“Do you know why the Dark One was originally freed?”
Aviendha looked as if remembering something. “Ah… yes. Then they are channeling the Dark One’s power?”
“It is called the True Power,” Cadsuane said. “The accounts say that Traveling by True Power works in the way you have seen this woman move. Few saw it happen. The Dark One was miserly with his essence during the War of Power, and only the most favored were granted access. I surmise from this fact that this is most definitely one of the Forsaken. From your description of what she did to poor Sarene, I would suspect it is Graendal.”
“The stories never mentioned Graendal being so ugly,” Sorilea said softly.
“If you were one of the Forsaken, easily recognized by description, would you not wish to change your appearance to remain unknown?”
“Perhaps,” Sorilea said. “But then I would not use this… True Power, as you name it. That would defeat the purpose of my disguise.”
“From what Aviendha has told us,” Cadsuane noted, “the woman did not have much of a choice. She had to escape quickly.”
Cadsuane and Sorilea met eyes, and each nodded in agreement. They would hunt this Forsaken, the two of them.
I won’t have you dying on me now, boy, Cadsuane thought, glancing over her shoulder toward where al’Thor, Nynaeve and Moiraine continued their work. Every channeler in the camp could feel that pulsing. At least, not until you’ve done what you need to do. Cadsuane had expected the Forsaken to be here. It was why she’d come to this battlefront.
Wind shook the tent, chilling Cadsuane down deep. This place was awful, even when the battle slowed. The dread that hung here was like that of a funeral for a child. It stifled laughter, killed smiles. The Dark One watched. Light, but it would be good to leave this place.
Aviendha drank her tea. The woman still looked haunted, although she had obviously lost allies in battle before.
“I left them to die,” she whispered.
“Phaw,” Cadsuane said to her. “You are not to blame for what one of the Forsaken did, child.”
“You don’t understand,” Aviendha said. “We were in a circle, and they tried to break free—I felt them—but I didn’t know what was happening. I held on to their Power, and so they couldn’t fight her. I left them helpless.”
“Well, from now on don’t leave those in your circle behind,” Cadsuane said briskly. “You could not have known what would happen.”
“If you suspect this one is nearby, Aviendha,” Sorilea said, “you will send word to Cadsuane, me or Amys. There is no shame in admitting that another is too strong to face alone. We will defeat this woman together and protect the Car’a’carn.”
“Very well,” Aviendha said. “But you will do the same for me. All of you.”
She waited. Cadsuane reluctantly agreed, as did Sorilea.
Faile crouched in a dark tent. The air had grown even colder, now that they were close to Thakan’dar. She ran her thumb along the hilt of her knife, breathing in slowly and evenly, then releasing the breath in the same manner. She stared at the tent flaps, unblinking.
She’d placed the Horn’s chest there with one corner sticking out into the night. She felt more alone here on the border of the Blasted Lands—surrounded by supposed allies—than she had in the Shaido camp.
Two nights ago, she’d been called out of her tent to inspect some odd tracks that had worried the men. They hadn’t lost anyone since drawing so close to the Blasted Lands— that part of the plan was working—but tensions were still high. She’d been gone only a few minutes, but when she’d returned, the Horn’s chest in her tent had been moved just slightly.
Someone had tried to open it. Light. Fortunately, they hadn’t managed to break the lock, and the Horn had still been there when she’d looked.
The traitor could be anyone. One of the Redarms, a wagon driver, a member of Cha Faile. Faile had spent the past two nights being extra—even obviously—vigilant with the chest to frustrate the thief. Then, tonight, she’d complained of a headache and allowed Setalle to fix her some tea to help her sleep. She’d brought the tea back to her tent, had not taken a sip and now crouched, waiting.
The chest’s corner would be obvious, poking out into the night. Would they try again? As a precaution, she’d removed the Horn from the chest and taken it when she went out to answer the call of nature. She’d hidden it there in a cubby of rock and, upon returning, had put Cha Faile on patrol duty for the night, away from her tent. They had not liked leaving her unguarded, but Faile had made it clear that she was worried about tensions among the men.
That would be enough. Light, let it be enough.
Hours passed with Faile crouched in that same position, ready to leap up and call the alarm the moment someone tried to enter her tent. Surely they would try again tonight, when she was supposedly ill.
Nothing. Her muscles ached, but she didn’t move. The thief could be out there, in the dark, waiting. Wondering if this was the right moment to strike, to grab the Horn and run off to his or her masters. It—
A scream shattered the night.
Faile wavered. A distraction?
That scream, she thought, judging the direction. It came… from just west of here.
Near where she’d hidden the Horn. Faile cursed, making a snap decision. The chest was empty. If she took the bait and it really was just a distraction, then she would not lose anything. If, on the other hand, the thief had anticipated her… She darted from the tent as others scrambled from bedrolls. Members of Cha Faile raced through the camp. The yell came again.
It was accompanied by a haunting screech, a type that had been following them in the distance.
She crashed through some thin, Blight-stained weeds. Running through them was a foolish move in a place where a twig could kill, but she was not thinking clearly.
She arrived first on the scene, reaching the area where she’d hidden the Horn. There stood not only Vanin, but Harnan as well. Vanin clutched the Horn of Valere in thick arms while Harnan fought against some kind of beast with dark fur, shouting and swinging his sword.
Vanin looked at Faile and grew as pale as a Whitecloak’s shirt.
“Thief!” Faile shouted. “Stop him! He has stolen the Horn of Valere!”
Vanin cried out, tossing the Horn as if it had bitten him, then dashing away. Light, but he could move quickly for one of his bulk! He grabbed Harnan by the shoulder, pulling him to the side as the beast screamed that haunting wail.
Other roars came in the distance. Faile skidded to the ground, grabbing the Horn and clutching it close. These men were no common thieves. They had not only seen through her plan, but anticipated exactly where she’d hidden the Horn. She felt like a farmgirl who had just fallen for a townsman’s three-cup scam.
Those who had come running with her stood stunned, either by the sight of the Horn or the monster. The creature screeched—it looked like some kind of bear with too many arms, though it was larger than any bear Faile had seen. She stumbled to her feet. There was no time to look for the thieves as the beast smashed its way into Faile’s guards. It ripped the head off a member of Cha Faile, screeching.
Faile shouted, flinging a knife at the thing as Arrela hacked at one of its shoulders with her sword. Just then, a second beast came lumbering over the rocks next to Faile.
She cursed, leaping away, flinging a knife. She hit it—or, at least, the thing cried out in what sounded like anger and pain. As Mandevwin rode up on horseback, bearing a torch, the light revealed that the horrible things had faces like those of insects, with a multitude of fanglike teeth. Faile’s knife protruded from one bulblike eye.
“Protect the lady!” Mandevwin yelled, throwing spears to nearby Redarms, who rammed them at the first monster, pushing it back from Arrela—who scrambled away, bleeding. The woman hadn’t lost her sword, though.
Faile fell back as Cha Faile organized around her, then looked down at what she held. The Horn of Valere itself, pulled from th
e sack in which she’d hidden it. She could blow it…
No, she thought. It is bound to Cauthon. To her, it would be just an ordinary horn.
“Steady!” Mandevwin said, dancing his warhorse back as one of the beasts lunged at it. “Verdin, Laandon, we need more spears! Go! The things fight like boars. Draw them forward, impale them!”
The tactic worked on one of the monsters, but as Mandevwin yelled, the other one charged at him and grabbed his horse by the neck. The beast brushed aside soldiers who tried to strike, and Mandevwin crashed to the ground, groaning.
Still clutching the Horn, Faile dashed past where a group of Redarms had managed to skewer the other beast. She grabbed a freshly lit torch and threw it at the other monster, lighting the fur on its back. The thing bellowed as fire raced up its spine, the fur burning like dry tinder. It dropped Mandevwin’s dead horse, the head ripped nearly free, as it thrashed, yelling and howling.
“Grab the wounded!” Faile ordered. She took a member of the Band by the arm. “See to Mandevwin!”
The man looked down at the Horn she held, eyes wide, then shook himself and nodded, calling for two others to help him lift the man.
“My Lady?” Aravine asked, standing near the bushes behind. “What is happening?”
“Two Redarms tried to steal what I have been carrying,” Faile said. “Now we’re going to ride away into the night.”
“But—”
“Listen!” Faile said, pointing into the darkness.
Distantly, a dozen different screeches sounded, responding to the cries of the dying beast.
“The screams will draw further horrors, as will the scent of spilled blood. We go. If we can get deeply enough into the Blasted Lands tonight, we might be safe. Rouse the camp and get the wounded onto horses. Prepare everyone else for a forced quick march. Quickly!”
Aravine nodded, scrambling off. Faile spared a glance in the direction Harnan and Vanin had gone. She longed to hunt them down, but tracking them in the night would require them to move slowly, and that would mean death this night. Besides, who knew what resources a pair of Darkfriends had access to?
They would flee. And Light, she hoped that she hadn’t been deceived more than it seemed. If Vanin had somehow known to prepare a dummy Horn, a replica to drop and leave for Faile to “rescue” as he fled…
She’d never know. She’d reach the Last Battle with a fake Horn, and perhaps doom them all. That possibility haunted her as the caravan’s members hastily moved into the darkness, hoping in Light and luck to escape the dangers of the night.
CHAPTER
36
Unchangeable Things
Something was wrong with Rand.
Nynaeve clutched the stalagmite deep within the Pit of Doom, holding herself from being pulled by the winds into that nothingness in front of her. Moiraine had called it the Dark One’s essence, but wouldn’t that make it the True Power? Worse, if his essence was in the world, wouldn’t that mean that he had broken free? Whatever it was, its nature was pure evil, and it filled Nynaeve with a terror like none she had ever felt before in her life.
It pulled with a powerful force, drawing all that was nearby into it. She feared that if she let go, she would be yanked in. Already, it had stolen her shawl, making it vanish. If that nothingness pulled her in, her life would end. Perhaps her soul as well.
Rand! Nynaeve thought. Could she do something to help him? He stood before Moridin, the two of them locked together, sword against sword. Frozen as if in a moment. Sweat trickled down Rand’s face. He did not speak. He didn’t so much as blink.
His foot had touched the darkness. At that moment, he had frozen, and so had Moridin. They were like statues. The air howled around them, but did not seem to affect them as it did Nynaeve. They’d been standing like that, frozen, for a good fifteen minutes.
All in all, it had been less than an hour since the group of them had entered the pit to face the Dark One.
Nynaeve watched rocks slide across the ground, then be sucked into that blackness. Her clothing rippled and flapped as if in a strong wind, as did Moiraine’s, who huddled nearby holding to her own tooth of stone. Mercifully, the stench of sulfur that had filled the cavern was drawn away here into the blackness.
She couldn’t use the One Power. Rand drew every bit of it she could hold, though he didn’t seem to be doing anything with it. Could she reach Moridin? He didn’t seem to be able to move. What if she took a rock to his head? It would be better than waiting.
Nynaeve tested her weight against the pull of the nothingness ahead, relaxing her grip on the stalagmite. She immediately started to slip, and pulled herself back.
I am not spending the Last Battle clinging to a rock! she thought. Not the same one the whole time, at the very least. She had to risk moving. Going directly forward seemed too dangerous, but if she moved sideways… yes, there was another stalagmite nearby to her right. She managed to let go of her hold and half-slip, half-scuttle to the next stalagmite. From there, she picked out another one, carefully eased off her hold and grabbed it instead.
The process was very slow. Rand, you wool-headed fool, she thought. If he’d let her or Moiraine lead the circle, then maybe they could have done something while he was fighting!
She reached another stalagmite, then stopped as she saw something to her right. She almost screamed. A woman huddled there, hidden against the wall, sheltered from the wind by the rocks. She appeared to be crying.
Nynaeve glanced at Rand, who was still locked in stasis with Moridin, then approached the woman. The greater number of stalagmites here meant that Nynaeve could crawl more safely, the stones blocking the pull of the nothingness.
Nynaeve reached the woman. She was chained to the wall. “Alanna?” Nynaeve shouted over the wind. “Light, what are you doing here?”
The Aes Sedai blinked reddened eyes at Nynaeve. Her eyes stared dully, as if she had no mind. As Nynaeve examined the woman, she noticed that the entire left side of Alanna’s body was bloodied from a knife wound to the gut. Light! Nynaeve should have known that from the paleness of the woman’s face.
Why stab her and leave her here? She bonded Rand, Nynaeve realized. Oh, Light. It was a trap. Moridin had left Alanna bleeding, then confronted Rand. When Alanna died, Rand—as her Warder—would be driven mad with rage, making him easy for Moridin to destroy.
Why hadn’t he noticed? Nynaeve fished at her pouches for herbs, then stopped short. Could herbs do anything at this point? She needed to use the One Power to Heal such a wound. Nynaeve ripped the woman’s clothing, making a bandage, then tried to draw saidar for Healing.
Rand had it, and he wouldn’t let go. Frantic, she tried to batter him away, but Rand held tight. Tighter, as she tried to push against him. He did seem to be channeling it, somehow, but she couldn’t see the weaves. She could feel something, but with the howling wind and the strange nature of the pit, it was like a tempest swirling around her. The Power was wrapped up in that somehow.
Blast it! She needed saidar! It wasn’t Rand’s fault. He could not give her any power while leading the circle.
Nynaeve pressed her hand against Alanna’s wound, feeling helpless. Dared she call for Rand to release her from the circle? If she did, Moridin would undoubtedly turn on her and attack Alanna.
What to do? If this woman died, Rand would lose control. That, likely, would be the end of him… and of the Last Battle.
Mat hacked at the wood with his axe to sharpen it to a point. “See,” he said, “it doesn’t need to be fancy. Save your pretty carpentry to impress the mayor’s daughter.”
The watching men and women nodded with grim determination. They were farmers, villagers and craftsmen, like people he’d known back in the Two Rivers. Mat had thousands of them under his command. He’d never have suspected that there would be so many. The good people of the land had come to fight.
Mat figured they were insane, to a person. If he had been able to escape, he would be hiding in a basement somewhere
. Burn him, but he would have tried.
Those dice rattled in his head, just as they’d been doing ever since Egwene gave him control of all of the armies of the Light. Being bloody ta’veren was not worth two beans.
He kept at it, shaping his stake for the palisade. One fellow watched particularly carefully, an old farmer with skin so leathery that Trolloc swords would likely just bounce off. He looked familiar to Mat for some reason.
Burn these memories, Mat thought. Undoubtedly, this fellow resembled someone from one of those old memories Mat had been given. Yes, that felt right. He could not quite remember. A… cart? A Fade?
“Come on, Renald,” the fellow said to one of his companions—another farmer, Borderlander stock from the looks of him. “Let’s go on down the line, and see if we can hurry the other lads up.”
The two headed off as Mat finished his stake, then wiped his brow. He reached for another length of wood—he had better give these sheepherders another demonstration—when a cadin’sor-clad figure ran up along the mostly finished palisade wall.
Urien had bright red hair, kept short save for the tail in the back. He raised a hand to Mat as he passed. “They are agitated, Matrim Cauthon,” Urien said, not stopping. “I believe they are coming in this direction.”
“Thanks,” Mat called. “I owe you.”
The Aiel turned as he ran, jogging backward for a second and facing Mat. “Just win this battle! I have bet a skin of oosquai upon our success.”
Mat snorted. The only thing more discomforting than a stoic Aiel was a grinning one. Bet? On the outcome of this battle? What kind of bet was that? If they lost, nobody would live long enough to collect…
Mat frowned. Actually, that was a pretty good bet to be making. “Who did you find to take that bet?” Mat called. “Urien?” But the man was already too far away to hear.
Mat grumbled, but handed his axe to one of the people nearby, a slender Tairen woman. “Keep them in line, Cynd.”
“Yes, Lord Cauthon.”
“I’m no bloody lord,” Mat said by habit as he picked up his ashandarei. He walked off, then turned to look at the palisade being erected and caught sight of a handful of Deathwatch Guards walking along the rows of working people. Like wolves among the sheep. Mat hurried on.