Lord of Chaos (The Wheel of Time 6)

The Aes Sedai doubled him again then, shoved him back down into the chest with his head between his knees, crouching in that thin puddle of sweat. The lid closed, and darkness enclosed him.

Only then did he work his jaws until his mouth could open and let out a long shuddering breath. He had not been sure whether he might not whimper even now. Light, but he was on fire!

What was Sevanna doing there? What bargain? No. All very well to know there was some bargain between the Tower and the Shaido, but worrying about it was for later. Now was for Min. He had to get free. They had hurt her. That thought was so grim it almost dulled the pain. Almost.

Assuming the Void again was a labor of wading through a swamp of agony, but at last he was surrounded by emptiness, reaching out toward saidin . . . Only to find Lews Therin there as soon as he was, like two sets of hands fumbling to grasp something only one could hold.

Burn you! Rand growled in his head. Burn you! If you’d only work with me just once instead of against me!

You work with me!

Lews Therin snapped back. Rand nearly lost the Void in shock. There could be no mistake this time; Lews Therin had heard him and answered. We could work together, Lews Therin. He did not want to work with the man; he wanted him out of his head. But there was Min. And how many days yet to Tar Valon. Somehow he was sure if they got him that far, there would be no more chances. Ever.

An uncertain, apprehensive laugh answered him. Then, Together! Another laugh, and this mad as a loon. Together. Whoever you are. And voice and presence vanished.

Rand shivered. Kneeling there, adding more sweat to the puddle his head rested in, he shivered.

Slowly he reached for saidin again . . . And came against the shield, of course. The thing he had been seeking in any case. Slowly, ever so gently, he felt his way along it, to where a hard plane suddenly turned to six soft points.

Soft, Lews Therin said, panting. Because they are there. Sustaining the buffer. Hard when they knot. Nothing to be done when they are soft, but I can unravel the web if they knot it. With time. He paused so long Rand thought he was gone again, then he whispered, Are you real? And then he really was gone.

Gingerly Rand felt along the shield to the soft points. To six Aes Sedai. With time? If they tied it, which they had not so far in . . . What was it? Six days? Seven? Eight? No matter. He could not afford to wait too long. Every day was one closer to Tar Valon. Tomorrow, he would try to break through the barrier again; it had been like beating his hands against stone, but he had beaten with all his strength. Tomorrow when Erian flogged him — he was sure it would be her — he would smile at her again, and when the pain built, he would let the screams come. The next day he would not more than brush the shield, maybe hard enough to let them feel it, but only that,

and not again after whether they punished him or not. Maybe he would beg for water. They had given him some at dawn, but he was thirsty again; even if they let him drink more than once a day, begging would fit. If he was still in the box then, he might plead to be let out, too. He thought he would be; small chance of them allowing him out for long until they were sure he had learned his lesson. Cramped muscles twitched at the thought of two or three more days stuffed in here. There was no room to move anything, but his body tried. Two or three days, and they would be sure he was broken. He would look fearful and avoid meeting anyone’s gaze. A wretch they could safely let out of the chest. More importantly, a wretch they did not need to guard so closely. And then, perhaps, they would decide they did not need six to hold the shield, or that they could tie it off, or . . . or something. He needed some crack. Something!

It was a desperate thought, but he realized that he was laughing, and he could not stop. He could not stop feeling at the barrier, either, a blind man sliding his fingers desperately across a piece of smooth glass.

Galina frowned after the departing Aiel women until they topped a rise and vanished down the other side. Every one of those women except Sevanna herself had been able to channel, several quite strongly. No doubt Sevanna had thought herself safer, surrounded by a dozen or so wilders. Amusing thought. These savages were an untrusting lot. In a few days she would make use of them again, in the second part of Sevanna’s “bargain.” The regrettable death of Gawyn Trakand, and the better part of his Younglings.

Returning to the heart of the camp, she found Erian still standing over the chest containing al’Thor.

“He do be weeping, Galina,” she said fiercely. “Can you hear him? He do be —” Suddenly tears were sliding down Erian’s face; she simply stood there sobbing quietly, her hands fists clutching her skirts.

“Come to my tent,” Galina said soothingly. “I have some nice blueberry tea, and I will put a cool, damp cloth on your brow.”

Erian smiled through her tears. “Thank you, Galina, but I cannot. Rashan and Bartol will be waiting for me. They do suffer worse than I, I fear. They do not only feel my suffering, but do suffer because they know I do. I must comfort them.” One grateful squeeze of Galina’s hand, and she glided away.

Galina frowned at the chest. Al’Thor did seem to be weeping; either that or he was laughing, and she very much doubted that. She looked after Erian, just disappearing into her Warders’ tent. Al’Thor would weep. They had at least two weeks more to Tar Valon and Elaida’s planned triumphal entry; yes, at least twenty days more. From now on, whether Erian wished to do it or not, he was to be punished each day at dawn and at sunset. When she brought him into the White Tower, he would kiss Elaida’s ring, speak when spoken to and kneel in the corner when he was not wanted. Eyes tight, she went to drink her blueberry tea by herself.

As they entered the largish stand of trees, Sevanna turned to the others, thinking how remarkable it was that she should think of the trees so casually. Before crossing the Dragonwall, she had never seen so many trees. “Did you all see the means they used to hold him?” she asked, making it sound as if she had said “also” instead of “all.”

Therava looked at the others, who nodded. “We can weave all they have done,” Therava said.

Nodding, Sevanna fingered the small stone cube, with its intricate carvings, in her pouch. The strange wetlander who had given it to her had said she should use it now, when al’Thor was captive. Until she had actually looked on him, she had intended to; now she decided to throw the cube away. She was the widow of a chief who had been to Rhuidean and of a man who had been called chief without making that visit. Now she was going to be the wife of the Car’a’carn himself. Every spear of the Aiel would be grounded to her. Her finger still retained the feel of al’Thor’s neck, where she had traced the line of the collar she would put on him.

“It is time, Desaine,” she said.

Of course, Desaine blinked in surprise, and then she had time only to scream before the others began their work. Desaine had contented herself with grumbling about Sevanna’s position. Sevanna had put her time to better use. Except for Desaine, every woman here was solidly behind her, and more beside.

Sevanna watched very closely what the other Wise Ones did; the One Power fascinated her, all those things done so miraculously, so effortlessly, and it was very important that it would be seen that what was done to Desaine could only have been done with the Power. She thought it quite astounding that a human body could be taken apart with so little blood.

Chapter 54

The Sending

* * *

With the sun just a thin glowing slice on the horizon, the second day of the Feast of Lights saw the streets of Cairhien already filled with revelers. Indeed, they had never really emptied through the night. There was a frenzied air to the celebration, and few gave more than a glance to the curly-bearded man with the grim face and the axe on his hip, riding a tall bay down the arrow-straight streets toward the river. Some did look at his companions; an Aielman was a common enough sight now, though they had abandoned the streets when the celebrations began, but it was not every day that you saw an Ogier, taller than the man on horseback, especially one carrying an axe propped across one shoulder, with a haft nearly as long as he was tall. The Ogier made the bearded man look jolly.