The Wheel of Time, page 587
Two men in black coats, younger than Rand, came running and bent over Torval, then hesitated, glancing at Taim. After a moment, Rand felt saidin fill them; flows of Air lifted a limp Torval, and the pair trotted away with him floating between them.
I should have killed him long ago, Lews Therin panted. I should have . . . should have. . . . There was a stretching toward the Source.
No, burn you! Rand thought. No, you don’t! You’re only a bloody voice! With a fading wail Lews Therin fled.
Rand took a slow breath. Taim was looking at him, wearing that almost-smile. “You teach them Healing?”
“The little I know, first thing. Even before how not to sweat to death in this weather. A weapon loses its utility if it’s going to be laid up with the first wound. As it is, I have had one kill himself drawing too deeply and three burn themselves out, but no one has died from a sword yet.” He managed to put a good deal of contempt into the word “sword.”
“I see,” Rand said simply. One dead and three burned out. Did Aes Sedai lose that many in the Tower? But then, they went slowly. They could afford to go slowly. “What is this Black Tower the fellow was talking about? I don’t like the sound of it, Taim.” Lews Therin was mumbling and moaning again, just short of making words.
The hawk-nosed man shrugged, studying the farm and the students with a proprietory pride. “A name the students use. You could not go on calling this just ‘the farm.’ They certainly did not feel right about it; they wanted something more. The Black Tower to balance the White Tower.” He tilted his head, looking at Rand almost sideways. “I can suppress it, if you wish. It is easy enough to take a word from men’s lips.”
Rand hesitated. Easy enough to take a word from their lips perhaps, but not from their minds. It did have to be called something. He had not thought of that. Why not the Black Tower? Though looking at the farmhouse and the framing—larger, but only wood—the name did make him smile. “Let it stand.” Maybe the White Tower had begun as humbly. Not that the Black Tower would ever have time to grow into anything to rival the White. That erased his smile, and he looked at the children sadly. He was playing as much as they, pretending there was a chance of building something that might last. “Assemble the students, Taim. I have a few things to say to them.”
He had come expecting to gather them round him, and then seeing their numbers, maybe to speak from the back of the rickety cart that now seemed to have vanished. Taim had a platform for making addresses, though, a plain block of black stone dressed and polished so finely that it shone like a mirror in the sunlight, with two steps cut into the back. It stood in an open area beyond the farmhouse, the ground beaten bare and flat and hard around it. The women and children gathered to one side to watch and listen.
From the block, Rand had a chance to see clues to how far Taim’s recruiting had ranged. Jahar Narishma, whom Taim had pointed out, the young man with the spark, had dark eyes as big as a girl’s, a pale face filled with confidence, and hair in two long braids with silver bells on the ends. Actually, Taim had said he came from Arafel, but Rand recognized a Shienaran’s shaved head and topknot on another man, and two with the transparent veils often worn by men and women alike in Tarabon. There were tilted eyes from Saldaea and pale, short fellows from Cairhien. One old man had a beard oiled and cut to a point in imitation of a Tairen lord, which he assuredly was not with that creased leathery face, and no fewer than three wore beards that left their upper lips bare. He hoped Taim had not roused Sammael’s interest by recruiting into Illian. He had expected mainly younger men, but fresh faces like Eben’s and Fedwin’s were balanced by gray or balding heads, some even more grizzled than Damer. Now that he thought of it, though, there was no mystery, no reason there should not be as many grandfathers who could be taught as boys.
He did not know how to make speeches, but he had thought long and hard over what he wanted to say. Not the first part, but that was quickest done, with luck. “You’ve all probably heard stories that the Tower . . . the White Tower . . . has divided. Well, it’s true. There are some rebel Aes Sedai who might just decide to follow me, and they’ve sent emissaries. Nine of them, sitting in Caemlyn right now and waiting my pleasure. So when you hear about Aes Sedai in Caemlyn, don’t believe any rumors. You know why they are here, and you can laugh in the face of the fellow with the rumor.”
There was no reaction. They just stood there staring up at him, hardly seeming to blink. Taim looked wry, very wry. Touching the larger bag in his pocket, Rand went on with the part he had labored over.
“You need a name. In the Old Tongue, Aes Sedai means Servants of All, or something very close. The Old Tongue doesn’t translate easily.” For himself, he knew only a few words, some from Asmodean, a handful from Moiraine, some that had seeped through from Lews Therin. Bashere had provided what he needed, though. “Another word in the Old Tongue is asha’man. It means guardian, or guardians. Or defender, and maybe a couple of other things; I told you, the Old Tongue is very flexible. Guardian seems to be best, though. Not just any defender or guardian, though. You could not call a man who defended an unjust cause asha’man, and never one that was evil. An asha’man was a man who defended truth and justice and right for everyone. A guardian who would not yield even when hope was gone.” The Light knew, hope would go when Tarmon Gai’don came, if not before. “That is what you are here to become. When you finish your training, you will be Asha’man.”
Murmurs rustled like leaves in a breeze, the name being repeated, but they died quickly. Attentive faces peered up at him; he could almost see ears pricking for his next words. At least that was a little better than before. The cloth bag gave off a faint clinking as he took it from his coat pocket.
“Aes Sedai begin as novices, then become Accepted, then finally full Aes Sedai. You will have degrees, too, but not like theirs. There will be no putting out or sending away among us.” Send away? Light, he would do everything short of tying them hand and foot to stop anyone who wanted to go if he could channel at all. “When a man first comes to the Black Tower . . .” He did not like that name. “. . . he will be called a soldier, because that is what he becomes when he joins us, what you all became, a soldier to fight the Shadow, and not just the Shadow, but anyone who opposes justice or oppresses the weak. When a soldier reaches a certain stage in his skills, he will be called Dedicated, and wear this.” From the bag he took one of the badges the silversmith had made, a small gleaming silver sword, perfect with its long hilt and slanting quillons and slightly curved blade. “Taim.”
Taim walked to the block stiffly, and Rand bent to pin the silver sword to the tall collar of his coat. It seemed to shine even more brightly against the pitch-black wool. Taim’s face had as much expression as the stone beneath Rand’s boots. Rand handed him the bag, whispering, “Give these to whoever you think is ready. Just be sure they are.”
Straightening, he hoped there were enough; he really had not expected anywhere near so many men. “Dedicated who advance their skill far enough will be called Asha’man, and they will wear this.” Taking out the small velvet bag, he held up what it contained. Sunlight sparkled on finely crafted gold and rich red enamel. A sinuous form exactly like the one on the Dragon banner. That went onto Taim’s collar too, on the other side, so sword and Dragon shone at the sides of his throat. “I suppose I was the first Asha’man,” Rand told the students, “but Mazrim Taim is the second.” Taim’s face made stone look soft; what was wrong with the man? “I hope that all of you will become Asha’man eventually, but whether you do or not, remember that all of us are soldiers. There are many battles ahead, maybe not always the ones we expect, and at the end, the Last Battle. The Light send it is the last. If the Light shines on us, we will win. We will win because we must win.”
There should have been some sort of cheer when he stopped. He did not take himself for the sort of speaker who could make men jump and shout, but these men knew why they were here. Telling them they would win should have produced something, however feeble. There was only silence.
Rand jumped down from the stone block, and Taim snapped, “Disperse to lessons and chores.” The students—the soldiers—went their ways almost as silently as they had stood, with only a murmur of quiet words. Taim motioned toward the farmhouse. He was holding the bag of sword pins so tightly it was a wonder none of them stabbed him through the cloth. “If my Lord Dragon has time for a cup of wine?”
Rand nodded; he wanted to get to the bottom of this before returning to the Palace.
The front room of the farmhouse was just what might be expected, a bare floor swept spotless, mismatched ladder-back chairs arranged in front of a red brick fireplace so clean it seemed impossible it had ever held a fire. A white cloth edged with embroidered flowers covered a small table. Sora Grady entered silently and set a wooden tray atop the cloth, with a bright blue pitcher of wine and two white-glazed mugs. Rand had thought her gaze would not hurt after all this time, but the accusation in her eyes made him glad when she left. She had been sweating, he realized. Taim tossed the bag onto the tray and emptied a mug straight away.
“Don’t you teach the women that trick of concentrating?” Rand asked. “It’s cruel to make them sweat when their men don’t.”
“Most want no part of it,” Taim said curtly. “Their husbands and sweethearts try to teach them, but most refuse even to listen. It might have to do with saidin, you see.”
Rand peered into his mug at the dark wine. He had to feel his way here. No blowing up just because irritation prickled. “I’m pleased to see the recruiting going so well. You said you’d match the Tower . . . the White Tower . . .” White Tower; Black Tower. What would the stories make of that? If there were any. “. . . in less than a year, and if you keep on at this rate, you will. I don’t see how you find so many.”
“Sift enough sand,” Taim said stiffly, “and you will find a few grains of gold eventually. I leave that to others now, except for a trip or two. Damer, Grady, there are a dozen men I can trust alone for a day; they have enough years not to do anything stupid, and there are enough younger men with the strength to make a gateway, if not much more, to accompany the older who don’t. You will have your thousand before the year. What of those I send on to Caemlyn? Have you made an army of them yet? You have your thousand there, and times over.”
“I leave that to Bashere,” Rand said quietly. Taim’s mouth quirked derisively, and Rand set his mug down before it could break in his grip. Bashere was making what he could of them, he understood, in a camp somewhere west of the city; what he could considering that they were, as the Saldaean put it, a ragtag collection of penniless farmers, runaway apprentices and failed craftsmen who had never held a sword, ridden a horse with a saddle or been more than five miles from where they were born. Rand had too much to concern him to worry about the likes of that; he had told Bashere to do what he wanted with them and not bother him unless they ran riot.
Looking at Taim, who was making no effort to hide his disdain, he stuck his hands behind his back, where they clenched into fists. Lews Therin rumbled in the distance, an echo of his anger. “What has gotten into you? You’ve had a burr in your breeches ever since I put those badges on you. Is it something to do with them? If so, I don’t understand. Those men will think more of theirs for seeing you receive yours from the Dragon Reborn. For that matter, they’ll think more of you for it. Maybe you won’t have to keep discipline by clubbing men over the head. Well, what have you to say?” That began well enough, in a calm tone if not exactly mild—he had not intended it to be mild—but along the way his voice grew firmer and louder. Not to a shout, yet that final question cracked like a whip.
The most remarkable transformation came over the other man. Taim shook visibly—with rage, Rand would have said, not fear—but when the shaking stopped, he was his old self again. Not friendly certainly, a touch mocking, but very much relaxed and in control of himself. “Since you must know, what worries me are Aes Sedai, and you. Nine Aes Sedai come to Caemlyn, plus two, make eleven. Then there might just be one or two more. I haven’t been able to find them yet, but—”
“I told you to stay out of the city,” Rand said flatly.
“I found a few men to ask questions for me.” Taim’s tone was dry as dust. “I’ve been no closer than here since I saved you from that Gray Man.”
Rand let that pass. Barely. Almost. The voice in his head was too low to be understood, but cold thunder for that. “They’ll catch smoke with their fingers before they catch rumors.” That came out with all the contempt he felt—Taim had saved him?—and the man jerked. Outwardly he still appeared at his ease, yet his eyes could have been dark gemstones.
“And if they join with the Red Aes Sedai?” His voice was cool and amused, but his eyes glittered. “There are Red sisters in the countryside. Several parties of them, arrived in the last few days. Trying to intercept men coming here.”
I will kill him, Lews Therin shouted, and Rand felt that fumbling reach toward saidin.
Go away, he said firmly. The fumbling continued, and so did the voice.
I will kill him,and then them. They must serve him. It is plain; they must serve him.
Go away, Rand shouted back silently. You are nothing but a voice! Stretching toward the Source.
Oh, Light, I killed them all. All that I loved. If I kill him, it will be well, though. I can make it up, if I kill him finally. No, nothing can make up, but I must kill him anyway. Kill them all. I must. I must.
No! Rand screamed inside his head. You’re dead, Lews Therin. I am alive, burn you, and you are dead! You are dead!
Abruptly he realized he was leaning on the table, holding himself up with sagging knees. And muttering, “You are dead! I am alive, and you are dead!” But he had not seized saidin. And neither had Lews Therin. Shivering, he looked at Taim and was surprised to see concern on the man’s face.
“You must hold on,” Taim said softly. “If sanity can be held, you must. The price is too high, if you fail.”
“I won’t fail,” Rand said, pushing himself upright. Lews Therin was silent. There seemed to be nothing in his head but himself. And the feel of Alanna, of course. “Have these Reds taken anyone?”
“Not that I have heard.” Taim was watching him cautiously, as if he expected another outburst. “Most of the students come through gateways now, and with all the people on the roads, it cannot be easy to pick out a man heading here unless he talks too freely.” He paused, “They could be disposed of easily enough in any case.”
“No.” Was Lews Therin really gone? He wished it, and knew he would be a fool to believe. “If they start taking men, I’ll have to do something, but as it is, they’re no threat out in the country. And believe me, nobody Elaida sends is likely to join those Aes Sedai in the city. Either lot would probably welcome you before they did each other.”
“What about those who are not in the countryside? Eleven of them? A few accidents could reduce that to a much safer number. If you don’t want to soil your own hands, I am willing to—”
“No! How many times do I have to say, no! If I feel a man channel in Caemlyn, I will come for you, Taim. I swear I will. And don’t think you can stay far enough from the Palace that I won’t feel it and be safe. If one of those Aes Sedai keels over dead for no reason, I will know who to blame. Mark me!”
“You set wide boundaries,” Taim said dryly. “If Sammael or Demandred decides to taunt you with a few dead Aes Sedai on your doorstep, my veins are opened?”
“They haven’t so far, and you had better hope they do not start. Mark me, I say.”
“I hear my Lord Dragon and obey, of course.” The hawk-nosed man bowed slightly. “But I still say eleven is a dangerous number.”
Rand laughed in spite of himself. “Taim, I intend to teach them to dance to my flute.” Light, how long since he had played the flute? Where was his flute? Faintly, he heard Lews Therin chuckling.
CHAPTER
43
The Crown of Roses
Merana’s hired coach swayed its slow way through the densely packed streets toward The Crown of Roses. Outwardly she was calm, at least, a dark-haired woman with cool hazel eyes, slim-fingered hands folded peacefully on her pale gray silk skirts. Inside, she was not so serene. Thirty-eight years ago she had been in place by chance to negotiate a treaty between Arad Doman and Tarabon that was supposed to put an end to the squabbling over Almoth Plain, with Domani and Taraboners dodging at every turn and three times nearly starting a war in the middle of the exchanges and all the while maintaining smiling faces of utter goodwill. By the time the signatures were dry, she felt as if she had been rolled over rough hills in a barrel full of splinters, and after all that, the treaty turned out to be worth considerably less than the wax and ribbons for its seals. She hoped what she had begun this afternoon at the Royal Palace ended better—it had to—but inside, she felt as though she had just climbed out of another barrel.
Min was sitting back with her eyes closed; the young woman seemed to take catnaps any time an Aes Sedai was not actually speaking to her. The other two sisters in the coach occasionally shot quick glances at the girl. Seonid, cool and reserved in her brocaded green. Masuri, slim and merry-eyed in brown embroidered with flowering vines around the hem. They had all dressed formally, in shawls and Ajah colors.
Merana was sure they had the same thought as herself when they looked at Min. Seonid should certainly understand, though who could be certain? Seonid was very methodical and practical about her Warders, almost like a woman with a pair of prize wolfhounds she felt some affection for. Masuri might understand. She did like to dance and even flirt, though she was liable to forget the poor man when she heard a rumor of an old manuscript hidden away. Merana herself had not been in love since well before that Fifth Treaty of Falme, but she did remember, and all it had taken was one glimpse of Min staring at al’Thor to see a woman who had tossed sense out the window and was riding her heart at a gallop.
