The Eye of the World

  Ba’alzamon’s eyes roared like two furnaces. His lips did not move, but Rand thought he heard a curse screamed at Aginor. Then the fires died, and that ordinary human face smiled at him in a way that chilled even through the warmth of the Light.

  “Other armies can be raised, fool. Armies you have not dreamed of will yet come. And you tracked me? You slug under a rock, track me? I began the setting of your path the day you were born, a path to lead you to your grave, or here. Aiel allowed to flee, and one to live, to speak the words that would echo down the years. Jain Farstrider, a hero,” he twisted the word to a sneer, “whom I painted like a fool and sent to the Ogier thinking he was free of me. The Black Ajah, wriggling like worms on their bellies across the world to search you out. I pull the strings and the Amyrlin Seat dances and thinks she controls events.”

  The void trembled; hastily Rand firmed it again. He knows it all. He could have done. It could be the way he says. The Light warmed the void. Doubt cried out and was stilled, till only the seed remained. He struggled, not knowing whether he wanted to bury the seed or make it grow. The void steadied, smaller than before, and he floated in calm.

  Ba’alzamon seemed to notice nothing. “It matters little if I have you alive or dead, except to you, and to what power you might have. You will serve me, or your soul will. But I would rather have you kneel to me alive than dead. A single fist of Trollocs sent to your village when I could have sent a thousand. One Darkfriend to face you where a hundred could come on you asleep. And you, fool, you don’t even know them all, neither those ahead, nor those behind, nor those by your side. You are mine, have always been mine, my dog on a leash, and I brought you here to kneel to your master or die and let your soul kneel.”

  “I deny you. You have no power over me, and I will not kneel to you, alive or dead.”

  “Look,” Ba’alzamon said. “Look.” Unwilling, Rand yet turned his head.

  Egwene stood there, and Nynaeve, pale and frightened, with flowers in their hair. And another woman, little older than the Wisdom, gray-eyed and beautiful, clothed in a Two Rivers dress, bright blossoms embroidered round the neck.

  “Mother?” he breathed, and she smiled, a hopeless smile. His mother’s smile. “No! My mother is dead, and the other two are safe away from here. I deny you!” Egwene and Nynaeve blurred, became wafting mist, dissipated. Kari al’Thor still stood there, her eyes big with fear.

  “She, at least,” Ba’alzamon said, “is mine to do with as I will.”

  Rand shook his head. “I deny you.” He had to force the words out. “She is dead, and safe from you in the Light.”

  His mother’s lips trembled. Tears trickled down her cheeks; each one burned him like acid. “The Lord of the Grave is stronger than he once was, my son,” she said. “His reach is longer. The Father of Lies has a honeyed tongue for unwary souls. My son. My only, darling son. I would spare you if I could, but he is my master, now, his whim, the law of my existence. I can but obey him, and grovel for his favor. Only you can free me. Please, my son. Please help me. Help me. Help me! PLEASE!”

  The wail ripped out of her as barefaced Fades, pale and eyeless, closed round. Her clothes ripped away in their bloodless hands, hands that wielded pincers and clamps and things that stung and burned and whipped against her naked flesh. Her scream would not end.

  Rand’s scream echoed hers. The void boiled in his mind. His sword was in his hand. Not the heron-mark blade, but a blade of light, a blade of the Light. Even as he raised it, a fiery white bolt shot from the point, as if the blade itself had reached out. It touched the nearest Fade, and blinding canescence filled the chamber, shining through the Halfmen like a candle through paper, burning through them, blinding his eyes to the scene.

  From the midst of the brilliance, he heard a whisper. “Thank you, my son. The Light. The blessed Light.”

  The flash faded, and he was alone in the chamber with Ba’alzamon. Ba’alzamon’s eyes burned like the Pit of Doom, but he shied back from the sword as if it truly were the Light itself. “Fool! You will destroy yourself! You cannot wield it so, not yet! Not until I teach you!”

  “It is ended,” Rand said, and he swung the sword at Ba’alzamon’s black cord.

  Ba’alzamon screamed as the sword fell, screamed till the stone walls trembled, and the endless howl redoubled as the blade of Light severed the cord. The cut ends rebounded apart as if they had been under tension. The end stretching into the nothingness outside began to shrivel as it sprang away; the other whipped back into Ba’alzamon, hurling him against the fireplace. There was silent laughter in the soundless shrieks of the tortured faces. The walls shivered and cracked; the floor heaved, and chunks of stone crashed to the floor from the ceiling.

  As all broke apart around him, Rand pointed the sword at Ba’alzamon’s heart. “It is ended!”

  Light lanced from the blade, coruscating in a shower of fiery sparks like droplets of molten, white metal. Wailing, Ba’alzamon threw up his arms in a vain effort to shield himself. Flames shrieked in his eyes, joining with other flames as the stone ignited, the stone of the cracking walls, the stone of the pitching floor, the stone showering from the ceiling. Rand felt the bright thread attached to him thinning, till only the glow itself remained, but he strained harder, not knowing what he did, or how, only that this had to be ended. It has to be ended!

  Fire filled the chamber, a solid flame. He could see Ba’alzamon withering like a leaf, hear him howling, feel the shrieks grating on his bones. The flame became pure, white light, brighter than the sun. Then the last flicker of the thread was gone, and he was falling through endless black and Ba’alzamon’s fading howl.

  Something struck him with tremendous force, turning him to jelly, and the jelly shook and screamed from the fire raging inside, the hungry cold burning without end.

  CHAPTER

  52

  There Is Neither Beginning Nor End

  He became aware of the sun, first, moving across a cloudless sky, filling his unblinking eyes. It seemed to go by fits and starts, standing still for days, then darting ahead in a streak of light, jerking toward the far horizon, day falling with it. Light. That should mean something. Thought was a new thing. I can think. I means me. Pain came next, the memory of raging fever, the bruises where shaking chills had thrown him around like a rag doll. And a stink. A greasy, burned smell, filling his nostrils, and his head.

  With aching muscles, he heaved himself over, pushed up to hands and knees. Uncomprehending, he stared at the oily ashes in which he had been lying, ashes scattered and smeared over the stone of the hilltop. Bits of dark green cloth lay mixed in the char, edge-blackened scraps that had escaped the flames.

  Aginor.

  His stomach heaved and twisted. Trying to brush black streaks of ash from his clothes, he lurched away from the remains of the Forsaken. His hands flapped feebly, not making much headway. He tried to use both hands and fell forward. A sheer drop loomed under his face, a smooth rock wall spinning in his eyes, depth pulling him. His head swum, and he vomited over the edge of the cliff.

  Trembling, he crawled backwards on his belly until there was solid stone under his eyes, then flopped over onto his back, panting for breath. With an effort he fumbled his sword from its scabbard. Only a few ashes remained from the red cloth. His hands shook when he held it up in front of his face; it took both hands. It was a heron-mark blade—Heron-mark? Yes. Tam. My father—but only steel for that. He needed three wavering tries to sheathe it again. It had been something else. Or there was another sword.

  “My name,” he said after a while, “is Rand al’Thor.” More memory crashed back into his head like a lead ball, and he groaned. “The Dark One,” he whispered to himself. “The Dark One is dead.” There was no more need for caution. “Shai’tan is dead.” The world seemed to lurch. He shook in silent mirth until tears poured from his eyes. “Shai’tan is dead!” He laughed at the sky. Other memories. “Egwene!” That name meant something important.

  Painfu
lly he got to his feet, wavering like a willow in a high wind, and staggered past Aginor’s ashes without looking at them. Not important anymore. He fell more than climbed down that first, steep part of the slope, tumbling and sliding from bush to bush. By the time he reached more level ground, his bruises ached twice as much, but he found strength enough to stand, barely. Egwene. He broke into a shambling run. Leaves and flower petals showered around him as he blundered through the undergrowth. Have to find her. Who is she?

  His arms and legs seemed to flail about more like long blades of grass than go as he wanted them to. Tottering, he fell against a tree, slamming against the trunk so hard that he grunted. Foliage rained on his head while he pressed his face to the rough bark, clutching to keep from falling. Egwene. He pushed himself away from the tree and hurried on. Almost immediately he tilted again, falling, but he forced his legs to work faster, to run into the fall so that he was staggering along at a good clip, all the while one step from falling flat on his face. Moving made his legs begin to obey him more. Slowly, he found himself running upright, arms pumping, long legs pulling him down the slope in leaps. He bounded into the clearing, half-filled now by the great oak marking the Green Man’s grave. There was the white stone arch marked with the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai, and the blackened, gaping pit where fire and wind had tried to trap Aginor and failed.

  “Egwene! Egwene, where are you?” A pretty girl looked up with big eyes from where she knelt beneath the spreading branches, flowers in her hair, and brown oak leaves. She was slender and young, and frightened. Yes, that’s who she is. Of course. “Egwene, thank the Light you’re all right.”

  There were two other women with her, one with haunted eyes and a long braid, still decorated with a few white morningstars. The other lay outstretched, her head pillowed on folded cloaks, her own sky-blue cloak not quite hiding her tattered dress. Charred spots and tears in the rich cloth showed, and her face was pale, but her eyes were open. Moiraine. Yes, the Aes Sedai. And the Wisdom, Nynaeve. All three women looked at him, unblinking and intent.

  “You are all right, aren’t you? Egwene? He didn’t harm you.” He could walk without stumbling, now—the sight of her made him feel like dancing, bruises and all—but it still felt good to drop down cross-legged beside them.

  “I never even saw him after you pushed—” Her eyes were uncertain on his face. “What about you, Rand?”

  “I’m fine.” He laughed. He touched her cheek, and wondered if he had imagined a slight pulling away. “A little rest, and I’ll be newmade. Nynaeve? Moiraine Sedai?” The names felt new in his mouth.

  The Wisdom’s eyes were old, ancient in her young face, but she shook her head. “A little bruised,” she said, still watching him. “Moiraine is the only . . . the only one of us who was really hurt.”

  “I suffered more injury to my pride than anything else,” the Aes Sedai said irritably, plucking at her cloak blanket. She looked as if she had been a long time ill, or hard used, but despite the dark circles under them her eyes were sharp and full of power. “Aginor was surprised and angry that I held him as long as I did, but fortunately, he had no time to spare for me. I am surprised myself that I held him so long. In the Age of Legends, Aginor was close behind the Kinslayer and Ishamael in power.”

  “ ‘The Dark One and all the Forsaken,’ ” Egwene quoted in a faint, unsteady voice, “ ‘are bound in Shayol Ghul, bound by the Creator. . . .’ ” She drew a shuddering breath.

  “Aginor and Balthamel must have been trapped near the surface.” Moiraine sounded as if she had already explained this, impatient at doing so again. “The patch on the Dark One’s prison weakened enough to free them. Let us be thankful no more of the Forsaken were freed. If they had been, we would have seen them.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rand said. “Aginor and Balthamel are dead, and so is Shai’—”

  “The Dark One,” the Aes Sedai cut him off. Ill or not, her voice was firm, and her dark eyes commanding. “Best we still call him the Dark One. Or Ba’alzamon, at least.”

  He shrugged. “As you wish. But he’s dead. The Dark One’s dead. I killed him. I burned him with. . . .” The rest of memory flooded back then, leaving his mouth hanging open. The One Power. I wielded the One Power. No man can. . . . He licked lips that were suddenly dry. A gust of wind swirled fallen and falling leaves around them, but it was no colder than his heart. They were looking at him, the three of them. Watching. Not even blinking. He reached out to Egwene, and there was no imagination in her drawing back this time. “Egwene?” She turned her face away, and he let his hand drop.

  Abruptly she flung her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. “I’m sorry, Rand. I’m sorry. I don’t care. Truly, I don’t.” Her shoulders shook. He thought she was crying. Awkwardly patting her hair, he looked at the other two women over the top of her head.

  “The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills,” Nynaeve said slowly, “but you are still Rand al’Thor of Emond’s Field. But, the Light help me, the Light help us all, you are too dangerous, Rand.” He flinched from the Wisdom’s eyes, sad, regretting, and already accepting loss.

  “What happened?” Moiraine said. “Tell me everything!”

  And with her eyes on him, compelling, he did. He wanted to turn away, to make it short, leave things out, but the Aes Sedai’s eyes drew everything from him. Tears ran down his face when he came to Kari al’Thor. His mother. He emphasized that. “He had my mother. My mother!” There was sympathy and pain on Nynaeve’s face, but the Aes Sedai’s eyes drove him on, to the sword of Light, to severing the black cord, and the flames consuming Ba’alzamon. Egwene’s arms tightened around him as if she would pull him back from what had happened. “But it wasn’t me,” he finished. “The Light . . . pulled me along. It wasn’t really me. Doesn’t that make any difference?”

  “I had suspicions from the first,” Moiraine said. “Suspicions are not proof, though. After I gave you the token, the coin, and made that bonding, you should have been willing to fall in with Whatever I wanted, but you resisted, questioned. That told me something, but not enough. Manetheren blood was always stubborn, and more so after Aemon died and Eldrene’s heart was shattered. Then there was Bela.”

  “Bela?” he said. Nothing makes any difference.

  The Aes Sedai nodded. “At Watch Hill, Bela had no need of me to cleanse her of tiredness; someone had already done it. She could have outrun Mandarb, that night. I should have thought of who Bela carried. With Trollocs on our heels, a Draghkar overhead, and a Halfman the Light alone knew where, how you must have feared that Egwene would be left behind. You needed something more than you had ever needed anything before in your life, and you reached out to the one thing that could give it to you. Saidin.”

  He shivered. He felt so cold his fingers hurt. “If I never do it again, if I never touch it again, I won’t. . . .” He could not say it. Go mad. Turn the land and people around him to madness. Die, rotting while he still lived.

  “Perhaps,” Moiraine said. “It would be much easier if there was someone to teach you, but it might be done, with a supreme effort of will.”

  “You can teach me. Surely, you—” He stopped when the Aes Sedai shook her head.

  “Can a cat teach a dog to climb trees, Rand? Can a fish teach a bird to swim? I know saidar, but I can teach you nothing of saidin. Those who could are three thousand years dead. Perhaps you are stubborn enough, though. Perhaps your will is strong enough.”

  Egwene straightened, wiping reddened eyes with the back of her hand. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. At least she isn’t pulling away. At least she can look at me without screaming.

  “The others?” he said.

  “Lan took them into the cavern,” Nynaeve said. “The Eye is gone, but there’s something in the middle of the pool, a crystal column, and steps to reach it. Mat and Perrin wanted to look for you first—Loial did, too—but Moiraine said. . . .” She glanced at the A
es Sedai, troubled. Moiraine returned her look calmly. “She said we mustn’t disturb you while you were. . . .”

  His throat constricted until he could hardly breathe. Will they turn their faces the way Egwene did? Will they scream and run away like I’m a Fade? Moiraine spoke as if she did not notice the blood draining from his face.

  “There was a vast amount of the One Power in the Eye. Even in the Age of Legends, few could have channeled so much unaided without being destroyed. Very few.”

  “You told them?” he said hoarsely. “If everybody knows. . . .”

  “Only Lan,” Moiraine said gently. “He must know. And Nynaeve and Egwene, for what they are and what they will become. The others have no need, yet.”

  “Why not?” The rasp in his throat made his voice harsh. “You will be wanting to gentle me, won’t you? Isn’t that what Aes Sedai do to men who can wield the Power? Change them so they can’t? Make them safe? Thom said men who have been gentled die because they stop wanting to live. Why aren’t you talking about taking me to Tar Valon to be gentled?”

  “You are ta’veren,” Moiraine replied. “Perhaps the Pattern has not finished with you.”

  Rand sat up straight. “In the dreams Ba’alzamon said Tar Valon and the Amyrlin Seat would try to use me. He named names, and I remember them, now. Raolin Darksbane and Guaire Amalasan. Yurian Stonebow. Davian. Logain.” The last was the hardest of all to say. Nynaeve went pale and Egwene gasped, but he pressed on angrily. “Every one a false Dragon. Don’t try to deny it. Well, I won’t be used. I am not a tool you can throw on the midden heap when it’s worn out.”

  “A tool made for a purpose is not demeaned by being used for that purpose,” Moiraine’s voice was as harsh as his own, “but a man who believes the Father of Lies demeans himself. You say you will not be used, and then you let the Dark One set your path like a hound sent after a rabbit by his master.”

  His fists clenched, and he turned his head away. It was too close to the things Ba’alzamon had said. “I am no one’s hound. Do you hear me? No one’s!”