The Gathering Storm - Robert Jordan

Rand trotted forward, Min and Bashere still riding nearby. Those crowds roared. So loud. Nearby, two flapping pendants got caught in the wind, and inexplicably entangled. The men holding them aloft, near the front of the crowd, lowered them and tried to pull them apart, but they were knotted tight, somehow twisted that way by the wind. Rand passed them with barely any notice. He'd stopped feeling surprise at what his ta'veren nature could do.

Rand was surprised, however, to see so many foreigners in the crowd. That wasn't so unusual; Tear always saw a lot of outlanders—it welcomed those who would trade spices and silks from the east, porcelain from the seas, grains or tabac from the north, and stories from anywhere they could be gleaned. However, Rand had found that outlanders—no matter what the city—paid him less heed when he visited. This was true even when those outlanders were from another country he had conquered. When he was in Cairhien, the Cairhienin would fawn over him—but if he were in Illian, the Cairhienin would avoid him. Perhaps they didn't like being reminded that their lord and their enemy's lord were the same man.

Here, however, he had no trouble counting foreigners: Sea Folk with their dark skin and their loose, bright clothing; Murandians, in their long coats and waxed mustaches; bearded Illianers with upturned collars; pale-faced Cairhienin with stripes on their clothing. There were also men and women who wore simple Andoran wool. Fewer of the foreigners cheered than locals, but they were there, watchful.

Bashere scanned the crowd.

"The people seem surprised," Rand found himself saying.

"You've been away for a time." Bashere knuckled his mustaches in thought. "No doubt the rumors have flown swifter than arrows, and many an innkeeper has spun tales of your death or disappearance to encourage another round of drinks."

"Light! I seem to spend half of my life trampling down one rumor or another. When will it end?"

Bashere laughed. "When you can stop rumor itself, I'll get off my horse and ride a goat! Ha! And become one of the Sea Folk as well."

Rand fell silent. His followers continued to pile through the gateways. As the Saldaeans entered Tear, nearly to a man they held their lances up straighter, their horses prancing. The Aes Sedai wouldn't be caught preening, but they did look less wilted, their ageless faces regarding the crowd with a sagacious manner. And the Aiel—their prowling steps a little less wary, their expressions less guarded—seemed more comfortable with the cheering than they had with those quiet, accusing Domani eyes.

Bashere and Rand moved over to the side, Min following silently. She looked distracted. Nynaeve and Cadsuane had not been in the mansion when Rand had announced his departure. What could they be up to? He doubted they were together; those women barely tolerated being in the same room. Anyway, they would hear where he had gone, and they would find him. From this point on, Rand would be easy to locate. No more hiding in wooded manors. No more traveling alone. Not with Lan and his Malkieri riding to the Gap. There wasn't enough time left.

Bashere watched the open gateways, the Aiel passing through on silent feet. This method of voyaging was becoming familiar to them.

"Are you going to tell Ituralde?" Bashere finally asked. "About your withdrawal?"

"He will hear," Rand said. "His messengers were ordered to bring reports to Bandar Eban. They will soon discover I'm no longer there."

"And if he leaves the Borderlands to resume his war against the Sean-chan?"

"Then he'll slow the Seanchan down," Rand said. "And keep them from nipping at my heels. That will be as good a use for him as any."

Bashere eyed him.

"What do you expect me to do, Bashere?" Rand asked quietly. That look was a challenge, if a subtle one, but Rand would not rise to it. His anger remained frozen.

Bashere sighed. "I don't know," he said. "This whole thing is a mess, and I don't see any way out of it, man. Going to war with the Seanchan at our backs, that's as bad a position as I can think of."

"I know," Rand said, looking over the city. "Tear will be theirs by the time this is through, probably Illian as well. Burn me, but well be lucky if they don't conquer all the way up to Andor while our backs are turned."

"But—"

"We have to assume that Ituralde will abandon his post once news of my failure reaches him. That means our next move has to be toward the Borderlander army. Whatever complaint your kinsmen have with me, it must be settled quickly. I have little patience for men who abandon their duties."

Have we done that? Lews Therin asked. Who have we abandoned?

Quiet! Rand growled. Go back to your tears, madman, and leave me be!

Bashere leaned back thoughtfully in his saddle. If he was thinking of Rand abandoning the Domani, he said nothing. Finally, he shook his head. "I don't know what Tenobia is about. Could be as simple as her anger at me for leaving to follow you; could be as difficult as a demand that you submit to the will of the Borderlander monarchs. I can't imagine what would draw her and the others away from the Blight at a time like this."

"We will soon find out," Rand said. "I want you to take a couple of the Asha'man and find out where Tenobia and the others are camped. Maybe we'll discover they've given up this fool's parade and turned back toward where they belong."

"All right, then," Bashere said. "Let me see my men settled and I'll be off."

Rand nodded sharply, then turned his mount and began to trot down the street. The people were lined up on either side, ushering him onward. The last time he had visited Tear, he had tried to come in disguise, for all the good it had done him. Anyone who knew the signs would have known he was in the city. Unusual events—banners tying themselves together, men falling from buildings and landing unharmed—were only the beginning. His ta'veren effect seemed to be growing more powerful, causing increasingly greater distortions. And more dangerous ones.

During his last visit, Tear had been besieged by rebels, but the city hadn't suffered. Tear had too much trade to be bothered by something as simple as a siege. Most people had lived as usual, barely acknowledging the rebels. Nobles could play their games, as long as they didn't disrupt more honest folks.

Besides, everyone had known that the Stone would hold, as it almost always had. It might have been rendered obsolete by Traveling, but for invaders who didn't have access to the One Power, the Stone was virtually impossible to take. In and of itself, it was more massive than many cities—a gargantuan sprawl of walls, towers and sheer fortifications without a single seam in its rock. It included forges, warehouses, thousands of defenders, and its own fortified dock.

None of that would be much use against an army of Seanchan with damane and raken.

Crowds lined the street up to the Stone Verge, the large open space that surrounded the Stone on three sides. It's a killing field, Lews Therin said.

Here, another crowd cheered Rand. The gates to the Stone were open, and a welcoming delegation awaited him. Darlin—once a High Lord, now King of Tear—sat astride a brilliant white stallion. Shorter than Rand by at least a head, the Tairen had a short black beard and close-cropped hair. His prominent nose kept him from being handsome, but Rand had found him very keen of mind and of honor. After all, Darlin had opposed Rand from the start, rather than joining those who had hastened to worship him. A man whose allegiance was hard to win was often one whose allegiance would also be secure when he was out of your sight.

Darlin bowed to Rand. Pale-faced Dobraine, dressed in a blue coat and white trousers, sat astride a roan gelding beside the King. His expression was unreadable, though Rand suspected he was still disappointed in being sent from Arad Doman so soon.

Lines of Defenders of the Stone stood before the wall, swords held before them, breastplates and ridged helmets shined near to glowing. Their puffy sleeves were striped with black and gold, and above them waved the banner of Tear, a half-red, half-gold field marked with three silver crescents. Rand could see that the square inside the wall was bursting with soldiers, many in the colors of the Defenders, but many wearing no uniform beyond a strap of red and gold tied around their arms. Those would be the new recruits, the men Rand had ordered Darlin to gather.

It was a display to produce awe. Or perhaps to stroke a man's pride. Rand stopped Tai'daishar before Darlin. Unfortunately, the rooster Weiramon accompanied the King, sitting his horse just behind Darlin. Weiramon was so lacking in wits that Rand would barely have trusted him to work a field unsupervised, let alone command a squad of troops. True, the short man was brave, but that was likely only because he was too slow of thought to consider most dangers. As always, Weiramon looked even more the fool for attempting to style himself as anything other than a buffoon; his beard was waxed, his hair was carefully arranged to hide just how much he was balding and his clothing was rich—a coat and breeches cut as if to be a field uniform, but no man would wear such fine cloth into battle. No man but Weiramon.

/ like him, Lews Therin thought.

Rand started. You don't like anyone!

He's honest, Lews Therin replied, then laughed. More than I am, for certain! A man doesn't choose to be an idiot, but he does choose to be loyal. We could do much worse than have this man as a follower.

Rand kept his tongue. Arguing with the madman was pointless. Lews Therin made decisions without reason. At least he wasn't humming about a pretty woman again. That could be distracting.

Darlin and Dobraine bowed to Rand, Weiramon mimicking them. There were others behind the King, of course. Lady Caraline was a given; the slender Cairhienin was as beautiful as Rand remembered. A white opal hung on her forehead, the golden chain woven into her dark hair. Rand had to force himself to look away. She looked too much like her cousin, Moiraine. Sure enough, Lews Therin started naming off the names on the list, Moiraine at the forefront.

Rand steeled himself, listening to the dead man in the back of his mind as he studied the rest of the group. All of the remaining High Lords and Ladies of Tear were there—atop their own mounts. Simpering Anaiyella sat her bay horse beside Weiramon. And . . . was she wearing a handkerchief favor bearing his colors? Rand had thought her a little more discriminating than that. Torean had a smile on that lumpy face of his. A pity that he was still alive when far better men among the High Lords had died. Simaan, Estanda, Tedosian, Hearne—-all four had opposed Rand, leading the siege against the Stone. Now they bowed to him.

Alanna was there, too. Rand didn't look at her. She was sorrowful, he could tell through their bond. As well she should be.

"My Lord Dragon," Darlin said, straightening in his saddle, "thank you for sending Dobraine with your wishes." His voice conveyed his displeasure. He'd rushed to gather an army at Rand's urgent command, and then Rand had forced him to do nothing for weeks. Well, the men would be glad for the extra weeks of training soon.

"The army is ready," Darlin continued, hesitant. "We are prepared to leave for Arad Doman."