Robert Jordan - The Gathering Storm

Soft footsteps approached his closed door.

Rand released Min and they both spun, Rand reaching for his sword— a useless gesture, now. The loss of his hand, though it wasn't his primary sword hand, would leave him vulnerable if he were to face a skilled opponent. Even with saidin to provide a far more potent weapon, his first instinct was for the sword. He'd have to change that. It might get him killed someday.

The door opened and Cadsuane strode in, as confident as any queen at court. She was a handsome woman, with dark eyes and an angular face. Her dark gray hair was up in a bun, a dozen tiny golden ornaments—each one a ter'angreal or angreal—hanging in their places atop it. Her dress was of a simple, thick wool, tied at the waist with a yellow belt, with more yellow embroidery across the collar. The dress itself was green, which was not uncommon, as that was her Ajah. Rand sometimes felt that her stern face—ageless, like that of any Aes Sedai who had worked long enough with the Power—would have fit better in the Red Ajah.

He relaxed his hand on his sword, though he did not release it. He fingered the cloth-tied hilt. The weapon was long, slightly curved, and the lacquered scabbard was painted with a long, sinuous dragon of red and gold. It looked as if it had been designed specifically for Rand— and yet it was centuries old, unearthed only recently. How odd, that they should find this now, he thought, and make a gift of it to me, completely unaware of what they were holding. . . .

He had taken to wearing the sword immediately. It felt right beneath his fingers. He had told no one, not even Min, that he had recognized the weapon. And not, oddly, from Lews Therin's memories—but Rand's own.

Cadsuane was accompanied by several others. Nynaeve was expected; she often followed Cadsuane these days, like a rival cat she found encroaching on her territory. She did it for him, likely. The dark-haired Aes Sedai had never quite given up being Wisdom of Emond's Field, no matter what she said, and she gave no quarter to anyone she thought was abusing one under her protection. Unless, of course, Nynaeve herself was the one doing the abusing.

Today, she wore a dress of gray with a yellow sash at the waist over her belt—a new Domani fashion, he had heard—and had the customary red dot on her forehead. She wore a long gold necklace and slim gold belt, with matching bracelets and finger rings, both studded with large red, green and blue gems. The jewelry was a ter'angreal—or, rather, several of them and an angreal too—comparable to what Cadsuane wore. Rand had occasionally heard Nynaeve muttering that her ter'angreal, with the gaudy gems, were impossible to match to her clothing.

Where Nynaeve wasn't a surprise, Alivia was. Rand hadn't been aware that the former damane had been involved in the . . . information gathering. Still, she was supposed to be even stronger than Nynaeve in the One Power, so perhaps she had been brought for support. One could never be too careful where the Forsaken were concerned.

There were streaks of white in Alivia's hair, and she was just a bit taller than Nynaeve. That white in her hair was telling—any white or gray on a woman who wielded the One Power meant age. A great deal of it. Alivia claimed to be four centuries old. Today, the former damane wore a strikingly red dress, as if in an attempt to be confrontational. Most damane, once unleashed, remained timid. Not so with Alivia—there was an intensity to her that almost suggested a Whitecloak.

He felt Min stiffen, and he felt her displeasure. Alivia would help Rand die, eventually. That had been one of Min's viewings—and Min's viewings were never wrong. Except that she'd said she'd been wrong about Moiraine. Perhaps that meant that he wouldn't have to ...

No. Anything that made him think of living through the Last Battle, anything that made him hope, was dangerous. He had to be hard enough to accept what was coming to him. Hard enough to die when the time came.

You said we could die, Lews Therin said in the back of his mind. You promised!

Cadsuane said nothing as she walked across the room, helping herself to a cup of the spiced wine that sat on a small serving table beside the bed. Then she sat down in one of the red cedar chairs. At least she hadn't demanded that he pour the wine for her. That sort of thing wasn't beyond her.

"Well, what did you learn?" he asked, walking from the window and pouring himself a cup of wine as well. Min walked to the bed—with its frame of cedar logs and a skip-peeled headboard stained deeply reddish brown—and sat down, hands in her lap. She watched Alivia carefully.

Cadsuane raised an eyebrow at the sharpness in Rand's voice. He sighed, forcing down his annoyance. He had asked her to be his counselor, and he had agreed to her stipulations. Min said there was something important he would need to learn from Cadsuane—that was another viewing— and in truth, he had found her advice useful on more than one occasion. She was worth her constant demands for decorum.

"How did the questioning go, Cadsuane Sedai?" he asked in a more moderate tone.

She smiled to herself. "Well enough."

"Well enough?" Nynaeve snapped. She had made no promises to Cadsuane about civility. "That woman is infuriating!"

Cadsuane sipped her wine. "I wonder what else one could expect from one of the Forsaken, child. She has had a great deal of time to practice being . . . infuriating."

"Rand, that . . . creature is a stone," Nynaeve said, turning to him. "She's yielded barely a single useful sentence despite days of questioning! All she does is explain how inferior and backward we are, with the occasional aside that she's eventually going to kill us all." Nynaeve reached up to her long, single braid—but stopped herself short of tugging on it. She was getting better about that. Rand wondered why she bothered, considering how obvious her temper was.

"For all the girl's dramatic talk," Cadsuane said, nodding to Nynaeve, "she has a reasonable grasp on the situation. Phaw! When I said 'well enough' you were to interpret it as 'as well as you might expect, given our unfortunate constraints.' One cannot blindfold an artist, then be surprised when he has nothing to paint."

"This isn't art, Cadsuane," Rand said dryly. "It's torture." Min shared a glance with him, and he felt her concern. Concern for him? He wasn't the one being tortured.

The box, Lews Therin whispered. We should have died in the box. Then . . . then it would be over.

Cadsuane sipped her wine. Rand hadn't tasted his—he already knew that the spices were so strong as to render the drink unpalatable. Better that than the alternative.

"You press us for results, boy," Cadsuane said. "And yet you deny us the tools we need to get them. Whether you name it torture, questioning, or baking, I call it foolishness. Now, if we were allowed to—"

"No!" Rand growled, waving a hand ... a stump ... at her. "You will not threaten or hurt her."

Time spent in a dark box, being pulled forth and being beaten repeatedly. He would not have a woman in his power treated the same way. Not even one of the Forsaken. "You may question her, but some things I will not allow."

Nynaeve sniffed. "Rand, she's one of the Forsaken, dangerous beyond reason!"

"I am aware of the threat," Rand said flatly, holding up the stump where his left hand had been. The metallic gold and red tattoo of a dragon's body sparkled in the lamplight. Its head had been consumed in the Fire that had nearly killed him.

Nynaeve took a deep breath. "Yes, well, then you must see that normal rules shouldn't apply to her!"

"I said no!" Rand said. "You will question her, but you will not hurt her!" Not a woman. I will keep to this one shred of light inside me. I've caused the deaths and sorrows of too many women already.

"If that is what you demand, boy," Cadsuane said tersely, "then that is what shall be done. Just don't whine when we are unable to drag out of her what she had for breakfast yesterday, let alone the locations of the other Forsaken. One begins to wonder why you insist we continue this farce at all. Perhaps we should simply turn her over to the White Tower and be done with it."

Rand turned away. Outside, the soldiers had finished with the horse-lines. They looked good. Even and straight, the animals given just the right amount of slack.

Turn her over to the White Tower? That would never happen. Cadsuane wouldn't let Semirhage out of her grip until she got the answers she wanted. The wind still blew outside, his own banners flapping before his eyes.

"Turn her over to the White Tower, you say?" he said, glancing back into the room. "Which White Tower? Would you entrust her to Elaida? Or did you mean the others? I doubt that Egwene would be pleased if I dropped one of the Forsaken in her lap. Egwene might just let Semirhage go and take me captive instead. Force me to kneel before the White Tower's justice and gentle me just to give her another notch in her belt."

Nynaeve frowned. "Rand! Egwene would never—"

"She's Amyrlin," he said, downing his cup of wine in one gulp. It was as putrid as he recalled. "Aes Sedai to the core. I'm just another pawn to her."

Yes, Lews Therin said. We need to stay away from all of them. They refused to help us, you know. Refused! Said my plan was too reckless. That left me with only the Hundred Companions, no women to form a circle. Traitors! This is their fault. But. . . but I'm the one who killed Hyena. Why?

Nynaeve said something, but Rand ignored her. Lews Therin? he said to the voice. What was it you did? The women wouldn't help? Why?

But Lews Therin had begun sobbing again, and his voice grew distant.

"Tell me!" Rand yelled, throwing his cup down. "Burn you, Kinslayer! Speak to me!"

The room fell silent.

Rand blinked. He'd never . . . never tried speaking to Lews Therin out loud where others could hear. And they knew. Semirhage had spoken of the voice that he heard, dismissing Rand as if he were a common madman.

Rand reached up, running a hand through his hair. Or he tried to ... but he used the arm that was only a stump, and it accomplished nothing.

Light! he thought. I'm losing control. Half the time, I don't know which voice is mine and which is his. This was supposed to get better when I cleansed saidin/ / was supposed to be safe. . . .

Not safe, Lews Therin muttered. We were already mad. Can't turn back from that now. He began to cackle, but the laughter turned to sobs.

Rand looked around the room. Min's dark eyes were so worried he had to turn away. Alivia—who had watched the exchange about Semirhage with those penetrating eyes of hers—seemed too knowing. Ny-naeve finally gave in and tugged on her braid. For once, Cadsuane didn't chastise him for his outburst. Instead she just sipped her wine. How could she stand the stuff?

The thought was trivial. Ridiculous. He wanted to laugh. Only, the sound wouldn't come out. He couldn't summon even a wry humor, not anymore. Light! I can't keep this up. My eyes see as if in a fog, my hand is burned away, and the old wounds in my side rip open if I do anything more strenuous than breathe. I'm dry, like an overused well. I need to finish my work here and get to Shayol Ghul.