He walked directly to the chair opposite Tuon and sat down, never once questioning that she had set him as her equal. She knew that the others wondered why she still wore the ashes of mourning, why she hadn't proclaimed herself Empress. The mourning period was over, but Tuon had not taken her throne.
It was because of this man. The Empress could not meet anyone, not even the Dragon Reborn, as an equal. The Daughter of the Nine Moons, however . . . this one man could be her equal. And so she had hesitated. The Dragon Reborn would not likely respond well to another setting herself above him, no matter if that other had a perfectly legitimate reason for doing so.
As he sat down, a distant flare of lightning arced between two clouds, though Malai—one of the damam who could tell fortunes of the weather—had insisted that no rain was near. Lightning on a day without rain. Tread very lightly, she thought, reading the omen, and be careful what you speak. Not the most illuminating of omens. If she trod any more carefully, she would have to take flight into the air!
"You are the Daughter of the Nine Moons," the Dragon Reborn said. It was a statement, not a question.
"You are the Dragon Reborn," she replied. Looking into those slate-like eyes, she realized that she had been wrong in her first impression. He was not a young man. Yes, his body might be that of a youth. But those eyes . . . those were old eyes.
He leaned forward slightly. Her Deathwatch Guards tensed, leather creaking. "We will make peace," al'Thor said. "Today. Here."
Selucia hissed softly. His words sounded a great deal like a demand. Tuon had shown him great respect by placing him at her level, but one did not give orders to the Imperial family.
Al'Thor glanced at Selucia. "You can tell your bodyguard that she can relax," he said dryly. "This meeting will not turn to conflict. I will not allow it."
"She is my Voice," Tuon said carefully, "and my Truthspeaker. My bodyguard is the man behind my chair."
Al'Thor snorted softly. So he was an observant man. Or a lucky one. Few had correctly guessed Selucia's nature.
a few weeks before, he wouldn't have been able to keep her from accompanying him, no matter what. Now she remained behind without a single protest.
Coldness. It would be over soon. No room for regret or sorrow.
The Aiel ran ahead to check for an ambush. Many of them wore the red headbands. Rand wasn't worried about an ambush. The Seanchan would not betray him, not unless there was another Forsaken in their midst.
Rand reached down, touching the sword he wore at his waist. It was the curved one, with the scabbard of black, painted with the twisting dragon, red and gold. For more reasons than one, it made him think of the last time he had been in Falme.
"I killed a man with a sword for the first time in this city," Rand said softly. "I've never spoken of it. He was a Seanchan lord, a blademaster.
Verin had told me not to channel in the city, so I faced him with the sword only. I beat him. Killed him."
Nynaeve raised an eyebrow. "So you do have a right to carry a heron-mark blade."
Rand shook his head. "There were no witnesses. Mat and Hurin were fighting elsewhere. They saw me right after the fight, but did not witness the killing blow."
"What do witnesses matter?" she scoffed. "You defeated a blademaster, so you are one. Whether or not it was seen by others is immaterial."
He looked at her. "Why carry the heron mark if not to be seen by others, Nynaeve?"
She didn't respond. Ahead, just outside of the city, the Seanchan had erected a striped pavilion of black and white. There appeared to be hundreds of sul'dam and damane pairs surrounding the open-sided tent, damane wearing the distinctive gray dress, sul'dam wearing their dresses of red and blue with the lightning bolt on the breast. Rand had brought only a few channelers: Nynaeve, three Wise Ones, Corele, Narishma, Flinn. A fraction of what he could access, even without turning to his forces stationed in the east.
But no, it was better to bring only a token guard, to look as though he came in peace. If this meeting turned into a battle, Rand's only hope would be a quick escape via gateway. Either that ... or do something to end the fight himself.
The figurine of the man holding aloft the sphere hung from the saddle before him. With it, he might be able to stand against a hundred damane. Two hundred. He could remember the Power he'd held when cleansing saidin. It had been the Power to level cities, to destroy any who stood against him.
No. It wouldn't turn to that. He couldn't afford to let it turn to that. Surely the Seanchan knew that attacking him would lead to disaster. Rand had come to meet with them again, aware that a traitor in their ranks had tried to capture or kill him. They would have to see his sincerity.
But if they didn't. . . . He reached down and grasped the access key, just in case, and slipped it into his oversized outer coat pocket. Then, taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and sought the void. There, he seized the One Power.
Nausea and dizziness threatened to toss him to the grounds. He wobbled, legs gripping Tai'daisher, hand clutching the access key in its pocket. He gritted his teeth. In the back of his mind, Lews Therin roused. The madman scrambled for the One Power. It was a desperate fight, and when Rand finally won, he found that he'd slumped in his saddle.
And he was muttering to himself again.
"Rand?" Nynaeve asked.
Rand straightened his back. He was Rand, wasn't he? Sometimes, after a battle like this, he had trouble recalling who he was. Had he finally pushed Rand, the intruder, into seclusion and become Lews Therin? The previous day, he had woken at midday, huddled in the corner of his rooms, crying and whispering to himself about Hyena. He could feel the soft texture of her long golden hair in his hands, and could remember holding her close. He could remember seeing her dead at his feet, slain by the One Power.
Who was he?