Lord of Chaos (The Wheel of Time 6)

Swords met with a clash, and the two men danced a deadly dance. Deadly if it had not been a dream, anyway. It was all nonsense. Dreaming a swordfight, of all things. And it was not a nightmare; everything looked normal, if fuzzy, not washed in color. “A man’s dreams are a maze even he cannot know,” Bair had told her once.

Egwene closed her eyes, focused her entire mind. Outside. She was outside, looking in. No room for anything else in her head. Outside, looking in. Outside, looking in. Outside!

She opened her eyes once more. The fight was reaching its climax. Gawyn’s blade drove into Rand’s chest, and as Rand sagged, the steel pulled free, swept in a shining arc. Rand’s head spun across the floor almost to her feet; it came to rest staring up at her. A scream bubbled in her throat before she could quell it. A dream. Just a dream. But those dead staring eyes seemed very real.

Then Gawyn was in front of her, sword back in its scabbard. Rand’s head and body were gone. Gawyn reached for the manacles holding her, and they were gone, too.

“I knew you would come,” she breathed, and gave a start. She was herself! She could not give in to this, not for a moment, or she would be well and truly trapped.

Smiling, Gawyn scooped her up into his arms. “I am glad you knew it,” he said. “I would have come sooner if I could. I should never have left you in danger so long. Can you forgive me?”

“I can forgive you anything.” There were two Egwenes now, one snuggling contentedly in Gawyn’s arms as he carried her down a palace corridor lined with colorful tapestries and great mirrors in ornately gilded frames, the other riding in the back of the first’s head.

This was becoming serious. Concentrate as hard as she would on being outside, she stayed there, watching through the eyes of a second her. Hurriedly she stifled curiosity as to what Gawyn dreamed about her. That sort of interest was dangerous. She accepted none of this! But none of it changed.

The corridor appeared quite real where she looked, though what was seen from the corner of her eye seemed hazy. Her own image glimpsed in a mirror caught her attention; she would have twisted to stare at it as they passed, but she was only a passenger in the head of the woman of Gawyn’s dreams. The woman reflected for that instant had been her — there was no feature she could have pointed to and said it differed in the slightest from her real face — but somehow the whole was . . . Beautiful was the only word. Stunningly so. Was that how Gawyn saw her?

No! No curiosity! Outside!

Between one stride and the next the corridor became a hillside carpeted in wildflowers, their scent rich on a soft breeze. The real Egwene gave a mental start. Had she done that? The barrier between her and the other thinned. She focused furiously. It was not real; she refused to accept it; she was herself. Outside. She wanted to be outside, looking in.

Gently Gawyn laid her down on a cloak already spread there on the hillside, in the manner of things in dreams. Kneeling beside her, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, let his fingers trail back to the corner of her mouth. Focusing on anything was very hard. She might have no control over the body she rode in, but she felt what it did, and his fingers seemed to make sparks jump.

“My heart is yours,” he intoned softly, “my soul, my everything.” His coat was scarlet now, elaborately worked in gold leaves and silver lions. He made grand gestures, touching head or heart. “When I think of you, there is no room for any other thought. Your perfume fills my brain and sets my blood afire. My heart pounds till I could not hear the world crack apart. You are my sun and my moon and my stars, my heaven and earth, more precious to me than, life or breath or — ” Abruptly he stopped, grimacing. “You sound a fool,” he muttered to himself.

Egwene would have disagreed had she had any control

over her vocal cords. It was very nice hearing those things, even if they were a bit over the top. Just a bit.

When he grimaced, she felt a loosening, but

Flick.

Gently Gawyn laid her down on a cloak already spread there on the hillside, in the manner of things in dreams. Kneeling beside her, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, let his fingers trail back to the corner of her mouth. She might have no control over the body she rode in, but she could feel what it felt, and his fingers seemed to make sparks jump.

No! She could not let herself accept any part of his dream!

His face was a map of pain, his coat stark gray. His hands rested on his knees in fists. “I have no right to speak to you as I might wish,” he said stiffly. “My brother loves you. I know Galad is in agony with fear for you. He is a Whitecloak at least half because he thinks the Aes Sedai have misused you. I know he — ” Gawyn’s eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, Light, help me!” he moaned.

Flick.

Gently Gawyn laid her down on a cloak already spread there on the hillside, in the manner of things in dreams. Kneeling beside her, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, let his fingers trail back to the corner of her mouth.

No! She was losing the little control she had! She had to get out! What are you afraid of? She was not sure whether that was her thought or the other Egwene’s. The barrier between them was gauze now. This is Gawyn. Gawyn.

“I love you,” he said hesitantly. In the green coat again, still less handsome than he really was, he plucked at one of his buttons before letting his hand drop. He looked at her as though afraid of what he might see on her face, hiding it, but not well. “I have never said that to another woman, never wanted to say it. You have no idea how hard it is to say to you. Not that I don’t want to,” he added hastily, flinging a hand toward her, “but to say it, with no encouragement, is like tossing aside my sword and baring my chest for a blade. Not that I think you would — Light! I can’t say this properly. Is there any chance that you . . . might come . . . in time . . . to feel some . . . regard . . . for me? Something . . . more than friendship?”

“You sweet idiot,” she laughed softly. “I love you” I love you, echoed in the part of her that was really her. She felt the barrier vanishing, had a moment to realize she did not care, and then there was only one Egwene again, an Egwene who happily twined her arms around Gawyn’s neck.

Sitting on the stool in the dim moonlight, Nynaeve stuffed a yawn back into her mouth with her knuckles and blinked eyes that felt full of sand. This was going to work; oh, yes, it was. She would fall asleep saying hello to Theodrin, if not before! Her chin sank, and she jerked herself to her feet. The stool had begun feeling like stone — her bottom had gone numb — but that discomfort was apparently not enough anymore. Perhaps a walk outside. Arms outstretched, she felt her way to the door.

Abruptly a distant scream shattered the night, and as it did, the stool struck her hard in the back, knocking her against the rough door with a startled scream of her own. Stunned, she stared at the stool, lying on its side on the floor now, one leg shoved awry.

“What is it?” Elayne cried, coming bolt upright in her bed.

More screams and shouts sounded through Salidar, some from inside their own house, and a vague rumble and clatter that seemed to come from everywhere. Nynaeve’s empty bed rattled, then slid a foot across the floor. Elayne’s heaved, nearly tossing her out.

“A bubble of evil.” Nynaeve was startled at how cool she sounded. There was no point leaping about and flapping her arms, but inside she was doing just that. “We have to wake anybody who’s still asleep.” She did not know how anyone could sleep through this racket, but those who did could die before they knew it.