Page 110 of The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time 12)

What would he himself do if another monarch used a gateway to deposit nearly fifty thousand troops within his borders? It was an act of war, but the Borderlanders’ forces were away doing Light only knew what, and he would not leave these lands undefended. Just an hour’s ride to the south, Ituralde’s Domani had set up a fortified camp beside a river that had its source up in the highlands of World’s End. Rand had inspected their camp and ranks. After that, Bashere had suggested that Rand ride up to inspect the Blight. The scouts had been surprised at how quickly the Blight was advancing, and Bashere thought it important that Ituralde and Rand see for themselves. Rand agreed. Maps sometimes couldn’t convey the truth eyes could see.

The sun was dipping toward the horizon like a drooping eye longing for sleep. Tai’daishar stamped a hoof, tossing his head. Rand raised a hand, halting his group—two generals, fifty soldiers and an equal number of Maidens, with Narishma at the back to weave gateways.

Northward, on the shallow slope, a scrub of broad-bladed grasses and squat brush swayed like waves in the wind. There was no specific line where the Blight began. A spot on a blade there, a sickly cast to a stem there. Each individual speck was innocent, yet there were too many, far too many. At the top of the hillside, not a single plant was free of the spots. The pox seemed to fester even as he watched.

There was an oily sense of death to the Blight, of plants barely surviving, kept alive like prisoners starved to the very edge of mortality. If Rand had seen anything like this back in a field in the Two Rivers, he would have burnt the entire crop, and would have been surprised that it hadn’t been done already.

To his side, Bashere knuckled his long, dark mustaches. “I remember when it didn’t start for another few leagues,” he noted. “That wasn’t so long ago.”

“I have patrols running the length of it already,” Ituralde said. He stared out at the sickly landscape. “All the reports are the same. It’s quiet out there.”

“That should be enough warning that something is wrong,” Bashere said. “There are always patrols or raids of Trollocs to fight. If not that, then something worse, to scare them away. Worms or bloodwrasps.”

Ituralde leaned one arm on his saddle, shaking his head as he continued staring at the Blight. “I’ve no experience with fighting such things. I know how men think, but Trolloc raiding parties keep no supply lines, and I’ve only heard stories of what worms can do.”

“I will leave some of Bashere’s officers with you as advisors,” Rand said.

“That would help,” Ituralde said, “but I wonder if it wouldn’t be better to just leave him here. His soldiers could patrol this area, and you could use my troops in Arad Doman. No offense, my Lord, but don’t you think it’s odd to have us working in each other’s kingdoms?”

“No,” Rand said. It wasn’t odd, it was bitter sense. He trusted Bashere, and the Saldaeans had served Rand well, but it would be dangerous to leave them in their own homelands. Bashere was uncle to the Queen herself, and what of his men? How would they react when their own people asked why they had become Dragonsworn? Strange as it was, Rand knew that he would cause a much smaller conflagration by leaving foreigners on Saldaean soil.

His reasoning with Ituralde was equally brutal. The man had sworn to him, but allegiances could change. Out here, near the Blight, Ituralde and his troops would have very little opportunity to turn against Rand. They were in hostile territory, and Rand’s Asha’man would be their only quick means of getting back to Arad Doman. If left in his homeland, however, Ituralde could marshal troops and perhaps decide he didn’t need the Dragon Reborn’s protection.

It was much safer to keep the armie

s in hostile territory. Rand hated thinking that way, but that was one of the main differences between the man he had been and the man he had become. Only one of those men could do what needed to be done, no matter that he hated it.

“Narishma,” Rand called. “Gateway.”

He didn’t have to turn to feel Narishma seize the One Power and begin weaving. The sensation prickled at Rand, enticing, but he fought it off. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to seize the Power without emptying his stomach, and he did not intend to sick up in front of Ituralde.

“You shall have a hundred Asha’man by the end of the week,” Rand said, speaking to Ituralde. “I suspect you will make good use of them.”

“Yes, I think I can do just that.”

“I want daily reports, even if nothing happens,” Rand replied. “Send the messengers through a gateway. I’ll be breaking camp and moving to Bandar Eban in four days.”

Bashere grunted; this was the first Rand had said of the move. Rand turned his horse toward the large, open gateway behind them. Some of the Maidens had already ducked through, going first, as always. Narishma stood to the side, his hair in its two dark braids set with bells. He had been a Borderlander, too, before he had become Asha’man. Too many clouded loyalties. Which would come first for Narishma? His homeland? Rand? The Aes Sedai to whom he was a Warder? Rand was fairly certain the man was loyal; he was one of those who had come to him at Dumai’s Wells. But the most dangerous enemies were those you assumed you could trust.

None of them can be trusted! Lews Therin said. We should never have let them get so close to us. They’ll turn on us!

The madman always had trouble with other men who could channel. Rand nudged Tai’daishar forward, ignoring Lews Therin’s ramblings, though hearing the voice did take him back to that night. The night where he had dreamed of Moridin, and there had been no Lews Therin in his mind. It twisted Rand’s belly to know that his dreams were no longer safe. He had come to rely on them as a refuge. Nightmares could take him, true, but they were his own nightmares.

Why had Moridin come to help Rand in Shadar Logoth, back during the fight with Sammael? What twisted webs was he weaving? He had claimed that Rand had invaded his dream, but was that just another lie?

I have to destroy them, he thought. All of the Forsaken, and I must do it for good this time. I must be hard.

Except that Min didn’t want him to be hard. He didn’t want to frighten her, of all people. There were no games with Min; she might call him a fool, but she did not lie, and that made him want to be the man she wished him to be. But did he dare? Could a man who could laugh also be the man who could face what needed to be done at Shayol Ghul?

To live you must die, the answer to one of his three questions. If he succeeded, his memory—his legacy—would live on after he died. It was not very comforting. He didn’t want to die. Who did? The Aiel claimed they did not seek death, though they embraced it when it came.

He entered the gateway, Traveling back to the manor house in Arad Doman, with the ring of pines surrounding the trampled brown grounds and the long ranks of tents. It would take a hard man to face his own death, to fight the Dark One while his blood spilled on the rocks. Who could laugh in the face of that?

He shook his head. Having Lews Therin in his mind didn’t help.

She’s right, Lews Therin said suddenly.

She? Rand asked.