The Gathering Storm

  Why had Moridin come to help Rand in Shadar Logoth, back during the fight with Sammael? What twisted webs was he weaving? He had claimed that Rand had invaded his dream, but was that just another lie?

  I have to destroy them, he thought. All of the Forsaken, and I must do it for good this time. I must be hard.

  Except that Min didn’t want him to be hard. He didn’t want to frighten her, of all people. There were no games with Min; she might call him a fool, but she did not lie, and that made him want to be the man she wished him to be. But did he dare? Could a man who could laugh also be the man who could face what needed to be done at Shayol Ghul?

  To live you must die, the answer to one of his three questions. If he succeeded, his memory—his legacy—would live on after he died. It was not very comforting. He didn’t want to die. Who did? The Aiel claimed they did not seek death, though they embraced it when it came.

  He entered the gateway, Traveling back to the manor house in Arad Doman, with the ring of pines surrounding the trampled brown grounds and the long ranks of tents. It would take a hard man to face his own death, to fight the Dark One while his blood spilled on the rocks. Who could laugh in the face of that?

  He shook his head. Having Lews Therin in his mind didn’t help.

  She’s right, Lews Therin said suddenly.

  She? Rand asked.

  The pretty one. With the short hair. She says we need to break the seals. She’s right.

  Rand froze, pulling Tai’daishar up short, ignoring the groom who had come to take the horse. To hear Lews Therin agreeing. . . .

  What do we do after that? Rand asked.

  We die. You promised we could die!

  Only if we defeat the Dark One, Rand said. You know that if he wins, there will be nothing for us. Not even death.

  Yes . . . nothing, Lews Therin said. That would be nice. No pain, no regret. Nothing.

  Rand felt a chill. If Lews Therin began to think that way . . . No, Rand said, it wouldn’t be nothing. He would have our soul. The pain would be worse, far worse.

  Lews Therin began to weep.

  Lews Therin! Rand snapped in his mind. What do we do? How did you seal the Bore last time?

  It didn’t work, Lews Therin whispered. We used saidin, but we touched it to the Dark One. It was the only way! Something has to touch him, something to close the gap, but he was able to taint it. The seal was weak!

  Yes, but what do we do differently? Rand thought.

  Silence. Rand sat for a moment, then slid off of Tai’daishar and let the nervous groom lead him away. The rest of the Maidens were coming through the large gateway, Bashere and Narishma taking the rear. Rand didn’t wait for them, though he noticed Deira Bashere—Davram Bashere’s wife—standing outside the Traveling ground. The tall, statuesque woman had dark hair with lines of white at the temples. She gave Rand a measuring look. What would she do if Bashere died in Rand’s service? Would she continue to follow, or would she lead the troops away, back to Saldaea? She was as strong of will as her husband. Perhaps more so.

  Rand passed her with a nod and a smile and walked through the evening camp toward the manor house. So Lews Therin did not know how to seal the Dark One’s prison. What good was the voice then? Burn him, but he had been one of Rand’s few hopes!

  Most people here were wise enough to move away when they saw him stalking across the grounds. Rand could remember when such moods hadn’t struck him, when he had been a simple sheepherder. Rand the Dragon Reborn was a different man altogether. He was a man of responsibility and duty. He had to be.

  Duty. Duty was like a mountain. Well, Rand felt as if he was trapped between a good dozen different mountains, all moving to destroy him. Among those forces, his emotions seemed to boil under pressure. Was it any wonder when they burst free?

  He shook his head, approaching the manor. To the east lay the Mountains of Mist. The sun was near to setting, and the mountains were bathed in a red light. Beyond them and to the south, so strangely close, lay Emond’s Field and the Two Rivers. A home he would never see again, for a visit would only alert his enemies to his affection for it. He had worked hard to make them think he was a man without affection. At times, he feared that his ruse had become reality.

  Mountains. Mountains like duty. The duty of solitude in this case, for somewhere southward along those too-near mountains was his father. Tam. Rand hadn’t seen him in so long. Tam was his father. Rand had decided that. He had never known his birth father, the Aiel clan chief named Janduin, and while he had obviously been a man of honor, Rand had no desire to call him father.

  At times, Rand longed for Tam’s voice, his wisdom. Those were the times when Rand knew he had to be the most hard, for a moment of weakness—a moment running to his father for succor—would destroy nearly everything he had worked for. And it would likely mean the end of Tam’s life as well.

  Rand entered the manor house through the burned hole in the front, pushing aside the thick canvas that now formed an entry, and kept his back to the Mountains of Mist. He was alone. He needed to be alone. Relying on anyone would risk being weak when he reached Shayol Ghul. At the Last Battle, he would not be able to lean on anyone other than himself.

  Duty. How many mountains must one man carry?

  It still smelled of smoke inside the manor house. Lord Tellaen had complained about the fire hesitantly—yet persistently—until Rand had ordered compensation for the man, although the bubble of evil hadn’t been Rand’s fault. Or had it? Being ta’veren had many strange effects, from making people say things they wouldn’t normally to bringing him the allegiance of those who had been wavering. He was a focus for trouble, bubbles of evil included. He hadn’t chosen to be that focus, but he had chosen to stay in the manor house.

  Either way, Tellaen had been compensated. It was a pittance compared with the amount of money Rand was spending to fund his armies, and even that was small compared with the funds he’d dedicated to bring food to Arad Doman and other troubled areas. At this rate, his stewards worried that he would soon bankrupt his assets in Illian, Tear and Cairhien. Rand had not told them that he didn’t care.

  He would see the world to the Last Battle.

  And will you have no legacy other than that? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Not Lews Therin, but his own thought, a small voice, the part of him that had prompted him to found schools in Cairhien and Andor. You wish to live after you die? Will you leave all of those who follow you to war, famine and chaos? Will the destruction be how you live on?

  Rand shook his head. He couldn’t fix everything! He was just one man. Looking beyond the Last Battle was foolish. He couldn’t worry about the world then, he couldn’t. To do so would be to take his eye off the goal.

  And what is the goal? that voice seemed to say. Is it to survive, or is it to thrive? Will you set the groundwork for another Breaking or for another Age of Legends?

  He had no answers. Lews Therin roused slightly, babbling incoherently. Rand climbed the stairs to the second floor of the manor. Light, he was tired.

  What was it the madman had said? When he’d sealed the Bore into the Dark One’s prison, he’d used saidin. That was because so many of the Aes Sedai at the time had turned against him, and he’d been left only with the Hundred Companions—the most powerful male Aes Sedai of his time. No women. The female Aes Sedai had called his plan too risky.

  Eerily, Rand felt as if he could almost remember those events—not what had happened, but the anger, the desperation, the decision. Was the mistake, then, not using the female half of the power as well as the male? Was that what had allowed the Dark One to counterstrike and taint saidin, driving Lews Therin and the remaining men of the Hundred Companions insane?

  Could it be that simple? How many Aes Sedai would he need? Would he need any? Plenty of Wise Ones could channel. Surely there was more to it than that.

  There was a game children played, Snakes and Foxes. It was said that the only way to win was to break the rules. What of
his other plan, then? Could he break the rules by slaying the Dark One? Was that something that even he, the Dragon Reborn, dared contemplate?

  He crossed the creaking wood floor of the hallway and pushed open the door to his room. Min lay propped up by pillows on the log bed, wearing her embroidered green trousers and a linen shirt, as she leafed through yet another book by the light of a lamp. An elderly serving woman bustled about, collecting dishes from Min’s evening meal. Rand threw off his coat, sighing to himself and flexing his hand.

  He sat down on the side of the bed as Min set aside her book, a volume called A Comprehensive Discussion of Pre-Breaking Relics. She sat up and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Bowls clinked as the serving woman gathered them, and she bowed in apology, moving with extra speed as she placed them in her carrying basket.

  “You’re pushing yourself too hard again, sheepherder,” Min said.

  “I have to.”

  She pinched his neck hard, and he flinched, grunting. “No you don’t,” she said, her voice close to his ear. “Haven’t you been listening to me? What good will you be if you wear yourself out before you reach the Last Battle? Light, Rand, I haven’t heard you laugh in months!”

  “Is this really a time for laughter?” he asked. “You would have me be happy while children starve and men slaughter one another? I should laugh to hear that Trollocs are still getting through the Ways? I should be happy that the majority of the Forsaken are still out there somewhere, plotting how best to kill me?”

  “Well, no,” Min said. “Of course not. But we can’t let the troubles in the world destroy us. Cadsuane says that—”

  “Wait,” he snapped, twisting around so that he was facing her. She knelt on the bed, short dark hair curling down beneath her chin. She looked shocked by his tone.

  “What does Cadsuane have to do with this?” he asked.

  Min frowned. “Nothing.”

  “She’s been telling you what to say,” Rand said. “She’s been using you to get to me!”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Min said.

  “What has she said about me?”

  Min shrugged. “She worries about how harsh you’ve become. Rand, what is this?”

  “She’s trying to get to me, manipulate me,” he said. “She’s using you. What have you told her, Min?”

  Min pinched him again sharply. “I don’t like that tone, looby. I thought Cadsuane was your counselor. Why should I need to watch what I say around her?”

  The serving woman continued to clink dishes. Why couldn’t she just leave! This wasn’t the kind of discussion he wanted to have in front of strangers.

  Min couldn’t be working with Cadsuane, could she? Rand didn’t trust Cadsuane by any measure. If she’d gotten to Min. . . .

  Rand felt his heart twist. He wasn’t suspicious of Min, was he? She’d always been the one he could look to for honesty, the one who played no games with him. What would he do if he lost her? Burn me! he thought. She’s right. I’ve grown too harsh. What will become of me if I begin to grow suspicious of those that I know love me? I’ll be no better than mad Lews Therin.

  “Min,” he said, softening his voice. “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I’ve gone too far.”

  She turned to look at him, relaxing. Then she stiffened, eyes widening in shock.

  Something cold clicked around Rand’s neck.

  Rand immediately raised his hand to his neck, spinning. The serving woman stood behind him, but her form was shimmering. She vanished and was replaced by a woman with dark skin and black eyes, her sharp face triumphant. Semirhage.

  Rand’s hand touched metal. Too-cold metal that felt like ice, pressed against his skin. In a rage, he tried to pull free his sword from its black, dragon-painted sheath, but found that he could not do so. His legs strained as if against some incredible weight. He scratched at the collar—his fingers could still move—but the metal seemed to be a single solid piece.

  At that moment, Rand felt terror. He met Semirhage’s eyes anyway, and she smiled deeply. “I’ve been waiting for quite a long time to get a Domination Band on you, Lews Therin. Odd, how circumstances occur, isn’t—”

  Something flashed in the air, and Semirhage barely had time to cry out before something deflected the blade just barely—a weave of Air, Rand could only assume, though he could not see weaves made from saidar. Still, Min’s knife had left a gash on the side of Semirhage’s face before passing by and burying itself in the wood of the door.

  “Guards!” Min cried. “Maidens, to arms! The Car’a’carn is in danger!”

  Semirhage cursed, waving a hand, and Min cut off. Rand twisted anxiously, trying—and failing—to seize saidin. Something blocked him. Min was tossed off the bed by weaves of Air, her mouth locked shut. Rand tried to run to her, but again found that he could not. His legs simply refused to move.

  At that moment, the door to his room opened. Another woman entered with a hurried step. She glanced out of the doorway, as if watching for something, then closed it behind her. Elza. Rand felt a surge of hope, but then the small woman joined Semirhage, taking up the other bracelet that controlled the a’dam around Rand’s neck. She looked up at Rand, her eyes red, looking dazed—as if something had hit her soundly on the head. However, when she saw him kneeling, she smiled. “And so you finally come to your destiny, Rand al’Thor. You will face the Great Lord. And you will lose.”

  Elza. Elza was Black, burn her! Rand’s skin prickled as he felt her embrace saidar, standing beside her mistress. They both confronted him, each one wearing a bracelet, and Semirhage looked supremely confident.

  Rand growled, turning to Semirhage. He would not be trapped like this!

  The Forsaken touched the bleeding gash on her cheek, then tsked to herself. She wore a drab brown dress. How had she escaped captivity? And where had she gotten this cursed collar? Rand had given that to Cadsuane for safekeeping. She had vowed that it would be safe!

  “No guards will come, Lews Therin,” Semirhage said absently, holding up her braceleted hand; the bracelet matched the collar on his neck. “I’ve warded the room against listeners. You will find that you cannot so much as move unless I allow it. You’ve tried already, and you must see how futile it is.”

  Desperate, Rand reached for saidin again, but found nothing. In his head, Lews Therin began to snarl and weep, and Rand felt almost as if he would join the man. Min! He had to get to her. He had to be strong enough!

  He forced himself toward Semirhage and Elza, but it was as if he were trying to move someone else’s legs. He was trapped in his own head, like Lews Therin. He opened his mouth to curse, but nothing came out beyond a croak.

  “Yes,” Semirhage said, “you cannot speak without permission either. And I would suggest that you not reach for saidin again. You will find the experience unpleasant. When I tested the Domination Band before, I found it to be a far more elegant tool than those Seanchan a’dam. Their a’dam allow some small measure of freedom, relying on nausea as an inhibitor. The Domination Band demands far more obedience. You will act exactly as I desire. For instance. . . .”

  Rand stood up off the bed, his legs moving against his will. Then, his own hand whipped up and began to squeeze his throat just above the neck band. He gasped, stumbling. Frantic, he reached again for saidin.

  He found pain. It was as if he’d reached into a burning vat of oil, then drawn the fiery liquid into his own veins. He screamed in shock and agony, collapsing to the wooden floor. The pain made him writhe, his vision growing black.

  “You see.” Semirhage’s voice sounded distant. “Ah, I had forgotten how satisfying that is.”

  The pain was like a million ants burrowing through his skin and down to the bone. He twisted, muscles spasming.

  We’re in the box again! Lews Therin cried.

  And suddenly, he was. He could see it, the black confines, crushing him. His body sore from repeated beatings, his mind frantic to remain sane. Lews Therin had been his only companion. It was one of
the first times Rand could remember communicating with the madman; Lews Therin had started to respond to him only shortly before that day.

  Rand hadn’t been willing to see Lews Therin as part of himself. The mad part of himself, the part that could deal with the torture, if only because it was already so tortured. More pain and suffering was meaningless. You could not fill a cup that had already begun to overflow.

  He stopped screaming. The pain was still there, it made his eyes water, but the screams would not come. All fell still.

  Semirhage looked down at him, frowning, blood dripping from her chin. Another wave of pain washed across him. Whoever he was.

  He stared up at her. Silent.

  “What are you doing?” she said, compelling him. “Speak.”

  “No more can be done to me,” he whispered.

  Another wave of pain. It shocked him, and something inside of him whimpered, but he gave no outward reaction. Not because he held the screams in, but because he couldn’t feel anything. The box, the two wounds in his side corrupting his own blood, beatings, humiliation, sorrows and his own suicide. Killing himself. He could suddenly and starkly remember that. After all of these things, what more could Semirhage do to him?

  “Great Mistress,” Elza said, turning to Semirhage, eyes still seeming faintly dazed by something. “Perhaps now we should—”

  “Quiet, worm,” Semirhage spat at her, wiping the blood from her chin. She looked at it. “That’s twice now those knives have tasted my blood.” She shook her head, then turned and smiled at Rand. “You say nothing more can be done to you? You forget, Lews Therin, to whom you speak. Pain is my specialty, and you are still little more than a boy. I’ve broken men ten times as strong as you. Stand.”

  He did. The pain had not gone away. She obviously intended to keep using it against him until she got a reaction.

  He turned around, obeying her wordless command, and found Min hanging above the floor, tied by invisible ropes of Air. Her eyes were wild with fear, her arms bound behind her back, her mouth blocked by a woven Air gag.