The Wheel of Time, page 1100
“These days will test you! I will force you to work with those you saw as enemies just hours ago. You will march alongside those who spurned you, or hurt you, or hated you.
“But we are stronger than our weaknesses. The White Tower stands, and we shall stand with it! We will become one again. We will be an assembly that tales will tell of! When I am finished with you, it will not be written that the White Tower was weak. Our divisions will be forgotten in the face of our victories. We will be remembered not as the White Tower who turned against itself, but as the White Tower who stood strong in the face of the Shadow. These days will be legendary!”
Cheers burst out, mostly from novices and soldiers, as the Aes Sedai were too reserved for that sort of behavior. Generally. Some younger ones did call out, caught up in the moment. Thankfully, those cheers came from both sides. Egwene let them roar for a moment, then raised her arms, quieting them.
“Let it go forth across the land!” she shouted. “Let it be spoken of, let it be relied upon, and let it be remembered. The White Tower is whole and complete. And no one—man, woman or creation of the Shadow—will see us divided again!”
The cheers were nearly deafening this time, and surprisingly, more Aes Sedai joined in. Egwene lowered her hands.
She hoped they would still cheer her in the months to come. There was a great deal of work to be done.
CHAPTER 47
The One He Lost
Rand did not return to his rooms immediately. The failed meeting with the Borderlanders had left him feeling unhinged. Not because of their tricky attempt to pull him into Far Madding—that was frustrating, but it was not unexpected. People always tried to control and manipulate him. The Borderlanders were no different.
No, it was something else that had unsettled him, something he couldn’t quite define. And so he stalked through the Stone of Tear, two Aiel Maidens trailing behind him, his presence startling servants and unnerving Defenders.
The corridors twisted and turned. The walls—where unadorned by tapestry—were the color of wet sand, but they were far stronger than any rock Rand knew, alien and strange; each smooth span a reminder that this place was not natural.
Rand felt the same way. He had the form of a human. Indeed, he had the mannerisms and history of one. But he was a thing that no human—not even he himself—could understand. A figure of legend, a creation of the One Power, as unnatural as a ter’angreal or a fragment of cuendillar. They dressed him up like a king, just as they dressed these corridors with tasseled gold and red rugs. Just as they hung the walls with those tapestries, each one depicting a famous Tairen general. Those decorations were intended for beauty, but they were also intended to obscure. The patches of naked wall highlighted how alien the place was. Rugs and tapestries made it all feel more . . . human. Just as giving Rand a crown and a fine coat allowed them to accept him. Kings were supposed to be a little different. Never mind his much more alien nature, hidden beneath the crown. Never mind his heart of a man long dead, his shoulders created to bear the weight of prophecy, his soul crushed by the needs, wants and hopes of a million people.
Two hands. One to destroy, the other to save. Which had he lost?
It was easy to go astray in the Stone. Long before the Pattern had begun to unravel, these twisting corridors of brown rock had been misleading. They were designed to befuddle attackers. Intersections came unexpectedly; there were few landmarks, and the inner corridors of the keep didn’t have windows. The Aiel said they had been impressed with how difficult it had been to seize the Stone. It hadn’t been the Defenders who had impressed them, but the sheer scope and layout of the monstrous building.
Fortunately, Rand had no particular goal. He simply wanted to walk.
He had accepted what he needed to be. Why was he so bothered by it, then? A voice deep down—one not in his head, but in his heart—had begun to disagree with what he did. It was not loud or violent like Lews Therin’s; it just whispered, like a forgotten itch. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. . . .
No! he thought. I must be strong. I have finally become what I must be!
He stopped in the corridor, teeth gritted. In his deep coat pocket, he carried the access key. He fingered it, its contours cold and smooth. He didn’t dare leave it to the care of a servant, no matter how trusted.
Hurin, he realized. That’s what is bothering me. Seeing Hurin.
He resumed walking, straightening his back. He had to be strong—or at least appear strong—at all times.
Hurin was a relic from an earlier life. Days when Mat had still mocked Rand’s coats, days when Rand had hoped that he’d marry Egwene and somehow return to the Two Rivers. He had traveled with Hurin and Loial, determined to stop Fain and get back Mat’s dagger, to prove that he was a friend. That had been a much simpler time, although Rand hadn’t known it. He’d have wondered if anything could grow more complicated than thinking his friends hated him.
The colors shifted in his vision. Perrin walking through a dark camp, that stone sword looming in the air above him. The vision changed to Mat, who was still in that city. It was Caemlyn? Why could he be near Elayne, when Rand had to remain so far away? He could barely feel her emotions through the bond. He missed her so. Once they had stolen kisses from one another in the halls of this very fortress.
No, he thought. I am strong. Longing was an emotion he mustn’t feel. Nostalgia got him nowhere. He tried to banish both, ducking into a stairwell and moving down the steps, working his body, trying to make his breath come in gasps.
Do we run from the past, then? Lews Therin asked softly. Yes. That is well. Better to run than to face it.
Rand’s time with Hurin had ended at Falme. Those days were indistinct in his mind. The changes that had come upon him then—realizing that he had to kill, that he could never return to the life he had loved—were things he could not dwell on. He’d headed out toward Tear, almost delirious, separated from his friends, seeing Ishamael in his dreams.
That last one was happening again.
Rand burst out onto one of the lower floors of the keep, breathing deeply. His Maidens followed him, not winded. He strode down the hallway and into a massive chamber with rows of pillars, stout and broad, wider than a man could wrap his arms around. The Heart of the Stone. Several Defenders came to attention and saluted as Rand passed them.
He walked to the center of the Heart. Once, Callandor had hung here, glistening with light. The crystal sword was now in Cadsuane’s possession. Hopefully, she hadn’t bungled that and lost it as she had the male a’dam. Rand didn’t really care. Callandor was inferior; to use it, a man had to subject himself to the will of a woman. Besides, it was powerful, but not nearly as powerful as the Choedan Kal. The access key was a much better tool. Rand stroked it quietly, regarding the place where Callandor had once hung.
This had always bothered him. Callandor was the weapon spoken of in the prophecies. The Karaethon Cycle said that the Stone would not fall until Callandor was wielded by the Dragon Reborn. To some scholars, that passage had implied that the sword would never be wielded. But the prophecies did not work that way—they were made to be fulfilled.
Rand had studied the Karaethon Prophecy. Unfortunately, teasing out its meaning was like trying to untie a hundred yards of tangled rope. With one hand.
Taking the Sword That Cannot Be Touched was one of the first major prophecies that he had fulfilled. But was his taking of Callandor a meaningless sign, or was it a step? Everyone knew the prophecy, but few asked the question that should have been inevitable. Why? Why did Rand have to take up the sword? Was it to be used in the Last Battle?
The sword was inferior as a sa’angreal, and he doubted that it was intended to be used simply as a sword. Why did the prophecies not speak of the Choedan Kal? He had used those to cleanse the taint. The access key gave Rand power well beyond what Callandor could provide, and that power came with no strings. The statuette was freedom, but Callandor was just another box. Yet talk of the Choedan Kal and their keys was absent from the prophecies.
Rand found that frustrating, for the prophecies were—in a way—the grandest and most stifling box of them all. He was trapped inside of them. Eventually, they would suffocate him.
I told them . . . Lews Therin whispered.
Told them what? Rand demanded.
That the plan would not work, Lews Therin said, voice very soft. That brute force would not contain him. They called my plan brash, but these weapons they created, they were too dangerous. Too frightening. No man should hold such Power . . .
Rand struggled with the thoughts, the voice, the memories. He couldn’t recall much at all of Lews Therin’s plan to Seal the Dark One’s prison. The Choedan Kal—had they been built for that purpose?
Was that the answer? Had Lews Therin made the wrong choice? Why, then, was there no mention of them in the prophecies?
Rand turned to leave the empty chamber. “Guard this place no more,” he said to the Defenders. “There is nothing here of worth. I’m not sure if there ever was.”
The men looked shocked, mortified, like children just chastised by a beloved father. But there was a war coming, and he wouldn’t leave soldiers behind to defend an empty room.
Rand gritted his teeth and strode into a hallway. Callandor. Where had Cadsuane hidden it? He knew she’d taken rooms in the Stone, again pushing the limits of his exile. He would have to do something about that. Cast her from the Stone, perhaps. He hurried up the stone steps, then left the stairwell on a random floor, continuing to move. Sitting now would drive him mad.
He worked so hard to keep from being tied with strings, but at the end of the day, the prophecies would see that he did what he was supposed to. They were more manipulative, more devious, than any Aes Sedai.
His anger welled up inside him, raging against its constraints. The quiet voice deep within shivered at the tempest. Rand leaned his left arm against the wall, bowing his head, teeth gritted.
“I will be strong,” he whispered. And yet, the anger would not go away. And why should it? The Borderlanders defied him. The Seanchan defied him. The Aes Sedai pretended to obey him, yet dined with Cadsuane behind his back and danced at her command.
Cadsuane defied him most of all. Staying right near him, flouting his words of command and twisting his intentions. He pulled out the access key, fingering it. The Last Battle loomed, and he spent what little time he had riding to meetings with people who insulted him. The Dark One was unraveling the Pattern more each day, and those sworn to protect the borders were hiding in Far Madding.
He glanced around, breathing deeply. Something about this particular hallway seemed familiar. He wasn’t certain why; it looked like all of the others. Rugs of gold and red. An intersection of hallways ahead.
Maybe he shouldn’t have let the Borderlanders survive their defiance. Perhaps he should go back and see that they learned to fear him. But no. He didn’t need them. He could leave them for the Seanchan. That Borderlander army would serve to slow his enemies here in the south. Perhaps that would keep the Seanchan from his flanks while he dealt with the Dark One.
But . . . was there, perhaps, a way to stop the Seanchan for good? He looked down at the access key. Once he had tried to use Callandor to fight the foreign invaders. He hadn’t yet understood why the sword was so difficult to control: only after his disastrous assault had Cadsuane explained what she knew about it. Rand needed to be in a circle with two women before he could safely wield the sword that was not a sword.
That had been his first major failure as a commander.
But he had a better tool now. The most powerful tool ever created; surely no human could hold more of the One Power than he had when cleansing saidin. Burning Graendal and Natrin’s Barrow away had required only a fraction of what Rand could summon.
If he turned that against the Seanchan, then he could go to the Last Battle with confidence, no longer worried about what was creeping along behind him. He had given them their chance. Several chances. He had warned Cadsuane, told her that he’d bind the Daughter of the Nine Moons to him. One way . . . or another.
It would not take long.
There, Lews Therin said. We stood there.
Rand frowned. What was the madman babbling about? He glanced around. The wide hallway’s floor was tiled in red and black patterns. A few tapestries fluttered on the walls. With shock, Rand realized that several of them depicted him, taking the Stone, holding Callandor, killing Trollocs.
Fighting the Seanchan wasn’t our first failure, Lews Therin whispered. No, our first failure happened here. In this hallway.
Exhausted, following the battle with the Trollocs and Myrddraal. His side throbbing. The Stone still ringing with the cries of the wounded. Feeling he could do anything. Anything.
Standing above the corpse of a young girl. Just a child. Callandor glowing in his fingers. The body suddenly jerked.
Moiraine had stopped him. Bringing life to the dead was beyond him, she’d said.
How I wish she was still here, Rand thought. He had often been frustrated with her, but she—more than anyone else—had seemed to grasp just what it was he was expected to do. She’d made him more willing to do it, even when he’d been angry with her.
He turned away. Moiraine had been right. He could not bring life to those who were dead. But he was very good at bringing death to those who lived. “Gather your spear-sisters,” Rand called over his shoulder to his Aiel guards. “We are going to battle.”
“Now?” one of them asked. “It is nightfall!”
Have I been walking that long? Rand thought with surprise. “Yes,” he said. “The darkness won’t matter; I shall create light enough.” He fingered the access key, feeling a thrill and a horror at the same time. He had driven the Seanchan back into the ocean once. He would do so again. Alone.
Yes, he would drive them back—at least, the ones he left alive.
“Go!” he shouted at the Maidens. They left him, loping down the hallway. What had happened to his control? The ice had grown thin lately.
He walked back to the stairway and climbed a few flights up toward his rooms. The Seanchan would know his fury. They dared to provoke the Dragon Reborn? He offered them peace, and they laughed at him?
He threw open the door to his rooms, silencing the eager Defenders on guard outside with a sharply upraised hand. He was not in the mood for their prattle.
He stormed inside, and was annoyed to find that the guards had allowed someone inside. An unfamiliar figure stood with his back to Rand, looking out the open balcony doors. “What—” Rand began.
The man turned. It was not a stranger. Not a stranger at all.
It was Tam. His father.
Rand stumbled back. Was this an apparition? Some twisted trick of the Dark One? But no, it was Tam. There was no mistaking the man’s kindly eyes. Though he was a head shorter than Rand, Tam had always seemed more solid than the world around him. His broad chest and steady legs could not be moved, not because he was strong—Rand had met many men of greater strength during his travels. Strength was fleeting. Tam was real. Certain and stable. Just looking at him brought comfort.
But comfort clashed with who Rand had become. His worlds met—the person he had been, the person he had become—like a jet of water on a white-hot stone. One shattering, the other turning to steam.
Tam stood, hesitant, in the balcony doorway, lit by two flickering lamps on stands in the room. Rand understood Tam’s hesitation. They were not blood father and son. Rand’s blood father had been Janduin, clan chief of the Taardad Aiel. Tam was just the man who had found Rand on the slopes of Dragonmount.
Just the man who had raised him. Just the man who had taught him everything he knew. Just the man Rand loved and revered, and always would, no matter what their blood connection.
“Rand.” Tam’s voice was awkward.
“Please,” Rand said through his shock. “Please sit.”
Tam nodded. He closed the balcony doors, then walked forward and took one of the chairs. Rand sat, too. They stared across the room at one another. The stone walls were bare; Rand preferred them unornamented with tapestries or paintings. The rug was yellow and red, and so large it reached to all four walls.
The room felt too perfect. A vase of freshly cut dara lilies and calima blossoms sat there, right where it should. Chairs in the center, arranged too correctly. The room didn’t look lived in. Like so many places he stayed, it wasn’t home. He hadn’t truly had a home since he’d left the Two Rivers.
Tam sat in one chair, Rand in another. Rand realized he still had the access key in his hand, so he set it on the sun-patterned rug before him. Tam glanced at Rand’s stump, but said nothing. He clenched his hands together, probably wishing he had something to work on. Tam was always more comfortable talking about uncomfortable things when he had something to do with his hands, whether it be checking the straps on a harness or shearing a sheep.
Light, Rand thought, feeling a sudden urge to enfold Tam in a hug. Familiarity and memories flooded back into his mind. Tam delivering brandy to the Winespring Inn for Bel Tine. The pleasure Tam took in his pipe. His patience and his kindness. His unexpected heron-mark sword. I know him so well. And yet I’ve rarely thought of him recently.
“How . . .” Rand said. “Tam, how did you get here? How did you find me?”
Tam chuckled quietly. “You’ve been sending nonstop messengers to all the great cities these last few days, telling them to marshal their armies for war. I think a man would have to be blind, deaf and drunk not to know where to find you.”
“But my messengers haven’t gone to the Two Rivers!”
“I wasn’t in the Two Rivers,” Tam said. “Some of us have been fighting alongside Perrin.”
Of course, Rand thought. Nynaeve must have contacted Perrin—the colors swirled—she was so worried about him and Mat. It would have been easy for Tam to come back with her.
