heard no such stories?” Cadsuane asked with surprise.

“No, my Lady. I can ask around, if you wish.”

“Do so.” Al’Thor was ta’veren, but the Pattern was a thing of balance. For every accidental death caused by Rand’s presence in a city, there was always a miraculous survival.

What did it mean if that was breaking down?

She went on to specific questions for Quillin, the whereabouts of the members of the merchant council at the top of the list. She knew that the al’Thor boy wanted to capture them all; if she could get information about their locations that he didn’t have, it could be very useful. She also asked Quillin to find out the economic situation of the other major Domani cities and supply any news of rebel factions or Taraboners striking across the border.

As she left the inn—reluctantly raising her hood and stepping back into the muggy afternoon—she found that Quillin’s words had left her with more questions than she’d had when she’d come.

It looked like rain. Of course, that was always the way it looked lately. Overcast and dreary, with a gray sky and clouds that bled together in a uniform haze. At least it had actually rained the previous night; for some reason, that made the overcast sky more bearable. As if it were more natural, allowing her to pretend that the perpetual gloom wasn’t another sign of the Dark One’s stirring. He had withered the people with a drought, he had frozen them with a sudden winter, and now he seemed determined to destroy them through sheer melancholy.

Cadsuane shook her head, tapping her clogs to make sure they were sturdily affixed, then walked onto the muddied boardwalk and made her way down toward the docks. She would see just how accurate these rumors about spoilage were. Had the strange events surrounding al’Thor really grown more destructive, or was she just allowing herself to find what she feared?

Al’Thor. She had to face the truth: she had bungled her handling of him. Of course, she hadn’t made any mistakes with the male a’dam, whatever al’Thor claimed. Whoever had stolen the collar had been exceedingly powerful and crafty. Anyone capable of such a feat could just as easily have fetched another male a’dam from the Seanchan. They were likely to have plenty of them.

No, the a’dam had been taken from her own room in an effort to sow distrust; of that she was certain. Perhaps, even, the theft had been intended to mask something else: the returning of the figurine to al’Thor. His temperament had become so dark, there was no telling what destruction he could cause with that.

The poor, foolish boy. He should never have had to suffer collaring at the hands of one of the Forsaken; that would only remind him of the times he had been beaten and caged by Aes Sedai. It would make her job more difficult. If not impossible.

That was the question she had to face now. Was he beyond saving? Was it too late to change him? And if it was, what—if anything—could she do? The Dragon Reborn had to meet the Dark One at Shayol Ghul. If he did not, all was lost. But what if allowing him to meet the Dark One would be equally disastrous?

No. She refused to believe that their battle had already been lost. There had to be something that could be done to change al’Thor’s direction. But what?

Al’Thor hadn’t reacted like most peasants suddenly granted power; he hadn’t grown selfish or petty. He hadn’t hoarded wealth, nor had he struck with childish vengeance against any who had slighted him in his youth. Indeed, there had actually been a wisdom to many of his decisions—the ones that didn’t involve gallivanting into danger.

Cadsuane continued down the boardwalk, passing Domani refugees in their incongruously bright clothing. She occasionally had to step around clusters of them sitting on the damp logs, an impromptu camp growing up around the mouth to an alleyway or the unused side door of a building. None made way for her. What good was an Aes Sedai face if you covered it up? This city was just too packed.

Cadsuane slowed near a row of pennants which spelled out the name of the dock registrar. The docks themselves were just ahead, lined by twice as many Sea Folk ships as before, many of them rakers, the largest of Sea Folk vessels. More than a few were converted Seanchan ships, likely stolen from Ebou Dar during the mass escape a short while back.

The docks were crowded with people eager for grain. The crowds jostled and yelled, not looking at all worried about the “poisons” Quillin had mentioned. Of course, starvation could overcome a great number of fears. Dock workers controlled the crowds; among them were Aiel in brown cadin’sor, holding their spears and glaring as only Aiel could. There also appeared to be a fair number of merchants on the docks, probably hoping to secure some of the handouts for storage and later sale.

The docks looked much as they had every day since al’Thor’s arrival. What had made her pause? There seemed to be a prickling sensation on her back, as if. . . .

She spun to find a procession riding down the muddy street. Al’Thor sat proudly on his dark gelding, his clothing colored to match, with only a little red embroidery. As usual, he led a score of soldiers, advisors and a growing number of Domani sycophants.

She seemed to encounter him very frequently traveling the streets. She forced herself to hold her ground, not shying away into an alley, though she did pull her hood down a little lower to shade her face. Al’Thor gave no sign that he recognized her as he rode just in front of her. He seemed troubled by his own thoughts, as he often was. She wanted to yell at him that he needed to move more quickly, secure the crown of Arad Doman and move on, but she held her tongue. She would not let her nearly three hundred years of life end with an execution at the hands of the Dragon Reborn!

His retinue passed. As before, when she turned away from him, she thought she saw . . . from the corner of her eye . . . darkness around him, like too much shade from the clouds above. Whenever she looked directly at him, it vanished—in fact, whenever she tried to see it, she couldn’t make it out. It only appeared when she saw him indirectly, and by happenstance.

She had never read or heard of such a thing in all of her years. To see it around the Dragon Reborn terrified her. This had grown bigger than her pride, much larger than her failures. No. It had always been larger than she was. Guiding al’Thor wasn’t like guiding a galloping horse, it was like trying to guide a deep sea tempest itself!

She would never be able to change his course. He didn’t trust Aes Sedai, and with good reason. He didn’t seem to trust anyone, save perhaps for Min—but Min had resisted every attempt that Cadsuane had made at involving her. The girl was almost as bad as al’Thor.

Visiting the docks was useless. Talking to her informants was useless. If she didn’t do something soon, they were all doomed. But what? She leaned back against the building behind her, triangular banners blowing in front of her, pointing north. Toward the Blight and al’Thor’s ultimate destiny.

An idea struck her. She seized it like a drowning woman in the churning waves. She didn’t know what it was attached to, but it was her only hope.

She spun on her heels and hurried back the way she had come, her head bowed, barely daring to think about her plan. It could fail so easily. If al’Thor really was as dominated by his rage as she feared, then even this would not help him.

But if he really was that far gone, then there wasn’t anything that would help him. That meant she had nothing to lose. Nothing but the world itself.

Pushing her way through crowds and occasionally taking to the muddy street to avoid them, she arrived at the mansion. Some Aiel had taken the camp where Dobraine’s armsmen had staged until his withdrawal. They camped all about, some on the grounds, some in a wing of the mansion, others in nearby buildings.

Cadsuane made her way to the wing that belonged to the Aiel, and she was not stopped. She enjoyed privileges among the Aiel that none of the other sisters had been given. She found Sorilea and the other Wise Ones in conference in one of the libraries. They were sitting on the floor, of course. Sorilea nodded to Cadsuane as she entered. She was all bone, thin and leathery, yet never could a person think her frail. Not with those eyes, set into a face that, despite being worn by wind and sun, was too young for her age. How was it that the Wise Ones could live so long, yet not obtain the Aes Sedai agelessness? That was a question Cadsuane had not been able to answer.

She lowered her hood and joined the Wise Ones, seating herself on the floor, eschewing cushions. She looked Sorilea in the eyes. “I have failed,” she said.

The Wise One nodded, as if she had thought this same thing. Cadsuane forced herself not to show her annoyance.

“There is no shame in failure,” Bair said, “when that failure was the fault of another.”

Amys nodded. “The Car’a’carn is stubborn beyond all men, Cadsuane Sedai. You have no toh toward us.”

“Shame or toh,” Cadsuane said, “it will all be irrelevant soon. But I have a plan. Will you help me?”

The Wise Ones shared a look among them.

“What is this plan?” Sorilea asked.

Cadsuane smiled, then began to explain.

Rand glanced over his shoulder, watching Cadsuane scuttle away. She probably thought that he hadn’t noticed her hiding there at the side of the street. The cloak hid her face, but nothing could conceal that self-assured posture, not even the clumsy footgear. Even as she hurried, she seemed in control, and others moved out of her way reflexively.

She flirted with his prohibition, following him through the town like this. However, she had not shown him her face, and so he let her go. It had probably been a poor move to exile her in the first place, but there was no going back now. He would just have to control his temper in the future. Keep it wrapped in ice, steaming deep inside his chest, pulsing like a second heart.

He turned back to the docks. Perhaps there was no reason for him to check on the food distribution directly. However, he had found that the grain had a distinctly higher chance of getting to those who needed it if everyone knew they were being watched. This was a people who had been without a king for too long; they deserved to see that someone was in control.

Upon reaching the wharf, he turned Tai’daishar to angle along the back of the docks, moving at an unhurried pace. He glanced at the Asha’man riding beside him. Naeff had a strong, rectangular face and the lean build of a warrior; he’d been a soldier in the Queen’s Guard of Andor before resigning in disgust during the reign of “Lord Gaebril.” Naeff had found his way to the Black Tower, and now wore both the Sword and Dragon.

Eventually, Rand would probably have to either let Naeff return to his Aes Sedai—he had been among the first ones bonded—or bring her to him. He was loath to have another Aes Sedai nearby, although Nelavaire Demasiellin, a Green, was relatively pleasant as Aes Sedai went.

“Continue,” Rand said to Naeff as they rode. The Asha’man had been running messages and meeting with the Seanchan with Bashere.

“Well, my Lord,” Naeff said, “it’s just my gut feeling, but I don’t think they’ll accept Katar for the meeting place. They always grow difficult when Lord Bashere or I mention it, claiming they will have to seek further instructions from the Daughter of the Nine Moons. Their tones imply that the ‘instructions’ will be that the location is unacceptable.”

Rand spoke softly. “Katar is neutral ground, neither in Arad Doman nor deep within Seanchan lands.”

“I know, my Lord. We’ve tried. I promise that we have.”

“Very well,” Rand said. “If they continue to be bullheaded about this, I will choose another location. Return to them and say we will meet at Falme.”

From behind, Flinn whistled quietly.

“My Lord,” Naeff said. “That’s well within the Seanchan border.”

“I know,” Rand said, glancing at Flinn. “But it has a . . . certain historic significance. We will be safe; these Seanchan are bound rigidly by their honor. They will not attack if we arrive under a banner of truce.”

“Are you certain?” Naeff asked quietly. “I don’t like the way they look at me, my Lord. There’s contempt in their eyes, every one of them. Contempt and pity, as if I’m some lost hound, searching for scraps behind the inn. Burn me, but it makes me sick.”

“They’ve got those collars of theirs handy, my Lord,” Flinn said. “Flag of truce or not, they’ll be itching to bind us all.”

Rand closed his eyes, keeping the rage inside, feeling the salty sea air blow across him. He opened his eyes to a sky bounded by dark clouds. He would not think of the collar at his neck, his hand strangling Min. That was the past.

He was harder than steel. He could not be broken.

“We must have peace with the Seanchan,” he said. “Differences notwithstanding.”

“Differences?” Flinn asked. “I don’t rightly think I’d call that a difference, my Lord. They want to enslave every one of us, maybe execute us. They think it’s a favor to do either!”

Rand held the man’s gaze. Flinn was not rebellious; he was as loyal as they came. But still Rand made him wilt and bow his head. Dissension could not be tolerated. Dissension and lies had brought him to the collar. No more.

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Flinn finally said. “Burn me if Falme isn’t a fine choice! You’ll have them watching the skies with fear, you will.”

“Go with the message now, Naeff,” Rand said. “I want this settled.”

Naeff nodded, turning his horse and trotting away from the column, a small group of Aiel guards joining him. One could only Travel from a place one knew well, and so he couldn’t simply leave from dockside. Rand continued his ride, troubled by Lews Therin’s silence. The madman had been unusually distant lately. That should have pleased Rand, but it disturbed him instead. It had to do with the unnamed power that Rand had touched. He still often heard the madman weeping, whispering to himself, terrified.

“Rand?”

He turned, not having heard Nynaeve’s horse approach. She wore a bold green dress, modest by Domani standards, but still far more revealing than she’d ever have considered during her days in the Two Rivers. She has a right to change, Rand thought. What is a loosening of dress compared to the fact that I have ordered exiles and executions?

“What did you decide?” she asked.

“We will meet them at Falme,” he said.

She muttered quietly.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Oh, just something about you being a wool-headed fool,” she said, looking at him with defiant eyes.

“Falme will be agreeable to them,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “It puts you perfectly within their hands.”

“I cannot afford to wait, Nynaeve,” he said. “This is a risk we must take. But I doubt they will attack.”

“Did you doubt it last time too?” she asked. “The time when they took your hand?”

He glanced down at his stump. “They are unlikely to have one of the Forsaken with them this time.”

“You can be sure?”

He met her eyes, and she held them, something few people could seem to manage these days. Finally, he shook his head. “I cannot be sure.”

She sniffed in response, indicating that she’d won that argument. “Well, we’ll just have to be extra careful. Perhaps memories of the last time you visited Falme will make them uncomfortable.”

“I hope so,” he said.

She muttered something else to herself, but he didn’t catch it. Nynaeve would never make an ideal Aes Sedai; she was far too free with her emotions, particularly her temper. Rand did not find it a fault; at least he always knew where he stood with Nynaeve. She was terrible at games, and that made her valuable. He trusted her. She was one of the few.

We do trust her, don’t we? Lews Therin asked. Can we?

Rand didn’t answer. He completed his review of the docks. Nynaeve stayed at his side. She seemed to be in a dark mood, though Rand couldn’t see why. With Cadsuane’s banishment, Nynaeve could fill the role as his primary advisor. Didn’t that please her?

Perhaps she was worried about Lan. As Rand turned his procession back toward the center of town, he asked, “Have you heard from him?”

Nynaeve glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “Who?”

“You know who,” Rand said, riding past a row of bright red banners waving atop a line of homes, each holding scions of the same family.

“His actions are none of your concern,” Nynaeve said.

“The entire world is my concern, Nynaeve.” He looked at her. “Would you not agree?”

She opened her mouth, no doubt to snap at him, but faltered as she met his eyes. Light, he thought, seeing the apprehension in her face. I can do it to Nynaeve, now. What is it that they see when they look at me? That look in her eyes almost made him frightened of himself.

“Lan will be well,” Nynaeve said, looking away.

“He has ridden to Malkier, hasn’t he?”

She flushed.

“How long?” Rand asked. “He hasn’t gotten to the Blight already, has he?” Turned loose to follow what he saw as both his duty and destiny, Lan would ride straight to Malkier alone. The kingdom—his kingdom—had been consumed by the Blight decades ago, when he’d been a babe.

“Two or three more months,” she said. “Perhaps a little longer. He rides to Shienar to stand at the Gap, even if he has to do so alone.”

“He seeks vengeance,” Rand said softly. “ ‘To avenge what cannot be defended.’ ”

“He does his duty!” Nynaeve said. “But . . . I do worry at his brashness. He insisted that I take him to the Borderlands, so I did, but I left him in Saldaea. I wanted him as far from the Gap as possible. He’ll have to cross some difficult terrain to get where he’s going.”

Rand felt an icy coldness as he considered Lan riding to the Gap. To his death, essentially. But there was nothing to be done about that. “I am sorry, Nynaeve,” he said, though he did not feel it. He had trouble feeling anything lately.

“You think I’d send him alone?” she snapped. “Wool-headed, both of you! I’ve seen that he’ll have his own army, although he doesn’t want one.”

And she was perfectly capable of it. Perhaps she’d sent warning to the remnants of the Malkieri in Lan’s name. Lan was a strange mixture; he refused to raise the banner of Malkier or claim his place as its king, for he feared leading the last of his countrymen to their deaths. Yet he would be perfectly willing to ride to that same death himself in the name of honor.

Is that what I do? Rand thought. Ride to my death in the name of honor? But no, it’s different. Lan has a choice. There were no prophecies saying that Lan would die, whatever the man’s assumptions about his own fate.

“He could use some help regardless,” Nynaeve said uncomfortably. Asking for help always made her uncomfortable. “His army will be small. I doubt they’ll stand long against the Trollocs.”

“Will he attack?” Rand asked.

Nynaeve hesitated. “He didn’t say,” she said. “But yes, I think he will. He thinks you are wasting time here, Rand. If he arrives and gathers an army, and finds Trollocs gathered at Tarwin’s Gap . . . yes, I think he’ll attack.”

“Then he deserves what he will get, for riding without the rest of us,” Rand said.

Nynaeve scowled at him. “How can you say that?”

“I must,” Rand replied softly. “The Last Battle is imminent. Perhaps my own attack on the Blight will happen at the same time as Lan’s. Perhaps not.” He paused thoughtfully. If Lan and whatever army he brought engaged at the Gap . . . perhaps that would draw attention. If Rand didn’t attack there, it would throw off the Shadow. He could strike them where they didn’t expect it while their eyes were on Lan.

“Yes,” Rand said thoughtfully. “His death could serve me well indeed.”

Nynaeve’s eyes widened in fury, but Rand ignored her. A very quiet place, deep inside of him, was struck with worry over his friend. He had to ignore that worry, silence it. But that voice whispered to him.

He named you friend. Do not abandon him. . . .

Nynaeve controlled her anger, which impressed Rand. “We will speak of this again,” she said to him, voice curt. “Perhaps after you’ve had a chance to think on exactly what abandoning Lan would mean.”

He liked to think of Nynaeve as the same belligerent Wisdom who had bullied him back in the Two Rivers. She’d always seemed as if she tried too hard, as if she had worried that others would ignore her title because of her youth. But she had grown a lot since then.

They reached the mansion, where fifty of Bashere’s soldiers stood guard before the gates. They saluted in unison as Rand passed through them. He passed Aiel camped outside, dismounted at the stables and transferred the access key from its loop on his saddle to the oversized pocket of his coat—more of a pouch, buttoned into his coat—designed for the statuette. The hand holding its globe aloft reached out of its depths.

He went to his throne room. He couldn’t call it anything other than that, now that the King’s throne had been brought to him. It was oversized, with gilding and gemstones affixed to the wood at the arms and to the back, above the head. They protruded like budding eyes, giving the throne an ornate richness that Rand disliked. It hadn’t been in the palace. One of the local merchants had been “protecting” it from the riots. Perhaps he had considered seizing the seat in a more figurative sense as well.

Rand sat on the throne, despite its gaudiness, shifting so that the access key in his pocket didn’t jab him in the side. The powerful in the city weren’t certain what to think of him, and he preferred it that way. He didn’t name himself king, yet his armies secured the capital. He spoke of restoring Alsalam’s place to him, yet sat on the throne as if he had a right to it. He had not moved into the palace. He wanted them to wonder.

In truth, he hadn’t made a decision. A lot would depend on this day’s reports. He nodded to Rhuarc as he entered; the muscular Aielman returned the gesture. Then Rand stepped down from the throne and he and Rhuarc sat down on the circular rug of spiraling colors which lay on the floor in front of the green-carpeted dais. The first time they’d done this, it had caused a quiet stir among the Domani attendants and functionaries of Rand’s growing court.

“We have located and taken another of them, Rand al’Thor,” Rhuarc said. “Alamindra Cutren was hiding on her cousin’s lands near the northern border; what we learned on her estate led us directly to her.”

That made four members of the merchant council in his custody. “What of Meashan Dubaris? You said you might have her as well.”

“Dead,” Rhuarc said. “By the hands of a mob a week gone.”

“You are certain of this? It could be a lie to set you off her track.”

“I have not seen the body myself,” Rhuarc said, “but men I trust have, and they say it matches her description. I am reasonably assured that the trail was genuine.”

Four captured, and two dead, then. That left four more to locate before he had enough members to order a new vote for king. It would not be the most ethical council election in Domani history; why did he bother? He could appoint a king, or name himself to the throne. Why did he care what the Domani thought proper?

Rhuarc watched him; the Aiel chief’s eyes were thoughtful. He likely wondered the same things.

“Keep searching,” Rand said. “I do not intend to take Arad Doman for myself; we will find the rightful king or we will see the Council of Merchants assembled so that they can choose a new one. I will not care who it is, so long as he is not a Darkfriend.”

“As you say, Car’a’carn,” Rhuarc said, moving to rise.

“Order is important, Rhuarc,” Rand said. “I don’t have time to secure this kingdom myself. We don’t have long before the Last Battle.” He glanced at Nynaeve, who had joined several Maidens at the back of the small room. “I want four more members of the merchant council in our possession by the end of the month.”

“You set a demanding pace, Rand al’Thor,” Rhuarc said.

Rand stood up. “Just find me those merchants. These people deserve leaders.”

“And the king?”

Rand glanced to the side, to where Milisair Chadmar stood, carefully watched by Aiel guards. She seemed . . . haggard. Her once-luxurious raven hair had been pulled up into a bun, obviously because it was easier to care for that way. Her dress was still rich, but now wrinkled, as if she’d been wearing it for too long. Her eyes were red. She was still beautiful, but much in the way that a painting would still be beautiful if it were crumpled up, then smoothed out on a table.

“May you find water and shade, Rhuarc,” Rand said in dismissal.

“May you find water and shade, Rand al’Thor.” The tall Aiel withdrew, some of his spears following him. Rand took a deep breath, then stepped up to the gaudy throne and sat. Rhuarc he treated with the respect he deserved. The others . . . well, they would get the respect they deserved as well.

He leaned forward, motioning Milisair to approach. One of the Maidens nudged her in the back, forcing her forward. The woman looked far more apprehensive than she had the last time she had come before Rand.

“Well?” he asked her.

“My Lord Dragon . . .” she began, glancing around, as if seeking aid from the Domani stewards and attendants who stood there. They ignored her; even the fop Lord Ramshalan looked the other way.

“Speak, woman,” Rand demanded.

“The messenger you asked after,” she said. “He is dead.”

Rand took in a deep breath. “And how did this happen?”

“The men I assigned to watch after him,” she said quickly, “I hadn’t realized how poorly they were treating the messenger! Why, they hadn’t given him water for days, and the fevers struck. . . .”

“In other words,” Rand said, “you failed to extract information from him, so you left him in a dungeon to rot, only remembering where he was when I demanded he be produced.”

“Car’a’carn,” one of the Maidens—a very young woman named Jalani—said, stepping forward. “We found this one packing her things, as if she were planning to escape the city.”

Milisair paled visibly. “Lord Dragon,” she said. “A moment of weakness! I—”

Rand waved for silence. “What am I to do with you now?”

“She should be executed, my Lord!” Ramshalan said, stepping forward eagerly.

Rand looked up with a frown. He hadn’t been asking for a response. Lanky, with one of the thin black Domani mustaches, Ramshalan had a prominent nose that might have indicated some Saldaean forebear. He wore an outrageous coat of blue, orange and yellow, with ruffled white cuffs peeking out underneath. Apparently, such things passed for fashionable among some segments of the Domani upper crust. His earrings bore the mark of his house, and he had a black beauty mark in the shape of a bird in flight affixed to his check.

Rand had known many like him, courtiers with too few brains but too many family connections. Noble life seemed to breed them, much as the Two Rivers bred sheep. Ramshalan was particularly annoying because of his nasal voice and eager willingness to betray others in his desire to curry favor with Rand.

Still, men like him had their uses. Occasionally. “What do you think, Milisair?” Rand said musingly. “Should I have you executed for treason, as this man suggests?”

She did not weep, but she was obviously terrified, her hands shaking as she held them out, her eyes wide, unblinking.

“No,” Rand said finally. “I need you to help choose a new king. What good would it do to search the countryside for your colleagues if I began to execute the Council members I’ve already found?”

She let out the breath she had been holding, and tension left her shoulders

“Lock her in the same dungeon where she imprisoned the King’s messenger,” Rand said to the Maidens. “Make sure she doesn’t suffer the same fate—at least, not until after I’m finished with her.”

Milisair cried out in despair. Aiel Maidens pulled her from the room screaming, but Rand had already put her from his head. Ramshalan watched her go with satisfaction; apparently, she’d insulted him several times in public. That was one point in her favor.

“The other members of the merchant council,” Rand said to the functionaries. “Have any of them had contact with the King?”

“None more recently than four or five months ago, my Lord,” said one of them, a stumpy, large-bellied Domani man named Noreladim. “Though we don’t know about Alamindra, as she was just recently . . . discovered.”

Perhaps she would have news, though he couldn’t see her having a better lead than a messenger who claimed to have come from Alsalam himself. Burn that woman for letting him die!

If Graendal sent the messenger, Lews Therin said suddenly, I’d have never been able to break him. She’s too good with Compulsion. Crafty, so crafty.

Rand hesitated. It was a good point. If the messenger had been subject to Graendal’s Compulsion, there would have been little chance of him being able to betray her location. Not unless the web of Compulsion had been lifted, which would have required a Healing beyond Rand’s skill. Graendal had always covered her tracks well.

But he wasn’t sure she was in the country. If he could find a messenger and Compulsion was there, he’d have enough. “I need to speak with anyone else who claims to have a message from the King,” he said. “Others in the city who might have had contact.”

“They will be found, Lord Dragon,” said the prim Ramshalan.

Rand nodded absently. If Naeff set up the meeting with the Seanchan as hoped, then Rand could leave Arad Doman soon after. He hoped to leave them with a king, hoped to find and kill Graendal. But he would settle for peace with the Seanchan and food for these people. He could not solve everyone’s problems. He could just force them into abeyance long enough for him to die at Shayol Ghul.

And thereby leave the world to break again once he was gone. He gritted his teeth. He had already wasted too much time worrying about things he could not fix.

Is that why I resist naming a Domani king? he thought. Once I die, that man would lose his authority, and Arad Doman would be back where it began. If I don’t leave a king who has the support of the merchants, then I’m essentially offering the kingdom up to the Seanchan the moment I die.

So many things to balance. So many problems. He couldn’t fix them all. He couldn’t.

“I don’t approve of this, Rand,” Nynaeve said, standing beside the door, arms folded. “And we’re not done talking about Lan, either.”

Rand waved a dismissive hand.

“He’s your friend, Rand,” Nynaeve said. “Light! And what of Perrin and Mat? Do you know where they are? What has happened to them?”

The colors swirled before his eyes, revealing an image of Perrin standing by a tent with Galad. Why was Perrin with Galad of all people? And when had Elayne’s half-brother joined the Whitecloaks? The colors changed to Mat, riding through the streets of a familiar city. Caemlyn? Thom was there, with him.

Rand frowned to himself. He could feel a pull from Perrin and Mat, both distant. It was their ta’veren natures, trying to draw them together. They both needed to be with him for the Last Battle.

“Rand?” Nynaeve asked. “Aren’t you going to respond?”

“About Perrin and Mat?” Rand asked. “They live.”

“How do you know?”

“I simply do.” He sighed, shaking his head. “And they had better remain alive. I’ll have need of them both before this is over.”

“Rand!” she said. “They’re your friends!”

“They’re threads in the Pattern, Nynaeve,” he said, rising. “I barely know them anymore, and I suspect they would say the same thing of me.”

“Don’t you care about them?”

“Care?” Rand walked down the steps of the raised platform that held his throne. “What I care about is the Last Battle. What I care about is making peace with the Light-cursed Seanchan so that I can stop bothering with their squabble and get to the real battle. Beside those cares, a pair of boys from my little village are meaningless.”

He looked at her, challenging. Ramshalan and the other attendants backed away quietly, not wanting to be caught between his gaze and Nynaeve.

She was silent, although her face took on a profound sadness. “Oh, Rand,” she finally said. “You can’t go on like this. This hardness within you, it will break you.”

“I do what I must,” he said, anger creeping into him. Would he never hear the end of complaints about his choices?

“This isn’t what you must do, Rand,” she said. “You’re going to destroy yourself. You’ll—”

Rand’s anger surged. He spun, pointing at her. “Would you end up exiled like Cadsuane, Nynaeve?” he bellowed. “I will not be played with! I am done with that. Give advice when it is asked for, and the rest of the time do not patronize me!”

She recoiled, and Rand gritted his teeth, forcing the anger back down. He lowered his hand, but realized it had begun to reach reflexively for the access key in the pocket at his side. Nynaeve’s eyes fixed on it, opening wide, and he slowly forced his hand away from the statuette.

The explosion surprised him. He had thought his temper controlled. He forced it down, and had a surprisingly difficult time of it. He turned and stalked from the room, throwing open the door, his Maidens following him. “I will have no more audiences today,” he told the attendants who tried to follow him. “Go and do as I have told you! I need the other members of the merchant council. Go!”

They scattered. Only the Aiel remained, guarding him as he made his way to the rooms he had claimed in the mansion.

A short time longer. He only had to keep things balanced a short time longer. Then it could end. And he found that he was beginning to look forward to that end as much as Lews Therin did.

You promised we could die, Lews Therin said between distant sobs.

I did, Rand said. And we will.