Lord of Chaos (The Wheel of Time 6)

in the middle of the farmyard, staring at Rand. Chickens scratched in the dust around his feet. “You haven’t tested any of them? Why, in the name of . . . ? You cannot, can you? You can Travel, but you do not know how to test for the talent.”

“Some don’t really want to channel.” Rand eased his grip on his sword hilt. He disliked admitting gaps in his knowledge to this man. “Some haven’t thought beyond a chance at glory or wealth or power. But I want to keep any man who can learn, whatever his reasons.”

The students — the men who would be students — were watching him and Taim from in front of the barn with a fair approximation of calm. They had all come to Caemlyn hoping to learn from the Dragon Reborn, after all, or thinking they did. It was the Maidens, making a ring about the farmyard and prowling into the house and barn, that caught their eyes with a wary fascination, even apprehension. The women clutched the children to their skirts, gazes fixed on Rand and Taim, expressions ranging from flat-eyed stares to anxious lip-chewing.

“Come on,” Rand said. “It’s time to meet your students.”

Taim hung back. “Is this truly all you want me for? To try to teach these pathetic dregs? If any of them can be taught. How many do you really think to find in a handful that just straggled to you?”

“This is important, Taim; I’d do it myself, if I could, if I had time.” Time was always key, always lacking. And he had made the admission, as much as it curdled his tongue. He realized he did not much like Taim, but he did not have to like him. Rand did not wait, and after a moment the other man caught up with long strides. “You mentioned trust. I’m trusting you with this.” Don’t trust! Lews Therin panted in the dim recesses. Never trust! Trust is death! “Test them and start teaching as soon you know who can learn.”

“As the Lord Dragon wishes,” Taim murmured wryly as they reached the waiting group. Bows and curtsies, none very polished, greeted them.

“This is Mazrim Taim,” Rand announced. Jaws dropped and eyes widened, of course. Some of the younger men stared as though they thought he and Taim had come there to fight; a few seemed to be looking forward to watching. “Introduce yourselves to him. From today, he will be teaching you.” Taim gave Rand a tight-mouthed look as the students slowly gathered before him and began giving their names.

In truth, the men’s reactions varied. Fedwin pushed eagerly to the front, right alongside Damer, while Eben hung to the rear, face white. The others were somewhere in between, hesitant, uncertain, but speaking up finally. Rand’s declaration meant an end to weeks of waiting for some of them, to years of dreaming, perhaps. Reality began today, and reality might mean channeling, with all that entailed for a man.

A stocky dark-eyed man, six or seven years older than Rand, ignored Taim and slipped away from the others. In a farmer’s rough coat, Jur Grady shifted from foot to foot in front of Rand and twisted a cloth cap in blunt hands. He peered at the cap or the ground under his worn boots, only occasionally glancing up at Rand. “Uh . . . my Lord Dragon, I’ve been thinking . . . uh . . . my pa is looking after my croft, a good piece of land if the stream don’t dry up there might be a crop yet, if it rains, and . . . and . . . ” He crushed the cap, then straightened it again carefully. “I’ve been thinking about going home.”

The women were not gathering around Taim. In a silent line of worried eyes, they held hard to the children and watched. The youngest, a plump pale-haired woman, a boy of four playing with her fingers, was Sora Grady. Those women had followed their husbands here, but Rand suspected that half the talk between husband and wife eventually turned to leaving. Five men had left already, and if none gave marriage as a reason, all had been married. What woman could be comfortable watching her husband wait to learn to channel? It must be like watching him wait to commit suicide.

Some would say this was no place for families, yet most likely those same people would also say the men should not be here, either. In Rand’s opinion, the Aes Sedai had made a mistake sealing themselves off from the world. Few entered the White Tower beyond Aes Sedai, women who wanted to be Aes Sedai, and those who served them; only a relative handful seeking help, and then under what they saw as great pressure. When Aes Sedai left the Tower, most held themselves aloof, and some never did leave. To Aes Sedai, people were pieces in a game and the world was the board, not a place to live in. To them, only the White Tower was real. No man could forget the world and ordinary people when he had his family in front of him.

This only had to last until Tarmon Gai’don — how long? A year? Two? — but the question was whether it could even do that. Somehow, it would. He would make it last. Families reminded men what they were going to fight for.

Sora’s eyes were fastened on Rand.

“Go, if you want to,” he told Jur. “You can leave any time before you actually start learning to channel. Once you take that step, you’re the same as a soldier. You know we’ll need every soldier we can find before the Last Battle, Jur. The Shadow will have new Dreadlords ready to channel; you can count on it. But it’s your choice. Maybe you’ll be able to sit it out on your farm. There must be a few places in the world that will escape what’s coming. I hope so. Anyway, the rest of us will do our best to make sure as much escapes as possible. At least you can give your name to Taim, though. It would be a shame to leave before you even know whether you could learn.” Turning away from Jur’s confused face, Rand avoided Sora’s eyes. And you condemn Aes Sedai for manipulating people, he thought bitterly. He did what he had to do.

Taim was still collecting names out of the shifting pack, and still tossing barely subdued glares at Rand. Abruptly Taim’s patience seemed to give out. “Enough of this; names can come later, for those of you who will still be here tomorrow. Who is the first to be tested?” Just that quickly their tongues froze. Some did not even blink as they stared at him. Taim pointed a finger at Damer. “I might as well get you out of the way. Come here.” Damer did not move until Taim grabbed his arm and hauled him a few paces apart from the rest.

Watching, Rand moved nearer, too.

“The more Power that’s used,” Taim told Damer, “the easier it is to detect the resonance. On the other hand, too big a resonance could do unpleasant things to your mind, maybe kill you, so I’ll start small.” Damer blinked; plainly he barely understood a word, except maybe the part about unpleasant things and dying. Rand knew the explanation was meant for him, though; Taim was covering his ignorance.

Abruptly a tiny flame appeared, an inch tall, dancing in midair equidistant between the three men. Rand could feel the Power in Taim, though only a small amount, and see the thin flow of Fire the man wove. The flame brought a startling relief to Rand, startling because it was proof Taim really could channel. Bashere’s first doubts must have stuck in the back of his mind.

“Concentrate on the flame,” Taim said. “You are the flame; the world is the flame; there is nothing but the flame.”

“Don’t feel nothing but an ache starting in my eyes,” Damer muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of a rough, callused hand.

“Concentrate!” Taim snapped. “Do not talk, do not think, do not move. Concentrate.” Damer nodded, then blinked at Taim’s frown and froze, staring silently at the small flame.

Taim seemed intent, but on what Rand was not sure; he seemed to be listening. A resonance, he had said. Rand focused, listening, feeling for — something.

Minutes stretched out with none of them moving a muscle. Five, six, seven slow minutes, with Damer hardly even blinking. The old man breathed hard, and he sweated so much he looked as though someone had upended a bucket over his head. Ten minutes.

Suddenly Rand felt it. The resonance. A small thing, a tiny echo of the minuscule flow of Power pulsing in Taim, but this seemed to come from Damer. It had to be what Taim meant, but Taim did not move. Perhaps there was more, or maybe this was not what Rand thought.

Another minute or two went by, and finally Taim nodded and let the flame and saidin go. “You can learn . . . Damer, was it?” He seemed surprised; no doubt he had not believed the very first man tested would pass, and a nearly bald old man at that. Damer grinned weakly; he looked like he might vomit. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised if every one of these simpletons passes,” the hawk-nosed man muttered with a glance at Rand. “You seem to have luck enough for ten men.”

Boots shuffled uneasily among the rest of the “simpletons.” Undoubtedly some were already hoping they would fail. They could not back out now, but if they failed, they could go home knowing they had tried without having to face what came with passing.

Rand felt a little surprise himself. There had not been anything more than that echo after all, and he had felt it before Taim, the man who knew what he was looking for.

“In time we’ll find out how strong you can be,” Taim said as Damer slipped back among the others. They opened a little distance around him and did not meet his eyes. “Perhaps you will turn out strong enough to match me, or even the Lord Dragon here.” The space around Damer widened a fraction. “Only time will tell. Pay attention while I test the others. If you are sharp, you should catch on to it by the time I find four or five more.” A quick look at Rand said that was meant for him. “Now, who tests next?” No one moved. The Saldaean stroked his chin. “You.” He pointed to a lumpy fellow somewhere well beyond thirty, a dark-haired weaver named Kely Huldin. In the line of women, Kely’s wife moaned.

Twenty-six more tests were going to take the rest of the daylight, maybe more. Heat or no heat, the days still grew shorter as if winter really was coming on, and a failed test would take a few minutes longer than one passed, just to make certain. Bashere was waiting, and there was Weiramon to visit yet, and . . .