Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 05 - The Fires of Heaven

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The Fires of Heaven - Book 5 of The Wheel of Time - by Robert Jordan v1.2

In this sequel to the phenomenal New York Times bestseller The Shadow Rising, Robert Jordan

again plunges us into his extraordinarily rich, totally unforgettable world: ...into the forbidden

city of Rhuidean, where Rand al'Thor, now the Dragon Reborn, must conceal his present

endeavor from all about him, even Egwene and Moiraine. ...Into the Amyrlin's study in the White

Tower, where the Amyrlin, Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan, is weaving new plans. ...into Andor,

where Siuan Sanche and her companions, including the false Dragon Logain, have been arrested

for barn-burning. ...into the luxurious hidden chamber where the Forsaken Rahvin is meeting with

three of his fellows to ensure their ultimate victory over the Dragon. ...Into the Queen's court in

Caemlyn, where Morgase is curiously in thrall to the handsome Lord Gaebril. For once the

Dragon walks the land, the fires of heaven fall where they will, until all men's lives are ablaze.

And in Shayol Ghul, the Dark One stirs...

Prologue

The First Sparks Fall

Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan absently fingered the long, seven-striped stole about her

shoulders, the stole of the Amyrlin Seat, as she sat behind her wide writing table. Many would

have accounted her beautiful, at first glance, but a second look made it clear that the severity of

her ageless, Aes Sedai face was not a momentary matter. Today there was something more, a

light of anger in her dark eyes. If anyone had noticed.

She barely, listened to the women arrayed on stools before her. Their dresses were every

color from white to the darkest red, in silk or wool as each woman's taste dictated, yet all but one

wore their formal shawls, embroidered White Flame of Tar Valon centered on their backs, colored

fringe proclaiming their Ajahs, as though this were a meeting of the Hall of the Tower. They

discussed reports and rumors of events in the world, trying to sift fact from fancy, trying to decide

the Tower's course of action, but they seldom even glanced at the woman behind the table, the

woman they had sworn to obey. Elaida could not keep her full attention we need is Shienar

weakening itself to the point where a Trolloc army could break through."

"Perhaps." Alviarin nodded, considering. "But there are agents in Shienar-Red, I am sure,

and perhaps others?-" The four Red sisters nodded tightly, reluctantly; no one else did. "--who

can warn us if these small clashes become anything to worry us."

It was an open secret that every Ajah except the White, devoted to logic and philosophy

as it was, had watchers and listeners scattered through the nations to varying degrees, though the

Yellow network was believed to be a pitiful thing. There was nothing of sickness or Healing they

could learn from those who could not channel. Some individual sisters had their own

eyes-and-ears, though perhaps even more closely guarded than agents of the Ajahs. The Blues had

had the most extensive, both Ajah and personal.

"As for Tenobia and Davram Bashere," Alviarin went on, "are we agreed that they must

be dealt with by sisters?" She hardly waited for heads to nod. "Good. It is done. Memara will do

nicely; she will take no nonsense from Tenobia, while never letting her see the leash. Now. Does

anyone have fresh word out of Arad Doman or Tarabon? If we do not do something there soon,

we may find that Pedron Niall and the Whitecloaks have sway from Bandar Eban to the Shadow

Coast. Evanellein, you have something?" Arad Doman and Tarabon were racked by civil wars,

and worse. There was no order anywhere. Elaida was surprised they would bring it up.

"Only a rumor," the Gray sister replied. Her silk dress, matching the fringe on her shawl,

was finely cut and scooped low at the neck. Often Elaida thought the woman should have been

Green, so concerned was she with her looks and clothes. "Almost everyone in those poor lands is

a refugee, including those who might send news. The Panarch Amathera has apparently vanished,

and it seems an Aes Sedai may have been involved. . . ."

Elaida's hand tightened on her stole. Nothing touched her face, but her, eyes smoldered.

The matter of the Saldaean army was done. At least Memara was Red; that was a surprise. But

they had not even asked her opinion. It was done. The startling possibility that an Aes Sedai was

involved in the disappearance of the Panarch-if this was not another of the thousand improbable

tales that drifted from the western coast-could not take Elaida's mind from that. There were Aes

Sedai scattered from the Aryth Ocean to the Spine of the World, and the Blues at least might do

anything. Less than two months since they had all knelt to swear fealty to her as the embodiment

of the White Tower, and now the decision was made without so much as a glance in her direction.

The Amyrlin's study sat only a few levels up in the White Tower, yet this room was the

heart of the Tower as surely as the Tower itself, the color of bleached bone, was the heart of the

great island city of Tar Valon, cradled in the River Erinin. And Tar Valon was, or should be, the

heart of the world. The room spoke of the power wielded by the long line of women who had

occupied it, floor of polished redstone from the Mountains of Mist, tall fireplace of golden

Kandori marble, walls paneled in pale, oddly striped wood marvelously carved with unknown

birds and beasts more than a thousand years ago. Stone like glittering pearls framed the tall,

arched windows that let onto the balcony overlooking the Amyrlin's private garden, the only stone

like it known, salvaged from a nameless city swallowed by the Sea of Storms during the Breaking

of the World. A room of power, a reflection of Amyrlins who had made thrones dance to their

calling for nearly three thousand years. And they did not even ask her opinion.

It happened too often, this slighting. Worst-most bitter of all, perhaps-they usurped her

authority without even thinking of it. They knew how she had come to the stole, knew their Aiel

had put it on her shoulders. She herself had been too much aware of that. But they presumed too

far. It would soon be time to do something about that. But not quite yet.

She had put her own stamp on the room, as much as possible, with a writing table ornately

carved in triple linked rings and a heavy chair that raised an inlaid ivory Flame of Tar Valon above

her dark hair like a large snowy teardrop. Three boxes of Altaran lacquerwork were arranged on

the table, precisely equidistant from each other; one held the finest of her collection of carved

miniatures. A white vase on a simple plinth against one wall held red roses that filled the room

with sweet fragrance. There had been no rain since she was raised, but fine blossoms were always

available with the Power; she had always liked flowers. They could be so easily pruned and

trained to produce beauty.

Two paintings hung where, seated, she could see them merely by lifting her head. The

others avoided looking at them; among all the Aes Sedai who came to Elaida's study, o nly

Alviarin ever so much as glanced at them.

"Is there any news of Elayne?" Andaya asked diffidently. A thin, birdlike little woman,

outwardly timid despite Aes Sedai features, the second Gray looked an unlikely mediator, but was

in fact one of the best. There were still faint traces of Tarabon in her voice. "Or Galad? If

Morgase discovers that we have lost her stepson, she may begin to ask more questions concerning

the whereabouts of her daughter, yes? And if she learns we have lost the Daughter-Heir, Andor

may become as closed to us as Amadicia."

A few women shook their heads-there was no news, and Javindhra said, "A Red sister is in

place in the Royal Palace. Newly raised, so she can easily pass for other than Aes Sedai." She

meant that the woman had not yet taken on the agelessness that came with long use of the Power.

Someone trying to guess the age of any woman in the study would have fumbled over a range of

twenty years, and in some cases would be off by twice that. "She is well trained, though, quite

strong, and a good observer. Morgase is absorbed in putting forward her claim to the Cairhienin

throne." Several women shifted on their stools, and as if realizing she had stepped close to

dangerous ground, Javindhra hurried on. "And her new lover, Lord Gaebril, seems to be keeping

her occupied otherwise." Her thin mouth narrowed even further. "She is completely besotted with

the man."

"He keeps her concentrated on Cairhien," Alviarin said. "The situation there is nearly as

bad as in Tarabon and Arad Doman, with every House contending for the Sun Throne, and famine

everywhere. Morgase will reestablish order, but it will take time for her to have the throne secure.

Until that is done, she will have little energy left to worry about other matters, even the

Daughter-Heir. And I set a clerk the task of sending occasional letters; the woman does a good

imitation of Elayne's hand. Morgase will keep until we can secure proper control of her again."

"At least we still have her son in hand." Joline smiled.

"Gawyn do hardly be in hand," Teslyn said sharply. "Those Younglings of his do skirmish

with Whitecloaks on both sides of the river. He does act on his own as much as at our direction."

"He will be brought under control," Alviarin said. Elaida was beginning to find that

constant cool composure hateful

"Speaking of the Whitecloaks," Danelle put in, "it appears that Pedron Niall is conducting

secret negotiations, trying to convince Altara and Murandy to cede land to Illian, and thus keep

the Council of Nine from invading one or both."

Safely back from the precipice, the women on the other side of the table nattered on,

deciding whether the Lord Captain Commander's negotiations might gain too much influence for

the Children of the Light. Perhaps they should be disrupted so the Tower could step in and

replace him.

Elaida's mouth twisted. The Tower had often in its history been cautious of necessity-too

many feared them, too many distrusted them-but it had never feared anything or anyone. Now, it

feared.

She raised her eyes to the paintings. One consisted of three wooden panels depicting

Bonwhin, the last Red to have been raised to the Amyrlin Seat, a thousand years before, and the

reason no Red had worn the stole since. Until Elaida. Bonwhin, tall and proud, ordering Aes

Sedai in their manipulations of Artur Hawkwing; Bonwhin, defiant, on the white walls of Tar

Valon, under siege by Hawkwing's forces; and Bonwhin, kneeling and bumbled, before the Hall of

the Tower as they stripped her of stole and staff for nearly destroying the Tower.

Many wondered why Elaida had had the triptych retrieved from the storerooms where it

had lain covered in dust; if none spoke openly, she had still heard the whispers. They did not

understand that constant reminder of the price of failure was necessary.

The second painting was in the new fashion, on stretched canvas, a copy of a street artist's

sketch from the distant west. That one caused even more unease among the Aes Sedai who saw

it. Two men fought among clouds, seemingly in the sky, wielding lightning for weapons. One had

a face of fire. The other was tall and young, with reddish hair. It was the youth who caused the

fear, who made even Elaida's teeth clench. She was not sure if it was in anger, or to keep them

from chattering. But fear could and must be controlled. Control was all.

"We are done, then," Alviarin said, rising smoothly from her stool. The others copied her,

adjusting skirts and shawls in preparation for leaving. "In three days, I will expect-"

"Have I given you leave to go, daughters?" Those were the first words Elaida had spoken

since telling them to be seated. They looked at her in surprise. Surprise! Some moved back

toward the stools, but not with any haste. And not a word of apology. She had let this go on

much too long. "Since you are standing, you will remain so until I am done." A moment of

confusion caught those half-seated, and she continued as they straightened again uncertainly. "I

have heard no mention of the search for that woman and her companions."

no need to name that woman, Elaida's predecessor. They knew who she meant, and Elaida

found it harder every day even to think the former Amyrlin's name. All of her current

problems-all!-could be laid at that woman's feet.

"It is difficult," Alviarin said evenly, "since we have bolstered the rumors that she was

executed." The woman had ice for blood. Elaida met her eyes firmly until she added a belated

"Mother," but it too was placid, even casual.

Elaida swung her gaze to the others, made her voice steel. "Joline, you have charge of that

search, and of the investigation of her escape. In both cases I hear of nothing but difficulties.

Perhaps a daily penance will help you. increase your diligence, daughter. Write out what you think

suitable and submit it to me. Should I find it-less than suitable, I will triple it."

Joline's ever-present smile faded in satisfactory fashion. She opened her mouth, then

closed it again under Elaida's steady stare. Finally, she curtsied deeply. "As you command,

Mother." The words were tight, the meekness forced, but it would do. For now.

"And what of trying to bring back those who fled?" If anything, Elaida's tone was even

harder. The return of the Aes Sedai who had run away when that woman was deposed meant the

return of Blues to the Tower. She was not sure she could ever trust any Blue. But then, she was

not sure she could ever bring herself to trust any who had fled instead of hailing her ascension.

Yet the Tower must be whole again.

Javindhra was overseeing that task. "Again, there are difficulties." Her features remained

as severe as ever, but she licked her lips quickly at the storm that swept silently across Elaida's

face. "Mother."

Elaida shook her head. "I will not hear of difficulties, daughter. Tomorrow you will place

before me a list of everything you have done, including all measures taken to see the world does

not learn of any dissension in the Tower." That was deadly important; there was a new Amyrlin,

but the world must see the Tower as united and strong as ever. "If you do not have enough- time

for the work I give you, perhaps you should give up your place as Sitter for the Red in the Hall. I

must consider it."

"That will not be necessary, Mother," the hard-faced woman said hurriedly. "You will

have the report you require tomorrow. I am sure many will start returning soon."

Elaida was not so certain; however much she wanted it-the Tower must be strong; it must!

-but her point was made. Troubled thoughtfulness marked every eye but Alviarin's. If Elaida was

ready to come down on one of her own former Ajah, and even harder on a Green who had been

with her from the first day, perhaps they had made a mistake in treating her as a ceremonial effigy.

Perhaps they had put her on the Amyrlin Seat, but now she was the Amyrlin. A few more

examples in the coming days should drive it home. If necessary, she would have every woman

here doing penance till they begged mercy.

"There are Tairen soldiers in Cairhien, as well as Andoran," she went on, ignoring averted

eyes. "Tairen soldiers sent by the man who took the St one of Tear." Shemerin clasped her plump

hands tight, and Teslyn flinched. Only Alviarin remained unruffled as a frozen pond. Elaida flung

out her hand and pointed to the painting of two men fighting with lightning. "Look at it. Look! Or

I will have every last one of you on hands and knees scrubbing floors! If you have not the

backbone even to look at a painting, what courage can you have for what is to come? Cowards

are no use to the Tower!"

Slowly they raised their eyes, shuffling feet like nervous girls instead of Aes Sedai. Only

Alviarin merely looked, and only she appeared untouched. Shemerin wrung her hands, and tears

actually welled in her eyes. Something would have to be done about Shemerin.

"Rand al'Thor. A man who can channel." The words left Elaida's mouth like a whip. They

made her own stomach knot up till she feared she, might vomit. Somehow she kept her face

smooth and pressed on, pushed the words Out, stones from a sling. "A man fated to go mad and

wreak horror with the Power before he dies. But more than that. Arad Doman and Tarabon and

everything between is a. ruin of rebellion because of him. If the war and famine in Cairhien cannot

be tied to him of a certainty, he surely precipitates a greater war there, between Tear and Andor,

when the Tower needs peace! In Ghealdan, some mad Shienaran preaches of him to crowds too

great for Alliandre's army to contain. The greatest danger the Tower has ever faced, the greatest

threat the world has ever faced, and you cannot make yourselves speak of him? You cannot gaze

at his image?"

Silence answered her. All save Alviarin looked as though their tongues were frozen. Most

stared at the young man in the painting, birds hypnotized by a snake.

"Rand al'Thor." The name tasted bitter on Elaida's lips. Once she had had that young man,

so innocent in appearance, within arm's reach. And she had not seen what he was. Her

predecessor had known-had known for the Light alone knew how long, and had left him to run

wild. That woman had told her a great deal before escaping, had said things, when put hard to the

question, that Elaida would not let herself believe-if the Forsaken were truly free, all might be

lost-but somehow she had managed to refuse some answers. And then escaped before she could

be put to the question again. That woman and Moiraine. That woman and the Blue had known all

along. Elaida intended to have them both back in the Tower. They would tell every last scrap of

what they knew. They would plead on their knees for death before she was done.

She forced herself to go on, though the words curdled in her mouth. "Rand al'Thor is the

Dragon Reborn, daughters." Shemerin's knees gave way, and she sat down hard on the floor.

Some of the others appeared to have weak knees as well. Elaida's eyes flogged them with scorn.

"There can be no doubt of it. He is the one spoken of in the Prophecies. The Dark One is breaking

free of his prison, the Last Battle is coming, and the Dragon Reborn must be there to face him or

the world is doomed to fire and destruction so long as the Wheel of Time turns. And he runs free,

daughters. We do not know where he is. We know a dozen places he is not. He is no longer in

Tear. He is not here in the Tower, safely shielded, as he should be. He brings the whirlwind down

on the world, and we must stop it if there is to be any hope of surviving Tarmon Gai'don. We

must have him in hand to see he fights in the Last Battle. Or do any of you believe he will go

willingly to his prophesied death to save the world? A man who must be going mad already? We

must have him in control!"

"Mother," Alviarin began with that irritating lack of emotion, but Elaida stopped her with

a glare.

"Putting our hands on Rand al'Thor is more important by far than skirmishes in Shienar or

whether the Blight is quiet, more important than finding Elayne or Galad, more important even

than Mazrim Taim. You will find him. You will! When next I see you, each of you will be ready

to tell me in detail what you have done to make it so. Now you may leave me, daughters."

A ripple of unsteady curtsies, breathy murmurs of "As you command, Mother," and they

came close to running, Joline helping Shemerin wobbling to her feet. The Yellow sister would do

nicely for the next example; some would be necessary, to make sure none of them slid back, and

she was too weak to be allowed in this council. Of course, this council would not be allowed to

continue much longer in any case. The Hall would hear her words, and leap.

All save Alviarin went.

For a long moment after the door had closed behind the others, the two women met each

other's eyes. Alviarin had been the first, the very first, to hear and agree with the charges against

Elaida's predecessor. And Alviarin knew full well why she wore the Keeper's stole instead of

someone from the Red. The Red Ajah had favored Elaida unanimously, but the White had not

done so, and without wholehearted support from the White, many others might not have come

round, in which case Elaida would have been in a cell instead of sitting on the Amyrlin Seat. That

is, if the remains of her head were not decorating a spike for the ravens to play with. Alviarin

would not be so easily intimidated as the others. If she could be intimidated at all. There was a

disturbing feel of equal-to-equal in Alviarin's unwavering gaze.

A tap at the door sounded loud in the quiet.

"Come!" Elaida snapped.

One of the Accepted, a pale, slender girl, stepped hesitantly into the room and immediately

dropped a curtsy so low her white skirt with its seven bands of color at the hem made a wide pool

around her on the floor. From the wideness of her blue eyes and the way she kept them on the

floor, she had caught the mood of the women leaving. Where Aes Sedai left shaking, an Accepted

went at great peril. "—Mother, Master F-Fain is here. He said you w-would see him at th-this

hour." The girl swayed in her crouch, on the point of falling over from stark fear.

"Then send him in, girl, instead of keeping him waiting," Elaida growled, but she would

have had the girl's hide if she had not kept the man outside. The anger she held back from

Alviann-she would not let herself think that she did not dare show it-that anger welled up. "And if

you cannot learn to speak properly, perhaps the kitchens are a better place for you than the

Amyrlin's anteroom. Well? Are you going to do as you were told? Move, girl! And tell the

Mistress of Novices you need to be taught to obey with alacrity!"

The girl squeaked something that might have been a correct response and darted out.

With an effort, Elaida got hold of herself. It did not concern her whether Silviana, the new

Mistress of Novices, beat the girl to incoherence or let her off with a lecture. She barely saw

novices or Accepted unless they intruded on her, and cared less. It was Alviarin she wanted

humbled and on her knees.

But Fain, now. She tapped one finger against her lips. A bony little man with a big nose,

who had appeared at the Tower only days earlier in dirty, once-fine clothes too big for him,

arrogant and cringing by turns, seeking audience with the Amyrlin. Except for those who served

the Tower, men came there only under duress or in great need, and none asked to speak to the

Amyrlin. A fool, in some ways, or conceivably a half-wit; he claimed to be from Lugard, in

Murandy, but spoke in various accents, sometimes slipping from one to another in midsentence.

Yet it seemed he might be useful.

Alviarin was still looking at her, so icily complacent, just a hint in her eyes of the questions

she must have about Fain. Elaida's face hardened. Almost she reached for saidar, the female half

of the True Source, to teach the woman her place with the Power: But that was not the way.

Alviarin might even resist, and fighting like a farmgirl in a stableyard was no method for the

Amyrlin to make her authority plain. Yet Alviarin would learn to yield to her as surely as the

others would. The first step would be leaving Alviarin in the dark concerning Master Fain, or

whatever his real name was.

Padan Fain put the frantic young Accepted out of his mind as he stepped into the

Amyrlin's study; she was a toothsome bit, and he liked them fluttering like birds in the hand, but

there were more important matters to concentrate on now. Dry-washing his hands, he ducked his

head suitably low, suitably humbly, but the two awaiting him seemed unaware of his presence at

first, locked eye-to-eye as they were. It was all he could do not to stretch out a hand to caress the

tension between them. Tension and division wove everywhere through the White Tower. All to

the good. Tension could be tweaked, division exploited, as need be.

He had been surprised to find Elaida on the Amyrlin Seat. Better than what he had

expected, though. In many ways she was not so tough, he had heard, as the woman who had worn

the stole before her. Harder, yes, and more cruel, but more brittle, too. More difficult to bend,

likely, but easier to break. If either became necessary. Still, one Aes Sedai, one Amyrlin even, was

much like another to him. Fools. Dangerous fools, true, but useful dupes at times.

Finally they realized he was there, the Amyrlin frowning slightly at being taken by surprise,

the Keeper of the Chronicles unchanging. "You may go now, daughter," Elaida said firmly, a

slight but definite emphasis on "now." Oh, yes. The tensions, the cracks in power. Cracks where

seeds could be planted. Fain caught himself on the point of giggling.

Alviarin hesitated before giving the briefest of curtsies. As she swept out of the room, her

eyes brushed across him, expressionless yet disconcerting. Unconsciously he huddled, bunching

his shoulders protectively; his upper lip fluttered in a half-snarl at her slim back. On occasion he

had the feeling, just for an instant, that she knew too much about him, but he could not have said

why. Her cool face, cool eyes, they never changed. At those times he wanted to make them

change. Fear. Agony. Pleading. He nearly laughed at the thought. no point, of course. She could

know nothing. Patience, and he could be done with her and her never-changing eyes.

The Tower held things worth a little patience in its strongrooms. The Horn of Valere was

there, the fabled Horn made to call dead heroes back from the grave for the Last Battle. Even

most of the Aes Sedai were ignorant of that, but he knew how to sniff out things. The dagger was

there. He felt its pull where he stood. He could have pointed to it. It was his, a part of him, stolen

and mired away here by these Aes Sedai. Having the dagger would make up for so much lost; he

was not sure how, but he was sure it would. For Aridhol lost. Too dangerous to return to

Aridhol, perchance to be trapped there again., He shivered. So long trapped. Not again.

Of course, no one called it Aridhol any longer, but Shadar Logoth. Where the Shadow

Waits. An apt name. So much had changed. Even himself. Padan Fain. Mordeth. Ordeith.

Sometimes he was uncertain which name was really his, who he really was. One thing was sure.

He was not what anyone thought. Those who believed they knew him were badly mistaken. He

was transfigured, now. A force unto himself, and beyond any other power. They would all learn,

eventually.

Suddenly he realized with a start that the Amyrlin had said something. Casting about in his

mind, he found it. "Yes, Mother, the coat suits me very well." He ran a hand down the black

velvet to show how fine he found it, as if garments mattered. "Tis a very good coat. I am thanking

you kindly, Mother." He was prepared to suffer more of her trying to make him. feel at ease,

ready to kneel and kiss her ring, but this time she went straight to the heart.

"Tell me more of what you know of Rand al'Thor, Master Fain."

Fain's eyes went to the painting of the two men, and as he gazed at it, his back

straightened. Al'Thor's portrait tugged at him almost as much as the man would, sent rage and

hate roiling along his veins. Because of that young man he had suffered pain beyond remembering,

pain he did not let himself remember, suffered far worse than pain. He had been broken and

remade because of al'Thor. Of course, that remaking gave him the means of revenge, but that was

beside the point. Beside his desire for al'Thor's destruction, everything else dimmed from sight.

When he turned back to the Amyrlin, he did not realize his manner was as commanding as

hers, meeting her Stare for stare. "Rand al'Thor is devious and sly, uncaring of anyone or anything

but his own power." Fool woman. "He's never a one to do what you expect." But if she could put

al'Thor in his hands. .. . "He is difficult to lead-very difficult-but I believe it can be done. First you

must tie a string to one of the few he trusts. . . ." If she gave him al'Thor, he might leave her alive

when he finally went, even if she was Aes Sedai.

Lounging in a gilded chair in his shirt sleeves, one booted leg over the padded arm, Rahvin

smiled as the woman standing before the fireplace repeated what he had told her. There was a

slight glaze in her large, brown eyes. A young, pretty woman, even in the plain gray woolens she

had adopted for disguise, but that was not what interested him about her.

no breath of air stirred through the room's tall windows. Sweat rolled down the woman's

face as she spoke, and beaded on the narrow face of the other man present. For all of that man's

fine red silk coat with its golden embroidery, he stood as stiffly as a servant, which he was in a

way, if of his own free will, unlike the woman. Of course, he was, deaf and blind for the moment.

Rahvin handled the flows of Spirit he had woven around the pair delicately. There was no

need to damage valuable servants.

He did not sweat, of course. He did not let the summer's lingering heat touch him. He was

a tall man, large, dark and handsome despite the white streaking his temples. Compulsion had

presented no difficulties with this woman.

A scowl twisted his face. It did with some. A few-a very few-had a strength of self so firm

that their minds searched, -even if unaware for crevices through which to slide away. It was his

bad luck that he still had some small need for one such. She could be handled, but she kept trying

to find escape without knowing she was trapped. Eventually that one would no longer be needed,

of course; he would have to decide whether to send her on her way or be rid of her more

permanently. Dangers lay either way. Nothing that could threaten him, of course, but he was a

careful man, meticulous. Small dangers had a way of growing if ignored, and he always chose his

risks with a measure of prudence. To kill her, or keep her?

The cessation of the woman's speech pulled him from his reverie. "When you leave here,"

he told her, "you will remember nothing of this visit. You will remember only taking your usual

morning walk." She nodded, eager to please him, and he tied off the strands of Spirit lightly, so

they would evaporate from her mind shortly after she reached the street. Repeated use of

compulsion made obedience easier even when it was not in use, but while it was, there was always

a danger it might be detected.

That done, he released Elegar's mind as well. Lord Elegar. A minor noble, but faithful to

his vows. He licked his thin lips nervously and glanced at the woman, then went immediately to

one knee before Rahvin. Friends of the Dark-Darkfriends they were called, now-had begun

learning just how strictly they would be kept to their vows now that Rahvin and the others were

freed.

"Take her to the street by back ways," Rahvin said, "and leave her there. She is not to be

seen."

"It will, be as you say, Great Master," Elegar said, bowing where he knelt. Rising, he

backed from Rahvin's presence, bowing and pulling the woman along by one arm. She went

docilely, of course, her eyes still fogged. Elegar would ask her no questions. He knew enough to

be well aware that there were things he did not want to know.

"One of your play pretties?" a woman's voice said behind him as the carved door closed.

"Have you taken to dressing them like that?"

Snatching at saidin, he filled himself with the Power, the taint on the male half of the True

Source rolling off the protection of his bonds and oaths, the ties to what he knew as a greater

power than the Light, or even the Creator.

In the middle of the chamber a gateway stood above the red-and-gold carpet, an -opening

to somewhere else. He had a brief view of a chamber lined with snowy silken hangings before it

vanished, leaving a woman, clad in white and belted in woven silver. The slight tingle in his skin,

like a faint chill, was all that told him she had channeled. Tall and slender, she was as beautiful as

he was handsome, her dark eyes bottomless pools, her hair, decorated with silver stars and

crescents, falling in perfect black waves to her shoulders. Most men would have felt their mouths

go dry with desire.

"What do you mean to come sneaking up on me, Lanfear?" he demanded roughly. He did

not let go of the Power, but rather prepared several nasty surprises in case he had need. "If you

want to speak with me, send an emissary, and I will decide when and where. And if."

Lanfear smiled that sweet, treacherous smile. "You were always a pig, Rahvin, but seldom

a fool. That woman is Aes Sedai. What if they miss her? Do you also send out heralds to

announce where you are?"

"Channel?" he sneered.. "She is not strong enough to be allowed outdoors without a

keeper. They call untutored children Aes Sedai when half what they know is self-taught tricks and

the other half barely scratches the surface."

"Would you still be so complacent if those untutored children put a circle of thirteen

around you?" The cool mockery in her voice stabbed him, but he did not let it show.

"I take my precautions, Lanfear. Rather than one of, my 'play pretties,' as you call them,

she is the Tower's spy here. Now she reports exactly what I want her to, and she is eager to do

so. Those who serve the Chosen in the Tower told me right where, to find her." The day would

come soon when the world gave up the name Forsaken and knelt to the Chosen. It had been

promised, so very long ago. "Why have you come, Lanfear? Surely not in Aiel of defenseless

women."

She merely shrugged. "You can play with your toys as much as you wish, so far as I am

concerned. You offer little in the way of hospitality, Rahvin, so you will forgive me if. . ." A silver

pitcher rose from a small table by Rahvin's bed and tilted to pour dark wine into a gold-chased

goblet. As the pitcher settled, the goblet floated to Lanfear's hand. He felt nothing beyond a slight

tingle, of course, saw no flows being woven; he had never liked that. That she would be able to

see as little of his weaving was only a slight redressing of the balance.

"Why?" he demanded again.

She sipped calmly before speaking. "Since you avoid the rest of us, a few of the Chosen

will be coming here. I came first so you would know it was not an attack."

"Others? Some plan of yours? What need have I of someone else's designs?" Suddenly he

laughed, a deep, rich sound. "So it is no at tack, is it? You were never one for attacking openly,

were you? Not as bad as Moghedien, perhaps, but you did always favor the flanks and the rear. I

will trust you this time, enough to hear you out. As long as you are under my eye." Who trusted

Lanfear behind him deserved the knife he might well find in his back. Not that she was so very

trustworthy even when watched; her temper, was uncertain at best. "Who else is supposed to be

part of this?"

He had clearer warning this time-it was male work -as another gateway opened, showing

marble arches open onto wide stone balconies, and gulls wheeling and crying in a cloudless blue

sky. Finally a man appeared and stepped through, the way closing behind him.

Sammael was compact, solid and larger-seeming than he truly was, his stride quick and

active, his manner abrupt. Blue-eyed and golden-haired, with a neat square trimmed beard, he

would perhaps have been above the ordinary in looks except for a slanting scar, as if a red-hot

poker had been dragged across his face from hairline to jaw.. He could have had it removed as

soon as it was made, all those long years ago, but he had elected not to.

Linked to saidin as tightly as Rahvin-this close Rahvin could feel it, dimly-Sammael eyed

him warily. "I expected serving maids and dancing girls, Rahvin. Have you finally wearied of your

sport after all these years?' Lanfear laughed softly into her wine.

"Did someone mention sport?"

Rahvin had not even noticed the opening of a third gateway, showing a large room full of

pools and fluted columns, nearly nude acrobats and attendants wearing less. Oddly, a lean old man

in a wrinkled coat sat disconsolately among the performers. Two servants in filmy bits of nothing

much, a well-muscled man bearing a wrought-gold tray and a beautiful, voluptuous woman

anxiously pouring wine from a cut-crystal flagon into a matching goblet on the tray, followed the

true arrival before the opening winked out. -

In any other company but Lanfear's, Graendal would have been accounted a stunningly

beautiful woman, lush and ripe. Her gown was green silk, cut low.. A ruby the size of a hen's egg

nestled between her breasts, and a coronet encrusted with more rested on her long, sun colored

hair. Beside Lanfear she was merely plumply pretty. If the -inevitable comparison bothered her,

her amused smile gave no sign of it.

Golden bracelets clattered as she waved a heavily, .beringed hand generally behind her; the

female servant quickly slipped the goblet into her grasp with a fawning smile mirrored by the man.

Graendal took no notice. "So," she said gaily. "Nearly half the surviving Chosen in one place. And

no one trying to kill anyone. Who would have expected it before the Great Lord of the Dark

returns? Ishamael did manage to keep us from one another's throats for a time, but this . .

"Do you always speak so freely in front of your servants?" Sammael said with a grimace.

Graendal blinked, glanced back at the pair as if she had forgotten them. "They won't speak

out of turn. They worship me. Don't you?" The two fell to their knees, practically babbling their

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TheFiresofHeaven-Book5ofTheWheelofTime-byRobertJordanv1.2InthissequeltothephenomenalNewYorkTimesbestsellerTheShadowRising,RobertJordanagainplungesusintohisextraordinarilyrich,totallyunforgettableworld:...intotheforbiddencityofRhuidean,whereRandal'Thor,nowtheDragonReborn,mustconcealhispresentendeavor...

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