Min hadn't been able to get close enough to her to have a conversation, despite the fact that they'd been in the camp together for some time now. She didn't know how to think of the other woman. They had become a little more comfortable with one another that evening, sharing oosquai. But one day did not friends make, and she was definitely uncomfortable about sharing.
Min glanced again at Rand, lying on his back, eyes closed, breath coming evenly now. His left arm lay across his blankets, the stump exposed. She didn't know how he managed to sleep, with those wounds in his side. As soon as she thought of them, she could feel the pain—it was all part of the rolled-up ball of Rand's emotions in the back of her mind. She had learned to ignore the pain. She'd had to. For him, it would be much, much stronger. How he could stand it, she didn't know.
She wasn't Aes Sedai—thank the Light—but somehow she had bonded him. It was amazing; she could tell where he was, tell if he was distraught. She could mostly keep his emotions from overwhelming her except when they were passionate. But what woman didn't want to be overwhelmed during those moments? It was a particularly . . . exhilarating experience with the bond, which let her feel both her own desire and the raging tempest of fire that was Rand's desire for her.
The thought made her blush, and she pulled open Ponderings to distract herself. Rand needed his sleep, and she was going to let him have it. Besides, she needed to study, although she was confronted by conclusions that she didn't like.
These books had belonged to Herid Fel, the kindly old scholar who had joined Rand's school in Cairhien. Min smiled, remembering Fel's distracted way of talking and his confused—yet somehow brilliant— discoveries.
Herid Fel was dead now, murdered, torn apart by Shadowspawn. He'd discovered something in these books, something he'd intended to tell Rand. Something about the Last Battle and the seals on the Dark One's prison. Fel had been killed just before he could pass on the information. Perhaps it was coincidence; perhaps the books had nothing to do with his death. But perhaps they did. Min was determined to find the answers. For Rand, and for Herid himself.
She put down Ponderings and picked up Thoughts Among the Ruins, a work from over a thousand years ago. She'd marked a place with a small slip of paper, the very same now-worn note that Herid had sent to Rand shortly before the murder. Min turned it over in her fingers, reading it again.
Belief and order give strength. Have to clear rubble before you can build. Will explain when see you next. Do not bring girl. Too pretty.
She figured—from reading among his books—that she could trace his thoughts. Rand had wanted information on how to seal the Dark One's prison. Could Fel have discovered what she thought she had?
She shook her head. What was she doing trying to solve a scholarly mystery? But who else was there? One of the Brown Ajah might be better suited, but could they be trusted? Even those who had made their oaths to him might decide that it was in Rand's best interests to keep secrets from him. Rand himself was far too busy, and he was too impatient for books lately anyway. That left Min. She was beginning to piece together some of what he would have to do, but there was more—so much more—that was still unknown. She felt she was getting close, but it worried her to reveal what she'd discovered to Rand. How would he respond?
She sighed, scanning the book. She'd never thought that she, of all people, would become a fool for some man. Yet here she was, following him wherever he went, putting his needs before her own. That didn't mean she was his pet, regardless what some of the people in camp said. She followed Rand because she loved him, and she could feel—literally—that he returned her love. Despite the harshness that was invading him bit by bit, despite the anger and the bleakness of his life, he loved her. And so she did what she could to help him.
If she could help solve this one puzzle, the puzzle of sealing the Dark One's prison, she could achieve something not just for Rand, but for the world itself. What did it matter if soldiers in the camp didn't know what her value was? It was probably better if everyone assumed her to be dis-missible. Any assassin who came to kill Rand should think that he could ignore Min. The would-be killer would soon discover the knives hidden in Min's sleeves. She wasn't as good with them as Thorn Merrilin was, but she knew more than enough to kill.
;The name is irrelevant," Rand said angrily. "You are dead, and this is just a dream."
"Just a dream," Moridin said, chuckling. "Yes." The man was clad in a black coat and trousers, the darkness relieved only by red embroidery on the sleeves.
Moridin finally looked at him. Flames from the fire cast bright red and orange light across his angular face and unblinking eyes. "Why do you always whine that way? Just a dream. Do you not know that many dreams are more truthful than the waking world?"
"You are dead," Rand repeated stubbornly.
"So are you. I watched you die, you know. Lashing out in a tempest, creating an entire mountain to mark your cairn. So arrogant."
Lews Therin had—upon discovering that he'd killed all that he loved—drawn upon the One Power and destroyed himself, creating Drag-onmount in the process. Mention of this event always brought on howls of grief and anger in Rand's mind.
But this time, there was silence.
Moridin turned back to watch the heatless flames. To the side, in the stones of the fireplace, Rand saw movement. Flickering bits of shadow, just barely visible through the cracks in the stones. The red-hot heat shone behind, like rock turned molten, and those shadows moved, frantic. Just faintly, Rand could hear scratching. Rats, he realized. There were rats behind the stones, being consumed by the terrible heat trapped on the other side. Their claws scratched, pushing through the cracks, as they tried to escape their burning.
Some of those tiny hands seemed almost human. Just a dream, Rand told himself forcefully. Just a dream. But he knew the truth of what Moridin had said. Rand's enemy still lived. Light! How many of the others had returned as well? Anger made him grip the armrest of the chair. Perhaps he should have been terrified, but he had stopped running from this creature and his master long ago. Rand had no room left for fear. In fact, it should be Moridin who feared, for the last time they had met, Rand had killed him.
"How?" Rand demanded.
"Long ago, I promised you that the Great Lord could restore your lost love. Do you not think that he can easily recover one who serves him?"
Another name for the Dark One was Lord of the Grave. Yes, it was true, even if Rand wished he could deny it. Why should he be surprised to see his enemies return, when the Dark One could restore the dead to life?
"We are all reborn," Moridin continued, "spun back into the Pattern time and time again. Death is no barrier to my master save for those who have known balefire. They are beyond his grasp. It is a wonder we can remember them."
So some of the others really were dead. Balefire was the key. But how had Moridin gotten into Rand's dreams? Rand set wards each night. He glanced at Moridin, noticing something odd about the man's eyes. Small black specks floated about in the whites, crossing back and forth like bits of ash blown on a leisurely wind.
"The Great Lord can grant you sanity, you know," Moridin said.
"Your last gift of sanity brought me no comfort," Rand said, surprising himself with the words. That had been Lews Therin's memory, not his own. Yet Lews Therin was gone from his mind. Oddly, Rand felt more stable—somehow—here in this place where all else appeared fluid. The pieces of himself fit together better. Not perfectly, of course, but better than they had in recent memory.
Moridin snorted softly, but said nothing. Rand turned back to the flames, watching them twist and flicker. They formed shapes, like the clouds, but these were headless bodies, skeletal, backs arching in pain, writhing for a moment in fire, spasming, before flashing into nothing.
Rand watched that fire for a time, thinking. One might have thought that they were two old friends, enjoying the warmth of a winter hearth. Except that the flames gave no heat, and Rand would someday kill this man again. Or die at his hands.