The Gathering Storm - Robert Jordan

Nynaeve glanced at him, eyes narrowing. "Who?"

"You know who," Rand said, riding past a row of bright red banners waving atop a line of homes, each holding scions of the same family.

"His actions are none of your concern," Nynaeve said.

"The entire world is my concern, Nynaeve." He looked at her. "Would you not agree?"

She opened her mouth, no doubt to snap at him, but faltered as she met his eyes. Light, he thought, seeing the apprehension in her face. / can do it to Nynaeve, now. What is it that they see when they look at me? That look in her eyes almost made him frightened of himself.

"Lan will be well," Nynaeve said, looking away.

"He has ridden to Malkier, hasn't he?"

She flushed.

"How long?" Rand asked. "He hasn't gotten to the Blight already, has he?" Turned loose to follow what he saw as both his duty and destiny, Lan would ride straight to Malkier alone. The kingdom—his kingdom—had been consumed by the Blight decades ago, when he'd been a babe.

"Two or three more months," she said. "Perhaps a little longer. He rides to Shienar to stand at the Gap, even if he has to do so alone."

"He seeks vengeance," Rand said softly. " 'To avenge what cannot be defended.'"

"He does his duty!" Nynaeve said. "But ... I do worry at his brash-ness. He insisted that I take him to the Borderlands, so I did, but I left him in Saldaea. I wanted him as far from the Gap as possible. He'll have to cross some difficult terrain to get where he's going."

Rand felt an icy coldness as he considered Lan riding to the Gap. To his death, essentially. But there was nothing to be done about that. "I am sorry, Nynaeve," he said, though he did not feel it. He had trouble feeling anything lately.

"You think I'd send him alone?" she snapped. "Wool-headed, both of you! I've seen that he'll have his own army, although he doesn't want one."

And she was perfectly capable of it. Perhaps she'd sent warning to the remnants of the Malkieri in Lan's name. Lan was a strange mixture; he refused to raise the banner of Malkier or claim his place as its king, for he feared leading the last of his countrymen to their deaths. Yet he would be perfectly willing to ride to that same death himself in the name of honor.

Is that what I do? Rand thought. Ride to my death in the name of honor? But no, it's different. Lan has a choice. There were no prophecies saying that Lan would die, whatever the man's assumptions about his own fate.

"He could use some help regardless," Nynaeve said uncomfortably. Asking for help always made her uncomfortable. "His army will be small. I doubt they'll stand long against the Trollocs."

"Will he attack?" Rand asked.

Nynaeve hesitated. "He didn't say," she said. "But yes, I think he will. He thinks you are wasting time here, Rand. If he arrives and gathers an army, and finds Trollocs gathered at Tarwin's Gap . . . yes, I think he'll attack."

"Then he deserves what he will get, for riding without the rest of us," Rand said.

Nynaeve scowled at him. "How can you say that?"

"I must," Rand replied softly. "The Last Battle is imminent. Perhaps my own attack on the Blight will happen at the same time as Lan's. Perhaps not." He paused thoughtfully. If Lan and whatever army he brought engaged at the Gap . . . perhaps that would draw attention. If Rand didn't attack there, it would throw off the Shadow. He could strike them where they didn't expect it while their eyes were on Lan.

"Yes," Rand said thoughtfully. "His death could serve me well indeed."

Nynaeve's eyes widened in fury, but Rand ignored them. A very quiet place, deep inside of him, was struck with worry over his friend. He had to ignore that worry, silence it. But that voice whispered to him.

He named you friend. Do not abandon him. . . .

Nynaeve controlled her anger, which impressed Rand. "We will speak of this again," she said to him, voice curt. "Perhaps after you've had a chance to think on exactly what abandoning Lan would mean."

He liked to think of Nynaeve as the same belligerent Wisdom who had bullied him back in the Two Rivers. She'd always seemed as if she tried too hard, as if she had worried that others would ignore her title because of her youth. But she had grown a lot since then.

They reached the mansion, where fifty of Bashere's soldiers stood guard before the gates. They saluted in unison as Rand passed through them. He passed Aiel camped outside, dismounted at the stables and transferred the access key from its loop on his saddle to the oversized pocket of his coat—more of a pouch, buttoned into his coat—designed for the statuette. The hand holding its globe aloft reached out of its depths.

He went to his throne room. He couldn't call it anything other than that, now that the King's throne had been brought to him. It was oversized, with gilding and gemstones affixed to the wood at the arms and to the back, above the head. They protruded like budding eyes, giving the throne an ornate richness that Rand disliked. It hadn't been in the palace. One of the local merchants had been "protecting" it from the riots. Perhaps he had considered seizing the seat in a more figurative sense as well.

Rand sat on the throne, despite its gaudiness, shifting so that the access key in his pocket didn't jab him in the side. The powerful in the city weren't certain what to think of him, and he preferred it that way. He didn't name himself king, yet his armies secured the capital. He spoke of restoring Alsalam's place to him, yet sat on the throne as if he had a right to it. He had not moved into the palace. He wanted them to wonder.

In truth, he hadn't made a decision. A lot would depend on this day's reports. He nodded to Rhuarc as he entered; the muscular Aielman returned the gesture. Then Rand stepped down from the throne and he and Rhuarc sat down on the circular rug of spiraling colors which lay on the floor in front of the green-carpeted dais. The first time they'd done this, it had caused a quiet stir among the Domani attendants and functionaries of Rand's growing court.

"We have located and taken another of them, Rand al'Thor," Rhuarc said. "Alamindra Cutren was hiding on her cousin's lands near the northern border; what we learned on her estate led us directly to her."

That made four members of the merchant council in his custody. "What of Meashan Dubaris? You said you might have her as well."

"Dead," Rhuarc said. "By the hands of a mob a week gone."

"You are certain of this? It could be a lie to set you off her track."

"I have not seen the body myself," Rhuarc said, "but men I trust have, and they say it matches her description. I am reasonably assured that the trail was genuine."

Four captured, and two dead, then. That left four more to locate before he had enough members to order a new vote for king. It would not be the most ethical council election in Domani history; why did he bother? He could appoint a king, or name himself to the throne. Why did he care what the Domani thought proper?

Rhuarc watched him; the Aiel chief's eyes were thoughtful. He likely wondered the same things.

"Keep searching," Rand said. "I do not intend to take Arad Doman for myself; we will find the rightful king or we will see the Council of Merchants assembled so that they can choose a new one. I will not care who it is, so long as he is not a Darkfriend."

"As you say, Car'a'carn," Rhuarc said, moving to rise.

"Order is important, Rhuarc," Rand said. "I don't have time to secure this kingdom myself. We don't have long before the Last Battle." He glanced at Nynaeve, who had joined several Maidens at the back of the small room. "I want four more members of the merchant council in our possession by the end of the month."

"You set a demanding pace, Rand al'Thor," Rhuarc said.

Rand stood up. "Just find me those merchants. These people deserve leaders."

"And the king?"

Rand glanced to the side, to where Milisair Chadmar stood, carefully watched by Aiel guards. She seemed . . . haggard. Her once-luxurious raven hair had been pulled up into a bun, obviously because it was easier to care for that way. Her dress was still rich, but now wrinkled, as if she'd been wearing it for too long. Her eyes were red. She was still beautiful, but much in the way that a painting would still be beautiful if it were crumpled up, then smoothed out on a table.

"May you find water and shade, Rhuarc,' Rand said in dismissal.

"May you find water and shade, Rand al'Thor." The tall Aiel withdrew, some of his spears following him. Rand took a deep breath, then stepped up to the gaudy throne and sat. Rhuarc he treated with the respect he deserved. The others . . . well, they would get the respect they deserved as well.

He leaned forward, motioning Milisair to approach. One of the Maidens nudged her in the back, forcing her forward. The woman looked far more apprehensive than she had the last time she had come before Rand.

"Well?" he asked her.

"My Lord Dragon . . ." she began, glancing around, as if seeking aid from the Domani stewards and attendants who stood there. They ignored her; even the fop Lord Ramshalan looked the other way.

"Speak, woman," Rand demanded.

"The messenger you asked after," she said. "He is dead."

Rand took in a deep breath. "And how did this happen?"

"The men I assigned to watch after him," she said quickly, "I hadn't realized how poorly they were treating the messenger! Why, they hadn't given him water for days, and the fevers struck. ..."

"In other words," Rand said, "you failed to extract information from him, so you left him in a dungeon to rot, only remembering where he was when I demanded he be produced."

"Car'a'carn," one of the Maidens—a very young woman named Jalani—said, stepping forward. "We found this one packing her things, as if she were planning to escape the city."

Milisair paled visibly. "Lord Dragon," she said. "A moment of weakness! I—"

Rand waved for silence. "What am I to do with you now?"

"She should be executed, my Lord!" Ramshalan said, stepping forward eagerly.

Rand looked up with a frown. He hadn't been asking for a response. Lanky, with one of the thin black Domani mustaches, Ramshalan had a prominent nose that might have indicated some Saldaean forebear. He wore an outrageous coat of blue, orange and yellow, with ruffled white cuffs peeking out underneath. Apparently, such things passed for fashionable among some segments of the Domani upper crust. His earrings bore the mark of his house, and he had a black beauty mark in the shape of a bird in flight affixed to his check.

Rand had known many like him, courtiers with too few brains but too many family connections. Noble life seemed to breed them, much as the Two Rivers bred sheep. Ramshalan was particularly annoying because of his nasal voice and eager willingness to betray others in his desire to curry favor with Rand.

Still, men like him had their uses. Occasionally. "What do you think, Milisair?" Rand said musingly. "Should I have you executed for treason, as this man suggests?"

She did not weep, but she was obviously terrified, her hands shaking as she held them out, her eyes wide, unblinking.

"No," Rand said finally. "I need you to help choose a new king. What good would it do to search the countryside for your colleagues if I began to execute the Council members I've already found?"

She let out the breath she had been holding, and tension left her shoulders