There! A shield slammed against him, but Rand had had just enough time to prepare. He channeled Spirit in the tempest, weaving by instinct from Lews Therin’s memories, and rebuffed the shield. He shoved it away, but could not destroy it.
Light! That had to be a full circle. Rand grunted as the shield slipped closer to him; it made a vibrant pattern in the sky, motionless despite the tempest. Rand resisted it with his own surge of Spirit and Air, holding it back as if it were a knife hanging above his throat.
He lost control of the tempest.
Lightning crashed around him. The other channelers wove to enhance the storm—they didn’t try to control it, for they didn’t need to. It being out of control served them, as at any moment, it could strike Rand.
He roared again, louder this time, more determined. I will beat you, Taim! I will finally do what I should have months ago!
But he did not let the anger, the wildness, force him into conflict. He couldn’t afford to. He had learned better than that.
This was not the place. He could not fight here. If he did, he would lose. Rand pushed with a surge of strength, throwing back Taim’s shield, then used the moment of respite to weave a gateway. His Maidens went through immediately, and Rand, ducking his head against the wind, reluctantly followed.
He leaped into Lan’s tent, where Moiraine had done as he requested and kept space open for him. He closed his gateway, and the winds stilled, the noise dampened.
Rand formed a fist, panting, sweat running down the sides of his face. Here, back with Lan’s army, the tempest was distant, although Rand could hear it rumbling, and faint winds stirred the tent.
Rand had to fight to keep from sinking to his knees. He sucked in large breaths. With difficulty, he slowed his racing heart and brought calmness to his face. He wanted to fight, not run! He could have beaten Taim!
And in so doing, would have weakened himself so far that the Dark One would have taken him with ease. He forced his fist to open and wrestled control of his emotions.
He looked up at Moiraine’s calm, knowing face.
“It was a trap?” she asked.
“Not so much a trap,” Rand said, “as a battlefield well-prepared with sentinels. They know what I did at Maradon. They must have teams of Dreadlords waiting to Travel to wherever I’m spotted and attack me.”
“You have seen the error in this line of attack?” she asked.
“Error… no. Inevitability, yes.”
He couldn’t fight this war personally. Not this time.
He would have to find another way to protect his people.
CHAPTER
12
A Shard of a Moment
Birgitte dashed through the forest, accompanied by a group of thirty Aiel, all with bows out. They made sound—they couldn’t help but make sound—but the Aiel made less than they should. They would leap up onto fallen logs and run deftly along them or would find stones to step upon. They would writhe out of the way of hanging branches, ducking, twisting, moving.
“Here,” she said in a hushed tone, rounding the side of a broken hill. Fortunately, the cave was still there, overgrown with vines, a small creek running past it. The Aiel ducked in, the water removing any scent of their passage.
Two of the men continued down the game trail, now moving much more loudly, scraping against every branch they passed. Birgitte joined the ones hiding in the cavern. It was dark inside and smelled of mold and earth.
Had she hidden in this cave, centuries ago when she’d lived in these woods as a bandit? She didn’t know. She rarely remembered any of her past lives, sometimes only fleeting memories of the in-between years during her life in the World of Dreams before being brought into this world unnaturally by Moghedien.
She considered that with sickness. It was all right to be reborn, fresh and new. But to have her memories—her very sense of self—ripped away? If she lost her memories of her time in the World of Dreams, would she forget Gaidal completely? Would she forget herself?
She clenched her teeth. It’s the Last Battle, fool woman, she thought. Who cares about that?
But she did. A question had begun to haunt her. What if, in being cast out of the World of Dreams, Birgitte had been broken from the Horn? She didn’t know if it was possible. She no longer remembered enough to tell.
But if she had, she’d lose Gaidal forever.
Outside, leaves crunched, twigs cracking. The clatter was so loud, she would have sworn that a thousand soldiers were marching past—though she knew the fist of Trollocs was only fifty strong. Still, fifty had her band outnumbered. She didn’t worry. Though she complained to Elayne that she didn’t know much about warfare, this hiding in a forest with a team of well-trained companions… this she’d done before. Dozens of times. Perhaps hundreds, though her memories were so fuzzy, she couldn’t say for certain.