Page 182 of The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time 12)

“An hour ago?” Mat said, frowning. “But Trustair is still half a day’s march away!”

“Indeed it is.” Verin smiled.

“Burn me,” he said. “You’ve got Traveling, don’t you?”

Her smile deepened. “I surmise that you’re trying to get to Andor with this army, Master Cauthon.”

“That depends,” Mat said. “Can you take us there?”

“In a very short time,” Verin said. “I could have your men in Caemlyn by evening.”

Light! Twenty days shaved off his march? Maybe he could get Aludra’s dragons into production soon! He hesitated, eyeing Verin, forcing himself to contain his excitement. There was always a cost when Aes Sedai were involved.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Frankly,” she replied, sighing slightly. “What I want, Matrim Cauthon, is to be cut free from your ta’veren web! Do you know how long you’ve forced me to wait in these mountains?”

“Forced?”

“Yes,” she said. “Come, we have much to discuss.” She flicked her reins, moving her horse into camp, and Talmanes and Mandevwin reluctantly stepped aside, letting her in. Mat joined the two of them, watching as she made straight for the cook fires.

“I guess there won’t be a raid,” Talmanes said. He didn’t sound sad.

Mandevwin fingered his eye patch. “Does this mean I can go back to my poor aged aunt?”

“You have no poor aged aunt,” Mat growled. “Come on, let’s hear what the woman has to say.”

“Fine,” Mandevwin said. “But next time, I get to be the Warder, all right, Mat?”

Mat just sighed, hurrying after Verin.

CHAPTER 35

A Halo of Blackness

The cool sea breeze washed across Rand the moment he rode through the gateway. That soft, featherlike wind carried with it the scents of a thousand cook fires scattered through the city of Falme, heating morning stews.

Rand reined in Tai’daishar, unprepared for the memories those scents would carry with them. Memories of a time when he’d still been uncertain about his role in the world. Memories of a time when Mat had constantly ribbed him for wearing fine coats, despite the fact that Rand tried to avoid them. Memories of a time when he had been ashamed of the banners that now flapped behind him. He had once insisted on keeping them hidden, as if in doing so he could hide from his own fate.

The procession waited for him, buckles creaking, horses snorting. Rand had visited Falme once, briefly. Back in those days, he hadn’t been able to stay anywhere for long. He’d spent those months either chasing or being chased. Fain had led him to Falme, bearing the Horn of Valere and the ruby dagger to which Mat had been bound. The colors flashed again, as he thought of Mat, but Rand ignored them. For these few moments, he wasn’t in the present.

Falme marked a turning point in Rand’s life as profound as the one that had later occurred in the barren lands of the Aiel, when he had proven himself to be the Car’a’carn. After Falme, there had been no more hiding, no more fighting what he was. This was the place where he’d first acknowledged himself as a killer, the place where he’d first realized what a danger he was to those around him. He’d tried to leave them all behind. They’d come after him.

At Falme, the shepherd boy had burned, his ashes scattered and blown away by those ocean winds. From those ashes, the Dragon Reborn had risen.

Rand kneed Tai’daishar forward, and the procession began again. He had ordered the gateway opened a short ride from the city, hopefully out of eyesight of damane. Of course he had Asha’man creating it—thereby hiding the weaves from women—but he didn’t want to give them any clues about Traveling. The Seanchan inability to Travel was one of his greatest advantages.

Falme itself stood on a small spit of land—Toman Head—jutting out into the Aryth Ocean. High cliffs along both sides broke the waves, creating a soft, distant roar. The city’s dark stone buildings covered the peninsula like rocks on the bed of a river. Most were squat, one-story buildings—built wide, as if the inhabitants expected the waves to wash up over the cliffs and crash against their homes. The grasslands here didn’t show as much withering as the land did to the north, but the new spring grass was starting to look yellow and wan, as if the blades regretted poking their heads out of the soil.

The peninsula sloped down to a natural harbor, and numerous Seanchan ships lay at anchor there. Seanchan flags flew, proclaiming this city a part of their empire; the banner that fluttered highest above the city displayed a golden hawk in flight, clutching three bolts of lightning. It was fringed with blue.

The strange creatures the Seanchan had brought from their side of the ocean moved through distant streets, too far off for Rand to make out details. Raken flew in the sky; the Seanchan apparently had a large stable of them here. Toman Head was just south of Arad Doman, and this city was no doubt a major staging area for the Seanchan campaign to the north.

That conquest would end today. Rand had to make peace, had to convince the Daughter of the Nine Moons to call off her armies. That peace would be the calm before a storm. He wouldn’t be protecting his people from war; just preserving them so that they could die for him elsewhere. But he would do what had to be done.

Nynaeve rode up beside him as they continued toward Falme. Her neat dress of blue and white was cut after the Domani fashion, but made of a much thicker—and far more modest—material. She seemed to be adopting fashions from around the world, wearing dresses from the cities she visited, but imposing her own sense of what was proper upon them. Once, perhaps, Rand would have found this amusing. That emotion no longer seemed possible for him. He could only feel the cold stillness inside, the stillness that capped a fountain of frozen rage.

He would keep the rage and stillness balanced long enough. He had to.