Lord of Chaos (121 page)

Rand and Min stood looking at one another, not moving, until finally he said, “Would you like to come out to the farm with me?”

She gave a little start at the sound of his voice. “The farm?”

“It’s a school, really. For the men who come for the amnesty.”

Min’s face paled. “No, I don’t think. . . . Merana will be waiting to hear from me. And I should let them know your rules as soon as possible. Any one of them could wander into the Inner City without knowing, and you wouldn’t want. . . . I really ought to go.”

He did not understand. Without meeting even one of the students, she was afraid of them, men who could channel, men who wanted to channel. In anyone else it would be understandable, but he could channel, and she was ready to rough his hair and poke his ribs and call him names to his face. “Do you want an escort back to The Crown of Roses? There really are footpads, even by daylight. Not many, but I would not like anything to happen to you.”

Her laugh was a bit unsteady. She truly was upset over the farm. “I took care of myself while you were tending sheep, farmboy.” Abruptly she had a knife in either hand; a flourish, and they went back up her sleeves, not quite so smoothly as they had come out. In a much more sober tone, she said, “You must take care of yourself, Rand. Rest. You look tired.” Startlingly, she went a-tiptoe and stretched her head up to brush his lips with a kiss. “It
is good to see you too, sheepherder.” And with another laugh, this one delighted, she slipped out.

Muttering to himself, Rand put his coat back on and went into his bedchamber to fetch his sword from the back of the wardrobe, a dark, rose-carved thing tall enough and wide enough for four men’s clothes. He really was turning into a randy goat. Min was just having her fun. He wondered how long she intended to keep teasing him for one slip of the tongue.

A cloth bag of moderate size, clinking when he lifted it from under his stockings in a drawered chest inlaid with lapis, went into one coat pocket, and a much smaller, velvet bag went in atop his
angreal.
The silversmith who had made the contents of the larger had been more than happy to work for the Dragon Reborn and had tried to refuse payment for the honor of it. The goldsmith who had made the single piece in the other bag had required four times what Bashere said the work was worth, and a pair of Maidens to stand over him until it was done.

This trip to the farm had been in Rand’s mind for some time already. He did not like Taim, and Lews Therin would surge around the man, but he could not go on avoiding the place. Especially not now. So far as he knew, Taim had done well at keeping the students out of the city—at least, Rand had heard of no incidents, and he would have—but news of Merana and the embassy would reach the farm eventually, by the supply carts or with new students, and in the way of rumors, nine Aes Sedai would become nine Red sisters, or ninety, hunting men to gentle. Whether the result of that would be students running off in the night or students coming into Caemlyn to strike the first blow, he had to quell it before it began.

Caemlyn held too many rumors of Aes Sedai already as it was, another reason he had planned to go out. Alanna and Verin and the Two Rivers girls had grown into half the Tower, by the word in the streets, and there were plenty of other tales of Aes Sedai sneaking into the city, sneaking through the gates in the night. That story of an Aes Sedai Healing stray cats was so prevalent he could almost believe in her himself, but all Bashere’s efforts to track the tale down provided as much substance as the tale that the women who escorted the Dragon Reborn everywhere were really Aes Sedai in disguise.

Unconsciously Rand turned, staring at a wall banded with white reliefs of lions and roses, staring beyond it. Alanna was no longer at Culain’s Hound. She was on edge; had she not been Aes Sedai, he would have said
her nerves were jagged. Once last night he had wakened, sure she was weeping; the feel had been that strong. Sometimes he almost found himself forgetting she was there—until something like her waking him happened. He supposed you really could grow used to anything. This morning Alanna was . . . eager, as well; eager seemed the best word. He would wager all of Caemlyn that the plumb line from his eyes to her ran straight to The Crown of Roses. He would wager Verin was with her. Not nine Aes Sedai. Eleven.

Lews Therin murmured uneasily. It was the sound of a man wondering whether his back was against a wall. Rand wondered, too. Eleven, and thirteen could take him as easily as scoop up a child. If he gave them the chance. Lews Therin began laughing softly, a hoarse weeping sort of laugh; he had drifted again.

For a moment Rand considered Somara and Enaila, then opened a gateway right there above the blue-and-gold-patterned carpet in his bedchamber. Sullen as they were this morning, one of them was sure to blurt something before the visit to the farm was done, and remembering his previous visits, he did not want the students all looking over their shoulders for fear of twenty or so Maidens. That sort of thing did little for a man’s confidence, and they needed confidence if they were to survive.

Taim was right on one point; holding on to
saidin
, a man knew he was alive, and it went beyond heightened senses. Despite the. Dark One’s taint, despite the feel of oily offal staining your bones, when the Power was trying to melt you where you stood, freeze you till you shattered, when one misstep or one moment of weakness meant death—Light, you knew you were alive. Still, he pushed the Source away as soon as he was through the gateway, and not only to rid himself of the taint before his stomach emptied itself; it seemed worse than it had been, more vile, if that was possible. His real reason for abandoning the Power was that he did not think he dared face Taim with
saidin
in him and Lews Therin in his head.

The clearing was browner than he remembered, more leaves crackling under his boots and still fewer on the trees. Some of the pines were completely yellow, and a number of leatherleafs stood dead, gray and bare. But if the clearing had changed, the farm was altered almost beyond recognition.

The farmhouse looked in much better repair with its new thatch, and the barn had certainly been rebuilt entirely; it was much larger than before and did not lean at all. Horses filled a large corral beside the barn, and the pens of cows and sheep had been moved farther away. The goats were penned
now as well, and neat rows of coops held the chickens. The forest had been cleared back. Over a dozen long white tents made a row beyond the barn, and nearby stood the frames for two buildings much larger than the farmhouse, where a cluster of women sat outside doing their sewing and watching a score of children roll hoops and toss balls and play with dolls. The biggest change was the students, most in close-fitting high-collared black coats and few sweating. There must have been well over a hundred, of all ages. Rand had had no idea Taim’s recruiting trips had gone this well. The feel of
saidin
seemed to fill the air. Some men practiced weaves, setting fire to stumps or shattering stones or snaring each other in coils of Air. Others channeled to haul water, the buckets gripped with Air, or to push dung carts from the barn, or stack firewood. Not everyone was channeling. Henre Haslin had a line of bare-chested men under his eye, working the forms with practice swords. With only a fringe of white hair and a bulbous red nose, Haslin sweated more than his students, and doubtless was wishing for his wine, but he watched and corrected as sharply as when he was Master of the Sword for the Queen’s Guards. Saeric, a gray-haired Red Water Goshien with no right hand, had two shirtless rows under his stony eyes. One was kicking as high as their heads, pivot and kick, then pivot and kick with the other foot, over and over; the other punched the air in front of them as fast they could. All in all, it was a far cry from the pitiful handful Rand had seen the last time.

A black-coated man just short of his middle years planted himself in front of Rand. He had a sharp nose and a sneering mouth. “And who are you?” he demanded in a Taraboner accent. “I suppose you have come to the Black Tower to learn, yes? You should have waited in Caemlyn for the wagon to bring you. You could have had another day to enjoy that fine coat.”

“I am Rand al’Thor,” Rand said quietly. Quietly so as not to let out a sudden surge of anger. Civility cost nothing, and if this fool did not decide it was cheap at the price soon. . . .

If anything, the sneer deepened. “So you are him, are you?” He looked Rand up and down insolently. “You do not look so grand to me. I think that I myself could—” A flow of Air solidified just before it clipped him under the ear, and he collapsed in a heap.

“Sometimes we need a hard discipline,” Taim said, coming to stand over the man on the ground. His voice was almost jolly, but his dark tilted eyes stared close to murder at the man he had clubbed. “You cannot tell a man he has the power to make the earth shake, then expect him to walk
small.” The Dragons climbing the sleeves of his black coat glittered in the sunlight; thread-of-gold would do for the one, but what could make the blue shine so? Abruptly he raised his voice. “Kisman! Rochaid! Drag Torval away and douse him until he wakes. No Healing, mind you. Maybe an aching head will teach him to mind his tongue.”

Two men in black coats, younger than Rand, came running and bent over Torval, then hesitated, glancing at Taim. After a moment, Rand felt
saidin
fill them; flows of Air lifted a limp Torval, and the pair trotted away with him floating between them.

I should have killed him long ago
, Lews Therin panted.
I should have . . . should have. . . .
There was a stretching toward the Source.

No, burn you!
Rand thought.
No, you don’t! You’re only a bloody voice!
With a fading wail Lews Therin fled.

Rand took a slow breath. Taim was looking at him, wearing that almost-smile. “You teach them Healing?”

“The little I know, first thing. Even before how not to sweat to death in this weather. A weapon loses its utility if it’s going to be laid up with the first wound. As it is, I have had one kill himself drawing too deeply and three burn themselves out, but no one has died from a sword yet.” He managed to put a good deal of contempt into the word “sword.”

“I see,” Rand said simply. One dead and three burned out. Did Aes Sedai lose that many in the Tower? But then, they went slowly. They could afford to go slowly. “What is this Black Tower the fellow was talking about? I don’t like the sound of it, Taim.” Lews Therin was mumbling and moaning again, just short of making words.

The hawk-nosed man shrugged, studying the farm and the students with a proprietory pride. “A name the students use. You could not go on calling this just ‘the farm.’ They certainly did not feel right about it; they wanted something more. The Black Tower to balance the White Tower.” He tilted his head, looking at Rand almost sideways. “I can suppress it, if you wish. It is easy enough to take a word from men’s lips.”

Rand hesitated. Easy enough to take a word from their lips perhaps, but not from their minds. It did have to be called something. He had not thought of that. Why not the Black Tower? Though looking at the farmhouse and the framing—larger, but only wood—the name did make him smile. “Let it stand.” Maybe the White Tower had begun as humbly. Not that the Black Tower would ever have time to grow into anything to rival the White. That erased his smile, and he looked at the children sadly. He was playing as much as they, pretending there was a chance of building
something that might last. “Assemble the students, Taim. I have a few things to say to them.”

He had come expecting to gather them round him, and then seeing their numbers, maybe to speak from the back of the rickety cart that now seemed to have vanished. Taim had a platform for making addresses, though, a plain block of black stone dressed and polished so finely that it shone like a mirror in the sunlight, with two steps cut into the back. It stood in an open area beyond the farmhouse, the ground beaten bare and flat and hard around it. The women and children gathered to one side to watch and listen.

From the block, Rand had a chance to see clues to how far Taim’s recruiting had ranged. Jahar Narishma, whom Taim had pointed out, the young man with the spark, had dark eyes as big as a girl’s, a pale face filled with confidence, and hair in two long braids with silver bells on the ends. Actually, Taim had said he came from Arafel, but Rand recognized a Shienaran’s shaved head and topknot on another man, and two with the transparent veils often worn by men and women alike in Tarabon. There were tilted eyes from Saldaea and pale, short fellows from Cairhien. One old man had a beard oiled and cut to a point in imitation of a Tairen lord, which he assuredly was not with that creased leathery face, and no fewer than three wore beards that left their upper lips bare. He hoped Taim had not roused Sammael’s interest by recruiting into Illian. He had expected mainly younger men, but fresh faces like Eben’s and Fedwin’s were balanced by gray or balding heads, some even more grizzled than Damer. Now that he thought of it, though, there was no mystery, no reason there should not be as many grandfathers who could be taught as boys.

He did not know how to make speeches, but he had thought long and hard over what he wanted to say. Not the first part, but that was quickest done, with luck. “You’ve all probably heard stories that the Tower . . . the White Tower . . . has divided. Well, it’s true. There are some rebel Aes Sedai who might just decide to follow me, and they’ve sent emissaries. Nine of them, sitting in Caemlyn right now and waiting my pleasure. So when you hear about Aes Sedai in Caemlyn, don’t believe any rumors. You know why they are here, and you can laugh in the face of the fellow with the rumor.”

There was no reaction. They just stood there staring up at him, hardly seeming to blink. Taim looked wry, very wry. Touching the larger bag in his pocket, Rand went on with the part he had labored over.

“You need a name. In the Old Tongue, Aes Sedai means Servants of
All, or something very close. The Old Tongue doesn’t translate easily.” For himself, he knew only a few words, some from Asmodean, a handful from Moiraine, some that had seeped through from Lews Therin. Bashere had provided what he needed, though. “Another word in the Old Tongue is
asha’man.
It means guardian, or guardians. Or defender, and maybe a couple of other things; I told you, the Old Tongue is very flexible. Guardian seems to be best, though. Not just any defender or guardian, though. You could not call a man who defended an unjust cause
asha’man
, and never one that was evil. An
asha’man
was a man who defended truth and justice and right for everyone. A guardian who would not yield even when hope was gone.” The Light knew, hope would go when Tarmon Gai’don came, if not before. “That is what you are here to become. When you finish your training, you will be Asha’man.”