The Gathering Storm

7 The Plan for Arad Doman

“A storm is coming,” Nynaeve said, looking out the window of the manor. “Yes,” replied Daigian from her chair by the hearth without bothering to glance at the window. “I think you might be right, dear. I swear, it seems as if it has been overcast for weeks!”

“It has been a single week,” Nynaeve said, holding her long, dark braid in one hand. She glanced at the other woman. “I haven’t seen a patch of clear sky in over ten days.”

Daigian frowned. Of the White Ajah, she was plump and curvaceous. She wore a small stone on her forehead as Moiraine had so long ago, though Daigian’s was an appropriately white moonstone. The tradition apparently had something to do with being a Cairhien noblewoman, as did the four colored slashes the woman wore on her dress.

“Ten days, you say?” Daigian said. “Are you certain?”

Nynaeve was. She paid attention to the weather; that was one of the duties of a village Wisdom. She was Aes Sedai now, but that didn’t mean she stopped being who she was. The weather was always there, in the back of her mind. She could sense the rain, sun, or snow in the wind’s whispers.

Lately, however, the sensations hadn’t been like whispers at all. More like distant shouts, growing louder. Or like waves crashing against one another, still far to the north, yet harder and harder to ignore.

“Well,” Daigian said, “I’m certain this isn’t the only time in history that it has been cloudy for ten days!”

Nynaeve shook her head, tugging on her braid. “It’s not normal,” she said. “And those overcast skies aren’t the storm I’m talking about. It’s still distant, but it’s coming. And it is going to be terrible. Worse than any I’ve ever seen. Far worse.”

“Well, then,” Daigian said, sounding slightly uncomfortable, “we will deal with it when it arrives. Are you going to sit down so that we can continue?”

Nynaeve glanced at the plump Aes Sedai. Daigian was extremely weak in the Power. The White might just be the weakest Aes Sedai that Nynaeve had ever met. By traditional—yet unspoken—rules, that meant that Nynaeve should be allowed to take the lead.

Unfortunately, Nynaeve’s position was still questionable. Egwene had raised her to the shawl by decree, just as she’d raised Elayne: there had been no testing, nor had Nynaeve sworn on the Oath Rod. To most—even those who accepted Egwene’s place as the true Amyrlin—those omissions made Nynaeve something less than Aes Sedai. Not an Accepted, but hardly equal to a sister.

The sisters with Cadsuane were particularly bad, as they hadn’t declared for either the White Tower or the rebels. And the sisters sworn to Rand were worse; most were still loyal to the White Tower, not seeing a problem with supporting both Elaida and Rand. Nynaeve still wondered what Rand had been thinking, allowing sisters to swear fealty to him. She’d explained his mistake to him on several occasions—quite rationally—but talking to Rand these days was like talking to a stone. Only less effective and infinitely more infuriating.

Daigian was still waiting for her to sit. Rather than provoke a contest of wills, Nynaeve did so. Daigian was still suffering from having lost her Warder—Eben, an Asha’man—during the fight with the Forsaken. Nynaeve had spent that fight completely absorbed by providing Rand with immense amounts of saidar to weave.

Nynaeve could still remember the sheer joy—the awesome euphoria, strength, and sheer feel of life—that had come from drawing that much power. It frightened her. She was glad the ter’angreal she’d used to touch that power had been destroyed.

But the male ter’angreal was still intact: an access key to a powerful sa’angreal. As far as Nynaeve knew, Rand had not been able to persuade Cadsuane to return it to him. As well she shouldn’t. No human being, not even the Dragon Reborn, should channel that much of the One Power. The things one could be tempted to do. . . .

She’d told Rand that he needed to forget about the access key. Like talking to a stone. A big, red-haired, iron-faced idiot of a stone. Nynaeve harrumphed to herself. That caused Daigian to raise an eyebrow. The woman was quite good at controlling her grief, though Nynaeve—whose room in the Domani mansion was beside Daigian’s—heard the woman crying to herself at night. It was not easy to lose one’s Warder.

Lan. . . .

No, best not to think of him at the moment. Lan would be fine. Only at the end of his journey of thousands of miles would he be in danger. It was there he intended to throw himself at the Shadow like a lone arrow loosed at a brick wall . . .

No! she thought to herself. He will not be alone. I saw to that.

“Very well,” Nynaeve said, forcing herself to focus, “let us continue.” She showed no deference to Daigian. She was doing this woman a favor, distracting her from her grief. That was how Corele had explained it, anyway. It wasn’t, certainly, for Nynaeve’s benefit that they met. She had nothing to prove. She was Aes Sedai, no matter what the others thought or implied.

This was all just a ruse to help Daigian. That was it. Nothing else.

“Here is the eighty-first weave,” the White said. The glow of saidar sprang up around her, and she channeled, crafting a very complex weave of Fire, Air and Spirit. Complex, but useless. The weave created three burning rings of fire in the air which glowed with unusual light, but what was the point of that? Nynaeve already knew how to make fireballs and balls of light; why waste time learning weaves that repeated what she already knew, only in a far more complicated way? And why did each ring have to be a slightly different color?

Nynaeve waved an indifferent hand, repeating the weave exactly. “Honestly,” she said, “that one seems the most useless of the bunch! What is the point of all of these?”

Daigian pursed her lips. She said nothing, but Nynaeve knew that Daigian thought that this all should be far more difficult for Nynaeve than it was. Eventually, the woman spoke. “You cannot be told much about the testing. The only thing I can say is that you will need to repeat these weaves exactly, and do so while undergoing extreme distraction. When the time comes, you will understand.”

“I doubt it,” Nynaeve said flatly, copying the weave three times over while she spoke. “Because—as I believe I’ve told you a dozen times already—I’m not going to be taking the test. I’m already Aes Sedai.”

“Of course you are, dear.”

Nynaeve ground her teeth. This had been a bad idea. When she’d approached Corele—supposedly a member of Nynaeve’s own Ajah—the woman had refused to acknowledge her as an equal. She’d been pleasant about it, as Corele often was, but the implication had been clear. She’d even seemed sympathetic. Sympathetic! As if Nynaeve needed her pity. She had suggested that if Nynaeve knew the hundred weaves each Accepted learned for the test to become Aes Sedai, it might help with her credibility.

The problem was, this placed Nynaeve in a situation where she was all but treated as a student again. She did see the use in knowing the hundred weaves—she’d spent far too short a time studying them, and virtually every sister knew it. However, by accepting the lessons, she hadn’t meant to imply that she saw herself as a student!

She reached for her braid, but stopped herself. Her visible expressions of emotion were another factor in how she was treated by the other Aes Sedai. If only she had that ageless face! Bah!

Daigian’s next weave made a popping sound in the air, and once again the weave itself was needlessly complex. Nynaeve copied it with barely a thought, committing it to memory at the same time.

Daigian stared at the weave for a moment, a distant look on her face.

“What?” Nynaeve asked testily.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing. I just . . . the last time I made that weave, I used it to startle ... I ... never mind.”

Eben. Her Warder had been young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and she had been very fond of him. Eben and Daigian had played games together like a boy and an elder sister rather than Aes Sedai and Warder.

A youth of only sixteen, Nynaeve thought, dead. Did Rand have to recruit them so young?

Daigian’s face grew stiff, controlling her emotions far better than Nynaeve would have been able to.

Light send that I’m never in the same situation, she thought. At least not for many, many years. Lan wasn’t her Warder yet, but she meant to have him as soon as possible. He was already her husband, after all. It still angered her that Myrelle had the bond.

“I might be able to help, Daigian,” Nynaeve said, leaning forward, laying her hand on the other woman’s knee. “If I were to attempt a Healing, perhaps. . . .”

“No,” the woman said curtly.

“But—”

“I doubt you could help.”

“Anything can be Healed,” Nynaeve said stubbornly, “even if we don’t know how yet. Anything save death.”

“And what would you do, dear?” Daigian asked. Nynaeve wondered if she refused to call her by name on purpose, or if it was an unconscious effect of their relationship. She couldn’t use “child,” as she would with an actual Accepted, but to call her “Nynaeve” might imply equality.

“I could do something,” Nynaeve said. “This pain you feel, it has to be an effect of the bond, and therefore something to do with the One Power. If the Power causes your pain, then the Power can take that pain away.”

“And why would I want that?” Daigian asked, in control once again.

“Well . . . well, because it’s pain. It hurts.”

“It should,” Daigian said. “Eben is dead. Would you want to forget your pain if you lost that hulking giant of yours? Have your feelings for him cut away like some spoiled chunk of flesh in an otherwise good roast?”

Nynaeve opened her mouth, but stopped. Would she? It wasn’t that simple—her feelings for Lan were genuine, and not due to a bond. He was her husband, and she loved him. Daigian had been possessive of her Warder, but it had been the affection of an aunt for her favored nephew. It wasn’t the same.

But would Nynaeve want that pain taken away? She closed her mouth, suddenly realizing the honor in Daigian s words. “I see. I’m sorry.”

“It is nothing, dear,” Daigian continued. “The logic of it seems simple to me at times, but I fear that others do not accept it. Indeed, some might argue that the logic of the issue depends on the moment and the individual. Shall I show you the next weave?”

“Yes, please,” Nynaeve said, frowning. She herself was so strong in the Power—one of the strongest alive—that she often took little thought for her ability. It was much as a very tall man rarely paid attention to other people’s heights; everyone else was shorter than he, and so their different heights didn’t matter much.

What was it like to be this woman, who had spent longer as an Accepted than anyone else in memory? A woman who had barely attained the shawl, doing so—many said—by an eyelash and a whisper? Daigian had to show deference to all other Aes Sedai. If two sisters met, Daigian was always the lesser. If more than two sisters met, Daigian served them tea. Before the more powerful sisters, she was expected to scrape and grovel. Well, not that, she was Aes Sedai, but still. . . .

“There is something wrong with this system, Daigian,” Nynaeve said absently.

“With the testing? It seems appropriate that there should be some kind of test to determine worthiness, and the performing of difficult weaves under stress strikes me as fulfilling that need.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Nynaeve said, “I mean the system that determines how we are treated. By each other.”

Daigian flushed. It was inappropriate to refer to another’s power, in any way. But, well, Nynaeve had never been very good at conforming to other people’s expectations. Particularly when they expected foolishness. “There you sit,” she said, “knowing as much as any other Aes Sedai—knowing more than many, I’d wager—and the moment any Accepted just off apron strings gains the shawl, you have to do what she says.”

Daigian’s blush deepened. “We should move on.”

It just wasn’t right. Nynaeve let the matter drop, however. She’d stepped in this particular pit once before in teaching the Kinswomen to stand up for themselves in front of Aes Sedai. Before long, they’d been standing up to Nynaeve too, which had not been her intention. She wasn’t certain she wanted to attempt a similar revolution among the Aes Sedai themselves.

She tried to turn back to the tutoring, but that sense of an impending storm kept drawing her eyes to the window. The room was on the second floor and had a good view of the camp outside. It was by pure happenstance that Nynaeve caught a glimpse of Cadsuane; that gray bun set with innocent-looking ter’angreal was obvious even from a distance. The woman was crossing the courtyard, Corele at her side, walking at a fair clip.

What is she doing? Nynaeve wondered. Cadsuane’s pace made her suspicious. What had happened? Something to do with Rand? If that man had gotten himself hurt again . . .

“Excuse me, Daigian,” Nynaeve said, standing. “I just remembered something that I must see to.”

The other woman started. “Oh. Well, all right then, Nynaeve. We can continue another time, I suppose.”

It wasn’t until Nynaeve had hurried out the door and down the stairs that she realized Daigian had actually used her name. She smiled as she walked out onto the green.

There were Aiel in the camp. That itself wasn’t uncommon; Rand often had a complement of Maidens to act as guards. But these Aiel were men, wearing the dusty brown cadin’sor and carrying spears at their sides. A fair number of them wore the headbands bearing Rand’s symbol on them.

That was why Cadsuane had been in such a hurry; if the Aiel clan chiefs had arrived, then Rand would be wanting to meet with them. Nynaeve strode across the green—which wasn’t very green at all—in a huff. Rand hadn’t sent for her. Probably not because he didn’t want to include her, but because he was just too wool-headed to think of it. Dragon Reborn or not, the man rarely thought to share his plans with others. She would have thought that after all this time, he would have reali2ed the importance of getting advice from someone a little more experienced than he. How many times now had he gotten himself kidnapped, wounded or imprisoned because of his rashness?

All these others in camp might bow and scrape and dote on him, but Nynaeve knew that he was really just a sheepherder from Emond’s Field. He still got into trouble the same way he had when he and Matrim had pulled pranks as boys. Only now instead of flustering the village girls he could throw entire nations into chaos.

On the far northern side of the green—directly opposite the manor house, close to the front of the bulwark—the Aiel newcomers were setting up their camp, complete with tan tents. They arranged them differently than the Saldaeans; instead of straight rows, the Aiel preferred small groups, organized by society. Some of Bashere’s men called greetings to passing Aiel, but none moved to help. Aiel could be a prickly bunch, and while Nynaeve found the Saldaeans to be far less irrational than most, they were Borderlanders. Skirmishes with Aiel had been a way of life for them in earlier years, and the Aiel war itself was not so distant. For now, they all fought on the same side, but that didn’t keep the Saldaeans from stepping a little more carefully now that the Aiel had arrived in force.

Nynaeve scanned for signs of Rand or any Aiel she knew. She doubted that Aviendha would be with the group; she would be back in Caemlyn with Elayne, helping secure the throne of Andor. Nynaeve still felt guilty for leaving them, but somebody had needed to help Rand cleanse saidin. That wasn’t the sort of thing you left him to do alone. Now, where was he?

Nynaeve stopped at the boundary between the Saldaeans and the new Aiel camp. Soldiers carrying lances nodded to her in respect. Aiel in brown and green glided across the grass, their motions smooth as water.

Women in blues and greens carried wash from the stream beside the manor house. Broad-needled pines shivered in the wind. The camp bustled like the village green at Bel Tine. Which way had Cadsuane gone?

She sensed channeling in the northeast. Nynaeve smiled, setting off with a determined step, yellow skirt swishing. The channeling would either be an Aes Sedai or a Wise One. Sure enough, she soon saw a larger Aiel tent erected at the corner of the green. She strode straight for it, her stares—or perhaps her reputation—encouraging Saldaean soldiers to get out of her way. The Maidens guarding the entrance did not try to stop her.

Rand stood inside, wearing black and red, leafing through maps on a sturdy wooden table, his left arm held behind his back. Bashere stood at his side, nodding to himself and studying a small map he held before him.

Rand looked up as Nynaeve entered. When had he started looking so much like a Warder, with that instant glance of assessment? Those eyes which picked out every threat, body tense as if expecting an attack at any time? I should never have let that woman take him from the Two Rivers, she thought. Look what it’s done to him.

She immediately frowned at her own foolishness. If Rand had stayed in the Two Rivers, he would have gone mad and perhaps destroyed them all—assuming, of course, the Trollocs, the Fades or the Forsaken themselves hadn’t accomplished the task first. If Moiraine hadn’t come for Rand, he’d now be dead. With him would have gone the light and hope of the world. It was just hard to abandon her old prejudices.

“Ah, Nynaeve,” Rand said, relaxing and turning back to his maps. He motioned for Bashere to inspect one of them, then turned back to her. “I was about to send for you. Rhuarc and Bael are here.”

Nynaeve raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. “Oh?” she asked flatly. “And here I’d assumed that all the Aiel in the camp meant we had been attacked by Shaido.”

His face hardened at her tone, and those eyes of his grew . . . dangerous. But then he lightened, shaking his head, almost as if to clear it. Some of the old Rand—the Rand who had been an innocent sheepherder—seemed to return. “Yes, of course you would have noticed,” he said. “I’m glad you are here. We will begin as soon as the clan chiefs return. I insisted they see their people settled before we began.”

He waved for her to sit; there were cushions on the floor, but no chairs. Aiel spurned those, and Rand would want them to be comfortable. Nynaeve eyed him, surprised at how tight her own nerves had become. He was just a wool-headed villager, no matter how much influence he’d found. He was.

But she could not shake away that look in his eyes, that flash of anger. Holding a crown was said to change many men for the worse. She intended to see that didn’t happen to Rand al’Thor, but what recourse would she have if he suddenly decided to have her imprisoned? He wouldn’t do that, would he? Not Rand.

Semirhage said he was mad, Nynaeve thought. Said that. . . he heard voices from his past life. Is that what is happening when he cocks his head, as if listening to things that nobody else can hear?

She shivered. Min was there in the tent, of course, sitting and reading a book in the corner: The Wake of the Breaking. Min looked too intently at the pages; she’d listened to the exchange between Rand and Nynaeve. What did she think of the changes in him? She was closer to him than anyone—close enough that, if they’d all been back in Emond’s Field, Nynaeve would have given the two of them a tongue-lashing strong enough to make their heads spin. Even though they weren’t in Emond’s Field and she was no longer Wisdom, she’d made certain that Rand knew of her displeasure. His response had been simple: “If I marry her, my death will bring her even more pain.”

More idiocy, of course. If you were planning to go into danger, then it was all the more reason to get married. Obviously. Nynaeve seated herself on the floor, arranging her skirts, and pointedly did not think of Lan. He had such a long distance to cover, and. . . .

And she had to make sure that she was given his bond before he reached the Blight. Just in case.

Suddenly, she sat upright. Cadsuane. The woman wasn’t there; besides guards, the tent contained only Rand, Nynaeve, Min and Bashere. Was she off planning something that Nynaeve—

Cadsuane entered. The gray-haired Aes Sedai wore a simple tan dress. She relied on presence, not clothing, to draw attention, and of course her hair sparkled with its golden ornaments. Corele followed her in.

Cadsuane wove a ward against eavesdropping, and Rand did not object. He should stick up for himself more—that woman practically had him tamed, and it was unsettling how much he let her get away with. Like questioning Semirhage. The Forsaken were far too powerful and dangerous to treat lightly. Semirhage should have been stilled the moment they captured her . . . though Nynaeve s opinion in that regard was directly related to her own experience in keeping Moghedien captive.

Corele gave Nynaeve a smile; she tended to have one of those for everyone. Cadsuane, as usual, ignored Nynaeve. That was fine. Nynaeve had no need for her approval. Cadsuane thought she could order everyone around just because she’d outlived every other Aes Sedai. Well, Nynaeve knew for a fact that age had little to do with wisdom. Cenn Buie had been as old as rain, but had about as much sense as a pile of rocks.

Many of the camp’s other Aes Sedai and camp leaders trickled into the tent over the next few minutes; perhaps Rand really bad sent messengers, and would have called for Nynaeve. The newcomers included Merise and her Warders, one of whom was the Asha’man Jahar Narishma, bells tinkling on the ends of his braids. Damer Flinn, Elza Penfell, a few of Bashere’s officers also arrived. Rand glanced up when each one entered, alert and wary, but he quickly turned back to his maps. Was he growing paranoid? Some madmen grew suspicious of everyone.

Eventually, Rhuarc and Bael made their appearance, along with several other Aiel. They stalked through the tent’s large entrance like cats on the prowl. In an odd turn, a batch of Wise Ones—whom Nynaeve had been able to sense when they got close—were among the group. Often, with Aiel, an event was either considered clan chief business or Wise One business—much as things happened back in the Two Rivers with the Village Council and the Women’s Circle. Had Rand asked for them all to attend, or had they decided to come together for reasons of their own?

Nynaeve had been wrong about Aviendha’s location; she was shocked to see the tall, red-haired woman hovering at the back of the group of Wise Ones. When had she left Caemlyn? And why was she carrying that worn cloth with a frayed edge?

Nynaeve didn’t get a chance to ask Aviendha any questions, as Rand nodded to Rhuarc and the others, motioning for them to sit, which they did. Rand himself remained standing beside his map table. He placed his arms behind his back, hand clasping stump, a thoughtful look on his face. He offered no preamble. “Tell me of your work in Arad Doman,” he said to Rhuarc. “My scouts inform me that this land is hardly at peace.”

Rhuarc accepted a cup of tea from Aviendha—so she was still considered an apprentice—and turned to Rand. The clan chief did not drink. “We have had very little time, Rand al’Thor.”

“I don’t look for excuses, Rhuarc,” Rand said. “Only results.”

This brought flashes of anger to the faces of several of the other Aiel, and the Maidens at the doorway exchanged a furious burst of hand signals.

Rhuarc himself displayed no anger, though Nynaeve did think his hand tightened on his cup. “I have shared water with you, Rand al’Thor,” he said. “I would not think that you would bring me here to offer insults.”

“No insults, Rhuarc,” Rand said. “Just truths. We don’t have time to waste.”

“No time, Rand al’Thor?” Bael said. The clan chief of the Goshien Aiel was a very tall man, and he seemed to tower, even when sitting down. “You left many of us in Andor for months with nothing to do but polish spears and scare wetlanders! Now you send us to this land with impossible orders, then follow a few weeks later and demand results?”

“You were in Andor to help Elayne,” Rand said.

“She did not want or need help,” Bael said with a snort. “And she was right to refuse aid. I’d rather run across the entire Waste with a single skin of water than have leadership of my clan handed to me by another.”

Rand’s expression grew dark again, his eyes stormy, and Nynaeve was again reminded of the tempest brewing to the north.

“This land is broken, Rand al’Thor,” Rhuarc said, his voice calmer than Bael’s. “It is not making excuses to explain that fact, and it is not cowardice to be cautious about a difficult task.”

“We must have peace here,” Rand growled. “If you can’t manage—”

“Boy,” Cadsuane said, “perhaps you want to stop and think. How often have you known the Aiel to fail you? How often have you failed, hurt, or offended them?”

Rand snapped his mouth closed, and Nynaeve gritted her teeth at not having spoken up herself. She glanced at Cadsuane, who had been given a chair to sit upon—Nynaeve couldn’t recall ever seeing her sit on the floor. The chair had obviously been taken from the manor; it was constructed from pale elgilrim horns—which stretched out like open palms—and had a red cushion. Aviendha handed Cadsuane a cup of tea, which she sipped carefully.

With obvious effort, Rand pulled his temper back under control. “I apologize, Rhuarc, Bael. It has been a ... wearing few months.”

“You have no toh” Rhuarc said. “But please, sit. Let us share shade and speak with civility.”

Rand sighed audibly, then nodded, seating himself before the other two. The several Wise Ones in attendance—Amys, Melaine, Bair—didn’t seem inclined to participate in the discussion. They were observers, much—Nynaeve realized—as she herself was.

“We must have peace in Arad Doman, my friends,” Rand said, unrolling a map between them on the tent rug.

Bael shook his head. “Dobraine Taborwin has done well with Bandar Eban,” he said, “but Rhuarc spoke rightly when he called this land broken. It is like a piece of Sea Folk porcelain dropped from the tip of a high mountain. You told us to discover who was in charge and see if we could restore order. Well, as far as we can tell, no one is in charge. Each city has been left to fend for itself.”

“What of the Council of Merchants?” Bashere said, sitting down with them, knuckling his mustache as he studied the map. “My scouts say that they still hold some measure of power.”

“In the cities where they rule, this is true,” Rhuarc said. “But their influence is weak. There is only one member still in the capital, and she has little control there. We have stopped the fighting in the streets, but only with great effort.” He shook his head. “This is what comes from trying to control more lands than holds and clan. Without their king, these Domani do not know who is in charge.”

“Where is he?” Rand asked.

“Nobody knows, Rand al’Thor. He vanished. Some say months ago, others say it has been years.”

“Graendal might have him,” Rand whispered, studying the map intently. “If she’s here. Yes, I think she probably is. But where? She won’t be in the king’s palace, that’s not her way. She will have some place that is hers, a place where she can display her trophies. A location that would make a trophy itself, but not a place that one would think of immediately. Yes, I know. You’re right. That’s how she did it before. . . .”

Such familiarity! Nynaeve shivered. Aviendha knelt beside her, holding out a cup of tea. Nynaeve took it, meeting the woman’s eyes, then began to whisper a question. Aviendha shook her head curtly. Later, her expression seemed to imply. Aviendha rose and retreated to the back of the room and then, grimacing, took out her frayed cloth and began pulling the threads out one at a time. What was the point of that?

“Cadsuane,” Rand said, stopping his whispering, speaking up. “What do you know of the Council of Merchants?”

“They are mostly women,” Cadsuane said, “and women of great cunning at that. However, they are also a selfish lot. It is their duty to choose the king, and with Alsalam’s disappearance, they should have found a replacement. Too many of them see this as an opportunity, and that keeps them from reaching an agreement. I can assume that they’ve separated in face of this chaos to secure power in their home cities, fighting for position and alliances as they each offer their own choice of king for the others to consider.”

“And this Domani army fighting the Seanchan?” Rand asked. “Is that their doing?”

“I know nothing of that.”

“You speak of the man Rodel Ituralde,” Rhuarc said.

“Yes.”

“He fought well twenty years ago,” Rhuarc said, rubbing his square chin. “He is of the ones you call a Great Captain. I should like to dance the spears with him.”

“You will not,” Rand said sharply. “Not while I live, at least. We will secure this land.”

“And you expect us to do this without fighting?” Bael asked. “This Rodel Ituralde reportedly fights like a sandstorm against the Seanchan, drawing their ire better even than you yourself, Rand al’Thor. He will not sleep while you conquer his homeland.”

“Once again,” Rand said, “we are not here to conquer.”

Rhuarc sighed. “Then why send us, Rand al’Thor? Why not use your Aes Sedai? They understand wetlanders. This country is like an entire kingdom of children, and we are too few adults to bring them to obedience. Particularly if you forbid us to spank them.”

“You can fight,” Rand said, “but only when you need to. Rhuarc, this has gone beyond the ability of Aes Sedai to fix. You can do this. People are intimidated by the Aiel; they will do as you say. If we can stop the Domani war with the Seanchan, perhaps this Daughter of the Nine Moons will see that I am serious in my desire for peace. Then maybe she’ll agree to meet with me.”

“Why not do as you’ve done before?” Bael asked. “Seize the land for your own?”

Bashere nodded, glancing at Rand.

“It won’t work, not this time,” Rand said. “A war here would take too many resources. You spoke of this Ituralde—he’s holding off the Seanchan with virtually no supplies and few men. Would you have us engage a man that resourceful?”

How thoughtful Bashere seemed, as if he were indeed considering engaging this Ituralde. Men! They were all the same. Offer them a challenge, and they’d be curious, no matter that the challenge would likely end with them spitted on a lance.

“There are few men alive like Rodel Ituralde,” Bashere said. “He would be a great help to our cause, for certain. I’ve always wondered if I could beat him.”

“No,” Rand said again, looking over the map. From what Nynaeve could see, it showed troop concentrations, marked with annotations. The Aiel were an organized mess of charcoal marks across the top of Arad Do-man; Ituralde’s forces were deep into Almoth Plain, fighting Seanchan. The middle of Arad Doman was a sea of chaotic black annotations, likely the personal forces of various nobles.

“Rhuarc, Bael,” Rand said. “I want you to seize the members of the Council of Merchants.”

The tent was silent.

“Are you certain that is wise, boy?” Cadsuane finally asked.

“They’re in danger from the Forsaken,” Rand said, idly tapping the map with his fingers. “If Graendal really has taken Alsalam, then getting him back will do us no good. He’ll be so far beneath her Compulsion that he’ll barely have the mind of a child. She’s not subtle; she never has been. We need the Council of Merchants to choose a new king. That’s the only way to bring this kingdom peace and order.”

Bashere nodded. “It’s bold.”

“We are not kidnappers,” Bael said, frowning.

“You are what I say you are, Bael,” Rand said quietly.

“We are still free people, Rand al’Thor,” Rhuarc said.

“I will change the Aiel with my passing,” Rand said with a shake of his head. “I don’t know what you’ll be once this is all through, but you cannot remain what you were. I will have you take up this task. Of all those who follow me, I trust you the most. If we’re going to take the members of the Council without throwing this land further into war, I will need your cunning and stealth. You can prowl into their palaces and manors as you infiltrated the Stone of Tear.”

Rhuarc and Bael regarded one another, sharing a frown.

“Once you take the Council of Merchants,” Rand continued, apparently unconcerned about their worries, “move the Aiel into the cities where those merchants ruled. Make sure those cities don’t degenerate. Restore order as you did in Bandar Eban. From there, begin hunting bandits and enforcing the law. Supplies will soon arrive from the Sea Folk. Take cities on the coast first, then move inland. Within a month’s time, the Domani should be flowing toward you, rather than running away from you. Offer them safety and food, and order will take care of itself.”

A surprisingly rational plan. Rand really did have a clever mind, for a man. There was a lot of good in him, perhaps the very soul of a leader, if he could keep his temper in check.

Rhuarc continued to rub his chin. “It would help if we had some of your Saldaeans, Davram Bashere. Wetlanders do not like following Aiel. If they can pretend that wetlanders are in charge, then they will be more likely to come to us.”

Bashere laughed. “We’ll also make nice targets. As soon as we seize a few members of the merchant council, the rest will send assassins after us for certain!”

Rhuarc laughed as if he thought that a grand joke. The Aiel sense of humor was its own sort of oddity. “We will keep you alive, Davram Bashere. If we do not, we will stuff you and set you on that horse of yours, and you will make a grand quiver for their arrows!”

Bael laughed loudly at this, and the Maidens by the doors began another round of handtalk.

Bashere chuckled, though he didn’t seem to understand the humor either. “You sure this is what you want to do?” he asked Rand.

Rand nodded. “Divide some of your forces, send them with Aiel groups as Rhuarc decides.”

“And what of Ituralde?” Bashere asked, looking back at the map. “There won’t be peace for long once he realizes we’ve invaded his homeland.”

Rand tapped the map softly for a moment. “I will deal with him personally,” he finally said.