The Gathering Storm

Tam crossed his arms on the smooth stone railing. "I guess I can understand. I remember some of those emotions myself, during the days when I was a soldier. You know that I fought against Tear? You'd think I would have painful memories, coming here. But one enemy often comes to seem like another. I don't bear any grudges."

Rand rested the access key on the railing, but held it tightly. He did not lean down; he remained straight-backed.

"A soldier doesn't have a lot of choices for his own destiny either," Tarn said, tapping softly on the railing with an idle ringer. "More important men make all the decisions. Men, well, I guess men like you."

"But my choices are made for me by the Pattern itself," Rand said. "I have less freedom than the soldiers. You could have run, deserted. Or at least gotten out by legal means."

"And you can't run?" Tarn asked.

"I don't think the Pattern would let me," Rand said. "What I do is too important. It would just force me back in line. It has done so a dozen times already."

"And would you really want to run?" Tam asked.

Rand didn't reply.

"I could have left those wars. But, at the same time, I couldn't have. Not without betraying who I was. I think it's the same for you. Does it matter if you can run, when you know that you're not going to?"

"I'm going to die at the end of this," Rand said. "And I have no choice."

Tam stood up straight, frowning. In an instant, Rand felt that he was twelve years old again. "I won't have talk like that," Tam said. "Even if you're the Dragon Reborn, I won't listen to it. You always have a choice. Maybe you can't pick where you are forced to go, but you still have a choice."

"But how?"

Tam laid a hand on Rand's shoulder. "The choice isn't always about what you do, son, but why you do it. When I was a soldier, there were some men who fought simply for the money. There were others who fought for loyalty—loyalty to their comrades, or to the crown, or to whatever. The soldier who dies for money and the soldier who dies for loyalty are both dead, but there's a difference between them. One death meant something. The other didn't.

"I don't know if it's true that you'll need to die for this all to play out. But we both know you aren't going to run from it. Changed though you are, I can see that some things are the same. So I won't stand any whining on the subject."

"I wasn't whining—" Rand began.

"I know," Tam said. "Kings don't whine, they deliberate." He seemed to be quoting someone, though Rand had no idea who. Oddly, Tam gave a brief chuckle. "It doesn't matter," Tam continued. "Rand, I think you can survive this. I can't imagine that the Pattern won't give you some peace, considering the service you're doing for us all. But you're a soldier going to war, and the first thing a soldier learns is that you might die. You may not be able to choose the duties you're given. But you can choose why you fulfill them. Why do you go to battle, Rand?"

an turned. It was not a stranger. Not a stranger at all.

It was Tam. His father.

Rand stumbled back. Was this an apparition? Some twisted trick of the Dark One? But no, it was Tam. There was no mistaking the man's kindly eyes. Though he was a head shorter than Rand, Tam had always seemed more solid than the world around him. His broad chest and steady legs could not be moved, not because he was strong—Rand had met many men of greater strength during his travels. Strength was fleeting. Tam was real. Certain and stable. Just looking at him brought comfort.

But comfort clashed with who Rand had become. His worlds met— the person he had been, the person he had become—like a jet of water on a white-hot stone. One shattering, the other turning to steam.

Tam stood, hesitant, in the balcony doorway, lit by two flickering lamps on stands in the room. Rand understood Tarn's hesitation. They were not blood father and son. Rand's blood father had been Janduin, clan chief of the Taardad Aiel. Tam was just the man who had found Rand on the slopes of Dragonmount.

Just the man who had raised him. Just the man who had taught him everything he knew. Just the man Rand loved and revered, and always would, no matter what their blood connection.

"Rand." Tarn's voice was awkward.

"Please," Rand said through his shock. "Please sit."

Tam nodded. He closed the balcony doors, then walked forward and took one of the chairs. Rand sat, too. They stared across the room at one another. The stone walls were bare; Rand preferred them unornamented with tapestries or paintings. The rug was yellow and red, and so large it reached to all four walls.

The room felt too perfect. A vase of freshly cut dara lilies and calima blossoms sat there, right where it should. Chairs in the center, arranged too correctly. The room didn't look lived m. Like so many places he stayed, it wasn't home. He hadn't truly had a home since he'd left the Two Rivers.

Tam sat in one chair, Rand in another. Rand realized he still had the access key in his hand, so he set it on the sun-patterned rug before him. Tam glanced at Rand's stump, but said nothing. He clenched his hands together, probably wishing he had something to work on. Tam was always more comfortable talking about uncomfortable things when he had something to do with his hands, whether it be checking the straps on a harness or shearing a sheep.

Light, Rand thought, feeling a sudden urge to enfold Tam in a hug. Familiarity and memories flooded back into his mind. Tam delivering brandy to the Winespring Inn for Bel Tine. The pleasure Tam took in his pipe. His patience and his kindness. His unexpected heron-mark sword. I know him so well. And yet I've rarely thought of him recently.

"How . . ." Rand said. "Tam, how did you get here? How did you find me?"

Tam chuckled quietly. "You've been sending nonstop messengers to all the great cities these last few days, telling them to marshal their armies for war. I think a man would have to be blind, deaf and drunk not to know where to find you."