Towers of Midnight

32 A Storm of Light

The city of Maradon burned. Violent, twisting columns of smoke rose from dozens of buildings. The careful city planning kept the fires from spreading too quickly, but did not stop them entirely. Human beings and tinder. They went together.

Ituralde crouched inside a broken building, rubble to his left, a small band of Saldaeans to his right. He’d abandoned the palace early on; it had been swarmed with Shadowspawn. He’d left it packed with all the oil they’d been able to find, then had the Asha’man set it aflame, killing hundreds of Trollocs and Fades trapped inside.

He glanced out the window of his current hiding place. He could have sworn he’d seen a patch of bare sky out the window, but the ash and smoky haze in the air made it difficult to tell. A building nearby burned so intensely that he could feel the heat through the stone.

He used the smoke and the fire. Almost everything on a battlefield could be an advantage. In this case, once Yoeli had accepted that the city was lost, they’d stopped defending it. Now they used the city as a killing ground.

The streets created a maze that Ituralde—with the help of the Saldaeans—knew and his enemies did not. Every rooftop was a ridge to give high ground, every alley a secret escape route, every open square a potential trap.

The Trollocs and their commanders had made a mistake. They assumed that Ituralde cared about protecting the city. They mistook him. All he cared about now was doing as much damage to them as possible. So, he used their assumptions against him. Yes, their army was large. But any man who had ever tried to kill rats knew that the size of his hammer didn’t matter so long as the rats knew how to hide.

A hesitant group of the creatures shuffled down the blackened street outside Ituralde’s building. The Trollocs snapped and hooted warily at one another. Some sniffed at the air, but the smoke ruined their sense of smell. They completely missed Ituralde and his small band, just inside the building.

Hoofbeats rang on the other end of the street. The Trollocs began to shout, and a group hurried to the front, setting wickedly barbed spears down with the butts against the cobbles. Charging that would be death for cavalry. The Trollocs were learning to be more careful.

But they weren’t learning well enough. The cavalry came into view, revealing one man leading a group of wounded and exhausted horses. A distraction.

“Now,” Ituralde said. The archers around him sprang up and began shooting out the windows at the Trollocs. Many died; others spun and charged.

And from a side street a cavalry charge—the horses’ hooves covered with rags to dampen sound—galloped out, their approach covered by the louder hooves of the diversionary horses. The Saldaeans ripped through the Trollocs, trampling and killing.

The archers whooped and took out swords and axes to finish off the wounded Trollocs. No Fade with this group, bless the Light. Ituralde stood up, a wet handkerchief to his face against the smoke. His weariness—once buried deep—was slowly resurfacing. He was worried that when it hit him, he’d drop unconscious. Bad for morale, that.

No, he thought, hiding in the smoke while your home burns, knowing that the Trollocs are slowly penning you in… that’s bad for morale.

His men finished off the fist of Trollocs, then hastened to another predecided building that they could hide in. Ituralde had about thirty archers and a company of cavalry, which he moved among five independent bands of irregular fighters similar to this one. He waved his men back into hiding while his scouts brought him information. Even with the scouts, it was difficult to get a good read on the large city. He had vague ideas of where the strongest resistance was, and sent what orders he could, but the battle was spread over too large an area for him to be able to coordinate the fighting effectively. He hoped Yoeli was well.

The Asha’man were gone, escaping at his order through the tiny gateway—only large enough to crawl through—that Antail had made. Since they’d gone—it was hours ago now—there had been no sign of whatever “rescuers” were supposedly coming. Before the Asha’man left, he’d sent a scout through a gateway to that ridge where the Lastriders had been said to watch. All that the scout found was an empty camp, the fire burning unattended.

Ituralde joined his men inside the new hiding place, leaving his handkerchief—now stained with soot—on the doorknob to give the scouts a clue to his location. Once inside, he froze, hearing something outside.

“Hush,” he said to the men. They stilled their clinking armor.

Footfalls. Many of them. That was a Trolloc band for certain; his men had orders to move silently. He nodded to his soldiers, holding up six fingers. Plan number six. They’d hide, waiting, hoping the creatures would pass them by. If they didn’t—if they delayed, or started searching the nearby buildings—his team would burst out and broadside them.

It was the riskiest of the plans. His men were exhausted and the cavalry had been sent to another of his group of defenders. But better to attack than be discovered or surrounded.

Ituralde sidled up to the window, waiting, listening, breathing shallowly. Light, but he was tired. The group marched around the corner outside, footfalls in unison. That was odd. Trollocs didn’t march so regularly.

“My Lord,” one of his men whispered. “There aren’t any hooves.”

Ituralde froze. The man was right. His tiredness was making him stupid. That’s an army of hundreds, he thought. He got to his feet, coughing despite himself, and pushed open the door. He stepped outside.

A gust of wind blew down the street as Ituralde’s men piled out behind him. The wind cleared the smoke for a moment, revealing a large troop of infantry kitted out in silvery armor and carrying pikes. They seemed ghosts for a moment—glowing in a phantom golden light from above, a sun he had not seen in months.

The newcomers began to call as they saw him and his men, and two of their officers charged up to him. They were Saldaean. “Where is your commander?” one asked. “The man Rodel Ituralde?”

“I…” Ituralde found himself coughing. “I am he. Who are you?”

“Bless the Light,” one of the men said, turning back to the others. “Pass the word to Lord Bashere! We’ve found him!”

Ituralde blinked. He looked back at his filthy men, faces blackened with soot. More than a few had an arm in a sling. He’d started with two hundred. Now there were fifty. They should be celebrating, but most of them sat down on the ground, closing their eyes.

Ituralde found himself laughing. “Now? The Dragon sends help now?” He stumbled, then sat down, staring up at the burning sky. He was laughing, and he could not stop. Soon tears began streaking down his cheeks.

Yes, there was sunlight up there.

Ituralde had regained some composure by the time the troops led him into a well-defended sector of the city. The smoke here was much less thick. Supposedly, al’Thor’s troops—led by Davram Bashere—had reclaimed most of Maradon. What was left of it. They’d been putting out the fires.

It was so odd to see troops with shiny armor, neat uniforms, clean faces. They’d swept in with large numbers of Asha’man and Aes Sedai, and an army that—for now—had been enough to drive the Shadowspawn back to the hillside fortifications above the river. Al’Thor’s men led him to a tall building inside the city. With the palace burned out, mostly destroyed, it looked like they’d picked this building as a command center.

Ituralde had been fighting a draining war for weeks now. Al’Thor’s troops seemed almost too clean. His men had been dying while these men washed and slept and dined on hot food?

Stop it, he told himself, entering the building. It was far too easy to blame others when a battle went wrong. It wasn’t the fault of these men that their lives had been easier than his recently.

He labored up the stairs, wishing they’d let him be. A good night’s sleep, a wash, and then he could meet with Bashere. But no, that wouldn’t do. The battle wasn’t over, and al’Thor’s men would need information. It was just that his mind was failing him, working very slowly.

He reached the top floor and followed Bashere’s soldiers into a room to the right. Bashere stood there, wearing a burnished breastplate without the matching helmet, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out the window. He wore one of those overly large Saldaean mustaches and a pair of olive trousers stuffed into knee-high boots.

Bashere turned and started. “Light! You look like death itself, man!” He turned to the soldiers. “He should be in the Healer’s tent! Someone fetch an Asha’man!”

“I’m all right,” Ituralde said, forcing sternness into his voice. “I look worse than I feel, I’d warrant.”

The soldiers hesitated, looking to Bashere. “Well,” the man said, “at least get him a chair and something to wipe his face with. You poor fellow; we should have been here days ago.”

Outside, Ituralde could hear the sounds of distant battle. Bashere had chosen a tall building, one from which he could survey the fighting. The soldiers brought a chair, and—for all his wish to show a strong face to a fellow general—Ituralde sat with a sigh.

He looked down, and was amazed to see how dirty his hands were as though he’d been cleaning a hearth. No doubt his face was soot-covered, streaked with sweat, and there was likely still dried blood on it. His clothing was ragged from the blast that had destroyed the wall, not to mention a hastily bandaged cut on his arm.

“Your defense of this city was nothing short of stunning, Lord Ituralde,” Bashere said. There was a formality to his tone—Saldaea and Arad Doman were not enemies, but two strong nations could not share a border without periods of animosity. “The number of Trollocs dead compared to the number of men you had… and with a gap that large in the wall… Let me say that I’m impressed.” Bashere’s tone implied that such praise was not easily given.

“What of Yoeli?” Ituralde asked.

Bashere’s expression grew grim. “My men found a small band defending his corpse. He died bravely, though I was surprised to find him in command and Torkumen—a distant cousin of mine, the presumed leader of the city—locked in his rooms, and abandoned, where the Trollocs could have gotten him.”

“Yoeli was a good man,” Ituralde said stiffly. “Among the bravest I’ve had the honor of knowing. He saved my life, brought my men into the city against Torkumen’s orders. It’s a burning shame to lose him. A burning shame. Without Yoeli, Maradon wouldn’t stand right now.”

“It hardly stands anyway,” Bashere said somberly.

Ituralde hesitated. He’s uncle to the Queen—this city is probably his home.

The two looked at one another, like old wolves, leaders of rival packs. Stepping softly. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ituralde said.

“The city stands as well as it does,” Bashere said, “because of you. I’m not angry, man. I’m saddened, but not angry. And I’ll take your word on Yoeli. To be frank, I’ve never liked Torkumen. For now, I’ve left him in the room where we found him—still alive, thankfully—though I’ll hear thunder from the Queen for what’s been done to him. She’s always been fond of him. Bah! She normally has better judgment.”

Bashere nodded to the side when he spoke of Torkumen, and—with a start—Ituralde realized that he recognized this building. This was Torkumen’s home, where Yoeli had brought Ituralde on his first day in the city. It made sense to choose this building as a command post—it was close enough to the northern wall to have a good view of the outside, but far enough away from the blast to have survived, unlike the Council Hall.

Well, it would have served Torkumen right if the Trollocs had gotten him. Ituralde sat back, closing his eyes, as Bashere consulted with his officers. Bashere was capable, that much was obvious. Very quickly he’d swept the city clean; once the Trollocs had realized that there was a larger force to fight, they’d abandoned the city. Ituralde could feel pride that, in part, his tenacity was what had made them so quick to run.

Ituralde continued to listen. Most of Bashere’s troops had come into the city through gateways, after sending in one scout to find safe places to make them. Fighting in the streets wouldn’t work for him as it had Ituralde; the hit-and-hide tactic had been devoted to doing as much damage as possible before getting killed. It was a losing tactic.

The Trollocs had pulled back into the fortifications, but they wouldn’t stay there for long. As he sat with closed eyes, struggling to stay awake, Ituralde heard Bashere and his captains come to the same dire conclusion Ituralde had. Maradon was lost. The Shadowspawn would wait for night, then swarm in again.

After all this, they’d just flee? After Yoeli had died holding the city? After Rajabi had been killed by a Draghkar? After Ankaer and Rossin had fallen during the skirmishes inside the walls? After all the bloodshed, they finally saw help arrive, only to have it prove insufficient?

“Perhaps we could push them off that hilltop,” one of Bashere’s men said. “Clean out the fortifications.”

He didn’t sound very optimistic.

“Son,” Ituralde said, forcing his eyes open, “I held that hill for weeks against a superior force. Your people built it up well, and the problem with well-built fortifications is that your enemy can turn them against you. You’ll lose men attacking there. A lot of them.”

The room fell silent.

“We leave, then,” Bashere said. “Naeff, we’ll need gateways.”

“Yes, Lord Bashere.” Square-faced and lean of build, the man wore the black coat and the Dragon pin of an Asha’man.

“Malain, gather the cavalry and organize them outside; make it look as if we’re going to try an assault against their fortifications. That’ll keep them eager and waiting. We’ll evacuate the wounded, then we’ll have the cavalry charge in the other direction into—”

“By the Light and my hope for rebirth!” a voice suddenly exclaimed.

Everyone in the room turned in shock; that wasn’t the sort of oath you heard every day.

A young soldier stood by the window, looking out with a looking glass. Bashere cursed, and hurried to the window, the others crowding around, several taking out looking glasses.

What now? Ituralde thought, standing despite his fatigue and hurrying over. What could they possibly have come up with? More Draghkar? Darkhounds?

He peered out the window, and someone handed him a looking glass. He raised it, and as he’d guessed, the building was on enough of a rise to look out over the city wall and onto the killing field outside and the beyond. The tower positions on the crest of the hill were clustered with ravens. Through the glass, he could see Trollocs clogging the heights, holding the upper camp, the towers, and the bulwarks there.

Beyond the hill, surging down through the pass, was an awesome force of Trollocs, many times the number that had assaulted Maradon. The wave of monsters seemed to continue on forever.

“We need to go,” Bashere said, lowering his looking glass. “Immediately.”

“Light!” Ituralde whispered. “If that force gets past us, there won’t be anything in Saldaea, Andor, or Arad Doman that can stop it. Please tell me the Lord Dragon made peace with the Seanchan, as he promised?”

“In that,” a quiet voice said from behind, “as in so many other things, I have failed.”

Ituralde spun, lowering his looking glass. A tall man with reddish hair stepped into the room—a man whom Ituralde felt he had never met before, despite the familiar features.

Rand al’Thor had changed.

The Dragon Reborn had that same self-confidence, that same straight back, that same attitude expecting obedience. And yet, at the same time, everything seemed different. The way he stood, no longer faintly suspicious. The way he studied Ituralde with concern.

Those eyes, cold and emotionless, had once convinced Ituralde to follow this man. Those eyes had changed, too. Ituralde had not noted wisdom in them before.

Don’t be a thickheaded fool, Ituralde thought, you can’t tell if a man is wise by looking at his eyes.

And yet he could.

“Rodel Ituralde,” al’Thor said, stepping forward and laying a hand on Ituralde’s arm. “I left you and your men stranded and overwhelmed. Please forgive me.”

“I made this choice myself,” Ituralde said. Oddly, he felt less tired than he had just moments ago.

“I have inspected your men,” al’Thor said. “There are so few left, and they are broken and battered. How did you hold this city? What you have done is a miracle.”

“I do what needs to be done.”

“You must have lost many friends.”

“I… Yes.” What other answer was there? To dismiss it as nothing would be to dishonor them. “Wakeda fell today. Rajabi… well, a Draghkar got him. Ankaer. He lasted until this afternoon. Never did find out why that trumpeter sounded early. Rossin was looking into it. He’s dead, too.”

“We need to get out of the city,” Bashere said, his voice urgent. “I’m sorry, man. Maradon is lost.”

“No,” al’Thor said softly. “The Shadow will not have this city. Not after what these men did to hold it. I will not allow it.”

“An honorable sentiment,” Bashere said, “but we don’t…” He trailed off as al’Thor looked at him.

Those eyes. So intense. They seemed almost alight. “They will not take this city, Bashere,” al’Thor said, an edge of anger entering his quiet voice. He waved to the side, and a gateway split the air. The sounds of drums and Trollocs yelling grew closer, suddenly. “I’m tired of letting him hurt my people. Pull your soldiers back.”

With that, al’Thor stepped through the gateway. A pair of Aiel Maidens hurried into the room, and he left the gateway open long enough for them to leap through behind him. Then he let it vanish.

Bashere looked stunned, mouth half-open. “Curse that man!” he finally said, turning to the window again. “I thought he wasn’t going to do this sort of thing any longer!”

Ituralde joined Bashere, raising his looking glass, looking out through the enormous gap in the wall. Outside, al’Thor was crossing the trampled ground, wearing his brown cloak and followed by the two Maidens.

Ituralde thought he could hear the sounds of the howling Trollocs. Their drums beat. They saw three people alone.

The Trollocs surged forward, charging across the ground. Hundreds, Thousands. Ituralde gasped. Bashere uttered a quiet prayer.

Al’Thor raised one hand, then thrust it—palm forward—toward the tide of Shadowspawn.

And they started to die.

It began with waves of fire, much like the ones Asha’man used. Only these were far larger. The flames burned terrible swaths of death through the Trollocs. They followed the course of the land, seeping up the hill and down into the trenches, filling them with white-hot fire, searing and destroying.

Clouds of Draghkar spun in the sky, diving for al’Thor. The air above him turned blue, and shards of ice exploded outward, spraying the air like arrows from the bows of an entire banner of archers. The beasts shrieked their inhuman agony, carcasses tumbling to the ground.

Light and Power exploded from the Dragon Reborn. He was like an entire army of channelers. Thousands of Shadowspawn died. Deathgates sprang up, striking across the ground, killing hundreds.

The Asha’man Naeff—standing beside Bashere—gasped. “I’ve never seen so many weaves at once,” he whispered. “I can’t track them all. He’s a storm. A storm of Light and streams of Power!”

Clouds began to form and swirl above the city. The wind picked up, howling, and lightning struck from above. Blasts of thunder overpowered the sounds of drums as Trollocs tried in vain to get to al’Thor, climbing over the burning carcasses of their brethren. The swirling white clouds crashed into the black, boiling tempest, intermingling. Wind spun around al’Thor, whipping at his cloak.

The man himself seemed to be glowing. Was it the reflection of the swaths of fire, or perhaps the lightning blasts? Al’Thor seemed brighter than them all, his hand upraised against the Shadowspawn. His Maidens hunched near the ground on either side of him, eyes forward, shoulders set against the great wind.

Clouds spinning about one another made funnels into the masses of Trollocs, sweeping across the top of the hill, taking up the creatures into the air. Great waterspouts rose behind, made of flesh and fire. The beasts rained down, falling upon the others. Ituralde watched with awe, the hair on his arms and head rising. There was an energy to the very air itself.

A scream came from nearby. Within the building, in one of the nearby rooms. Ituralde did not turn away from the window. He had to watch this beautiful, terrible moment of destruction and Power.

Waves of Trollocs broke, the drums faltering. Entire legions of them turned and fled, stumbling up the hillside and over one another, fleeing back toward the Blight. Some remained firm—too angry, too intimidated by those driving them, or too stupid to flee. The tempest of destruction seemed to come to a peak, flashes of light blasting down in time with howling wind, thrumming waves of burning flame, tinkling shards of ice.

It was a masterwork. A terrible, destructive, wonderful masterwork. Al’Thor lifted his hand toward the sky. The winds grew faster, the lightning strikes larger, the fires hotter. Trollocs screamed, moaned, howled. Ituralde found himself trembling.

Al’Thor closed his hand into a fist, and it all ended.

The last of the wind-seized Trollocs dropped from the sky like leaves abandoned by a passing breeze. Everything fell silent. The flames died, the black and white clouds cleared and opened to a blue sky.

Al’Thor lowered his hand. The field before him was piled with carcasses atop carcasses. Tens of thousands of dead Trollocs smoldering. Directly before al’Thor, a pile a hundred paces wide formed a ridge five feet tall a mound of dead that had nearly reached him.

How long had it taken? Ituralde found that he could not gauge the time, though looking at the sun, at least an hour had passed. Perhaps more. It had seemed like seconds.

Al’Thor turned to walk away. The Maidens rose on shaky feet, stumbling after him.

“What was that scream?” Naeff asked. “The one nearby, in the building. Did you hear it?”

Ituralde frowned. What had that been? He crossed the room, the others—including several of Bashere’s officers—following. Many others stayed in the room, however, staring out at the field that had been cleansed by ice and by fire. It was odd, but Ituralde hadn’t been able to spot a single fallen tower atop the hill. It was as if al’Thor’s attacks had somehow affected only the Shadowspawn. Could a man really be that precise?

The hallway outside was empty, but Ituralde had a suspicion now of where the scream had come from. He walked to Lord Torkumen’s door; Bashere unlocked it, and they went inside.

It seemed empty. Ituralde felt a spike of fear. Had the man escaped? He pulled out his sword.

No. A figure was huddled in the corner beside the bed, fine clothing wrinkled, doublet stained with blood. Ituralde lowered his sword. Lord Torkumen’s eyes were gone. He appeared to have put them out with a writing quill; the bloodied implement lay on the ground beside him.

The window was broken. Bashere glanced out it. “Lady Torkumen is down there.”

“She jumped,” Torkumen whispered, clawing at his eye sockets, fingers covered with blood. He sounded dazed. “That light… That terrible light: Ituralde glanced at Bashere. “I cannot watch it,” Torkumen muttered. “I cannot! Great Lord, where is your protection? Where are your armies to rend, your swords to strike? That Light eats at my mind, like rats feasting on a corpse. It burns at my thoughts. It killed me. That light killed me.”

“He’s gone mad,” Bashere said grimly, kneeling down beside the man. “Better than he deserved, judging by those ramblings. Light! My own cousin a Darkfriend. And in control of the city!”

“What is he talking about?” one of Bashere’s men said. “A light? Surely he couldn’t have seen the battle. None of these windows face the right way.”

“I’m not sure he was talking about the battle, Vogeler,” Bashere said. “Come on. I suspect the Lord Dragon is going to be tired. I want to see that he’s cared for.”

This is it, Min thought, tapping the page. She sat on her windowsill in the Stone of Tear, enjoying the breeze. Trying not to think of Rand. He wasn’t hurt, but his emotions were so strong. Anger. She’d hoped he wouldn’t be so angry ever again.

She shook off the worrying; she had work to do. Was she following the wrong thread? Was she interpreting in the wrong way? She read the line again. Light is held before the maw of the infinite void, and all that he is can be seized.

Her speculation cut off as she saw a light appear from the room across the hall. She dropped her book and leaped down to the floor. Rand was suddenly close. She could feel it through the bond.

Two Maidens guarded the room across the hall, mostly to prevent people from wandering in and getting hurt by gateways. The one that had opened now led to a place that smelled of smoke. Rand stumbled through. Min ran to him. He looked exhausted, eyes red, face wan. He leaned against her with a sigh, letting her help him to a chair.

“What happened?” Min demanded of Evasni, the Maiden who came through next. She was a lanky woman with dark red hair, cut short with a tail in the back like that of most Maidens.

“The Car’a’carn is well,” the woman said. “Though he is like a youth who ran one more lap around the camp than everyone else, only to prove that he could.”

“He gained much ji today,” Ileyina—the other Maiden—said, almost in argument. Her voice was solemn.

Rand sighed, settling back in the chair. Bashere followed out of the gateway, boots hitting stone. Min heard calls from down below—a group of wounded soldiers being brought through a larger gateway. The Stone’s courtyards were alive with activity, Aes Sedai Healers running to care for the bloodied, sooty men.

After Bashere came a lean Domani man in his middle years. Rodel Ituralde. He looked much the worse for wear, with dried blood on his filthy face his clothing ripped, and bearing a clumsy bandage on his arm. Rand had no visible wounds. His clothing was clean, though he insisted on still wearing that aged brown cloak. But Light, he looked tired.

“Rand,” Min said, kneeling down. “Rand, are you all right?”

“I grew angry,” Rand said softly. “I had thought myself beyond that.”

She felt a chill.

“It was not a terrible anger, like before,” Rand said. “It was not the anger of destruction, though I did destroy. In Maradon, I saw what had been done to men who followed me. I saw Light in them, Min. Defying the Dark One no matter the length of his shadow. We will live, that defiance said. We will love and we will hope.

“And I saw him trying so hard to destroy that. He knows that if he could break them, it would mean something. Something much more than Maradon. Breaking the spirit of men… he thirsts for that. He struck far harder than he otherwise would have because he wanted to break my spirit.” His voice grew softer and he opened his eyes, looking down at her. “And so I stood against him.”

“What you did was amazing,” Bashere said, standing beside Min with his arms folded. “But did you let him drive you to it?”

Rand shook his head. “I have a right to my anger, Bashere. Don’t you see? Before, I tried to hold it all hidden within. That was wrong. I must feel. I must hurt for the pains, the deaths, the losses of these people. I have to cling to these things so I know why I am fighting. There are times when I need the void, but that does not make my anger any less a part of me.”

He seemed to be growing more confident with each word, and Min nodded.

“Well, you saved the city,” Bashere said.

“Not soon enough,” Rand said. Min could feel his sorrow. “And my actions today may still have been a mistake.”

Min frowned. “Why?”

“It came too close to a confrontation between us,” Rand said. “That must happen at Shayol Ghul, and at the right time. I cannot afford to let him provoke me. Bashere is right. Nor can I afford to let the men assume that I will always be able to step in and save them.”

“Perhaps,” Bashere said. “But what you did today…”

Rand shook his head. “I am not to fight this war, Bashere. Today’s battle exhausted me beyond what I should have allowed. If my enemies were to come upon me now, I’d be finished. Besides, I can only fight in one place at a time. What is coming will be grander than that, grander and more terrible than any one man could hope to hold back. I will organize you, but I must leave you. The war will be yours.”

He fell silent, and Flinn stepped through the gateway, letting it slid closed.

“I must rest now,” Rand said softly. “Tomorrow I meet with your niece and the other Borderlanders, Bashere. I know not what they will require of me, but they must return to their posts. If Saldaea was in such a state with one of the great captains leading the defense, I can only guess what the other Borderland nations are suffering.”

Min helped him to his feet. “Rand,” she said softly. “Cadsuane returned, and she had someone with her.”

He hesitated. “Take me to her.”

Min winced. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. You should rest.”

“I will,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

She could still sense his exhaustion. But she didn’t argue. They walked from the room. “Rodel Ituralde,” Rand said, pausing by the doorway. “You will wish to accompany me. I cannot repay you for the honor you have shown, but I do have something I can give.”

The grizzled Domani nodded, following. Min helped Rand down the corridor, worrying about him. Did he have to push himself this hard?

Unfortunately, he does. Rand al’Thor was the Dragon Reborn. He’d be bled dry, ground down, used up before this was through. It was almost enough to make a woman stop trying.

“Rand…” she said, Ituralde and several Maidens trailing them. Fortunately, Cadsuane’s room wasn’t far.

“I will be all right,” he said. “I promise. Have you news of your studies?” He was trying to distract her.

Unfortunately, that question just sent her to another worry. “Have you ever wondered why Callandor is so often called a ‘fearful blade’ or ‘the blade of ruin’ in the prophecies?”

“It’s such a powerful sa’angreal,” he said. “Maybe it’s because of the destruction it can cause?”

“Maybe,” she said.

“You think it’s something else.”

“There’s a phrase,” Min said, “in the Jendai Prophecy. I wish we knew more of them. Anyway, it says ‘and the Blade will bind him by twain’.”

“Two women,” Rand said. “I need to be in a circle with two women to control it.”

She grimaced.

“What?” Rand said. “You might as well be out with it, Min. I need to know.

“There’s another phrase, from The Karaethon Cycle. Anyway, I think hat Callandor might be flawed beyond that. I think it might… Rand, I think it might make you weak, open you to attack, if you use it.”

“Perhaps that’s how I’ll be killed, then.”

“You aren’t going to be killed,” Min said.

“I—”

“You’ll live through this, sheepherder,” she insisted. “I’m going to see that you do.”

He smiled at her. He looked so tired. “I almost believe that you’ll do it, Min. Perhaps I’m not the one the Pattern bends around, but you.” He turned, then knocked on a door in the hallway.

It cracked, Merise peeking out. She looked Rand up and down. “You seem as if you can barely stand on your own feet, al’Thor.”

“True indeed,” he replied. “Is Cadsuane Sedai here?”

“She has done as you asked,” Merise replied. “And, I might say, she’s been very accommodating, considering how you—”

“Let him in, Merise,” Cadsuane’s voice said from inside.

Merise hesitated, then gave Rand a glare as she pulled the door open all the way. Cadsuane sat in a chair, speaking with an older man whose long, gray hair fell loose to his shoulders. He had a large beak of a nose and regal clothing.

Rand stepped to the side. Behind them, someone gasped. Rodel Ituralde stepped up to the doorway, seeming stunned, and the man in the room turned. He had kindly eyes and coppery skin.

“My liege,” Ituralde cried, hastening forward, then going down on one knee. “You live!”

Min felt an overwhelming sense of happiness from Rand. Ituralde, it appeared, was weeping. Rand stepped back. “Come, let’s go to my rooms and rest.”

“The King of Arad Doman. Where did she find him?” Min said. “How did you know?”

“A friend left me a secret,” Rand said. “The White Tower collected Mattin Stepaneos to ‘protect’ him. Well, it wasn’t too much of a leap to wonder if they might have done that with other monarchs. And if they sent sisters to Arad Doman to seize him months ago, before any of them knew of gateways, they could have gotten trapped in the snows on their return trip. He seemed so relieved. “Graendal never had him. I didn’t kill him him. One innocent I assumed that I’d killed still lives. That’s something. A small something. But it helps.”

She helped him walk the rest of the way to their rooms, contents—for moment—to share in his warm sense of joy and relief.