“And so we return,” Nynaeve said. Her multicolor ter’angreal jewelry somewhat spoiled the look of her neatly tailored dress.
“Yes,” Rand said.
“I remember the last time we were here,” she said idly. “Such chaos, such madness. And at the end of it all, we found
you with that wound in your side.”
“Yes,” Rand whispered. He had earned that first of his unhealable wounds here, fighting Ishamael in the skies above the city. The wound grew warm as he thought of it. Warm, and painful. He had started regarding that pain as an old friend, a reminder that he was alive.
“I saw you up in the air,” Nynaeve said. “I didn’t believe it. I . . . tried to Heal that wound, but I was still blocked then, and couldn’t summon the anger. Min wouldn’t leave your side.”
Min hadn’t come with him this day. She remained close to him, but something had changed between them. Just as he had always feared that it would. When she looked at him, he knew she saw him killing her.
Just 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 ground. He wobbled, legs gripping Tai’daishar, 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 Ilyena. 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?
Did it really matter?
“Are you all right?” Nynaeve asked again.
“We are fine.” Rand did not realize he’d used the plural until the words were out of his mouth. His vision was recovering, though it still seemed just a little bit fuzzy. Everything was distorted a fraction, as it had been since the battle where Semirhage had taken his hand. He barely noticed it anymore.
He straightened, then drew a little extra power through the access key, filling himself with saidin. It was so sweet, despite the nausea that it caused. He longed to take in more, but held himself back. He already held more of the Power than any man could unaided. It would be enough.