The Fires of Heaven
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Chapter 56
Glowing Embers
The
high window had more than enough room for Rand to
stand in it, stretching far above his head and clearing his
shoulders by two feet to either side. Shirtsleeves rolled up, he
stared down at one of the Royal Palace’s gardens. Aviendha was
trailing her hand in the fountain’s redstone basin, still intrigued
by so much water with no purpose but to be looked at and keep
ornamental fish alive. She had been more than indignant at first,
when he told her she could not go chasing Trollocs through the
streets. In fact, he was not sure she would be down there now if
not for a quiet escort of Maidens that Sulin did not think he had
noticed. Neither was he supposed to have heard the white-haired
Maiden remind her that she was Far Dareis Mai no longer
and not yet a Wise One. Coatless, but wearing his hat against the
sun, Mat was sitting on the coping of the basin, talking to her. No
doubt probing for what she knew of whether the Aiel were preventing
people from leaving; even if Mat did decide to accept his fate, it
was unlikely he would ever stop complaining about it. Asmodean sat
on a bench in the shade of a red myrtle tree, playing his harp.
Rand wondered whether the man knew what had happened, or suspected.
He should have no memory—for him, it never happened—but who could say what one of the Forsaken knew or could reason
out?
A polite cough turned him away from the garden.
The window where he stood was a span and a half above
the floor in the west wall of the throne room, the Grand Hall where
Queens of Andor had received embassies and pronounced judgment for
nearly a thousand years. It was the only place he had thought he
could be sure of watching Mat and Aviendha unseen and undisturbed.
Rows of white columns twenty paces high marched down the sides of
the hall. The light from the tall windows in the walls mingled with
colored light from great windows set in the arching ceiling,
windows where the White Lion alternated with portraits of early
queens of the realm and scenes of great Andoran victories. Enaila
and Somara did not appear impressed.
Rand let himself down by his fingertips. “Is there
news from Bael?”
Enaila shrugged. “The hunt for Trollocs goes on.” By
her tone, the diminutive woman would have liked to be part of that.
Somara’s height made her seem even shorter. “Some of the city
people give aid. Most hide. The city gates are held. None of the
Shadowtwisted will escape, I think, but I fear some of the
Nightrunners may.” Myrddraal were hard to kill, and just as hard to
corner. Sometimes it was easy to believe the old tales that they
rode shadows and could vanish by turning sideways.
“We brought you some soup,” Somara said, nodding her
flaxen head toward a silver tray covered with a striped cloth,
sitting on the dais that held the Lion Throne. Carved and gilded,
with huge lion’s paws at the ends of its legs, the throne was a
massive chair at the top of four white marble stairs, with a strip
of red carpet leading up to it. The Lion of Andor, picked out in
moonstones on a field of rubies, would have stood above Morgase’s
head whenever she occupied that seat. “Aviendha says you have not
eaten yet today. It is the soup Lamelle used to make for you.”
“I suppose none of the servants have come back,” Rand
sighed. “One of the cooks, maybe? A helper?” Enaila shook her head
scornfully. She would serve her time as gai’shain with a
good grace, if it ever came to that, but the idea of anyone
spending their entire life serving someone else disgusted her.
Climbing the stairs, he squatted to twitch the cloth
aside. His nose twitched, too. By the smell, whichever of them had
made it was no better a cook than Lamelle had been. The sound of a
man’s boots coming up the hail gave him an excuse to turn his back
on the tray. With any luck, he would not have to eat it.
The man approaching up the long, red-and-white-tiled
floor was certainly no Andorman, in his short gray coat and those
baggy trousers stuffed into boots turned down at the knee. Slender
and only a head taller than Enaila, he had a hooked beak of a nose
and dark tilted eyes. Gray streaked his black hair and a thick
mustache like down-curved horns around his wide mouth. He paused to
make a leg and bow slightly, handling the curved sword at his hip
gracefully despite the fact that incongruously he carried two
silver goblets in one hand and a sealed pottery jar in the
other.
“Forgive my intrusion,” he said, “but there was no
one to announce me.” His clothes might be plain and even
travel-worn, but he had what appeared to be an ivory rod capped
with a golden wolf’s head thrust behind his sword belt. “I am
Davram Bashere, Marshal-General of Saldaea. I am here to speak with
the Lord Dragon, who rumors in the city say is here in the Royal
Palace. I assume that I address him?” For an instant his eyes went
to the glittering Dragons twining red-and-gold around Rand’s
arms.
“I am Rand al’Thor, Lord Bashere. The Dragon Reborn.”
Enaila and Somara had moved between Rand and the man, each with a
hand on the hilt of her long-bladed knife, poised to veil. “I am
surprised to find a Saldaean lord in Caemlyn, much less wanting to
speak to me.”
“In truth, I rode to Caemlyn to speak to Morgase, but
I was put off by Lord Gaebril’s toadies—King Gaebril, I
should say? Or does he still live?” Bashere’s tone said he doubted
it, and did not care one way or the other. He did not pause. “Many
in the city say Morgase is dead, as well.”
“They’re both dead,” Rand said bleakly. He sat down
on the throne, his head resting against the moonstone Lion of
Andor. The throne had been sized for women. “I killed Gaebril, but
not before he killed Morgase.”
Bashere quirked an eyebrow. “Should I hail King Rand
of Andor, then?”
Rand leaned forward angrily. “Andor has always had a
queen, and it still does. Elayne was Daughter-Heir. With her mother
dead, she is queen. Maybe she has to be crowned first—I
don’t know the law—but she is queen as far as I am
concerned. I am the Dragon Reborn. That is as much as I want, and
more. What is it you want of me, Lord Bashere?”
If his anger disturbed Bashere at all, the man gave
no outward sign. Those tilted eyes watched Rand carefully, but not
uneasily. “The White Tower allowed Mazrim Taim to escape. The false
Dragon.” He paused, then went on when Rand said nothing. “Queen
Tenobia did not want Saldaea troubled again, so I was sent to hunt
him down once more and put an end to him. I have followed him south
for many weeks. You need not fear I’ve brought a foreign army into
Andor. Except for an escort of ten, the rest I left camped in Braem
Wood, well north of any border Andor has claimed in two hundred
years. But Taim is in Andor. I am sure of it.”
Rand leaned back again, hesitating. “You cannot have
him, Lord Bashere.”
“May I ask why not, my Lord Dragon? If you wish to
use Aiel to hunt him, I have no objection. My men will remain in
Braem Wood until I return.”
This part of his plan he had not meant to reveal so
soon. Delay could be costly, but he had intended to have a firm
hold on the nations first. Yet it might as well begin now. “I am
announcing an amnesty. I can channel, Lord Bashere. Why should
another man be hunted down and killed or gentled because he can do
what I can? I will announce that any man who can touch the True
Source, any man who wants to learn, can come to me and have my
protection. The Last Battle is coming, Lord Bashere. There may not
be time for any of us to go mad before, and I would not waste one
man for the risk anyway. When the Trollocs came out of the Blight
in the Trolloc Wars, they marched with Dreadlords, men and women
who wielded the Power for the Shadow. We will face that again at
Tarmon Gai’don. I don’t know how many Aes Sedai will be at my side,
but I won’t turn away any man who channels if he will march with
me. Mazrim Taim is mine, Lord Bashere, not yours.”
“I see.” It was flatly said. “You have taken Caemlyn.
I hear that Tear is yours, and Cairhien soon will be if it is not
already. Do you mean to conquer the world with your Aiel and your
army of men channeling the One Power?”
“If I must.” Rand said it just as levelly. “I’ll
welcome any ruler as an ally who welcomes me, but so far all I’ve
seen is maneuvering for power, or outright hostility. Lord Bashere,
there’s anarchy in Tarabon and Arad Doman, and not far from it in
Cairhien. Amadicia is eyeing Altara. The Seanchan—you may
have heard rumors of them in Saldaea; the worst are likely true—the Seanchan on the other side of the world eyeing us all.
Men fighting their own petty battles with Tarmon Gai’don on the
horizon. We need peace. Time before the Trollocs come, before the
Dark One breaks free, time to ready ourselves. If the only way I
can find time and peace for the world is to impose it, I will. I
don’t want to, but I will.”
“I have read The Karaethon Cycle,” Bashere
said. Putting the goblets under his arm for a moment, he broke the
wax seal on the jar and filled them with wine. “More importantly,
Queen Tenobia has read the Prophecies, too. I cannot speak for
Kandor, or Arafel, or Shienar. I believe they will come to you—not a child in the Borderlands but knows the Shadow waits in
the Blight to descend on us—but I cannot speak for them.”
Enaila eyed the goblet he handed her suspiciously, but she climbed
the stairs to hand it to Rand. “In truth,” Bashere continued, “I
cannot even speak for Saldaea. Tenobia rules; I am only her
general. But I think once I send a fast rider to her with a
message, the return will be that Saldaea marches with the Dragon
Reborn. In the meanwhile, I offer you my services, and those of
nine thousand Saldaean horse.”
Rand swirled the goblet, staring down into the dark
red wine. Sammael in Illian, and other Forsaken the Light alone
knew where. Seanchan waiting across the Aryth Ocean, and men here
ready to leap for their own advantage and profit whatever it cost
the world. “Peace is far off yet,” he said softly. “It will be
blood and death for some time to come.”
“It always is,” Bashere replied quietly, and Rand did
not know which statement he was speaking to. Perhaps both.
Tucking his harp under his arm, Asmodean drifted away
from Mat and Aviendha. He enjoyed playing, but not for a pair who
did not listen, much less appreciate. He was not sure what had
happened that morning, and not sure he wanted to be sure. Too many
Aiel had expressed surprise at seeing him, had claimed they had
seen him dead; he did not want details. There was a long gash down
the wall in front of him. He knew what made that sharp edge, that
surface as slick as ice, smoother than any hand could have polished
in a hundred years.
Idly—but with a shiver, too—he wondered
whether being reborn in this fashion made him a new man. He did not
think so. Immortality was gone. That was a gift of the Great Lord;
he used that name in his head, whatever al’Thor demanded on his
tongue. That was proof enough that he was himself. Immortality gone—he knew it must be imagination, yet sometimes he thought he
could feel time dragging at him, pulling him toward a grave he had
never thought to meet—and drawing the little of
saidin he could was like drinking sewage. He was hardly sorry
Lanfear was dead. Rahvin neither, but Lanfear especially, for what
she had done to him. He would laugh when each of the others died,
too, and most for the last. It was not that he had been reborn as a
new man at all, but he would cling to that tuft of grass on the
cliff’s brink as long as he could. The roots would give way
eventually, the long fall would come, but until then he was still
alive.
He pulled open a small door, intending to find his
way to the pantry. There should be some decent wine. One step, and
he stopped, the blood draining from his face.
“You? No!” The word still hung in the air when death
took him.
Morgase blotted sweat from her face, then tucked the
handkerchief back up her sleeve and readjusted her somewhat ragged
straw hat. At least she had managed to acquire a decent riding
dress, though even fine gray wool was still uncomfortable in this
heat. Actually, Tallanvor had acquired it. Letting her horse walk,
she eyed the tall young man, riding up ahead through the trees.
Basel Gill’s roundness emphasized how tail and fit Tallanvor was.
He had handed the dress to her saying it suited her better than the
itchy thing she had fled the palace in, looking down at her, never
blinking, never speaking a word of respect. Of course, she herself
had decided it was not safe for anyone to know who she was,
especially after discovering Gareth Bryne gone from Kore Springs;
why did the man have to be off chasing barn-burners when she
needed him? No matter; she would do as well without him. But there
was something disturbing in Tallanvor’s eyes when he called her
simply Morgase.
Sighing, she glanced back over her shoulder. Hulking
Lamgwin rode watching the forest, Breane at his side watching him
as much as anything else. Her army had not grown a whit since
Caemlyn. Too many had heard of nobles exiled for no cause and
unjust laws in the capital to do more than scoff at the most casual
mention of stirring a hand in support of their rightful ruler. She
doubted that even knowing who spoke to them would have made a
difference. So here she rode through Altara, keeping to forest as
much as possible because there seemed to be parties of armed men
everywhere, rode through the forest with a scar-faced street tough,
a besotted refugee Cairhienin noblewoman, a stout innkeeper who
could hardly keep from kneeling whenever she glanced at him, and a
young soldier who sometimes looked at her as though she had on one
of those dresses she had worn for Gaebril. And Lini, of course.
There was no forgetting Lini.
As if thinking of her had been a summons, the old
nurse heeled her horse closer. “Better to keep your eyes ahead,”
she said quietly. “A young lion charges quickest, and when you
least expect it.”
“You think Tallanvor is dangerous?” Morgase said
sharply, and Lini gave her a sidelong, considering look.
“Only the way any man can be dangerous. A fine figure
of man, don’t you think? More than tall enough. Strong hands, I
should think. ‘There’s no point letting honey age too long before
you eat it.’ ”
“Lini,” Morgase said warningly. The old woman had
been going on this way too often of late. Tallanvor was a handsome
man, his hands did look strong, and he had a well-turned calf, but
he was young, and she was his queen. The last thing she needed was
to start looking at him as a man instead of her subject and
soldier. She was about to tell Lini that—and that the woman
had lost her wits if she thought she was going to take up with any
man ten years her junior; he had to be that—but Tallanvor
and Gill were turning back. “You hold your tongue, Lini. If you put
foolish ideas into that young man’s head, I will leave you
somewhere.” Lini’s snort would have earned the highest noble in
Andor time in a cell to meditate. If she still had her throne, it
would.
“Are you sure you want to do this, girl? It’s too
late to change your mind after you’ve jumped off the cliff.”
“I will find my allies where I can find them,”
Morgase told her stiffly.
Tallanvor reined up, sitting tall in his saddle.
Sweat rolled down his face, but he seemed to ignore the heat.
Master Gill tugged at the neck of his disc-covered jerkin as though
he wished he could have it off.
“The wood gives way to farms just ahead,” Tallanvor
said, “but it isn’t likely anyone will recognize you here.” Morgase
met his gaze levelly; day by day it was becoming increasingly hard
to look away when he was looking at her. “Another ten miles should
take us to Cormaed. If that fellow in Sehar was not lying, there
will be a ferry, and we can be on the Amadicia side before dark.
Are you certain you want to do this, Morgase?”
The way he said her name . . . No. She was letting
Lini’s ridiculous fancies take hold of her. It was the accursed
heat. “I have made up my mind, young Tallanvor,” she said coolly,
“and I do not expect you to question me when I have done so.”
She heeled her mount hard, letting the horse’s leap
forward break their gazes apart, letting it shove past him. He
could catch up to her. She would find her allies where she found
them. She would have her throne back, and woe to Gaebril or
any man who thought he could sit on it in her place.
And the Glory of the Light did shine upon him.
And the Peace of the Light did he give me.
Binding nations to him. Making one of many.
Yet the shards of hearts did give wounds.
And what was once did come again —in fire and in storm
splitting all in twain.
For his peace . . . —for his peace . . . . . . was the peace . . . . . . was the peace . . . . . . of the sword .
And the Glory of the Light did shine upon him.
The End
of the Fifth Book of
The Wheel of Time
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