Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 04 - The Shadow Rising

About the Author:

Robert Jordan

Note! Robert Jordan is a pseudonym. His real name is James Oliver Rigney Jr!!!

A lifelong resident of Charleston, South Carolina, Jordan was born in 1948. With a brother 12 years his

senior, Robert began his education at an early age, and his future interest in fantastic literature was

inevitable. "When my parents couldn’t get a baby-sitter, they’d get my brother," he recalls. "He would

read to me, not kids’ books, but things he was interested in, like Jules Verne, H.G. Wells and Mark

Twain, so I was exposed to a lot of great fiction."

Jordan served two tours of duty in Vietnam (1968-70), earning the Distinguished Flying Cross and the

Bronze star. The Vietnamese twice awarded him with their Cross of Gallantry. After Vietnam, he entered

the Citadel, the military college of South Carolina, where he received a degree in physics. In retrospect,

Robert Jordan feels that physics is not such an unusual background for a fantasy writer. "You can’t study

quantum mechanics without a feel for fantasy," he recently reflected, "Schrodinger’s Cat alone will kill any

logical person dead." After attaining his degree, he was employed by the Navy as a nuclear engineer. He

was hospitalized for an injury which gave him a great deal of time to catch up on his reading. Jordan

quickly ran out of satisfactory material, and in exasperation, thought he could probably write as well as

the authors he had been reading. The Wheel of Time is the happy result.

Robert Jordan has now been writing for 13 years, and he has been married for ten. He and his wife live

in the Old Historic District of Charleston, in a house dating from 1797. A history buff, he is particularly

interested in Charleston’s past, and in military history. An outdoors man, Jordan enjoys hunting fishing

and sailing, and the indoor sports of poker, chess and pool, and collecting pipes. .

About this book . . .

The Dragon Reborn

Book Three of The Wheel of Time

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The Dragon Reborn — the leader long prophesied who will save the world, but in the saving destroy it;

the savior who will run mad and kill all those dearest to him — is on the run from his destiny.

Able to touch the One Power, but unable to control it, and with no one to teach him how — for no man

has done it in three thousand years — Rand al'Thor knows only that he must face the Dark One. But

how?

Winter has stopped the war — almost — yet men are dying, calling out for the Dragon. But where is

he?

Perrin Aybara is in pursuit with Moiraine Sedai, her Warder Lan, and Loial the Ogier. Bedeviled by

dreams, Perrin is grappling with another deadly problem -- how is he to escape the loss of his own

humanity?

Egwene, Elayne and Nynaeve are approaching Tar Valon, where Mat will be Healed — if he lives until

they arrive. But who will tell Amyrlin their news -- that the Black Ajah, long thought only a hideous

rumor, is all too real? They cannot know that in Tar Valon far worse awaits. . .

Ahead, for all of them, in the Heart of the Stone, lies the next great test of the Dragon Reborn.. . .

The Shadow shall rise across the world, and darken every land, even to the smallest corner, and

there shall be neither Light nor safety. And he who shall be born of the Dawn, born of the Maiden,

according to Prophecy, he shall stretch forth his hands to catch the Shadow, and the world shall

scream in the pain of salvation. All Glory be to the Creator, and to the Light, and to he who shall

be born again. May the Light save us from him.

— fromCommentaries on the Karaethon Cycle

Sereine dar Shamelle Motara

Counsel-Sister to Comaelle,

High Queen of Jaramide

(circa 325 AB, the Third Age)

Chapter 1

Seeds of Shadow

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The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend

fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In. one Age,

called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose on the great plain

called the Caralain Grass. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to

the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it wasa beginning.

North and west the wind blew beneath early morning sun, over endless miles of rolling grass and

far-scattered thickets, across the swift-flowing River Luan, past the broken-topped fang of

Dragonmount, mountain of legend towering above the slow swells of the rolling plain, looming so high that

clouds wreathed it less than halfway to the smoking peak. Dragonmount, where the Dragon had died —

and with him, some said, the Age of Legends — where prophecy said he would be born again. Or had

been. North and west, across the villages of Jualdhe and Darein and Alindaer, where bridges like stone

lacework arched out to the Shining Walls, the great white walls of what many called the greatest city in

the world. Tar Valon. A city just touched by the reaching shadow of Dragonmount each evening.

Within those walls Ogier-made buildings well over two thousand years old seemed to grow out of the

ground rather than having been built, or to be the work of wind and water rather than that of even the

fabled hands of Ogier stone-masons. Some suggested birds taking flight, or huge shells from distant seas.

Soaring towers, flared or fluted or spiraled, stood connected by bridges hundreds of feet in the air, often

without rails. Only those long in Tar Valon could avoid gaping like country folk who had never been off

the farm.

Greatest of those towers, the White Tower dominated the city, gleaming like polished bone in the sun.

The Wheel of Time turns around Tar Valon , so people said in the city,and Tar Valon turns around

the Tower . The first sight travelers had of Tar Valon, before their horses came in view of the bridges,

before their river boat captains sighted the island, was the Tower reflecting the sun like a beacon. Small

wonder then that the great square surrounding the walled Tower grounds seemed smaller than it was

under the massive Tower’s gaze, the people in it dwindling to insects. Yet the White Tower could have

been the smallest in Tar Valon, the fact that it was the heart of Aes Sedai power would still have

overawed the island city.

Despite their numbers, the crowd did not come close to filling the square. Along the edges people

jostled each other in a milling mass, all going about their day’s business, but closer to the Tower grounds

there were ever fewer people, until a band of bare paving stones at least fifty paces wide bordered the

tall white walls. Aes Sedai were respected and more in Tar Valon, of course, and the Amyrlin Seat ruled

the city as she ruled the Aes Sedai, but few wanted to be closer to Aes Sedai power than they had to.

There was a difference between being proud of a grand fireplace in your hall and walking into the flames.

A very few did go closer, to the broad stairs that led up to the Tower itself, to the intricately carved

doors wide enough for a dozen people abreast. Those doors stood open, welcoming. There were always

some people in need of aid or an answer they thought only Aes Sedai could give, and they came from far

as often as near, from Arafel and Ghealdan, from Saldaea and Illian. Many would find help or guidance

inside, though often not what they had expected or hoped for.

Min kept the wide hood of her cloak pulled up, shadowing her face in its depths. In spite of the warmth

of the day, the garment was light enough not to attract comment, not on a woman so obviously shy. And

a good many people were shy when they went to the Tower. There was nothing about her to attract

notice. Her dark hair was longer than when she was last in the Tower, though still not quite to her

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shoulders, and her dress, plain blue except for narrow bands of white Jaerecuz lace at neck and wrists,

would have suited the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, wearing her feastday best to the Tower just like

the other women approaching the wide stairs. Min hoped she looked the same, at least. She had to stop

herself from staring at them to see if they walked or held themselves differently.I can do it , she told

herself.

She had certainly not come all this way to turn back now. The dress was a good disguise. Those who

remembered her in the Tower remembered a young woman with close-cropped hair, always in a boy’s

coat and breeches, never in a dress. It had to be a good disguise. She had no choice about what she was

doing. Not really.

Her stomach fluttered the closer she came to the Tower, and she tightened her grip on the bundle

clutched to her breast. Her usual clothes were in there, and. her good boots, and all her possessions

except the horse she had left at an inn not far from the square. With luck, she would be back on the

gelding in a few hours, riding for the Ostrein Bridge and the road south.

She was not really looking forward to climbing onto a horse again so soon, not after weeks in the saddle

with never a day’s pause, but she longed to leave this place. She had never seen the White Tower as

hospitable, and right now it seemed nearly as awful as the Dark One’s prison at Shayol Ghul. Shivering,

she wished she had not thought of the Dark One.I wonder if Moiraine thinks I came just because she

asked me? The Light help me, acting like a fool girl. Doing fool things because of a fool man!

She mounted the stairs uneasily — each was deep enough to take two strides for her to reach the next

— and unlike most of the others, she did not pause for an awed stare up the pale height of the Tower.

She wanted this over.

Inside, archways almost surrounded the large, round entry hall, but the petitioners huddled in the middle

of the chamber, shuffling together beneath a flat-domed ceiling. The pale stone floor had been worn and

polished by countless nervous feet over the centuries. No one thought of anything except where they

were, and why. A farmer and his wife in rough woolens, clutching each other’s callused hands, rubbed

shoulders with a merchant in velvet-slashed silks, a maid at her heels clutching a small worked-silver

casket, no doubt her mistress’s gift for the Tower. Elsewhere, the merchant would have stared down her

nose at farm folk who brushed so close, and they might well have knuckled their foreheads and backed

away apologizing. Not now. Not here.

There were few men among the petitioners, which was no surprise to Min. Most men were nervous

around Aes Sedai. Everyone knew it had been male Aes Sedai, when there still had been male Aes

Sedai, who were responsible for the Breaking of the World. Three thousand years had not dimmed that

memory, even if time had altered many of the details. Children were still frightened by tales of men who

could channel the One Power, men doomed to go mad from the Dark One’s taint onsaidin , the male

half of the True Source. Worst was the story of Lews Therin Telamon, the Dragon, Lews Therin

Kinslayer, who had begun the Breaking. For that matter, the stories frightened adults, too. Prophecy said

the Dragon would be born again in mankind’s greatest hour of need, to fight the Dark One in Tarmon

Gai’don, the Last Battle, but that made little difference in how most people looked at any connection

between men and the Power. Any Aes Sedai would hunt down a man who could channel, now; of the

seven Ajahs, the Red did little else.

Of course, none of that had anything to do with seeking help from Aes Sedai, yet few men felt easy

about being linked in any way to Aes Sedai and the Power. Few, that is, except Warders, but each

Warder was bonded to an Aes Sedai; Warders could hardly be taken for the general run of men. There

was a saying: “A man will cut off his own hand to get rid of a splinter before asking help from Aes

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Sedai.” Women meant it as a comment on men’s stubborn foolishness, but Min had heard some men say

the loss of a hand might be the better decision.

She wondered what these people would do if they knew what she knew. Run screaming, perhaps. And

if they knew her reason for being here, she might not survive to be taken up by the Tower guards and

thrown into a cell. She did have friends in the Tower, but none with power or influence. If her purpose

was discovered, it was much less likely that they could help her than that she would pull them to the

gallows or the headsman behind her. That was saying she lived to be tried, of course; more likely her

mouth would be stopped permanently long before a trial.

She told herself to stop thinking like that.I’ll make it in, and I’ll make it out. The Light burn Rand

al’Thor for getting me into this!

Three or four Accepted, women Min’s age or perhaps a little older, were circulating through the round

room, speaking softly to the petitioners. Their white dresses had no decoration except for seven bands of

color at the hem, one band for each Ajah. Now and again a novice, a still younger woman or girl all in

white, came to lead someone deeper into the Tower. The petitioners always followed the novices with an

odd mix of excited eagerness and foot-dragging reluctance.

Min’s grip tightened on her bundle as one of the Accepted stopped in front of her. “The Light illumine

you,” the curly-haired woman said perfunctorily. “I am called Faolain. How may the Tower help you?”

Faolain’s dark, round face held the patience of someone doing a tedious job when she would rather be

doing something else. Studying, probably, from what Min knew of the Accepted. Learning to be Aes

Sedai. Most important, however, was the lack of recognition in the Accepted’s eyes; the two of them

had met when Min was in the Tower before, though only briefly.

Just the same, Min lowered her face in assumed diffidence. It was not unnatural; a good many country

folk did not really understand the great step up from Accepted to full Aes Sedai. Shielding her features

behind the edge of her cloak, she looked away from Faolain.

“I have a question I must ask the Amyrlin Seat,” she began, then cut off abruptly as three Aes Sedai

stopped to look into the entry hall, two from one archway and one from another.

Accepted and novices curtsied when their rounds took them close to one of the Aes Sedai, but

otherwise went on about their tasks, perhaps a trifle more briskly. That was all. Not so for the

petitioners. They seemed to catch their breaths all together. Away from the White Tower, away from Tar

Valon, they might simply have thought the Aes Sedai three women whose ages they could not guess,

three women in the flush of their prime, yet with more maturity than their smooth cheeks suggested. In the

Tower, though, there was no question. A woman who had worked very long with the One Power was

not touched by time in the same way as other women. In the Tower, no one needed to see a golden

Great Serpent ring to know an Aes Sedai.

A ripple of curtsies spread through the huddle, and jerky bows from the few men. Two or three people

even fell to their knees. The rich merchant looked frightened; the farm couple at her side stared at legends

come to life. How to deal with Aes Sedai was a matter of hearsay for most; it was unlikely that any here,

except those who actually lived in Tar Valon, had seen an Aes Sedai before, and probably not even the

Tar Valoners had been this close.

But it was not the Aes Sedai themselves that halted Min’s tongue. Sometimes, not often, she saw things

when she looked at people, images and auras that usually flared and were gone in moments. Occasionally

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she knew what they meant. It happened rarely, the knowing — much more rarely than the seeing, even

— but when she knew, she was always right.

Unlike most others, Aes Sedai — and their Warders — always had images and auras, sometimes so

many dancing and shifting that they made Min dizzy. The numbers made no difference in interpreting

them, though; she knew what they meant for Aes Sedai as seldom as for anyone else. But this time she

knew more than she wanted to, and it made her shiver.

A slender woman with black hair falling to her waist, the only one of the three she recognized — her

name was Ananda; she was Yellow Ajah — wore a sickly brown halo, shriveled and split by rotting

fissures that fell in and widened as they decayed. The small, fair-haired Aes Sedai beside Ananda was

Green Ajah, by her green-fringed shawl. The White Flame of Tar Valon on it showed for a moment

when she turned her back. And on her shoulder, as if nestled among the grape vines and flowering apple

branches worked on her shawl, sat a human skull. A small woman’s skull, picked clean and

sun-bleached. The third, a plumply pretty woman halfway around the room, wore no shawl; most Aes

Sedai did not except for ceremony. The lift of her chin and the set of her shoulders spoke of strength and

pride. She seemed to be casting cool blue eyes on the petitioners through a tattered curtain of blood,

crimson streamers running down her face.

Blood and skull and halo faded away in the dance of images around the three, came and faded again.

The petitioners stared in awe, seeing only three women who could touch the True Source and channel the

One Power. No one but Min saw the rest. No one but Min knew those three women were going to die.

All on the same day.

“The Amyrlin cannot see everyone,” Faolain said with poorly hidden impatience. “Her next public

audience is not for ten days. Tell me what you want, and I will arrange for you to see the sister who can

best help you.”

Min’s eye flew to the bundle in her arms and stayed there, partly so she would not have to see again

what she had already seen.All threeof them! Light! What chance was there that three Aes Sedai would

die on the same day? But she knew. She knew.

“I have the right to speak to the Amyrlin Seat. In person.” It was a right seldom demanded — who

would dare? — but it existed. “Any woman has that right, and I ask it.”

“Do you think the Amyrlin Seat herself can see everyone who comes to the White Tower? Surely

another Aes Sedai can help you.” Faolain gave heavy weight to the titles as if to overpower Min. “Now

tell me what your question is about. And give me your name, so the novice will know who to come for.”

“My name is . . . Elmindreda.” Min winced in spite of herself. She had always hated the name, but the

Amyrlin was one of the few people living who had ever heard it. If only she remembered. “I have the

right to speak to the Amyrlin. And my question is for her alone. I have the right.”

The Accepted arched an eyebrow. “Elmindreda?” Her mouth twitched toward an amused smile. “And

you claim your rights. Very well. I will send word to the Keeper of the Chronicles that you wish to see

the Amyrlin Seat personally, Elmindreda.”

Min wanted to slap the woman for the way she emphasized “Elmindreda,” but instead she forced out a

murmured “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet. No doubt it will be hours before the Keeper finds time to reply, and it will

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certainly be that you can ask your question at the Mother’s next public audience. Wait with patience.

Elmindreda.” She gave Min a tight smile, almost a smirk, as she turned away.

Grinding her teeth, Min took her bundle to stand against the wall between two of the archways, where

she tried to blend into the pale stonework.Trust no one, and avoid notice until you reach the Amyrlin

, Moiraine had told her. Moiraine was one Aes Sedai she did trust. Most of the time. It was good advice

in any case. All she had to do was reach the Amyrlin, and it would be over. She could don her own

clothes again, see her friends, and leave. No more need for hiding.

She was relieved to see that the Aes Sedai had gone. Three Aes Sedai dying on one day. It was

impossible; that was the only word. Yet it was going to happen. Nothing she said or did could change it

— when she knew what an image meant, it happened — but she had to tell the Amyrlin about this. It

might even be as important as the news she brought from Moiraine, though that was hard to believe.

Another Accepted came to replace one already there, and to Min’s eyes bars floated in front of her

apple-cheeked face, like a cage. Sheriam, the Mistress of Novices, looked into the hall — after one

glance, Min kept her gaze on the stone under her feet; Sheriam knew her all too well — and the

red-haired Aes Sedai’s face seemed battered and bruised. It was only the viewing, of course, but Min

still had to bite her lip to stifle a gasp. Sheriam, with her calm authority and sureness, was as

indestructible as the Tower. Surely nothing could harm Sheriam. But something was going to.

An Aes Sedai unknown to Min, wearing the shawl of the Brown Ajah, accompanied a stout woman in

finely woven red wool to the doors. The stout woman walked as lightly as a girl, face shining, almost

laughing with pleasure. The Brown sister was smiling, too, but her aura faded like a guttering candle

flame.

Death. Wounds, captivity, and death. To Min it might as well have been printed on a page.

She set her eyes on her feet. She did not want to see any more.Let her remember , she thought. She

had not felt desperation at any tune on her long ride from the Mountains of Mist, not even on the two

occasions when someone tried to steal her horse, but she felt it now.Light, let her remember that

bloody name.

“Mistress Elmindreda?”

Min gave a start. The black-haired novice who stood before her was barely old enough to be away from

home, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, though she made a great effort at dignity. “Yes? I am. . . . That is my

name.”

“I am Sahra. If you will come with me — ” Sahra’s piping voice took on a note of wonder — “the

Amyrlin Seat will see you in her study now.”

Min gave a sigh of relief and followed eagerly.

Her cloak’s deep hood still hid her face, but it did not stop her seeing, and the more she saw, the more

she grew eager to reach the Amyrlin. Few people walked the broad corridors that spiraled upward with

their brightly colored floor tiles, and their wall hangings and golden lamp stands — the Tower had been

built to hold far greater numbers than it did now — but nearly everyone she saw as she climbed higher

wore an image or aura that spoke to her of violence and danger.

Warders hurried by with barely a glance for the two women, men who moved like hunting wolves, their

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swords only an afterthought to their deadliness, but they seemed to have bloody faces, or gaping

wounds. Swords and spears danced about their heads, threatening. Their auras flashed wildly, flickered

on the knife edge of death. She saw dead men walking, knew they would die on the same day as the Aes

Sedai in the entry hall, or at most a day later. Even some of the servants, men and women with the Flame

of Tar Valon on their breasts, hurrying about their work, bore signs of violence. An Aes Sedai glimpsed

down a side hallway appeared to have chains in the air around her, and another, crossing the corridor

ahead of Min and her guide, seemed for most of those few strides to wear a silver collar around her

neck. Min’s breath caught at that; she wanted to scream.

“It can all be overwhelming to someone who’s never seen it before,” Sahra said, trying and failing to

sound as if the Tower were as ordinary to her now as her home village. “But you are safe here. The

Amyrlin Seat will make things right.” Her voice squeaked when she mentioned the Amyrlin.

“Light, let her do just that,” Min muttered. The novice gave her a smile that was meant to be soothing.

By the time they reached the hall outside the Amyrlin’s study, Min’s stomach was churning and she was

treading almost on Sahra’s heels. Only the need to pretend that she was a stranger had kept her from

running ahead long since.

One of the doors to the Amyrlin’s chambers opened, and a young man with red-gold hair came stalking

out, nearly striding into Min and her escort. Tall and straight and strong in his blue coat thickly

embroidered with gold on sleeves and collar, Gawyn of House Trakand, son of Queen Morgase of

Andor, looked every inch the proud young lord. A furious young lord. There was no time to drop her

head; he was staring down into her hood, right into her face.

His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed to slits of blue ice. “So you are back. Do you know where

my sister and Egwene have gone?”

“They are not here?” Min forgot everything in a rising flood of panic. Before she knew what she was

doing she had seized his sleeves, peering up at him urgently, and forced him back a step. “Gawyn, they

started for the Tower months ago! Elayne and Egwene, and Nynaeve, too. With Verin Sedai and. . . .

Gawyn, I . . . I. . . .”

“Calm yourself,” he said, gently undoing her grip on his coat. “Light! I didn’t mean to frighten you so.

They arrived safely. And would not say a word of where they had been, or why. Not to me. I suppose

there’s scant hope you will?” She thought she kept her face straight, but he took one look and said, “I

thought not. This place has more secrets than. . . . They’ve vanished again. And Nynaeve, too.” Nynaeve

was almost an offhand addition; she might be one of Min’s friends, but she meant nothing to him. His

voice began to roughen once more, growing tighter by the second. “Again without a word. Not a word!

Supposedly they’re on a farm somewhere as penance for running away, but I cannot find out where. The

Amyrlin won’t give me a straight answer.”

Min flinched; for a moment, streaks of dried blood had made his face a grim mask. It was like a double

hammer blow. Her friends were gone — it had eased her coming to the Tower, knowing they were here

— and Gawyn was going to be wounded on the day the Aes Sedai died.

Despite all she had seen since entering the Tower, despite her fear, none of it had really touched her

personally until now. Disaster striking the Tower would spread far from Tar Valon, yet she was not of the

Tower and never could be. But Gawyn was someone she knew, someone she liked, and he was going to

be hurt more than the blood told, hurt somehow deeper than wounds to his flesh. It hit her that if

catastrophe seized the Tower, not only distant Aes Sedai would be harmed, women she could never feel

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close to, but her friends as well. Theywere of the Tower.

In a way she was glad Egwene and the others were not there, glad she could not look at them and

perhaps see signs of death. Yet she wanted to look, to be sure, to look at her friends and see nothing, or

see that they would live. Where in the Light were they? Why had they gone? Knowing those three, she

thought it possible that if Gawyn did not know where they were, it was because they did not want him to

know. It could be that.

Suddenly she remembered where she was and why, and that she was not alone with Gawyn. Sahra

seemed to have forgotten she was taking Min to the Amyrlin; she seemed to have forgotten everything

but the young lord, making calf-eyes that he was not noticing. Even so, there was no use pretending any

longer to be a stranger to the Tower. She was at the Amyrlin’s door; nothing could stop her now.

“Gawyn, I don’t know where they are, but if they are doing penance on a farm, they’re probably all

sweat, and mud to their hips, and you are the last one they will want to see them.” She was not much

easier about their absence than Gawyn was, in truth. Too much had happened, too much was happening,

too much with ties to them, and to her. But it was not impossible they had been sent off for punishment.

“You won’t help them by making the Amyrlin angry.”

“I don’t know that theyare on a farm. Or even alive. Why all this hiding and sidestepping if they’re just

pulling weeds? If anything happens to my sister. . . . Or to Egwene. . . .” He frowned at the toes of his

boots. “I am supposed to look after Elayne. How can I protect her when I don’t know where she is?”

Min sighed. “Do you think she needs looking after? Either of them?” But if the Amyrlin had sent them

somewhere, maybe they did. The Amyrlin was capable of sending a woman into a bear’s den with

nothing but a switch if it suited her purposes. And she would expect the woman to come back with a

bearskin, or the bear on a leash, as instructed. But telling Gawyn that would only inflame his temper and

his worries. “Gawyn, they have pledged to the Tower. They won’t thank you for meddling.”

“I know Elayne isn’t a child,” he said patiently, “even if she does bounce back and forth between running

off like one and playing at being Aes Sedai. But sheis my sister, and beyond that, she is Daughter-Heir of

Andor. She’ll be queen, after Mother. Andor needs her whole and safe to take the throne, not another

Succession.”

Playingat being Aes Sedai? Apparently he did not realize the extent of his sister’s talent. The

Daughter-Heirs of Andor had been sent to the Tower to train for as long as there had been an Andor,

but Elayne was the first to have enough talent to be raised to Aes Sedai, and a powerful Aes Sedai at

that. Very likely he also did not know Egwene was just as strong.

“So you will protect her whether she wants it or not?” She said it in a flat voice meant to let him know he

was making a mistake, but he missed the warning and nodded agreement.

“That has been my duty since the day she was born. My blood shed before hers; my life given before

hers. I took that oath when I could barely see over the side of her cradle; Gareth Bryne had to explain to

me what it meant. I won’t break it now. Andor needs her more than it needs me.”

He spoke with a calm certainty, an acceptance of something natural and right, that sent chills through her.

She had always thought of him as boyish, laughing and teasing, but now he was something alien. She

thought the Creator must have been tired when it came time to make men; sometimes they hardly seemed

human. “And Egwene? What oath did you take about her?”

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His face did not change, but he shifted his feet warily. “I’m concerned about Egwene, of course. And

Nynaeve. What happens to Elayne’s companions might happen to Elayne. I assume they’re still together;

when theywere here, I seldom saw one without the others.”

“My mother always told me to marry a poor liar, and you qualify. Except that I think someone else has

first claim.”

“Some things are meant to be,” he said quietly, “and some never can. Galad is heartsick because

Egwene is gone.” Galad was his half-brother, the pair of them sent to Tar Valon to train under the

Warders. That was another Andoran tradition. Galadedrid Damodred was a man who took doing the

right thing to the point of a fault, as Min saw it, but Gawyn could see no wrong in him. And he would not

speak his feelings for a woman Galad had set his heart on.

She wanted to shake him, shake some sense into him, but there was no time now. Not with the Amyrlin

waiting, not with what she had to tell the Amyrlin waiting. Certainly not with Sahra standing there,

calf-eyes or no calf-eyes. “Gawyn, I am summoned to the Amyrlin. Where can I find you, when she is

done with me?”

“I will be in the practice yard. The only time I can stop worrying is when I am working the sword with

Hammar.” Hammar was a blademaster, and the Warder who taught the sword. “Most days I’m there

until the sun sets.”

“Good, then. I will come as soon as I can. And try to watch what you say. If you make the Amyrlin

angry with you, Elayne and Egwene might share in it.”

“That I cannot promise,” he said firmly. “Something is wrong in the world. Civil war in Cairhien. The

same and worse in Tarabon and Arad Doman. False Dragons. Troubles and rumors of troubles

everywhere. I don’t say the Tower is behind it, but even here things are not what they should be. Or

what they seem, Elayne and Egwene vanishing isn’t the whole of it. Still, they are the part that concerns

me. Iwill find out where they are. And if they have been hurt. . . . If they are dead. . . .”

He scowled, and for an instant his face was that bloody mask again. More: a sword floated above his

head, and a banner waved behind it. The long-hilted sword, like those most Warders used, had a heron

engraved on its slightly curved blade, symbol of a blademaster, and Min could not say whether it

belonged to Gawyn or threatened him. The banner bore Gawyn’s sigil of the charging White Boar, but on

a field of green rather than the red of Andor. Both sword and banner faded with the blood.

“Be careful, Gawyn.” She meant it two ways. Careful of what he said, and careful in a way she could not

explain, even to herself. “You must be very careful.”

His eyes searched her face as if he had heard some of her deeper meaning. “I . . . will try,” he said

finally. He put on a grin, almost the grin she remembered, but the effort was plain. “I suppose I had better

get myself back to the practice yard if I expect to keep up with Galad. I managed two out of five against

Hammar this morning, but Galad actually won three, the last time he bothered to come to the yard.”

Suddenly he appeared to really see her for the first time, and his grin became genuine. “You ought to

wear dresses more often. It’s pretty on you. Remember, I will be there till sunset.”

As he strode away with something very close to the dangerous grace of a Warder, Min realized she was

smoothing the dress over her hip and stopped immediately.The Light burn all men!

Sahra exhaled as if she had been holding her breath. “He is very good-looking, isn’t he?” she said

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Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 04 - The Shadow Rising

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