The Wheel of Time, page 734
Dashiva, slumped in his gray’s saddle like a man who had never seen a horse before, muttered angrily under his breath. In the Old Tongue, which he spoke and read as fluently as a scholar. Rand knew a little, though not enough to understand what the fellow was mumbling. Probably complaints about the weather; despite being a farmer, Dashiva disliked being out-of-doors unless the skies were clear.
Only Hopwil rode in silence, frowning at something beyond the horizon, his hair and cloak whipping about as wildly as Dashiva’s. Now and then he clutched the hilt of his sword unconsciously. Rand had to speak three times, the last sharply, before Hopwil gave a surprised jerk and booted his lanky dun up beside Tai’daishar.
Rand studied him. The young man—not a boy any longer, no matter his age—had filled out since Rand first saw him, though his nose and ears still seemed made for a bigger man. A Dragon, red-enameled gold, now balanced the silver Sword on his high collar, just like Dashiva’s. Once, he had said he would laugh a year for joy when the Dragon was his, but he stared unblinking at Rand as though looking through him.
“What you learned was good news,” Rand told him. Only an effort kept him from trying to crush the Dragon Scepter in his fist. “You did well.” He had expected the Seanchan to return, but not so soon. He had hoped not so soon. And not leaping out of nowhere, swallowing cities at a gulp. When he found out that merchants in Illian had known for days before any of them thought to inform the Nine—the Light forbid they should lose a chance at profit because too many knew too much!—he had been within a hair of scouring the city to its foundations. But the news was good, or as good as it could be in the circumstances. Hopwil had Traveled to Amador, to the countryside nearby, and the Seanchan appeared to be waiting. Perhaps digesting what they had consumed. The Light send they choked on it! He forced his grip to loosen on the length of Dragon-carved spearhead. “If Morr brings half as good, I have time to settle Illian before dealing with them.” Ebou Dar, as well! The Light burn the Seanchan! They were a distraction, one he did not need and could not afford to ignore.
Hopwil said nothing, only looked.
“Are you upset because you had to kill women?” Desora, of the Musara Reyn, and Lamelle, of the Smoke Water Miagoma, and. . . . Rand forced down the instinctive litany even as it began floating across the Void. New names had appeared on that list, names he did not remember adding. Laigin Arnault, a Red sister who had died trying to take him a prisoner to Tar Valon. Surely she had no right to a place, but she had claimed one. Colavaere Saighan, who had hanged herself rather than accept justice. Others. Men had died in thousands, by his order or by his hand, but it was the faces of the women that haunted his dreams. Each night, he made himself confront their silently accusing eyes. Maybe it was their eyes he had felt of late.
“I told you about damane and sul’dam,” he said calmly, but inside of him, rage flared, fire spiderwebbing around the emptiness of the Void. The Light burn me, I’ve killed more women than all your nightmares could hold! My hands are black with the blood of women! “If you hadn’t wiped out that Seanchan patrol, they’d have killed you for sure.” He did not say that Hopwil should have avoided them, avoided the need to kill them. Too late for that. “I doubt that damane even knew how to shield a man. You had no choice.” And better they were all dead than some escaping with word of a man who could channel, scouting them.
Absently, Hopwil touched his left sleeve, where the black color disguised fire-scarred wool. The Seanchan had not died easily or fast. “I piled the bodies in a hollow,” he said in a flat voice. “The horses, everything. I burned it all to ash. White ash that floated in the wind like snow. It didn’t bother me at all.”
Rand heard the lie on the man’s tongue, but Hopwil had to learn. After all, he had. They were what they were, and that was all there was to it. All there was. Liah, of the Cosaida Chareen, a name written in fire. Moiraine Damodred, another name that seared to the soul rather than merely burning. A nameless Darkfriend, represented only by a face, who had died by his sword near. . . .
“Majesty,” Gregorin said loudly, pointing ahead. A lone man came out of the trees at the foot of the nearest hill to stand waiting in an attitude of defiance. He carried a bow, and wore a pointed steel cap and a belted mail shirt that hung nearly to his knees.
Rand spurred Tai’daishar to meet him seething with the Power. Saidin could protect him from men.
Up close, the bowman did not make so brave a sight. Rust streaked his helmet and mail, and he looked sodden, mud to his thighs, damp hair trailing down a narrow face. Coughing hollowly, he scrubbed at a long nose with the back of his hand. His bowstring appeared taut, though; that, he had protected from the rain. And the fletchings on the arrows in his quiver looked dry, too.
“Are you the leader here?” Rand demanded.
“You might say I do speak for him,” the narrow-faced man replied warily. “Why?” As the others galloped up behind Rand, he shifted his feet, dark eyes like a cornered badger’s. Badgers were dangerous, cornered.
“Watch your tongue, man!” Gregorin snapped. “You do speak to Rand al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn, Lord of the Morning and King of Illian! Kneel to your King! What do your name be?”
“He do be the Dragon Reborn?” the fellow said doubtfully. Eyeing Rand from the crown on his head to his boots, lingering a moment on the gilded Dragon buckling his sword belt, the man shook his head as if he had expected someone older, or grander. “And Lord of the Morning, you do say? Our King did never style himself so.” He made no move toward kneeling, or giving his name. Gregorin’s face darkened at the man’s tone, and maybe at the man’s oblique denial of Rand as King. Marcolin gave a slight nod, as though he had expected no more.
Damp rustlings stirred in the undergrowth among the trees. Rand heard easily, and abruptly he felt saidin fill Hopwil. No longer staring at nothing, Hopwil studied the woodline intently, a wild light in his eyes. Dashiva, silent, raking dark hair out of his face, looked bored. Leaning forward in his saddle, Gregorin opened his mouth angrily. Fire and ice, but not yet death.
“Peace, Gregorin.” Rand did not raise his voice, but he wove flows to carry his words, Air and Fire, so they boomed against the wall of trees. “My offer is generous.” The long-nosed man staggered at the sound, and Gregorin’s horse shied. Those hidden men would hear clearly. “Lay down your arms, and those who want to return home, can. Those who want to follow me instead, can do that. But no man leaves here under arms unless he does follow me. I know most of you are good men, who answered the call of your King and the Council of Nine to defend Illian, but I am your King, now, and I’ll not have anyone tempted to turn bandit.” Marcolin nodded grimly.
“What about your Dragonsworn burning farms?” a man’s frightened voice shouted from the trees. “They do be flaming bandits!”
“What about your Aiel?” another called. “I do hear they carry off whole villages!” More voices from unseen men joined in, all shouting the same things, Dragon-sworn and Aiel, murderous brigands and savages. Rand ground his teeth.
When the shouting faded, narrow-face said, “You do see?” He paused to cough, then hawked and spat, maybe for his chest and maybe for emphasis. A pitiful sight, all wet and rust, but his backbone was as tight as his bowstring. He ignored Rand’s glare as easily as he did Gregorin’s. “You do ask us to go home unarmed, unable to defend ourselves or our families, while your people do burn and steal and kill. They do say the storm be coming,” he added, and looked surprised that he had, surprised and confused for a moment.
“The Aiel you’ve heard about are my enemies!” Not spiderwebs of flame this time, but solid sheets of fury that wrapped tight around the Void. Rand’s voice was ice, though; it roared like the crack of winter. The storm was coming? Light, he was the storm! “My Aiel are hunting them down. My Aiel hunt the Shaido, and they and Davram Bashere and most of the Companions hunt bandits, whatever they call themselves! I am the King of Illian, and I will allow no one to disrupt the peace of Illian!”
“Even if what you say do be true,” narrow-face began.
“It is!” Rand snapped. “You have until midday to decide.” The man frowned uncertainly; unless the roiling clouds cleared, he might have a difficult time knowing midday. Rand gave him no relief. “Decide wisely!” he said. Whirling Tai’daishar about, he spurred the gelding to a gallop back toward the ridge without waiting for the others.
Reluctantly he let go of the Power, forced himself not to hang on like a man clutching salvation with his fingernails as life and filth drained from him together. For an instant, he saw double; the world seemed to tilt dizzily. That was a recent problem, and he worried it might be part of the sickness that killed men who channeled, but the dizziness never lasted more than moments. It was the rest of letting go that he regretted. The world seemed to dull. No, it did dull, and became somehow less. Colors were washed-out, the sky smaller, compared to what they had been before. He wanted desperately to seize the Source again and wring the One Power out of it. Always it was so when the Power left him.
No sooner had saidin gone, though, than rage bubbled in its place, white-hot and searing, nearly as hot as the Power had been. The Seanchan were not enough, and brigands hiding behind his name? Deadly distractions he could not afford. Was Sammael reaching out from the grave? Had he sown the Shaido to sprout like thorns wherever Rand laid a hand? Why? The man could not have believed he would die. And if half the tales Rand heard were true, there were more in Murandy and Altara and the Light alone knew where! Many among the Shaido already taken prisoner had spoken of an Aes Sedai. Could the White Tower be involved somehow? Would the White Tower never give him peace? Never? Never.
Battling fury, he was blind to Gregorin and the rest catching up. When they topped the ridge among the waiting nobles, he drew rein so abruptly that Tai’daishar reared, pawing the air and flinging mud from his hooves. The nobles edged their mounts back, from his gelding, from him.
“I gave them to midday,” he announced. “Watch them. I don’t want this lot breaking into fifty smaller bands and slipping away. I’ll be in my tent.” Except for wind-tossed cloaks they might have been stone, rooted to one spot as if he meant the command to watch for them personally. At that moment, he did not care if they stayed there till they froze or melted.
Without another word he trotted down the back slope of the ridge, followed by the two black-coated Asha’man and his Illianer banner-bearers. Fire and ice, and death was coming. But he was steel. He was steel.
CHAPTER
14
Message from the M’Hael
A mile west of the ridge, the camps began, men and horses and cook fires, wind-flailed banners and a few scattered tents clumped by nationality, by House, each camp a lake of churned mud separated from the others by stretches of brushy heath. Men mounted and afoot watched Rand’s streaming banners pass, and peered toward other camps to gauge reactions. When the Aiel had been present, these men had made a single huge camp, driven together by one of the few things they truly shared in common. They were not Aiel, and feared them however much they denied it. The world would die unless he succeeded, but he had no illusions that they shared any loyalty to him, or even believed that the fate of the world could not be made to accommodate their own concerns, their own desires for gold or glory or power. A handful did, perhaps, a bare handful, but for the most part, they followed because they feared him far more than they did the Aiel. Maybe more than they did the Dark One, in whom some did not really believe, not in the depths of their hearts, not that he could and would touch the world harder than he had already. Rand stood before their faces, and they believed in that. He accepted it, now. He had too many battles ahead of him to waste effort on one he could not win. So long as they followed and obeyed, it had to be enough.
The largest of the camps was his own, and here Illianer Companions in green coats with yellow cuffs rubbed shoulders with Tairen Defenders of the Stone in fat-sleeved coats striped black-and-gold and an equal number of Cairhienin drawn from forty-odd Houses, in dark colors, some with con stiff above their heads. They cooked at different fires, slept apart, picketed their horses apart, and eyed one another warily, but they mingled. The safety of the Dragon Reborn was their responsibility, and they took the job seriously. Any of them might betray him, but not while the others were there to watch. Old hatreds and new dislikes would bring betrayal of any plot before the betrayer stopped to think.
A ring of steel stood guard around Rand’s tent, a huge peaked thing of green silk embroidered all over with bees in thread-of-gold. It had belonged to his predecessor, Mattin Stepaneos, and had come with the crown, in a manner of speaking. Companions in burnished conical helmets stood side by side with Defenders in helmets ridged and rimmed, and Cairhienin in bell-shaped helms, ignoring the wind, barred faceguards hiding their features, halberds slanted precisely. Not one moved a hair when Rand drew rein, but a bevy of servants came running to attend to him and the Asha’man. A bony woman in the green-and-yellow vest of a groom from the Royal Palace in Illian took his bridle, while his stirrup was held by a bulbous-nosed fellow in the black-and-gold livery of the Stone of Tear. They tugged forelocks to him, and cast only one sharp look at one another. Boreane Carivin, a stout pale little woman in a dark dress, self-importantly offered him a silver tray of damp cloths from which steam rose. Cairhienin, she watched the other two, though more as if making sure they did their tasks properly than with the animosity for each other they barely hid. But with care, still. What worked with the soldiers worked with the servants as well.
Drawing off his gauntlets, Rand waved away Boreane’s tray. Damer Flinn had risen from an ornately carved bench in front of the tent as Rand dismounted. Bald except for a ragged white fringe, Flinn looked more a grandfather than an Asha’man. A leather-tough grandfather with a stiff leg, who had seen more of the world than a farm. The sword at his hip looked as if it belonged, as well it should on a former soldier of the Queen’s Guard. Rand trusted him more than most. Flinn had saved his life, after all.
Flinn saluted, fist to chest, and when Rand acknowledged him with a nod, limped closer and waited until the grooms left with the horses before speaking in a low voice. “Torval’s here. Sent by the M’Hael, he says. He wanted to wait in the council tent. I told Narishma to watch him.” That had been Rand’s command, though he was not sure why he had given it; no one who came from the Black Tower was to be left alone. Hesitating, Flinn fingered the Dragon on his black collar. “He wasn’t happy to hear you’d raised all of us.”
“Wasn’t he, now,” Rand said softly, tucking his gloves behind his sword belt. And because Flinn still looked uncertain, he added, “You all earned it.” He had been about to send one of the Asha’man to Taim—the Leader, the M’Hael, as the Asha’man all called him—but now Torval could carry the message. In the council tent? “Have refreshments sent,” he told Flinn, then motioned Hopwil and Dashiva to follow.
Flinn saluted again, but Rand was already striding away, black mud squelching around his boots. No cheers rose for him in the blustering wind. He could recall when there had been. If that was not one of Lews Therin’s memories. If Lews Therin had ever been real. A flash of color just beyond the edge of sight, the feel of someone about to touch him from behind. With an effort, he focused himself.
The council tent was a large red-striped pavilion that had once sat on the Plains of Maredo, now pitched in the middle of Rand’s encampment, surrounded by thirty paces of bare ground. There were never guards here, not unless Rand was meeting with the nobles. Anyone trying to slip in would have been seen instantly by a thousand prying eyes. Three banners on tall poles formed a triangle around the tent, the Rising Sun of Cairhien, the Three Crescents of Tear, and the Golden Bees of Illian, and above the crimson roof, higher than the rest, stood the Dragon Banner, and the Banner of Light. The wind made them all stand out, rippling and snapping, and the tent walls shivered in the gusts. Inside, colorful, fringed carpets made a floor, and the only furniture was a huge table, thickly carved and gilded, inlaid with ivory and turquoise. A jumble of maps almost hid the tabletop.
Torval lifted his head from the maps, plainly ready to give the rough side of his tongue to whoever had barged in on him. Close to his middle years and tall beside anyone save Rand or an Aiel, he stared coldly down a sharp nose that practically quivered with indignation. The Dragon and the Sword glistened on his coat collar in the light of the stand-lamps. A silk coat, shining black, cut fine enough for a lord. His sword had silver mountings washed with gold, and a glittering red gem capped the hilt. Another gleamed darkly on a finger ring. You could not train men to be weapons without expecting a certain amount of arrogance, yet Rand did not like Torval. But then, he had no need of Lews Therin’s voice to be suspicious of any man in a black coat. How far did he truly trust even Flinn? Yet he had to lead them. The Asha’man were his making, his responsibility.
When Torval saw Rand, he straightened casually and saluted, but his expression barely changed. He had had a sneering mouth the first time Rand ever saw him. “My Lord Dragon,” he said in the accents of Tarabon, and he might have been greeting an equal. Or being gracious to an inferior. His swaggering bow took in Hopwil and Dashiva as well. “I give congratulations on the conquest of Illian. A great victory, yes? There would have been wine to greet you, but this young . . . Dedicated . . . does not seem to understand orders.”
In the corner, silver bells on the ends of Narishma’s two long dark braids made a faint sound as he shifted. He had tanned darkly in the southern sun, but some things about him had not changed. Older than Rand, his face made him seem younger than Hopwil, but the red that rose in his cheeks was anger, not embarrassment. His pride in the new-won Sword on his collar was quiet, yet deep. Torval smiled at him, a slow smile both amused and dangerous. Dashiva laughed, a short bark, and was still.
