The Gathering Storm - Robert Jordan

The strange creatures the Seanchan had brought from their side of the ocean moved through distant streets, too far off for Rand to make out details. Raken flew in the sky; the Seanchan apparently had a large stable of them here. Toman Head was just south of Arad Doman, and this city was no doubt a major staging area for the Seanchan campaign to the north.

That conquest would end today. Rand had to make peace, had to convince the Daughter of the Nine Moons to call off her armies. That peace would be the calm before a storm. He wouldn't be protecting his people from war; just preserving them so that they could die for him elsewhere. But he would do what had to be done.

Nynaeve rode up beside him as they continued toward Falme. Her neat dress of blue and white was cut after the Domani fashion, but made of a much thicker—and far more modest—material. She seemed to be adopting fashions from around the world, wearing dresses from the cities she visited, but imposing her own sense of what was proper upon them. Once, perhaps, Rand would have found this amusing. That emotion no longer seemed possible for him. He could only feel the cold stillness inside, the stillness that capped a fountain of frozen rage.

He would keep the rage and stillness balanced long enough. He had to.

"And so we return," Nynaeve said. Her multicolor ter'angreal jewelry somewhat spoiled the look of her neatly tailored dress.

"Yes," Rand said.

"I remember the last time we were here," she said idly. "Such chaos, such madness. And at the end of it all, we found you with that wound in your side."

"Yes," Rand whispered. He had earned that first of his unhealable wounds here, fighting Ishamael in the skies above the city. The wound grew warm as he thought of it. Warm, and painful. He had started regarding that pain as an old friend, a reminder that he was alive.

"I saw you up in the air," Nynaeve said. "I didn't believe it. I ... tried to Heal that wound, but I was still blocked then, and couldn't summon the anger. Min wouldn't leave your side."

Min hadn't come with him this day. She remained close to him, but something had changed between them. Just as he had always feared that it would. When she looked at him, he knew she saw him killing her.

Just a few weeks before, he wouldn't have been able to keep her from accompanying him, no matter what. Now she remained behind without a single protest.

Coldness. It would be over soon. No room for regret or sorrow.

The Aiel ran ahead to check for an ambush. Many of them wore the red headbands. Rand wasn't worried about an ambush. The Seanchan would not betray him, not unless there was another Forsaken in their midst.

Rand reached down, touching the sword he wore at his waist. It was the curved one, with the scabbard of black, painted with the twisting dragon, red and gold. For more reasons than one, it made him think of the last time he had been in Falme.

"I killed a man with a sword for the first time in this city," Rand said softly. "I've never spoken of it. He was a Seanchan lord, a blademaster.

Verin had told me not to channel in the city, so I faced him with the sword only. I beat him. Killed him."

Nynaeve raised an eyebrow. "So you do have a right to carry a heron-mark blade."

Rand shook his head. "There were no witnesses. Mat and Hurin were fighting elsewhere. They saw me right after the fight, but did not witness the killing blow."

"What do witnesses matter?" she scoffed. "You defeated a blademaster, so you are one. Whether or not it was seen by others is immaterial."

He looked at her. "Why carry the heron mark if not to be seen by others, Nynaeve?"

She didn't respond. Ahead, just outside of the city, the Seanchan had erected a striped pavilion of black and white. There appeared to be hundreds of sul'dam and damane pairs surrounding the open-sided tent, damane wearing the distinctive gray dress, sul'dam wearing their dresses of red and blue with the lightning bolt on the breast. Rand had brought only a few channelers: Nynaeve, three Wise Ones, Corele, Narishma, Flinn. A fraction of what he could access, even without turning to his forces stationed in the east.

But no, it was better to bring only a token guard, to look as though he came in peace. If this meeting turned into a battle, Rand's only hope would be a quick escape via gateway. Either that ... or do something to end the fight himself.

The figurine of the man holding aloft the sphere hung from the saddle before him. With it, he might be able to stand against a hundred damane. Two hundred. He could remember the Power he'd held when cleansing saidin. It had been the Power to level cities, to destroy any who stood against him.

No. It wouldn't turn to that. He couldn't afford to let it turn to that. Surely the Seanchan knew that attacking him would lead to disaster. Rand had come to meet with them again, aware that a traitor in their ranks had tried to capture or kill him. They would have to see his sincerity.

But if they didn't. . . . He reached down and grasped the access key, just in case, and slipped it into his oversized outer coat pocket. Then, taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and sought the void. There, he seized the One Power.

Nausea and dizziness threatened to toss him to the grounds. He wobbled, legs gripping Tai'daisher, hand clutching the access key in its pocket. He gritted his teeth. In the back of his mind, Lews Therin roused. The madman scrambled for the One Power. It was a desperate fight, and when Rand finally won, he found that he'd slumped in his saddle.

And he was muttering to himself again.

"Rand?" Nynaeve asked.

Rand straightened his back. He was Rand, wasn't he? Sometimes, after a battle like this, he had trouble recalling who he was. Had he finally pushed Rand, the intruder, into seclusion and become Lews Therin? The previous day, he had woken at midday, huddled in the corner of his rooms, crying and whispering to himself about Hyena. He could feel the soft texture of her long golden hair in his hands, and could remember holding her close. He could remember seeing her dead at his feet, slain by the One Power.

Who was he?

Did it really matter?

"Are you all right?" Nynaeve asked again.

"We are fine." Rand did not realize he'd used the plural until the words were out of his mouth. His vision was recovering, though it still seemed just a little bit fuzzy. Everything was distorted a fraction, as it had been since the battle where Semirhage had taken his hand. He barely noticed it anymore.

He straightened, then drew a little extra power through the access key, filling himself with saidin. It was so sweet, despite the nausea that it caused. He longed to take in more, but held himself back. He already held more of the Power than any man could unaided. It would be enough.

Nynaeve glanced at the figurine at his side. The globe at the top glowed faintly. "Rand. ..."

"I'm only holding a little extra, as a precaution." The more of the One Power a person held, the more difficult it was to shield them. If the damane tried to capture him, they would be shocked by his resilience. He might be able to resist a full circle.

"I will not be captured again," he whispered. "Never again. They will not take me by surprise."

"Maybe we should turn back," Nynaeve said. "Rand, we don't have to meet them on their terms. It—"

"We stay," Rand said softly. "We deal with them here and now." Ahead, he could see a figure sitting in the pavilion at a table on a dais. There was a chair across from the figure, on an equal level. That surprised him; from what he knew of the Seanchan, he had expected to have to argue for equal footing with one of the Blood.

Was this the Daughter of the Nine Moons? This child? Rand frowned as they approached, but realized that she wasn't actually a child, just a very small woman. Dressed in black clothing, she had dark skin, like one of the Sea Folk. There were gray-white ashes on the cheeks of her calm, round face. Upon close inspection, she appeared to be near his own age.

Rand took a deep breath and dismounted. It was time for the war to end.

The Dragon Reborn was a young man. Tuon had been told that, but something about it still surprised her.

Why should she be surprised by this youth? Conquering heroes were often young. Artur Hawkwing himself, the Empire's great progenitor, had been a young man when he'd begun his conquest.

Those who conquered, those who dominated the world, burned themselves out quickly, like lamps with untrimmed wicks. He wore gold and red on black, the buttons on his coat sparkling as he dismounted from his large black stallion and approached the pavilion. The black coat had red and gold embroidery on the cuffs—the missing hand was quite obvious, looking at those cuffs—but his clothing was otherwise unadorned. As if he saw no need to distract from his face with finery.

His hair was the color of a deep sunset, a dark red. He had a regal bearing to him—a stride that was firm, each step confident, eyes straight ahead. Tuon had been trained to walk that way, to give no quarter, in the way she stepped. Who had trained him, she wondered. Likely, he had the finest of teachers to prepare him in the ways of kings and leaders. Yet reports said he had grown up as a farmer in a rural village. A story, carefully spread to bring him credibility with the common people, perhaps?

He strode up to the pavilion, a marath'damane on his left. The woman wore a dress colored like the sky on a clear day, set with trim like clouds. She wore her hair in a single dark braid and adorned herself with a set of gaudy jewelry. She seemed displeased by something, her brow furrowed, her mouth a tight line. Her presence made Tuon shiver. One would think she'd have grown more accustomed to marath'damane, after traveling with Matrim. But not so. They were unnatural. Dangerous. Tuon could no more grow comfortable around an unleashed damane than she could tolerate having a grassfang twisted around her ankle, its tongue tickling her skin.

Of course, if the marattidamane was unsettling, then the two men who walked to the right of the Dragon were more so. One, little more than a youth, wore his hair in braids tied with bells. The other was an older man with white hair and a tanned face. Despite the difference in their ages, both walked with the casual swagger of men well acquainted with battle. And both wore black coats, sparkling pins on the high collars. Asha'man, they were called. Men who could channel. Abominations best killed quickly. In Seanchan, there had been a very few who—in their lust for an unanticipated edge—had tried to train these Tsorov'ande Doon, these Black-Souled Tempests. The fools had fallen quickly, often destroyed by the very tools that they sought to control.

Tuon steeled herself. Karede and the Deathwatch Guards around her grew tense. It was subtle—fists tightening at their sides, breaths inhaled and released slowly. Tuon didn't turn toward them, though she made a covert gesture to Selucia.

"You are to maintain your calm," the Voice said softly to the men.

They would do so—they were Deathwatch Guard. Tuon hated to make the comment, as it would lower their eyes. But she would not have a mishap. Meeting with the Dragon Reborn would be dangerous. There was no avoiding that. Even with twenty damane and sul'dam on each side of the pavilion. Even with Karede at her back and Captain Musenge and a force of archers watching from a covered rooftop just within bowshot. Even with Selucia at her right, tense and ready to pounce, like a jagwin on the high rocks. Even with all of that, Tuon was exposed. The Dragon Reborn was a bonfire inexplicably lit inside a house. You could not prevent it from damaging the room. You just hoped to save the building.