The Wheel of Time, page 1242
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.
He struck, destroying an unseen Dreadlord hiding in the rubble of a burned building nearby. He summoned fire and directed it at a second, burning him to nothingness.
He could not see the weaves of the women out there—he could only feel their shields.
Too weak. Each shield was too weak, and yet their attacks had him worried. They had come quickly, at least three dozen Dreadlords, each trying to cut him off from the Source. This was dangerous—that they had anticipated him. That was why they had hit Lan so hard with channelers. To draw Rand out.
Rand fought off the attacks, but none of them were in danger of truly shielding him. A single person could not cut off someone holding as much saidin as he was. They should have …
He saw it right before it happened. The other attacks were cover, feints. One that was coming would be created by a circle of men and women. A man would be leading.
There! A shield slammed against him, but Rand had had just enough time to prepare. He channeled Spirit in the tempest, weaving by instinct from Lews Therin’s memories, and rebuffed the shield. He shoved it away, but could not destroy it.
Light! That had to be a full circle. Rand grunted as the shield slipped closer to him; it made a vibrant pattern in the sky, motionless despite the tempest. Rand resisted it with his own surge of Spirit and Air, holding it back as if it were a knife hanging above his throat.
He lost control of the tempest.
Lightning crashed around him. The other channelers wove to enhance the storm—they didn’t try to control it, for they didn’t need to. It being out of control served them, as at any moment, it could strike Rand.
He roared again, louder this time, more determined. I will beat you, Taim! I will finally do what I should have months ago!
But he did not let the anger, the wildness, force him into conflict. He couldn’t afford to. He had learned better than that.
This was not the place. He could not fight here. If he did, he would lose.
Rand pushed with a surge of strength, throwing back Taim’s shield, then used the moment of respite to weave a gateway. His Maidens went through immediately, and Rand, ducking his head against the wind, reluctantly followed.
He leaped into Lan’s tent, where Moiraine had done as he requested and kept space open for him. He closed his gateway, and the winds stilled, the noise dampened.
Rand formed a fist, panting, sweat running down the sides of his face. Here, back with Lan’s army, the tempest was distant, although Rand could hear it rumbling, and faint winds stirred the tent.
Rand had to fight to keep from sinking to his knees. He sucked in large breaths. With difficulty, he slowed his racing heart and brought calmness to his face. He wanted to fight, not run! He could have beaten Taim!
And in so doing, would have weakened himself so far that the Dark One would have taken him with ease. He forced his fist to open and wrestled control of his emotions.
He looked up at Moiraine’s calm, knowing face.
“It was a trap?” she asked.
“Not so much a trap,” Rand said, “as a battlefield well-prepared with sentinels. They know what I did at Maradon. They must have teams of Dreadlords waiting to Travel to wherever I’m spotted and attack me.”
“You have seen the error in this line of attack?” she asked.
“Error … no. Inevitability, yes.”
He couldn’t fight this war personally. Not this time.
He would have to find another way to protect his people.
CHAPTER
12
A Shard of a Moment
Birgitte dashed through the forest, accompanied by a group of thirty Aiel, all with bows out. They made sound—they couldn’t help but make sound—but the Aiel made less than they should. They would leap up onto fallen logs and run deftly along them or would find stones to step upon. They would writhe out of the way of hanging branches, ducking, twisting, moving.
“Here,” she said in a hushed tone, rounding the side of a broken hill. Fortunately, the cave was still there, overgrown with vines, a small creek running past it. The Aiel ducked in, the water removing any scent of their passage.
Two of the men continued down the game trail, now moving much more loudly, scraping against every branch they passed. Birgitte joined the ones hiding in the cavern. It was dark inside and smelled of mold and earth.
Had she hidden in this cave, centuries ago when she’d lived in these woods as a bandit? She didn’t know. She rarely remembered any of her past lives, sometimes only fleeting memories of the in-between years during her life in the World of Dreams before being brought into this world unnaturally by Moghedien.
She considered that with sickness. It was all right to be reborn, fresh and new. But to have her memories—her very sense of self—ripped away? If she lost her memories of her time in the World of Dreams, would she forget Gaidal completely? Would she forget herself?
She clenched her teeth. It’s the Last Battle, fool woman, she thought. Who cares about that?
But she did. A question had begun to haunt her. What if, in being cast out of the World of Dreams, Birgitte had been broken from the Horn? She didn’t know if it was possible. She no longer remembered enough to tell.
But if she had, she’d lose Gaidal forever.
Outside, leaves crunched, twigs cracking. The clatter was so loud, she would have sworn that a thousand soldiers were marching past—though she knew the fist of Trollocs was only fifty strong. Still, fifty had her band outnumbered. She didn’t worry. Though she complained to Elayne that she didn’t know much about warfare, this hiding in a forest with a team of well-trained companions … this she’d done before. Dozens of times. Perhaps hundreds, though her memories were so fuzzy, she couldn’t say for certain.
When the Trollocs were nearly all the way past, she and her Aiel burst from cover. The brutes had started down the false trail made by the two Aielmen earlier, and Birgitte attacked them from behind, downing a number of Trollocs with arrows before the rest were able to react.
Trollocs did not die easily. They could often take two or three arrows before slowing. Well, that only happened when you missed the eyes or the throat. She never did. Monster after monster dropped to her bow. The Trollocs had begun downslope of the cave, which meant every one she or the Aiel killed was another corpse the others had to try to climb over to reach her.
Fifty became thirty in mere seconds. As that thirty rushed upward, half of the Aiel pulled out spears and engaged them while Birgitte and the others took a few steps downslope and flanked the Trollocs.
Twenty became ten, who tried to flee. Despite the wooded landscape, they were easy to pick off—though it meant hitting them in the legs or back of the neck, taking them down so that spears could finish them off.
Ten of the Aiel saw to the Trollocs, sticking a spear in each one to make certain it was dead. Others gathered arrows. Birgitte pointed to Nichil and Ludin, two of the Aiel, and they joined her to scout the area.
Her steps felt familiar, these woods felt familiar. Not just because of past lives she could no longer remember. During her centuries spent living in the World of Dreams, she and Gaidal had spent many a year in these forests. She remembered his caress upon her cheek. Her neck.
I can’t lose this, she thought, fighting down panic. Light, I can’t. Please … She didn’t know what was happening to her. She could remember something, a faint discussion about … about what? She had lost it. People couldn’t be unbound from the Horn, could they? Hawkwing might know. She’d have to ask him. Unless she had already?
Burn me!
Movement in the forest stopped her cold. She crouched down next to a rock, bow out in front of her. Underbrush crackled close at hand. Nichil and Ludin had vanished at the first sound. Light, but they were good. It took her a moment to pick them out hiding nearby.
She raised a finger, pointed at herself, then pointed before her. She would scout; they would cover her.
Birgitte moved silently. She’d show these Aiel that they weren’t the only ones who knew how to avoid detection. Besides, these were her woods. She wouldn’t be shown up by a bunch of desert folk.
She moved stealthily, avoiding thickets of withered thorn bushes. Were there more of those around of late? They seemed to be one of the only plants that hadn’t died off completely. The ground smelled stale in a way that no forest should, though that was overpowered by the stench of death and rot. She passed another group of fallen Trollocs. The blood on them was dry. They were several days dead.
Elayne ordered her forces to bring back their dead. Thousands upon thousands of Trollocs moved through these woods like crawling beetles. Elayne wanted them to find only their own dead, hoping it would give them reason to fear.
Birgitte moved toward the sounds. She saw large shadows approaching in the dim light. Trollocs, sniffing at the air.
The creatures continued to press through the woods. They were forced to avoid the roads where an ambush of dragons could prove deadly. Elayne’s plan called for teams like the one Birgitte led to hack away at the Trollocs, leading groups of them off into the woods, whittling down their numbers.
This group was far too big for her team to take, unfortunately. Birgitte withdrew, waving for the Aiel to follow, and slipped quietly back toward camp.
* * *
That night, following his failure with Lan’s army, Rand fled to his dreams.
He sought out his valley of peace, appearing amid a grove of wild cherry trees in full bloom, their perfume lacing the air. With those beautiful pink-throated white blossoms, the trees almost looked aflame.
Rand wore simple Two Rivers clothing. After months in a king’s garments of brilliant colors and soft textures, the loose wool trousers and linen felt very comfortable. He placed sturdy boots on his feet, like those he’d worn growing up. They fit him in a way that no new boot, no matter how well made, ever could.
He wasn’t allowed old boots any longer. If his boots showed a hint of wear, one servant or another made them vanish.
Rand stood up in the dream hills and made himself a walking staff. He then began to walk upward through the mountains. This wasn’t a real place, not any longer. He’d crafted it from memory and desire, somehow mixing both familiarity and a sense of exploration. It smelled fresh, of overturned leaves and sap. Animals moved in the underbrush. A hawk cried somewhere distant.
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.
Lews Therin had rarely used these tools. He’d left them stored on a back shelf in his mind, gathering dust. Would things have gone differently if he’d taken time, each night, to wander a peaceful valley such as this? Rand didn’t know. And, truth be told, this valley was no longer safe. He passed a deep cavern to his left. He had not put it there. Another attempt by Moridin to draw him? Rand passed it by without looking.
The forest didn’t seem as alive as it had moments ago. Rand kept walking, trying to enforce his will upon the land. He had not practiced that enough, however—so as he walked, the forest grayed, looking washed out.
The cavern came again. Rand stopped at its mouth. Cold, humid air blew out over him, chilling his skin, smelling of fungus. Rand cast aside his walking staff, then strode into the cavern. As he passed into darkness, he wove a globe of white-blue light and hung it beside his head. The glow reflected from the wet stone, shining on smooth knobs and clefts.
Panting echoed from deep within the cavern. It was followed by gasps. And … splashes. Rand walked forward, though by now he had guessed what this was. He had begun to wonder if she would try again.
He came to a small chamber, perhaps ten paces wide, at the end of the tunnel, where the stone sank down into a clear pool of water, perfectly circular. The blue depths seemed to extend downward forever.
A woman in a white dress struggled to stay afloat in the center of it. The fabric of her dress rippled in the water, forming a circle. Her face and hair were wet. As Rand watched, she gasped and sank, flailing in the crystalline water.
She came up a moment later, gasping.
“Hello, Mierin,” Rand said softly. His hand formed into a fist. He would not jump into that water to rescue her. This was a dreamshard. That pool could actually be water, but more likely it represented something else.
His arrival seemed to buoy her, and her vigorous thrashings became more effective. “Lews Therin,” she said, wiping her face with one hand, panting.
Light! Where was his peace? He felt like a child again, a boy who thought Baerlon the grandest city ever built. Yes, her face was different, but faces were no longer of much matter to him. She was still the same person.
Of all the Forsaken, only Lanfear had chosen her new name. She had always wanted one of those.
He remembered. He remembered. Walking into grand parties with her on his arm. Her laughter over the music. Their nights alone. He had not wanted to remember making love to another woman, particularly not to one of the Forsaken, but he could not pick and choose what was in his mind.
Those memories mixed with his own, when he had desired her as the Lady Selene. A foolish, youthful lust. He no longer felt these things, but the memories of them remained.
“You can free me, Lews Therin,” Lanfear said. “He has claimed me. Must I beg? He has claimed me!”
“You pledged yourself to the Shadow, Mierin,” Rand said. “This is your reward. You expect pity from me?”
A dark something reached up and wrapped around her legs, yanking her down into the abyss again. Despite his words, Rand found himself stepping forward, as if to leap into the pool.
He held himself back. He finally felt like a whole person again, after a long fight. That gave him strength, but in his peace was a weakness—the weakness he had always feared. The weakness that Moiraine had rightfully spotted in him. The weakness of compassion.
He needed it. Like a helmet needed a hole through which to see. Both could be exploited. He admitted to himself that it was true.
Lanfear surfaced, sputtering, looking helpless. “Must I beg?” she said again.
“I don’t think you are capable of it.”
She lowered her eyes. “… Please?” she whispered.
Rand’s insides twisted. He had fought through darkness himself in seeking the Light. He had given himself a second chance; should he not give one to another?
Light! He wavered, remembering what it had felt like in that moment seizing the True Power. That agony and that thrill, that power and that horror. Lanfear had given herself to the Dark One. But in a way, Rand had as well.
He looked into her eyes, searching them, knowing them. Finally, Rand shook his head. “You’ve grown better at this kind of deception, Mierin. But not good enough.”
Her expression darkened. In a moment, the pool was gone, replaced by a stone floor. Lanfear sat there, cross-legged, in her silver-white dress. Wearing her new face, but still the same.
“So you are back,” she said, sounding not entirely pleased. “Well, I am no longer forced to deal with a simple farmboy. That is some small blessing.”
Rand snorted, entering the chamber. She was still imprisoned—he could sense a darkening around her, like a dome of shadow, and he stayed outside of it. The pool, however—the act of drowning—had been mere theatrics. She was prideful, but was not above maintaining a weak front when the situation required it. If he’d been able to embrace Lews Therin’s memories earlier, Rand would never have been fooled so easily by her in the Waste.
“Then I shall address you not as a damsel in need of a hero,” Lanfear said, eyeing him as he walked around her prison, “but as an equal, seeking asylum.”
“An equal?” Rand said, laughing. “Since when have you ever considered anyone your equal, Mierin?”
“You care nothing for my captivity?”
“It pains me,” Rand said, “but no more than it pained me when you swore yourself to the Shadow. Did you know I was there, when you revealed it? You did not see me, as I did not want to be seen, but I was watching. Light, Mierin, you swore to kill me.”
“Did I mean it?” she asked, turning to look him in the eyes.
Had she?… No, she had not meant it. Not then. Lanfear did not kill people that she thought would be useful, and she had always considered him useful.
“We shared something special, once,” she said. “You were my—”
