d that the Dragon Reborn was a young man with red hair. But, then, rumors also claimed he was ten feet tall, and still others said his eyes glowed in dim light. And then there were the stories of him appearing in the sky at Falme. Blood and ashes, Ituralde didn’t know if he believed that the Dragon had been reborn in the first place!
“I haven’t time to argue,” the stranger said, face impassive. He seemed . . . older than he looked. He didn’t appear to care that he was surrounded by armed soldiers. In fact, his coming alone . . . it should have seemed like such a foolish act. Instead it made Ituralde thoughtful. Only one such as the Dragon Reborn himself could stride into a war camp like this, completely alone, and expect to be obeyed.
Burn him, if that fact by itself didn’t make Ituralde want to believe him. Either this man was who he claimed to be or he was an utter lunatic.
“If we go outside the stedding, I will prove I can channel,” the stranger said. “That should count for something. Give me leave, and I’ll have ten thousand Aiel here and several Aes Sedai, all of whom will swear to you that I am who I say.”
The rumors also said Aiel followed the Dragon Reborn. The men around Ituralde coughed and glanced about uncomfortably. Many had been Dragonsworn before coming to Ituralde. With the right words, this Rand al’Thor—or whoever he was—might be able turn Ituralde’s camp against itself.
“Even if we assume that I believe you,” Ituralde said carefully, “I don’t see that it matters. I have a war to fight. You have other business to concern you, I assume.”
“You are my concern,” al’Thor said, eyes so hard that they seemed ready to burrow into Ituralde’s skull and search about inside for anything of use. “You must make peace with the Seanchan. This war gains us nothing. I want you up on the Borderlands; I can’t spare men to guard the Blight, and the Borderlanders themselves have abandoned their duties.”
“I have orders,” Ituralde said, shaking his head. Wait. He wouldn’t do as this youth asked if he didn’t have orders. Except . . . those eyes. Alsalam had had eyes like that, when they were both younger. Eyes that demanded obedience.
“Your orders,” al’Thor said. “They are from the king? That is why you throw yourselves against the Seanchan as you do?”
Ituralde nodded.
“I’ve heard of you, Rodel Ituralde,” al’Thor said. “Men I trust, men I respect, trust and respect you. Rather than fleeing and hiding, you hunker down here to fight a battle you know will kill you. All because of your loyalty to your king. I commend that. But it is time to turn away and fight a battle that means something. One that means everything. Come with me, and I’ll give you the throne of Arad Doman.”
Ituralde stood up sharply, alert. “After commending my loyalty, you expect me to unseat my own king!”
“Your king is dead,” al’Thor said. “Either that, or his mind has been melted like wax. More and more, I think Graendal has him. I see her touch on the chaos in this land. Whatever orders you have likely came from her. Why she wants you fighting the Seanchan, I haven’t yet been able to determine.”
Ituralde snorted. “You speak of one of the Forsaken as if you’ve had her as a dinner guest.”
Al’Thor met his eyes again. “I remember each of them—their faces, their mannerisms, the way they speak and act—as if I’ve known them for a thousand years. I remember them better than I remember my own childhood, sometimes. I am the Dragon Reborn.”
Ituralde blinked. Burn me, he thought. I believe him. Bloody ashes! “Let’s . . . let’s see this proof of yours.”
There were objections, of course, mostly from Lidrin, who thought it too dangerous. The others were shaken. Here was the man they’d sworn themselves to without ever meeting him. There seemed to be a . . . a force about al’Thor, drawing Ituralde in, demanding that he do as asked. Well, he’d see the proof, first.
They sent runners for horses to ride out of the stedding, but al’Thor spoke as if Ituralde was his man already. “Perhaps Alsalam lives,” al’Thor said as they waited. “If so, I can see that you would not want his throne. Would you like Amadicia? I will need someone to rule there and keep an eye on the Seanchan. The Whitecloaks fight there now; I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stop that conflict before the Last Battle.”
The Last Battle. Light! “I won’t take it if you kill the king there,” Ituralde said. “If the Whitecloaks have already killed him, or if the Seanchan have, then perhaps.”
King! What was he saying? Burn you! he thought to himself. At least wait until the proof is given before agreeing to accept thrones! There was a way about this man, the way he discussed events like the Last Battle—events that mankind had been fearing for thousands of years—as if they were items on the daily camp report.
Soldiers arrived with their horses, and Ituralde mounted, as did al’Thor, Wakeda, Rajabi, Ankaer, Melarned, Lidrin and a half-dozen lesser officers.
“I’ve brought a large number of Aiel into your lands,” Rand al’Thor said as they began to ride. “I had hoped to use them to restore order, but they are taking longer than I’d wished. I’m planning to secure the members of the merchant council; perhaps once I have them in hand, I’ll be able to improve the stability of the area. What do you think?”
Ituralde didn’t know what to think. Securing the merchant council? That sounded like kidnapping them. What had Ituralde gotten himself into? “It could work,” he found himself saying. “Light, it’s probably the best plan, all things considered.”
Al’Thor nodded, looking forward as they passed out of the palisade and moved out along a trail toward the edge of the stedding. “I’ll have to secure the Borderlands, anyway. I will care for your homeland. Burn those Borderlanders! What are they up to? No. No, not yet. They can wait. No, he’ll do. He can hold it. I’ll send him with Asha’man.” Suddenly, al’Thor turned to Ituralde. “What could you do if I gave you a hundred men who could channel?”
“Madmen?”
“No, most of them are stable,” al’Thor said, taking no apparent offense. “Whatever madness they incurred before I cleansed the taint is still there—removing the taint didn’t heal them—but few of them were far gone. And they won’t get worse, now that saidin is clean.”
Saidin? Clean? If Ituralde had his own men who could channel. . . . His own damane, in a way. Ituralde scratched his chin. It was coming at him quickly—but, then, a general had to be able to react quickly. “I could use them well,” he said. “Very well.”
“Good,” al’Thor said. They had left the stedding; the air felt different. “You’ve got a lot of land to watch, but many of the channelers I’ll give you can spin gateways.”
“Gateways?” Ituralde asked.
Al’Thor glanced at him, then seemed to grit his teeth, closing his eyes, shaking as if nauseated. Ituralde sat upright, suddenly alert, hand on his sword. Poison? Was the man wounded?