Page 227 of The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time 12)

We don’t know the names of the women who were in Graendal’s palace, Lews Therin said. We can’t add them to the list.

Rand tried to ignore the madman. That proved impossible. Lews Therin continued.

How can we continue the list if we don’t know the names! In war, we sought out the Maidens who had fallen. We found every one! The list is flawed! I can’t continue!

It’s not your list! Rand growled. It’s mine, Lews Therin. MINE!

No! the madman sputtered. Who are you? It’s mine! I made it. I can’t continue now that they’re dead. Oh, Light! Balefire? Why did we use balefire! I promised that I would never do that again. . . .

Rand squeezed his eyes shut, holding tightly to Tai’daishar’s reins. The warhorse picked his way down the street; the hooves hit packed earth, one after another.

What have we become? Lews Therin whispered. We’re going to do it again, aren’t we? Kill them all. Everyone we’ve loved. Again, again, again. . . .

“Again and again,” Rand whispered. “It doesn’t matter, as long as the world survives. They cursed me before, swore at Dragonmount and by my name, but they lived. We’re here, ready to fight. Again and again.”

“Rand?” Min asked.

He opened his eyes. She rode her dun mare next to Tai’daishar. He couldn’t let her, or any of them, see him slipping. They mustn’t know how close he was to collapsing.

So many names we don’t know, Lews Therin whispered. So many dead by our hand.

And it was just the beginning.

“I am well, Min,” he said. “I was thinking.”

“About the people?” Min asked. The wooden walks of Bandar Eban were filled with people. Rand no longer saw the colors of their clothing; he saw how worn that clothing was. He saw the rips in the magnificent fabric, the threadbare patches, the dirt and the stains. Virtually everyone in Bandar Eban was a refugee of one sort or another. They watched him with haunted eyes.

Each time he’d conquered a kingdom before, he’d left it better than when he’d arrived. Rand had removed Forsaken tyrants, brought an end to warfare and sieges. He’d cast out Shaido invaders, he’d delivered food, he’d created stability. Each land he’d destroyed had, essentially, been saved at the same time.

Arad Doman was different. He’d brought in food—but that food had drawn even more refugees, straining his supplies. Not only had he failed to give them peace with the Seanchan, he had appropriated their only troops and sent them up to watch the Borderlands. The seas were still unsafe. The tiny Seanchan empress hadn’t trusted him. She would continue her attacks, perhaps double them.

The Domani would be trampled beneath the hooves of war, crushed between the invading Trollocs to the north and the Seanchan to the south. And Rand was leaving them.

Somehow, the people realized that, and it was very hard for Rand to look at them. Their hungry eyes accused him: Why bring hope, then let it dry up, like a newly dug well during a drought? Why force us to accept you as our ruler, only to abandon us?

Flinn and Naeff had ridden before him; he could see their black coats ahead as they sat their horses watching Rand’s procession approach the city square. The pins sparkled on their high collars. The fountain in the square still flowed among gleaming copper horses leaping from copper waves. Which of those silent Domani continued to shine the fountain, when no king ruled and half the merchant council was lost?

r /> Rand’s Aiel hadn’t been able to track down enough of the council to form a majority; he suspected that Graendal had killed or captured enough of them to keep a new king from ever being chosen. If any of the merchant council members had been pretty enough, they’d have joined the ranks of her pets—which meant that Rand had killed them.

Ah, Lews Therin said. Names I can add to the list. Yes. . . .

Bashere rode up beside Rand, knuckling his mustaches, looking thoughtful. “Your will is done,” he said.

“Lady Chadmar?” Rand asked.

“Returned to her mansion,” Bashere said. “We’ve done the same with the other four members of the merchant council the Aiel were holding near the city.”

“They understand what they are to do?”

“Yes,” Bashere said, sighing. “But I don’t think they’ll do it. If you ask me, the moment we’re gone they’ll bolt from the city like thieves fleeing a prison once the guards leave.”

Rand gave no reaction. He’d ordered the merchant council to choose new members, then pick a king. But Bashere was probably right. Already, Rand had reports from the other cities along the coast, where he’d told his Aiel to withdraw. The city leaders were vanishing, running before the presumed Seanchan assault.

Arad Doman, as a kingdom, was finished. Like a table laden with too much weight, it would soon collapse. It is not my problem, Rand thought, not looking at the people. I did everything I could.

That wasn’t true. Though he’d wanted to help the Domani, his real reasons for coming had been to deal with the Seanchan, to find out what had happened to the king, and to track down Graendal. Not to mention to secure what he could of the Borderlands.

“What news from Ituralde?” Rand asked.