Praiseforthe

THEWHEELOFTIME®

“The battle scenes have thebreathless urgency offirsthand experience, andthe . . . evil laced into theforces of good, the dangerslatent in any promisedsalvation, the sense of theunavoidable onslaught ofunpredictable events bear themarks of American national

experience during the lastthreedecades.”

—TheNewYorkTimes

“Has all the breadth anddepth that have made thisfantasy author one of theacknowledged greats of thegenre.”

—PublishersWeekly

“His writing isdistinguished . . . by therichnessofitsfabric,withall

the charm and naïveté of theBrothers Grimm and thesocial/moral commentary ofHuxley’s Brave New World.With his well-fleshed-outcharacters, dark imagery,comic relief, vividlandscapes, and a fascinatingsense of timelessness, Jordanhas created a complexliteraturewithalanguageandrealityallitsown.”

—BookPage

“Throughout Jordan’spreeminent high-fantasysaga...thecharacters(minoraswell asmajor), theworld,and the source of powershave remained remarkablyrichandconsistent—nomeanfeat. . . .Amid all theSturmund Drang, however, is afinelytunedcomicstrainthatboth leavens the story andadds to its development. Amajorfantasyepic.”

—Booklist

“Truth is not only stranger,it’s richer than fiction, butJordan’s fictional universeapproaches the variety andcomplexity of the real. . . .Plotlines[are]strummedwithresonating long-waverhythms something likeBeethoven’sEroica.”

—RobertKnox,MPGNewspapers

“Adventure and mystery anddark things that move in the

night—a combination ofRobin Hood and StephenKing that is hard to resist.Furthermore, Jordan makesthereaderputdownthebookregretting the wait for thenexttitleintheseries.”

—MilwaukeeJournalSentinel

“The Wheel of Time [is]rapidly becoming thedefinitive American fantasysaga. It is a fantasy tale

seldom equaled and still lessoftensurpassedinEnglish.”

—ChicagoSun-Times

“InthedecadessinceJ.R.R.Tolkien’s Lord of the Ringstrilogy was published, manyfantasy writers have tried tocapture the spirit of thatseminal work. While manyhavebeenable to imitate thestyle, develop a similarlyswift and complex plot, andcreate convincing characters,

none have captured the spiritof small men and mighty,struggling against a force ofoverwhelming evil. RobertJordanhas.”

—OttawaCitizen

“Jordanhasapowerfulvisionof good and evil—but whatstrikes me as mostpleasurable . . . is all thefascinating people movingthrougharichandinterestingworld.”

—OrsonScottCard

“Jordan can always becounted on to ground hisdizzying intrigues in solidchunksofculturaldetail, andhehere rises to theoccasion,with chapters as dense asSpenserian stanzas withsymbols and rituals. . . . Hemanipulates the disorder ofhis narrative to crediblyconvey a sense of anembattledworldontheverge

of self-destruction, and heentertainingly juxtaposes thecourtlycivilityofhisvillainswith the precarious chaostheycause.”

—PublishersWeekly

“Jordan continues to utilizehis towering imagination toconstruct plots of incredibleingenuityanddevelopthemeshidden, sometimes quitedeeply,inearlierinstallments.As ever, Jordan writes

intelligently and lyrically—one of the most literaryexponentsofthegenre.”

—SFX

“Beware, there is magic inthese books. They are liableto make you neglect yourwork and keep you up waypastyourbedtime....Thisisthegenuinearticle.”

—JohnLee,TheSuffolkCountyNews

“Jordan’s bestselling high-fantasy series carries on . . .colossal, dauntingly complexstorytelling . . . the narrativeemploys elements of realismrareinhighfantasy.”—PublishersWeekly(starred

review)

“Jordan’s characters [are]fleshedoutwiththestrengthsand weaknesses of real menandwomen. . . . Invokes theend-of-the-world milieu of

StephenKing’sTheStand.”—ThePostandCourier

(Charleston,S.C.)

“Jordanwriteswith the starkvision of light and darkness,and sometimes childlikesense of wonder, thatpermeates J. R. R. Tolkien’sworks. His style isundebatablyhisown.”

—ThePittsburghPress

“[TheWheelofTime]willbe

the definitive Americanexploration of Tolkien’sterritory for many years tocome.Jordancanspinasrichaworld and as event-filled atale as the master, and thepresence of women and acertain sense of the comicpossibilitiesofahighdestinyadd further dimension to thework.”

—Booklist

“Jordan’s multivolume epic

continues to live up to itshigh ambitions. Complexplotting, an array of strongcharacters,lavishdetail,andapanoramic scope make thisseries a feast for fantasyaficionados. . . . Richlydetailed and vividlyimagined.”

—LibraryJournal

“Jordan’swritingisclearandhis vision is fascinating, asarethephilosophies[that]run

his characters. And speakingof characters, a moreinteresting bunch I would behardputtoname.”

—ScienceFictionReview

“The most ambitiousAmerican fantasy saga, TheWheelofTime,[may]alsobethe finest. . . . [It] surpassesallbutafewofitspeers.”

—Booklist

“The complex philosophy

behind the Wheel of Timeseriesisexpoundedsosimplythe reader often gives a startofsurpriseatreturningtotherealworld.Rand’sadventuresarenotfinishedandneitheristhis thinkingperson’s fantasyseries.”

—BrunswickSentinel(Australia)

“Intricate allegorical fantasy[that] recalls the works ofTolkien because of its

intensityandwarmth.”—PublishersWeekly

“RobertJordancanwriteonehellofastory....[He]keepsthe suspense acute and thesurprises and inventionbeautifully paced.Compelling. An exhilaratingexperience.”—Asimov’sScienceFiction

“[The Wheel of Time is] awork of genuine and often

stirringimagination.”—KirkusReviews

“For those who like to keepthemselves in a fantasyworld, it’s hard to beat thecomplex, detailed worldcreatedhere.”

—Locus

“Jordan’stalentforsustainingthe difficult combination ofsuspense and resolution, sonecessary in a multivolume

series . . . isnothingshortofremarkable.”

—LibraryJournal

“Jordan has not merely putoldwineintonewbottles:Hehas clothed old bones withnewflesh.”

—ChicagoSun-Times

THEGATHERINGSTORM

THEWHEELOFTIME®

byRobertJordan

TheEyeoftheWorldTheGreatHunt

TheDragonRebornTheShadowRisingTheFiresofHeavenLordofChaos

ACrownofSwords

ThePathofDaggersWinter’sHeart

CrossroadsofTwilightKnifeofDreams

byRobertJordanandBrandonSanderson

TheGatheringStormTowersofMidnight

(forthcoming)

THEGATHERING

STORM

ROBERTJORDANANDBRANDONSANDERSON

ATOMDOHERTYASSOCIATESBOOK

NEWYORK

NOTE: If you purchased this bookwithout a cover, you should be awarethatthisbookisstolenproperty.Itwasreported as “unsold and destroyed” tothepublisher,andneithertheauthornorthepublisherhasreceivedanypayment

forthis“strippedbook.”

This is a work of fiction. All of thecharacters, organizations, and eventsportrayed in this novel are eitherproductsof theauthor’s imaginationorareusedfictitiously.

THEGATHERINGSTORM

Copyright©2009byTheBandersnatchGroup,Inc.

The phrases “The Wheel of Time®”and “The Dragon Reborn™,” and thesnake-wheelsymbol,are trademarksofRobertJordan.

Allrightsreserved.

MapsbyEllisaMitchellInterior illustrations by Matthew C.NielsenandEllisaMitchell

ATorBookPublishedbyTomDohertyAssociates,LLC175FifthAvenueNewYorkNY10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor®isa registered trademarkofTomDohertyAssociates,LLC.

http://www.tor-forge.com

ISBN978-0-7653-4153-2

FirstEdition:November2009First Mass Market Edition: October2010

PrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica

0987654321

FOREWORD

InNovember2007,Ireceiveda phone call that wouldchange my life forever.Harriet McDougal, wife andeditor of the late RobertJordan, called to askme if IwouldcompletethelastbookofTheWheelofTime.For those who did not

knowMr. Jordan had passed

away, it pains me to be theone to break the news. IrememberhowI feltwhen—while idly browsing theInternet on September 16,2007—I discovered that hehad died. I was shocked,stunned, and disheartened.This wonderful man, a heroto me in my writing career,was gone. The worldsuddenly became a differentplace.IfirstpickedupTheEyeof

the World in 1990, when Iwas a teenage fantasy addictvisitingmycornerbookstore.I became a fan instantly andeagerly awaited The GreatHunt. Over the years, I’veread the books numeroustimes, often re-reading theentireserieswhenanewbookwas released. Time passed,and I decided I wanted tobecome a fantasy author—influenced, in large part, byhowmuchIlovedTheWheel

ofTime.Andyet,neverdidIthinkthatIwouldonedaygetthat phone call fromHarriet.It came tome as a completesurprise. I had not asked,applied,ordaredwishforthisopportunity—though whenthe request was made, myanswerwasimmediate.Ilovethis series as I have lovednoneother,andthecharactersfeel like old, dear friendsfrommychildhood.I cannot replace Robert

Jordan. Nobody could writethisbookaswellashecouldhave. That is a simple fact.Fortunately, he left manynotes, outlines, completedscenes, and dictatedexplanations with his wifeand assistants. Before hispassing, he asked Harriet tofindsomeonetocompletetheseries for his fans. He lovedyou all verymuch and spenttheverylastweeksofhislifedictating events for the final

volume.ItwastobecalledAMemoryofLight.Eighteen months later, we

arehere.Mr.Jordanpromisedthat the final book would bebig.But themanuscript soongrew prohibitively huge; itwouldbethreetimesthesizeof a regular Wheel of Timebook, and the decision wasmade by Harriet and Tor tosplitAMemory of Light intothirds. There were severalexcellentbreakingpoints that

would give a full andcomplete story in each third.You may think of TheGathering Storm and its twofollowers as the threevolumes of A Memory ofLight or as the final threebooksofTheWheelofTime.Botharecorrect.As of this writing, I am

halfwaydonewiththesecondthird. We are working asquickly as is reasonable, andwedon’twantyoutohaveto

wait too long to get theendingwewere all promisednearlytwentyyearsago.(Mr.Jordan did write this endinghimself before he passedaway,andIhavereadit.Anditisfantastic.)Ihavenottriedto imitateMr. Jordan’s style.Instead,I’veadaptedmystyleto be appropriate to TheWheel of Time. My maingoal was to stay true to thesouls of the characters. Theplot is, in large part, Robert

Jordan’s, thoughmanyof thewordsaremine. Imagine thisbookas theproductofanewdirector working on some ofthe scenes of a movie whileretaining thesameactorsandscript.But this is a big project,

and it will take time tocomplete.Ibegyourpatienceas we spend these next fewyears perfecting this story.We hold in our hands theendingofthegreatestfantasy

epicofourtime,andIintendto see it done right. I intendtoremaintruetoMr.Jordan’swishesandnotes.Myartisticintegrity, and love for thebooks, will not let me doanythingless.Intheend,Iletthewordshereinstandas thebest argument for what wearedoing.This is not my book. It is

Robert Jordan’s book, and toa lesser extent, it is yourbook.

Thankyouforreading.

BRANDONSANDERSONJune2009

ForMariaSimonsandAlanRomanczuk,withoutwhomthisbookwouldn’thavebeen

possible

CONTENTS

MAPSPROLOGUE: What theStormMeans

1TearsfromSteel2TheNatureofPain3TheWaysofHonor4Nightfall5ATaleofBlood6WhenIronMelts

7ThePlanforAradDoman8CleanShirts9LeavingMalden10TheLastoftheTabac11TheDeathofAdrin12UnexpectedEncounters13AnOfferandaDeparture14ABoxOpens15APlacetoBegin16IntheWhiteTower17QuestionsofControl18AMessageinHaste19Gambits

20OnaBrokenRoad21EmbersandAsh22TheLastThatCouldBeDone23AWarpintheAir24ANewCommitment25InDarkness26ACrackintheStone27TheTipsyGelding28NightinHinderstap29IntoBandarEban30OldAdvice31APromisetoLewsTherin

32RiversofShadow33AConversationwiththeDragon34Legends35AHaloofBlackness36TheDeathofTuon37AForceofLight38NewsinTel’aran’rhiod39AVisitfromVerinSedai40TheTowerShakes41AFountofPower42BeforetheStoneofTear43SealedtotheFlame44ScentsUnknown

45TheTowerStands46ToBeForgedAgain47TheOneHeLost48ReadingtheCommentary49JustAnotherMan50VeinsofGold

EPILOGUE: Bathed inLightGLOSSARY

Ravens and crows. Rats.Mistsandclouds.Insectsandcorruption. Strange eventsand odd occurrences. Theordinary twisted and strange.Wonders!

The dead are beginning to

walk, and some see them.Others do not, but more andmore,weallfearthenight.

These have been our days.They rain upon us beneath adead sky, crushing us withtheir fury, until as one webeg:“Letitbegin!”

—JournaloftheUnknownScholar,

entryforTheFeastofFreia,1000NE

THEGATHERINGSTORM

PROLOGUE

WhattheStormMeans

Renald Fanwar sat on hisporch, warming the sturdyblackoak chair crafted forhim by his grandson twoyears before. He starednorthward.At the black and silver

clouds.

He’d never seen their likebefore. They blanketed theentire horizon to the north,highinthesky.Theyweren’tgray. They were black andsilver. Dark, rumblingthunderheads, as dark as aroot cellar at midnight.Withstriking silver light breakingbetween them, flashes oflightning that gave off nosound.The air was thick. Thick

with the scents of dust and

dirt.Ofdried leaves and rainthat refused to fall. Springhad come.And yet his cropsdidn’tgrow.Notasprouthaddaredpokethroughtheearth.He rose slowly from his

chair, wood creaking, chairrocking softly behind him,andwalkedupto theedgeofthe porch.He chewed on hispipe,thoughitsfirehadgoneout.He couldn’t be botheredto relight it. Those cloudstransfixedhim.Theywereso

black. Like the smoke of abrushfire, only no brushfiresmokeever rose thathighupin theair.Andwhat tomakeof silver clouds? Bulgingbetween the black ones, likeplaces where polished steelshone through metal crustedwithsoot.He rubbed his chin,

glancingdownathisyard.Asmall, whitewashed fencecontainedapatchofgrassandshrubs.Theshrubsweredead

now, every one of them.Hadn’t lasted through thatwinter. He’d need to pullthem out soon. And thegrass . . .well, thegrasswasstill just winter thatch. Notevenanyweedssprouted.A clap of thunder shook

him. Pure, sharp, like anenormous crash of metalagainst metal. It rattled thewindowsof thehouse, shookthe porch boards, seemed tovibratehisverybones.

He jumped back. Thatstrike had been close—perhaps on his property. Heitched to go inspect thedamage.Lightning fire coulddestroy aman, burn him outof his land. Up here in theBorderlands, so many thingswere unintentional tinder—dry grass, dry shingles, dryseed.But the clouds were still

distant. That strike couldn’thave been on his property.

The silver and blackthunderheads rolled andboiled, feeding andconsumingthemselves.He closed his eyes,

calming himself, taking adeepbreath.Hadheimaginedthe thunder? Was he goingofftheside,asGaffinalwaysjoked?Heopenedhiseyes.And the clouds were right

there, directly above hishouse.It was as if they had

suddenly rolled forward,intending to strike while hisgaze was averted. Theydominated the sky now,sweeping distantly in eitherdirection, massive andoverwhelming. He couldalmost feel their weightpressing theairdownaroundhim.Hedrewinabreaththatwas heavy with suddenhumidity, and his browprickledwithsweat.Thosecloudschurned,dark

blackandsilverthunderheadsshaking with white blasts.They suddenly boileddownward, like the funnelcloudofatwister,comingforhim. He cried out, raising ahand,asamanmightbeforeapowerfully bright light. Thatblackness. That endless,suffocating blackness. Itwouldtakehim.Heknew.And then the clouds were

gone.His pipe hit the porch’s

floorboards, clicking softly,tossingburned tabacout in aspray across the steps. Hehadn’trealizedhe’dletitslipfree. Renald hesitated,lookingupatemptybluesky,realizingthathewascringingatnothing.Thecloudswereoffonthe

horizon again, some fortyleagues distant. Theythunderedsoftly.Hepickeduphispipewith

a shakinghand, spotted from

age, tanned from years spentinthesun.Justatrickofyourmind,Renald,hetoldhimself.You’re going off the side,sureaseggsiseggs.Hewasonedgebecauseof

the crops. That had him onedge. Though he spokeoptimisticwordsfor the lads,it just wasn’t natural.Something should havesprouted by now. He’dfarmed that land for fortyyears!Barleydidn’t take this

longtosprout.Burnhim,butit didn’t.Whatwas going onin the world these days?Plants couldn’t be dependedon to sprout, and cloudsdidn’tstaywheretheyshould.He forced himself to sit

back down in his chair, legsshaking. Getting old, Iam....hethought.He’dworked a farm all of

his life. Farmsteading in theBorderlandswasnoteasy,butif you worked hard, you

could grow a successful lifewhileyougrewstrongcrops.“Amanhas asmuch luck ashehasseedsinthefield,”hisfatherhadalwayssaid.Well, Renald was one of

the most successful farmersin the area. He’d done wellenough to buy out the twofarms beside his, and hecould run thirty wagons tomarketeachfall.Henowhadsix good men working forhim, plowing the fields,

ridingthefences.Not thathedidn’thave toclimbdowninthemuckeverydayandshowthemwhatgoodfarmingwasall about. You couldn’t let alittlesuccessruinyou.Yes,he’dworkedtheland,

lived the land, as his fatheralways used to say. Heunderstood the weather aswell as a man could. Thoseclouds weren’t natural. Theyrumbledsoftly,likeananimalgrowling on a dark night.

Waiting. Lurking in thenearbywoods.Hejumpedatanothercrash

of thunder that seemed tooclose. Were those cloudsforty leagues away? Is thatwhat he’d thought? Lookedmore like ten leagues away,nowthathestudiedthem.“Don’t get like that,” he

grumbledathimself.Hisownvoice sounded good to him.Real. It was nice to hearsomething other than that

rumbling and the occasionalcreakofshutters inthewind.Shouldn’t he be able to hearAuaine inside,getting supperready?“You’re tired. That’s it.

Tired.” He fished in his vestpocket and pulled out histabacpouch.A faint rumbling came

from the right. At first, heassumed it was the thunder.However, this rumbling wastoo grating, too regular. That

wasn’tthunder.Itwaswheelsturning.Sureenough,alarge,oxen-

drawn wagon crestedMallard’s Hill, just to theeast. Renald had named thathill himself. Every good hillneededaname.TheroadwasMallard’s Road. So why notnamethehillthattoo?He leaned forward in his

chair, pointedly ignoringthose clouds as he squintedtoward the wagon, trying to

make out the driver’s face.Thulin?Thesmith?Whatwashe doing, driving a wagonladenhalfwaytotheheavens?He was supposed to beworking on Renald’s newplow!Lean for one of his trade,

Thulin was still twice asmuscled as most farmhands.Hehad thedarkhair and tanskinofaShienaran,andkepthis face shaved after theirfashion, but he did not wear

the topknot. Thulin’s familymight trace its roots back toBorderland warriors, but hehimself was just a simplecountry man like the rest ofthem.Heranthesmithyoverin Oak Water, five miles tothe east. Renald had enjoyedmany a game of stones withthe smith during winterevenings.Thulinwas getting on—he

hadn’tseenasmanyyearsasRenald, but the last few

winters had prompted Thulinto start speaking ofretirement. Smithing wasn’tanoldman’strade.Ofcourse,neither was farming. Werethere really any old man’strades?Thulin’s wagon

approached along the packedearthen road, approachingRenald’s white-fenced yard.Now, that’s odd, Renaldthought. Behind the wagontrailed a neat string of

animals: five goats and twomilkcows. Crates of black-feathered chickens were tiedon the outside of thewagon,and the bed of the wagonitself was piled full offurniture, sacks and barrels.Thulin’s youthful daughter,Mirala, sat on the seat withhim, next to his wife, agolden-haired woman fromthe south. Twenty-five yearsThulin’swife,butRenaldstillthought of Gallanha as “that

southerngirl.”The whole family was in

thewagon, leading their bestlivestock. Obviously on themove.Butwhere?Offtovisitrelatives, perhaps? He andThulinhadn’tplayeda roundof stones in . . . oh, threeweeks now. Not much timefor visiting, what with thecoming of spring and thehurried planting. Someonewould need to mend theplows and sharpen the

scythes. Who would do it ifThulin’ssmithywentcold?Renald tucked a pinch of

tabac into his pipe as Thulinpulled the wagon up besideRenald’s yard. The lean,gray-haired smith handed thereins to his daughter, thenclimbed down from thewagon,feetthrowingpuffsofdust into the airwhen he hitthe ground. Behind him thedistantstormstillbrewed.Thulin pushed open the

fence gate, then strode up tothe porch. He lookeddistracted.Renaldopenedhismouth to give greeting, butThulinspokefirst.“I buried my best anvil in

Gallanha’s old strawberrypatch,Renald,” thebigsmithsaid. “You remember wherethat is, don’t you? I packedmy best set of tools there aswell. They’re well greasedand inside my best chest,lined to keep it dry. That

should keep the rust off ofthem.Foratimeatleast.”Renald closed his mouth,

holding his pipe half-full. IfThulin was burying hisanvil . . . well, it meant hewasn’tplanningtocomebackforawhile.“Thulin,what—”“If I don’t return,” Thulin

said, glancing northward,“wouldyoudigmythingsoutandseethatthey’recaredfor?Sell them to someone whocares, Renald. I wouldn’t

have justanyonebeating thatanvil. Tookme twenty yearsto gather those tools, youknow.”“But Thulin!” Renald

sputtered. “Where are yougoing?”Thulin turnedback tohim,

leaningonearmontheporchrailing, those brown eyes ofhis solemn. “There’s a stormcoming,” he said. “And so Ifigure I’ve got to head on tothenorth.”

“Storm?” Renald asked.“Thatoneonthehorizon,youmean?Thulin, it looksbad—burnmybones,but itdoes—but there’s no use runningfrom it. We’ve had badstormsbefore.”“Not like this, old friend,”

Thulin said. “This ain’t thesortofstormyouignore.”“Thulin?” Renald asked.

“What are you talkingabout?”Before he could answer,

Gallanha called from thewagonbox.“Didyoutellhimaboutthepots?”“Ah,” Thulin said.

“Gallanhapolishedupthatsetof copper-bottom pots thatyour wife always liked.They’resittingonthekitchentable, waiting for Auaine, ifshewants togoclaimthem.”With that, Thulin nodded toRenald and began to walkbacktowardthewagon.Renald sat, stupefied.

Thulin always had been ablunt one; he favored sayinghis mind, then moving on.ThatwaspartofwhatRenaldliked about him. But thesmithcouldalsopassthrougha conversation like a boulderrolling through a flock ofsheep, leaving everyonedazed.Renald scrambled up,

leaving his pipe on the chairand following Thulin downinto the yard and to the

wagon. Burn it, Renaldthought,glancingtothesides,noticing the brown grass anddead shrubs again. He’dworkedhardonthatyard.Thesmithwascheckingon

the chicken crates tied to thesides of his vehicle. Renaldcaught up to him, reachingout a hand, but Gallanhadistractedhim.“Here, Renald,” she said

from the wagon box. “Takethese.”Sheheldout abasket

of eggs, one lock of goldenhair straying from her bun.Renald reached over to takethe basket. “Give these toAuaine. I know you’re shorton chickens on account ofthosefoxeslastfall.”Renald took the basket of

eggs.Somewerewhite,somewerebrown.“Yes,butwhereareyougoing,Gallanha?”“North,myfriend,”Thulin

said.Hewalkedpast,layingahand on Renald’s shoulder.

“There will be an armygathering, I figure. They’llneedsmiths.”“Please,” Renald said,

gesturing with the basket ofeggs. “At least take a fewminutes. Auaine just putsome bread in, one of thosethick honey loaves that youlike.Wecandiscussthisoveragameofstones.”Thulinhesitated.“We’d better be on the

move,” Gallanha said softly.

“Thatstormiscoming.”Thulin nodded, then

climbed up into the wagon.“You might want to comenorth too,Renald. If you do,bring everything you can.”He paused. “You’re goodenough with the tools youhave here to do some smallmetalwork, so take your bestscythes and turn them intopolearms. Your two bestscythes; now don’t goskimping around with

anything that’s a second bestorathirdbest.Getyourbest,because it’s the weaponyou’regoingtouse.”Renald frowned. “How do

you know that there will bean army? Thulin, burn me,I’mnosoldier!”Thulin continued as if he

hadn’t heard the comments.“Withapolearmyoucanpullsomebodyoff of a horse andstab them. And, as I thinkabout it,maybeyoucan take

the third best and makeyourselfacoupleofswords.”“What do I know about

making a sword? Or aboutusing a sword, for thatmatter?”“You can learn,” Thulin

said, turning north.“Everyone will be needed,Renald. Everyone. They’recoming for us.” He glancedback at Renald. “A swordreally isn’t all that tough tomake. You take a scythe

blade and straighten it out,thenyoufindyourselfapieceofwood toactasaguard, tokeep theenemy’sblade fromslidingdownandcuttingyourhand. Mostly you’ll just beusing things that you’vealreadygot.”Renald blinked. He

stoppedaskingquestions,buthe couldn’t stop thinkingthem.Theybunchedupinsidehisbrain likecattleall tryingto force their way through a

singlegate.“Bring all your stock,

Renald,”Thulinsaid.“You’lleat them—or your men willeat them—and you’ll wantthe milk. And if you don’t,then there’ll bemenyou cantradewithforbeeformutton.Food will be scarce, whatwith everything spoiling somuch and the winter storeshaving run low. Bringeverything you’ve got.Driedbeans, dried fruit,

everything.”Renaldleanedbackagainst

the gate to his yard. He feltweak and limp. Finally, heforced out just one question.“Why?”Thulin hesitated, then

stepped away from thewagon, laying a hand onRenald’sshoulderagain.“I’msorry to be so abrupt. I . . .well, you know how I amwith words, Renald. I don’tknowwhat that storm is.But

I know what it means. I’venever held a sword, but myfatherfoughtintheAielWar.I’maBorderlander.And thatstorm means the end iscoming, Renald.We need tobe therewhen it arrives.”Hestopped, then turned andlookedtothenorth,watchingthose building clouds as afarmhand might watch apoisonous snake he found inthemiddleofthefield.“Lightpreserve us, my friend. We

needtobethere.”Andwith that,he removed

his hand and climbed backinto the wagon. Renaldwatched them ease off,nudgingtheoxenintomotion,heading north. Renaldwatched for a long time,feelingnumb.The distant thunder

cracked, like the sound of awhip, smacking against thehills.Thedoor to the farmhouse

opened and shut. Auainecameouttohim,grayhairina bun. It had been that colorfor years now; she’d grayedearly,andRenaldhadalwaysbeenfondofthecolor.Silver,more than gray. Like theclouds.“WasthatThulin?”Auaine

asked, watching the distantwagon throw up dust. Asingle black chicken featherblewacrosstheroadway.“Yes.”

“And he didn’t stay, eventochat?”Renaldshookhishead.“Oh, but Gallanha sent

eggs!” She took the basketandbegantotransfertheeggsinto her apron to carry theminside. “She’s such a dear.Leavethebasketthereontheground; I’m sure she’ll sendsomeoneforit.”Renald just stared

northward.“Renald?” Auaine asked.

“What’sgotten intoyou,youoldstump?”“She polished up her pots

for you,” he said. “The oneswith the copper bottoms.They’resittingonherkitchentable. They’re yours if youwantthem.”Auaine fell silent.Thenhe

heard a sharp sound ofcracking, andhe lookedoverhis shoulder. She had let herapron grow slack, and theeggs were slipping free,

plopping to the ground andcracking.In a very calm voice,

Auaine asked, “Did she sayanythingelse?”He scratched his head,

which hadn’t much hair leftto speak of. “She said thestorm was coming and theyhadtoheadnorth.Thulinsaidweshouldgotoo.”They stood for another

moment. Auaine pulled upthe edge of her apron,

preservingthemajorityoftheeggs. She didn’t spare aglance for those that hadfallen. She was just staringnorthward.Renald turned. The storm

had jumped forward again.Anditseemedtohavegrowndarkersomehow.“I thinkweought to listen

to them, Renald,” Auainesaid. “I’ll . . . I’ll go fix upwhatwe’llneedtobringwithus from the house. You can

goaroundbackandgatherthemen. Did they say how longwe’llbegone?”“No,”hesaid.“Theydidn’t

evenreallysaywhy.Justthatwe need to go north for thestorm.And...thatthisistheend.”Auaine inhaled sharply.

“Well, you just get the menready. I’ll take care of thehouse.”She bustled inside, and

Renaldforcedhimselftoturn

away from the storm. Herounded the house andentered the barnyard, callingthefarmhands together.Theywere a stout lot, good men,allofthem.Hisownsonshadsought their fortuneselsewhere,buthissixworkerswerenearlyasclosetohimassons.Merk, Favidan, Rinnin,Veshir andAdamad gatheredround. Still feeling dazed,Renald sent two togatheruptheanimals,twomoretopack

what grain and provisionstheyhad left from thewinterandthefinalmanofftofetchGeleni,whohadgoneintothevillage for some new seed,just in case the planting hadgone bad on account of theirstores.The five men scattered.

Renaldstood in thefarmyardforamoment, thenwent intothe barn to fetch hislightweight forge and pull itoutintothesunlight.Itwasn’t

just an anvil, but a full,compact forge, made formoving.Hehad it on rollers;youcouldn’tworka forge ina barn. All that dust couldtake fire. He heaved thehandles,wheelingitouttothealcove set off to the side ofthe yard, built from goodbricks, where he could dominorrepairswhenheneededto.An hour later, he had the

fire stoked. He wasn’t as

skilled as Thulin, but he’dlearned from his father thatbeingabletohandlealittleofyour own forgework made abig difference. Sometimes,you couldn’t squander thehours it would take to go totown and back just to fix abrokenhinge.Thecloudswerestillthere.

He tried not to look at themas he left the forge andheaded into the barn. Thoseclouds were like eyes,

peepingoverhisshoulder.Inside the barn, light

sprinkled down throughcracks in thewall, falling ondust and hay. He’d built thestructure himself sometwenty-five years back. Hekeptplanningtoreplacesomeof those warped roofingplanks, but now therewouldn’tbetime.Atthetoolwall,hereached

for his third-best scythe, butstopped. Taking a deep

breath, he took the bestscythe off the wall instead.He walked back out to theforge and knocked the haftoffthescythe.As he tossed the wood

aside, Veshir—eldest of hisfarmhands—approached,pullingapairofgoats.WhenVeshir saw the scythe bladeon the forge, his expressiongrew dark. He tied the goatstoapost, thentrottedover toRenald,butsaidnothing.

How to make a polearm?Thulin had said they weregood for yanking a man offhis horse. Well, he wouldhavetoreplacethesnathwitha longer straight shaft ofashwood.The flangedendofthe shaft would extendbeyond theheelof theblade,shaped into a crudespearpoint and clad with apieceof tinforstrength.Andthen he would have to heatthebladeandbangoffthetoe

about halfway, making ahookthatcouldtugamanoffhishorse andmaybecuthimat the same time.He slid theblade into the burning coalstoheatit,thenbegantotieonhisapron.Veshir stood there for a

minute or so, watching.Finally,hesteppedup,takingRenald by the arm. “Renald,whatarewedoing?”Renaldshookhisarmfree.

“We’re going north. The

storm is coming and we’regoingnorth.”“We’regoingnorthforjust

astorm?It’sinsanity!”It was nearly the same

thing Renald had said toThulin. Distant thundersounded.Thulin was right. The

crops . . . the skies . . . thefood going bad withoutwarning. Even before he’dspokentoThulin,Renaldhadknown. Deep within, he’d

known.Thisstormwouldnotpass overhead thenvanish. Ithadtobeconfronted.“Veshir,” Renald said,

turning back to his work,“you’ve been a hand on thisfarm for . . . what, fifteenyears now? You’re the firstmanIhired.HowwellhaveItreatedyouandyours?”“You’ve done me well,”

Veshir said. “But burn me,Renald,you’veneverdecidedto leave the farm before!

Thesecrops, they’llwithertodust if we leave them. Thisain’t no southerner wetfarm.Howcanwejustgooff?”“Because,”Renaldsaid,“if

wedon’t leave, then itwon’tmatterifweplantedornot.”Veshirfrowned.“Son,”Renaldsaid,“you’ll

do as I say, and that’s allwe’ll have of it. Go finishgatheringthestock.”Veshirstalkedaway,buthe

didashewas told.Hewasa

goodman,ifhotheaded.Renaldpulledthebladeout

oftheheat,themetalglowingwhite. He laid it against thesmallanvilandbegantobeaton the knobby sectionwhereheel met beard, flattening it.The soundofhishammeronthemetalseemedlouderthanit should have been. It ranglike the pealing thunder, andthe sounds blended. As ifeachbeatofhishammerwasitselfapieceofthestorm.

As he worked, the pealsseemed to form words. Likesomebody muttering in theback of his head. The samephraseoverandover.The storm is coming. The

stormiscoming....He kept on pounding,

keeping the edge on thescythe, but straightening theblade and making a hook atthe end.He still didn’t knowwhy.Butitdidn’tmatter.Thestormwascomingand

hehadtobeready.

Watching the bowleggedsoldiers tie Tanera’s blanket-wrapped body across asaddle, Falendre fought thedesire to begin weepingagain, the desire to vomit.She was senior, and had tomaintain some composure ifshe expected the four othersurviving sul’dam to do so.

She tried to tell herself shehadseenworse,battleswheremore than a single sul’damhad died, more than onedamane.Thatbroughthertoonear thinking of exactly howTaneraandherMirimettheirdeaths, though,andhermindshiedfromit.Huddling by her side,

NenciwhimperedasFalendrestroked the damane’s headand tried to send soothingfeelings through the a’dam.

That often seemed to work,but not so well today. Herown emotions were tooroiled. If only she couldforget that the damane wasshielded, and by whom. Bywhat. Nenci whimperedagain.“You will deliver the

messageasIdirectedyou?”amansaidbehindher.No, not just anyman.The

soundofhisvoicestirred thepoolofacidinherbelly.She

madeherselfturntofacehim,madeherselfmeetthosecold,hardeyes.Theychangedwiththe angle of his head, nowblue, now gray, but alwayslike polished gemstones. Shehad known many hard men,but had she ever known onehard enough to lose a handandmomentslatertakeitasifhe had lost a glove? Shebowed formally, twitchingthe a’dam so that Nenci didthe same. So far they had

been treated well forprisoners under thecircumstances, even to beinggiven washwater, andsupposedly they would notremain prisoners muchlonger. Yet with this man,who could say what mightmake that change? Thepromiseof freedommightbepartofsomescheme.“I will deliver your

message with the care itrequires,” she began, then

stumbled over her tongue.What honorific did she useforhim?“MyLordDragon,”she finished hurriedly. Thewords dried her tongue, buthe nodded, so it must havesufficed.Oneofthemarath’damane

appeared through thatimpossible hole in the air, ayoungwomanwithherhairina long braid. She woreenoughjewelryforoneoftheBlood,andofallthings,ared

dot in the middle of herforehead. “How long do youmean to stay here, Rand?”shedemandedas if thehard-eyed young man were aservant rather than who hewas.“HowclosetoEbouDararewehere?Theplaceisfullof Seanchan, you know, andthey probably fly raken allaroundit.”“DidCadsuanesendyouto

ask that?” he said, and hercheeks colored faintly. “Not

muchlonger,Nynaeve.Afewminutes.”The young woman shifted

hergazetotheothersul’damand damane, all taking theirlead from Falendre,pretending there were nomarath’damane watchingthem, and especially nomeninblackcoats.Theothershadstraightened themselves asbest they could. Surya hadwashed the blood from herface, and from her Tabi’s

face, and Malian had tiedlarge compresses on themthatmade them appear to bewearing odd hats. Ciar hadmanagedtocleanoffmostofthe vomit she had spilleddownthefrontofherdress.“I still think I shouldHeal

them,” Nynaeve saidabruptly. “Hits to the headcan cause odd things thatdon’tcomeonrightaway.”Surya, her face hardening,

moved Tabi behind her as if

to protect the damane. As ifshe could. Tabi’s pale eyeshadwidenedinhorror.Falendre raised a pleading

hand toward the tall youngman. Toward the DragonReborn, it seemed. “Please.Theywillreceivemedicalaidas soon as we reach EbouDar.”“Give over,Nynaeve,” the

young man said. “If theydon’t want Healing, theydon’t want it.” The

marath’damane scowled athim, gripping her braid sohard thatherknuckles turnedwhite. He turned his ownattention back to Falendre.“The road to Ebou Dar liesabout an hour east of here.You can reach the city bynightfall if you press. Theshields on the damane willevaporate in about half anhour. Is that right for thesaidar-woven shields,Nynaeve?” The woman

scowledathiminsilence.“Isthatright,Nynaeve?”“Halfanhour,”shereplied

finally. “But none of this isright, Rand al’Thor. Sendingthose damane back. It isn’tright,andyouknowit.”For a moment, his eyes

wereevencolder.Notharder.That would have beenimpossible. But for that longmoment,theyseemedtoholdcaverns of ice. “Right waseasytofindwhenallIhadto

careforwasafewsheep,”hesaid quietly. “Nowadays,sometimesit’shardertocomeby.”Turningaway,he raisedhis voice. “Logain, geteveryone back through thegateway. Yes, yes, Merise.I’m not trying to commandyou.Ifyou’lldeigntojoinus,though? It will be closingsoon.”Marath’damane, the ones

who called themselves AesSedai, began filing through

thatmadopeningintheair,asdidtheblack-coatedmen,theAsha’man, all mingling withthe hook-nosed soldiers.Several of those finishedtyingTanera to the saddleofthe horse. The beasts hadbeenprovidedby theDragonReborn. How odd, that heshould give them gifts afterwhathadhappened.The hard-eyed young man

turned back to her. “Repeatyourinstructions.”

“IamtoreturntoEbouDarwith a message for ourleadersthere.”“TheDaughteroftheNine

Moons,” the Dragon Rebornsaidsternly.“Youwilldelivermymessagetoher.”Falendre stumbled. She

wasnotinanywayworthytospeaktooneoftheBlood,letalone the High Lady,daughter of the Empress,might she live forever! Butthisman’sexpressionallowed

noargument.Falendrewouldfind a way. “I will deliveryour message to her,”Falendre continued. “I willtellherthat...thatyoubearher nomalice for this attack,and that you desire ameeting.”“I still desire one,” the

DragonRebornsaid.As far as Falendre knew,

the Daughter of the NineMoons had never knownabout theoriginalmeeting. It

had been arranged in secretbyAnath.And thatwaswhyFalendreknewforcertainthatthismanmustbe theDragonReborn.For only theDragonReborn himself could faceone of the Forsaken and notonly survive, but come outthevictor.Was that really what she

had been? One of theForsaken? Falendre’s mindreeled at the concept.Impossible. And yet, here

wastheDragonReborn.Ifhelived, if he walked the land,thentheForsakenwould,too.She was muddled, herthoughtsgoing incircles,sheknew. She bottled up herterror—she would deal withthatlater.Sheneededtobeincontrol.She forced herself tomeet

those frozen gemstones thismanhadforeyes.Shehadtopreservesomedignityifonlyto reassure the four other

surviving sul’dam. And thedamane, of course. If thesul’dam lost composureagain,therewouldbenohopeforthedamane.“I will tell her,” Falendre

said, managing to keep hervoice even, “that you stilldesire a meeting with her.That you believe there mustbe peace between ourpeoples.And Iam to tellherthatLadyAnathwas...wasoneoftheForsaken.”

To the side, she saw someof the marath’damane pushAnaththroughtheholeintheair, maintaining a statelybearing despite her captivity.She always had tried todominate above her station.Couldshereallybewhat thismansaidshewas?Howwas Falendre to face

the der’sul’dam and explainthis tragedy, this terriblemess?She itched tobe awayfrom it, to find someplace to

hide.“Wemusthavepeace,”the

Dragon Reborn said. “I willsee it happen. Tell yourmistress thatshecanfindmein Arad Doman; I will quellthe battle against your forcesthere. Let her know that Igive this as a sign of goodfaith,justasIreleaseyououtof good faith. It is no shameto be manipulated by one ofthe Forsaken, particularlynot . . . that creature. In a

way, I restmoreeasily,now.I worried that one of themwould have infiltrated theSeanchan nobility. I shouldhaveguessedthatitwouldbeSemirhage. She alwayspreferredachallenge.”He spoke of the Forsaken

with an incredible sense offamiliarity, and it gaveFalendrechills.He glanced at her. “You

maygo,”hesaid,thenwalkedover and passed through the

ripintheair.Whatshewouldgive to have that travelingtrick for Nenci. The last ofthe marath’damane passedthrough the hole, and itclosed, leaving Falendre andtheothersalone.Theywereasorry group. Talha was stillcrying, and Malian lookedready to sick up. Several ofthe others had had bloodiedfacesbeforetheywashed,andfaintredsmearsandflakesofcrusted blood still marred

their skin. Falendrewas gladshe had been able to avoidaccepting Healing for them.She had seen one of thosemenHealingmembers of theDragon’s party. Who knewwhattaintitwouldleaveonaperson to be beneath thosecorrupthands?“Be strong,” she

commanded the others,feeling far more uncertainthan she sounded. He hadactually let her free! She’d

barely dared hope for that.Best to be away soon. Verysoon.Shechivviedtheothersontothehorseshehadgiven,andwithinminutestheywereriding south, toward EbouDar,eachsul’damridingwithhercompaniondamaneatherside.The events of this day

could mean having herdamane stripped from her,being forbidden to hold thea’dam ever again. With

Anath gone, punishmentwould be demanded ofsomeone. What would HighLady Suroth say? Damanedead, the Dragon Reborninsulted.Surely losingaccess to the

a’dam was the worst thatcould happen to her. Theywouldn’t make one such asFalendre da’covale, wouldthey? The thought made thebiletwistinsideofheragain.Shewouldhave toexplain

the events of this day verycarefully. There had to be away she could present thesematters in a way that wouldsaveherlife.Shehadgivenherword to

the Dragon to speak directlyto the Daughter of the NineMoons. And she would. Butshe might not do soimmediately. Carefulconsideration would have tobe given. Very carefulconsideration.

She leaned in close to herhorse’s neck, nudging hermount forward, ahead of theothers. That way, theywouldn’t see the tears offrustration, pain and terror inhereyes.

Tylee Khirgan, Lieutenant-General of the EverVictorious Army, sat herhorse atop a forested hilltop,

looking northward. Such adifferent place this landwas.Her homeland, MaramKashor, was a dry island onthe very southeastern tip ofSeanchan. The lumma treesthere were straight, toweringmonsters, with frondssprouting from the top likethehaircrestofamemberoftheHighBlood.The things that passed for

trees in this land weregnarled, twisting, branching

shrubs by comparison. Theirlimbswerelikethefingersofold soldiers, gone arthriticfromyearsholdingthesword.What had the locals calledthese plants? Brushwoodtrees? So odd. To think thatsome of her ancestors mighthave come from this place,traveling with LuthairPaendragtoSeanchan.Her army marched down

theroadbelow,throwingdustinto the air. Thousands upon

thousandsofmen.Fewerthanshe’d had before, but not bymany.Ithadbeentwoweekssince her fightwith theAiel,where Perrin Aybara’s planhad worked impressively.Fightingalongsideamanlikehimwasalwaysabittersweetexperience. Sweet for thesheer genius of it. Bitter forthe worry that one day, theywould faceeachotheron thebattlefield.Tyleewasnotonewhoenjoyedachallengeina

fight. She’d always preferredtowinstraightout.Some generals said that

never strugglingmeant neverbeing forced to improve.Tyleefiguredthatsheandhermen would do theirimproving on the practicefield,andleavethestrugglingtoherenemies.Shewouldnot like to face

Perrin. No, she would not.Andnotjustbecauseshewasfondofhim.

Slowhoofbeatssoundedonthe earth. She glanced to theside as Mishima rode hishorse,apalegelding,upnexttohers.Hehadhishelmtiedtohis saddle, andhis scarredface was thoughtful. Theywereapair, the twoof them.Tylee’s own face bore itsshareofoldscars.Mishima salutedher,more

respectfulnowthatTyleehadbeenraisedtotheBlood.Thatparticular message, delivered

by raken, had been anunexpected one. It was anhonor, and one she stillwasn’taccustomedto.“Still mulling over the

battle?”Mishimaasked.“I am,” Tylee said. Two

weeks, and still it dominatedher mind. “What do youthink?”“Of Aybara, you mean?”

Mishimaasked.Hestillspoketoherlikeafriend,evenifhekept himself from meeting

her eyes. “He is a goodsoldier. Perhaps too focused,toodriven.Butsolid.”“Yes,” Tylee said, then

shookherhead.“Theworldischanging, Mishima. In wayswe cannot anticipate. FirstAybara, and then theoddities.”Mishima nodded

thoughtfully.“Themendon’twanttospeakofthem.”“Theeventshavehappened

too often to be the work of

delusion,” Tylee said. “Thescoutsareseeingsomething.”“Men don’t just vanish,”

Mishimasaid.“Youthinkit’stheOnePower?”“Idonotknowwhatitis,”

shesaid.Sheglancedoverthetrees around her. Some treesshe’d passed earlier hadbegun to send out springgrowth,butnotaoneofthesehad done so. They lookedskeletal, though the air waswarm enough for it to be

planting season already. “Dothey have trees like this inHalamak?”“Not exactly like them,”

Mishimasaid.“But I’veseentheirlikebefore.”“Should they have budded

bynow?”He shrugged. “I’m a

soldier,GeneralTylee.”“Ihadn’tnoticed,”shesaid

dryly.Hegrunted. “Imean that I

don’t pay attention to trees.

Trees don’t bleed. Perhapstheyshouldhavebudded,butperhapsnot.Fewthingsmakesense on this side of theocean.Treesthatdon’tbudinspring, that’s just anotheroddity.Better that thanmoremarath’damane acting likethey were of the Blood,everyone bowing andscraping to them.” Heshudderedvisibly.Tylee nodded, but she

didn’t share his revulsion.

Not completely. She wasn’tcertainwhattothinkofPerrinAybaraandhisAesSedai,letalonehisAsha’man.Andshedidn’t know much moreabouttreesthanMishima.Butit felt to her that they shouldhave started to bud. Andthose men the scouts keptseeing in the fields, howcould theyvanishsoquickly,evenwiththeOnePower?The quartermaster had

openeduponeof theirpacks

of travel rations today andfoundonlydust.Tyleewouldhave started a search for athief or a prankster if thequartermaster hadn’t insistedthat he’d checked that packjust moments before. Karmwas a solid man; he’d beenher quartermaster for years.Hedidnotmakemistakes.Rotting food was so

common here. Karm blamedthe heat of this strange land.Buttravelrationscouldn’trot

or spoil, at least not thisunpredictably. The omenswere all bad, these days.Earlier today, she’d seen twodeadratslyingontheirbacks,onewithatailinthemouthofthe other. It was the worstomen she’d ever seen in herlife, and it still chilledher tothinkofit.Somethingwashappening.

Perrin hadn’t beenwilling tospeakofitmuch,butshesawaweightuponhim.Heknew

much more than he hadspoken.We can’t afford to be

fighting these people, shethought. It was a rebelliousthought, one she wouldn’tspeaktoMishima.Shedidn’tdare ponder it. TheEmpress,might she live forever, hadordered that this land bereclaimed.SurothandGalganwere the Empire’s chosenleaders in the venture, untilthe Daughter of the Nine

Moons revealed herself.While Tylee couldn’t knowthe High Lady Tuon’sthoughts, Suroth and Galganwereunited in their desire tosee this land subdued. Itwaspracticallytheonlythingtheydidagreeupon.Noneof themwould listen

to suggestions that theyshould be looking for alliesamong the people of thisland, rather than enemies.Thinkingaboutitwascloseto

treason. Insubordination, atleast. She sighed and turnedtoMishima, prepared to givethe order to begin scoutingfor a place to camp for thenight.Shefroze.Mishimahadan

arrow through his neck, awicked, barbed thing. Shehadn’thearditstrike.Hemether eyes, stunned, trying tospeak and only letting outblood. He slid from thesaddle and collapsed in a

heap as something enormouscharged through theunderbrush beside Tylee,cracking gnarled branches,throwing itself at her. Shebarely had time to pull freeher sword and shout beforeDuster—a good, solidwarhorse that had neverfailedherinbattle—rearedinpanic, tossing her to theground.That probably saved her

life, as her attacker swung a

thick-bladed sword, cuttinginto the saddle where Tyleehad been. She scrambled toher feet, armor clanking, andscreamedthealert.“Toarms!Attack!”Her voice joined hundreds

who made the same call atvirtually the same time.Menscreamed.Horseswhinnied.An ambush, she thought,

raising her blade. And wewalked right into it! Whereare the scouts? What

happened? She launchedherself at the man who hadtried to kill her. He spun,snorting.And for the first time, she

saw just what he was. Notquite a man—instead, somecreaturewithtwistedfeatures,the head covered in coarsebrown hair, the too-wideforehead wrinkled with thickskin. Those eyes weredisturbingly human-like, butthe nose belowwas flattened

like that of a boar and themouth jutted with twoprominenttusks.Thecreatureroaredather,spittlesprayingfromitsnearlyhumanlips.Blood of my Fathers

Forgotten, she thought.Whathave we stumbled into? Themonster was a nightmare,givenabodyand let loose tokill. It was a thing she hadalways dismissed assuperstition.She charged the creature,

knocking aside its thickswordasittriedtoattack.Shespun, falling into Beat theBrushes, and separated thebeast’sarmfromitsshoulder.Shestruckagain,anditsheadfollowed the arm to theground,cut free. It stumbled,somehow still walking threesteps,beforecollapsing.The trees rustled, more

branchessnapping.Justdownfrom her hillside, Tylee sawthathundredsofthecreatures

had broken out of theunderbrush,attackingthelineof her men near the middle,causing chaos. More andmore of themonsters pouredbetweenthetrees.How had this happened?

How had these things gottenso close to Ebou Dar! Theywere well inside theSeanchan defensiveperimeter,onlyaday’smarchfromthecapital.Tylee charged down the

hillside, bellowing for herhonor guard as more of thebeasts roaredoutof the treesbehindher.

Graendal lounged in astonework room lined withadoring men and women,each one a perfect specimen,each one wearing little morethan a robe of diaphanouswhite cloth. A warm fire

played in the hearth,illuminating a fine rug ofblood red. That rug waswoveninthedesignofyoungwomenandmenentangledinways that would have madeeven an experiencedcourtesan blush. The openwindows let in afternoonlight,theloftypositionofherpalacegivingaviewofpinesandashimmeringlakebelow.She sipped sweetbristle

juice, wearing a pale blue

dress after theDomani cut—shewasgrowingfondoftheirfashions, though her dresswas far more filmy than theones they wore. TheseDomani were too fond ofwhispering when Graendalpreferredanicesharpscream.Shetookanothersipofjuice.What an interestingly sourflavor it had. It was exoticduring this Age, since thetrees now grew only ondistantislands.

Without warning, agateway spun open in thecenter of the room. Shecursed under her breath asone of her finest prizes—asucculent young womannamedThurasa,amemberoftheDomanimerchantcouncil—nearly lost an arm to thething. The gateway let in asweltering heat that marredthe perfect mix of chillmountain air and fireplacewarmthshehadcultivated.

Graendal kept hercomposure, forcingherself tolounge back in heroverstuffed velvet chair. Amessenger in black strodethrough the portal, and sheknewwhat hewanted beforehespoke.OnlyMoridinknewwhere to find her, now thatSammaelwasdead.“My Lady, your presence

isrequiredby—”“Yes, yes,” she said.

“Standstraightandletmesee

you.”The youth stood still, just

twostepsintotheroom.Andmy, he was attractive! Palegoldenhair aswas so rare inmany parts of the world,green eyes that shimmeredlikemoss-grownpools,alithefigure taut with just enoughmuscle.Graendal clicked hertongue. Was Moridin tryingto tempt her by sending hisvery most pretty, or was thechoicecoincidental?

No. Among the Chosen,there were no coincidences.Graendal nearly reached outwith aweave of Compulsionto seize the boy for herself.However, she restrainedherself. Once a man hadknown that level ofCompulsion, there was noway to recover him, andMoridin might be angered.She did need to worry abouthis whims. The man neverhad been stable, even during

the early years. If sheintended to see herself asNae’blis someday, it wasimportantnottorilehimuntilitwastimetostrike.She turned her attention

awayfromthemessenger—ifshe couldn’t have him, thenshe wasn’t interested in him—and looked through theopen gateway. She hatedbeingforcedtomeetwithoneof the other Chosen on theirterms. She hated leaving her

strongholdandherpets.Mostofall,shehatedbeingforcedto grovel before one whoshould have been hersubordinate.There was nothing to be

done about it. Moridin wasNae’blis. For now. And thatmeant, hate it or not,Graendalhadnochoicebuttoanswer his summons. So shesetasideherdrink,thenstoodand walked through thegateway,herdiaphanouspale

blue gown shimmering withgoldenembroidery.It was distractingly hot on

theothersideofthegateway.She immediately wove Airand Water, cooling the airaround her. She was in ablack stone building, withruddy light coming in thewindows. They had no glassin them. That reddish tintimplied a sunset, but it wasbarely midafternoon back inArad Doman. Surely she

hadn’t traveled that far, hadshe?The room was furnished

only with hard chairs of thedeepest blackwood.Moridincertainly was lacking inimagination lately.Everything of black and red,and all focused on killingthose fool boys from thevillageofRandal’Thor.Wasshetheonlyonewhosawthatal’Thor himself was the realthreat?Whynot justkillhim

andbedonewithit?The most obvious answer

tothatquestion—thatnoneofthemsofarhadprovenstrongenough to defeat him—wasone she did not enjoycontemplating.Shewalked to thewindow

and found the reason for therust-colored light. Outside,the claylike ground wasstained red from the iron inthe soil. She was on thesecond level of a deep black

tower, the stones drawing inthe burning heat of the sky.Very little vegetationsprouted outside, and thatwhich did was spotted withblack. So, it was the deepnortheastern Blight. It hadbeen some time since she’dbeenhere.Moridinseemedtohave locateda fortress,ofallthings.Acollectionofshoddyhuts

stood in the shadow of thefortress,andafewpatchesof

blightstrain crops markedfields in the distance. Theywere probably trying a newstrain, coaxing it to grow inthe area. Perhaps severaldifferent crops; that wouldexplain the patches. Guardsprowled the area, wearingblack uniforms despite theheat.Soldierswerenecessaryto fight off attacks from thevarious Shadowspawn thatinhabited the lands this deepwithin the Blight. Those

creatures obeyed no mastersave for the Great Lordhimself. What was Moridindoingallthewayouthere?Her speculation was cut

short as footsteps announcedother arrivals. Demandredentered through the doorwayto the south, and he wasaccompanied by Mesaana.Had they arrived together,then? They assumed thatGraendal did not know oftheirlittlealliance,apactthat

included Semirhage. Buthonestly, if they wanted tokeep that a secret, couldn’tthey see that they shouldn’tanswerasummonstogether?Graendalhidasmileasshe

nodded to the two of them,then selected the largest andmost comfortable-looking ofthe room’s chairs to sit in.She ran a finger along thesmooth, dark wood, feelingthegrainbeneaththelacquer.Demandred and Mesaana

regarded her coldly, and sheknew them well enough topickouthintsoftheirsurpriseat seeing her. So. They hadanticipated this meeting, hadthey? But not Graendal’spresenceatit?Besttopretendthat she herself was notconfused. She smiledknowinglyatthetwoofthemandcaughtaflashofangerinDemandred’seyes.That man frustrated her,

though she would never

admit it out loud. Mesaanawas in the White Tower,pretending tobeoneofwhatpassed for an Aes Sedai inthis Age. She was obviousand easy to read; Graendal’sagents in the White Towerkept her well apprised ofMesaana’s activities.And, ofcourse, Graendal’s ownnewly minted associationwithAran’garwashelpful aswell. Aran’gar was playingwith the rebelAesSedai, the

oneswhowere besieging theWhiteTower.Yes, Mesaana did not

confuse her, and the otherswere equally easy to track.Moridin was gathering theGreat Lord’s forces for theLast Battle, and his warpreparations left him verylittle time for the south—though his two minions,Cyndane and Moghedien,occasionally showed theirfaces there. They spent their

time rallying theDarkfriendsand occasionally trying tofollow Moridin’s orders thatthe two ta’veren—PerrinAybara andMatrim Cauthon—bekilled.She was certain Sammael

had fallen to Rand al’Thorduring the struggle for Illian.In fact—now that GraendalhadacluethatSemirhagehadbeen pulling strings with theSeanchan—shewasconfidentshe knew the plans of every

one of the other sevenremainingChosen.ExceptDemandred.Whatwasthatblastedman

up to? She’d have traded allof her knowledge ofMesaana’s and Aran’gar’sdoings for even a hint ofDemandred’splans.Hestoodthere, handsome and hawk-nosed, his lips drawn inperpetual anger. Demandrednever smiled, never seemedtoenjoyanything.Thoughhe

was one of the foremostgenerals among the Chosen,warfare had never seemed tobring him joy.Once she hadheard him say that he wouldlaugh the day he could snaptheneckofLewsTherin.Andonlythen.Hewas a fool to bear that

grudge. To think he mighthavebeenontheotherside—might have become theDragon himself, had thingsturned out differently. Still,

foolornot,hewasextremelydangerous, and Graendal didnot likebeing ignorantofhisplans.Where had he set up?Demandred liked havingarmiestocommand,buttherewerenone leftmoving in theworld.Save perhaps for those

Borderlanders.Couldhehavemanaged to infiltrate them?That certainly would havebeenacoup.Butsurelyshe’dhave heard something; she

hadspiesinthatcamp.She shook her head,

wishingforadrinktowetherlips.Thisnorthernairwastoodry; she much preferred theDomani humidity.Demandred folded his arms,remaining standing asMesaana seated herself. Shehadchin-lengthdarkhairandwatery blue eyes. Her floor-length white dress bore noembroidery, and sheworenojewelry.Ascholartothecore.

Sometimes Graendal thoughtMesaanahadgoneovertotheShadow because it offered amore interesting opportunityforresearch.Mesaana was fully

dedicated to the Great Lordnow, just like the rest ofthem, but she seemed asecond-rate member of theChosen. Making boasts shecouldn’t fulfill, allyingherself tostrongerpartiesbutlacking the skill to

manipulate them.She’ddoneevilworksintheGreatLord’sname,buthadnevermanagedthe grand achievements ofChosen like Semirhage andDemandred. Let aloneMoridin.And,asGraendalbegan to

think on Moridin, the manentered. Now, there was ahandsome creature.Demandred looked like aknob-facedpeasantcomparedwithhim.Yes, thisbodywas

muchbetterthanhispreviousone. He was almost prettyenoughtobeoneofherpets,though that chin spoiled theface. Too prominent, toostrong. Still, that stark blackhair atop a tall, broad-shouldered body. . . . Shesmiled, thinking of himkneeling in a filmy outfit ofwhite, looking at heradoringly, his mind wrappedin Compulsion to the pointthathesawnobody—nothing

—otherthanGraendal.Mesaana rose as soon as

Moridin entered, andGraendal reluctantly didlikewise. He wasn’t her pet,notyet.HewasNae’blis,andhehadbeguntodemandmoreandmoreshowsofobediencefromtheminrecentdays.TheGreat Lord gave him theauthority. All three of theother Chosen reluctantlybowed their heads to him;only to him among all men

would they show deference.Henotedtheirobediencewithsterneyesashestalkedtothefront of the room, where thewallofcharcoalblack stoneswas set with amantel.Whathad possessed someone tobuild a fortress out of blackrockintheBlight’sheat?Graendal sat back down.

Were the other Chosencoming? If not, what did itmean?Mesaana spoke before

Moridin could say anything.“Moridin,” she said, steppingforward, “we need to rescueher.”“You will speak when I

giveyouleave,Mesaana,”hereplied coldly. “You are notyetforgiven.”She cringed, then

obviously grew angry atherselfforit.Moridinignoredher, glancing over atGraendal, eyes narrow.Whatwasthatlookfor?

“You may continue,” hefinally said toMesaana, “butrememberyourplace.”Mesaana’s lips formed a

line, but she did not argue.“Moridin,”shesaid,tonelessdemanding. “You saw thewisdom in agreeing to meetwith us. Surely that wasbecauseyouareasshockedaswe are. We do not have theresources to help herourselves; she isbound tobewell guarded by Aes Sedai

and those Asha’man. Youneedtohelpusfreeher.”“Semirhage deserves her

imprisonment,”Moridinsaid,restinghisarmonthemantel,still turned away fromMesaana.Semirhage, captured?

Graendal had just barelylearned that the woman wasimpersonating an importantSeanchan!Whathadshedoneto get herself captured? IftherewereAsha’man, then it

seemed she’dmanaged to betakenbyal’Thorhimself!Despite her startlement,

Graendal maintained herknowing smile. Demandredglanced at her. If he andMesaana had asked for thismeeting, then why hadMoridinsentforGraendal?“But think of what

Semirhage might reveal!”Mesaana said, ignoringGraendal. “Beyond that, sheisoneoftheChosen.Itisour

dutytoaidher.”Andbeyond that,Graendal

thought, she is a member ofthe little alliance you twomade. Perhaps the strongestmember.Losingherwillbeablow to your bid for controloftheChosen.“She disobeyed,” Moridin

said. “She was not to try tokillal’Thor.”“She didn’t intend to,”

Mesaana said hastily. “Ourwoman there thinks that the

boltofFirewasareactionofsurprise, not an intention tokill.”“Andwhatsayyouofthis,

Demandred?” Moridin said,glancingattheshorterman.“I want Lews Therin,”

Demandred said, his voicedeep, his expression dark, asalways. “Semirhage knowsthat. She also knows that ifshe’d killed him, I wouldhave found her and claimedherlifeinretribution.Nobody

kills al’Thor. Nobody butme.”“You or the Great Lord,

Demandred,” Moridin said,voice dangerous. “His willdominatesusall.”“Yes, yes, of course it

does,” Mesaana cut in,stepping forward, plain dressbrushing the mirror-brightblackmarblefloor.“Moridin,the fact remains that shedidn’t intend tokill him, justtocapturehim.I—”

“Ofcourseshe intended tocapture him!” Moridinroared, causing Mesaana toflinch. “That was what shewas ordered to do. And shefailed at it, Mesaana. Failedspectacularly, leaving himwounded despite my expresscommandthathewasn’ttobeharmed! And for thatincompetence,shewillsuffer.I will give you no aid inrescuingher. In fact, I forbidyou to send her aid. Do you

understand?”Mesaana flinched again.

Demandred did not; he metMoridin’s eyes, then nodded.Yes, he was a cold one.Perhaps Graendalunderestimated him.He verywell might be the mostpowerful of the three, moredangerous than Semirhage.She was emotionless andcontrolled, true, butsometimes emotion wasappropriate. It could drive a

man like Demandred toactions that a morecoolheaded person couldn’tevencontemplate.Moridin looked down,

flexing his left hand, as if itwere stiff.Graendal caught ahintofpaininhisexpression.“Let Semirhage rot,”

Moridin growled. “Let hersee what it is to be the onequestioned.PerhapstheGreatLord will find some use forher in thecomingweeks,but

thatishistodetermine.Now.Tell me of yourpreparations.”Mesaana paled just

slightly,glancingatGraendal.Demandred’s face grew red,as if hewas incredulous thattheywouldbeinterrogatedinfront of another Chosen.Graendalsmiledatthem.“I am perfectly poised,”

Mesaanasaid,turningbacktoMoridinwith a sweep of herhead. “TheWhiteTowerand

those fools who rule it willshortlybemine.Iwilldelivernot just a broken WhiteTowertoourGreatLord,butanentirebroodofchannelerswho—one way or another—will serve our cause in theLast Battle. This time, theAesSedaiwillfightforus!”“A bold claim,” Moridin

said.“I will make it happen,”

Mesaana said evenly. “Myfollowers infest the Tower

like an unseen plague,festering inside of a healthy-lookingmanatmarket.Moreand more join our cause.Some intentionally, othersunwittingly. It is the sameeitherway.”Graendal listened

thoughtfully. Aran’garclaimed that the rebel AesSedai would eventuallysecure the Tower, thoughGraendal herself wasn’tcertain. Who would be

victorious, the child or thefool?Diditmatter?“Andyou?”Moridinasked

Demandred.“My rule is secure,”

Demandred said simply. “Igather for war. We will beready.”Graendal itched forhim to

say more than that, butMoridindidnotpush.Still, itwas much more than she’dbeen able to glean on herown. Demandred apparently

heldathroneandhadarmies.Which were gathered. TheBorderlanders marchingthroughtheeastseemedmoreandmorelikely.“You twomaywithdraw,”

Moridinsaid.Mesaana sputtered at the

dismissal, but Demandredsimply turned and stalkedaway. Graendal nodded toherself; she’d have to watchhim.TheGreatLord favoredaction, and often those who

could bring armies to hisname were best rewarded.Demandred could very wellbehermostimportantrival—followingMoridinhimself,ofcourse.He had not dismissed her,

andsosheremainedseatedasthe other two withdrew.Moridinstayedwherehewas,one arm leaning against themantel. There was silence inthetoo-blackroomforatime,and then a servant in a crisp

red uniform entered, bearingtwo cups. He was an uglything, with a flat face andbushy eyebrows, worth nomorethanapassingglance.Shetookasipofherdrink

and tasted new wine, justslightlytart,butquitegood.Itwas growing hard to findgood wine; the Great Lord’stouch on the world taintedeverything, spoiling food,ruiningeventhatwhichnevershould have been able to

spoil.Moridinwaved the servant

away,nottakinghisowncup.Graendal feared poison, ofcourse.She alwaysdidwhendrinking from another’s cup.However, there would be noreason forMoridin to poisonher; he was Nae’blis. Whilemost of them resistedshowingsubserviencetohim,more and more he wasexerting his will on them,pushing them into positions

as his lessers. She suspectedthat, if he wished, he couldhave her executed in anymannerofwaysandtheGreatLord would grant it to him.Soshedrankandwaited.“Didyougleanmuchfrom

what you heard, Graendal?”Moridinasked.“As much as could be

gleaned,” she answeredcarefully.“I know how you crave

information. Moghedien has

always been known as thespider, pulling strings fromafar, but you are in manywaysbetteratitthanshe.Shewindssomanywebsthatshegets caught in them.Youaremorecareful.Youstrikeonlywhenwise,butarenotafraidof conflict. The Great Lordapprovesofyourinitiative.”“My dear Moridin,” she

said, smiling to herself, “youflatterme.”“Do not toy with me,

Graendal,” he said, voicehard. “Take yourcomplimentsandbesilent.”She recoiled as if slapped,

butsaidnomore.“Igaveyou leave to listen

totheothertwoasareward,”Moridin said. “Nae’blis hasbeenchosen,buttherewillbeother positions of high gloryin the Great Lord’s reign.Some much higher thanothers. Today was a taste ofthe privileges you might

enjoy.”“I live only to serve the

GreatLord.”“Then serve him in this,”

Moridinsaid,lookingdirectlyat her. “Al’Thor moves forArad Doman. He is to liveunharmed until he can faceme at that last day. But hemustnot be allowed tomakepeace in your lands. He willattempt to restore order.Youmust find ways to preventthatfromhappening.”

“Itwillbedone.”“Go, then,” Moridin said,

wavingahandsharply.She rose, thoughtful, and

startedtowardthedoor.“AndGraendal,”hesaid.She hesitated, glancing at

him. He stood against themantel, back mostly to her.He seemed to be staring atnothing, just looking at theblack stones of the far wall.Strangely, he looked a greatdeal like al’Thor—of whom

she had numerous sketchesviaherspies—whenhestoodlikethat.“Theendisnear,”Moridin

said.“TheWheelhasgroanedits final rotation, the clockhaslostitsspring,theserpentheaves its final gasps. Hemust know pain of heart.Hemustknowfrustration,andhemust know anguish. Bringthesetohim.Andyouwillberewarded.”Shenodded,thenmadeher

way through the providedgateway, back to herstrongholdinthehillsofAradDoman.Toplot.

Rodel Ituralde’smother,nowthirtyyearsburiedintheclayhills of his Domanihomeland,hadbeenfondofaparticular saying: “Thingsalways have to get worse

before they can get better.”She’d said it when she’dyanked free his festeringtooth as a boy, an ailmenthe’d earned while playing atswordswith thevillageboys.She’d said it when he’d losthis first love to a lordlingwhoworeahatwith feathersand whose soft hands andjeweled sword had provenhe’d never known a realbattle.And she’d say it now,if she were with him on the

ridge,watching theSeanchanmarchuponthecitynestledintheshallowvalleybelow.He studied the city,

Darluna, through his lookingglass, shading the end withhis left hand, his geldingquiet beneath him in theevening light.Heandseveralof his Domani kept to thissmallstandof trees; itwouldtaketheDarkOne’sownluckfortheSeanchantospothim,even with looking glasses of

theirown.Things always had to get

worse before they could getbetter. He’d lit a fire underthe Seanchan by destroyingtheir supplydepotsall acrossAlmoth Plain and intoTarabon. He shouldn’t besurprised,then,toseeagrandarmy like this one—ahundred and fifty thousandstrong at least—come toquench that fire. It showed ameasureof respect.Theydid

not underestimate him, theseSeanchan invaders. Hewishedthattheydid.Ituraldemovedhis looking

glass, studying a group ofriders among the Seanchanforce.Theyrodeinpairs,onewoman of each pair wearinggray, the other red and blue.They were far too distant,even with the glass, for himtomake out the embroideredlightningboltson thedressesof those in red and blue, nor

could he see the chains thatlinked each pair together.Damaneandsul’dam.This army had at least a

hundredpairs,probablymore.If that weren’t enough, hecould see one of the flyingbeasts above, drawing closeforitsridertodropamessageto the general. With thosecreaturestocarrytheirscouts,the Seanchan army had anunprecedented edge. Ituraldewould have traded ten

thousand soldiers for one ofthose flying beasts. Othercommanders might havewanted the damane, withtheir ability to throwlightningsandcausetheearthto heave, but battles—likewars—were won byinformation as often as theywerebyweapons.Of course, the Seanchan

hadsuperiorweaponsaswellas superior scouts. They alsohad superior troops. Though

Ituralde was proud of hisDomani, many of his menwereilltrainedortoooldforfighting. He almost lumpedhimselfinthatlattergroup,asthe years were beginning topile on him like bricks on apallet.Buthegavenothoughttoretiring.Whenhe’dbeenaboy,he’doftenfeltasenseofurgency—aworrythatbythetimehecameofage,thegreatbattleswould all bedone, alltheglorywon.

Sometimes,heenviedboystheirfoolishness.“Theymarchhard,Rodel,”

Lidrin said. He was a youthwithascaracrosstheleftsideof his face, and he wore afashionable thin blackmustache. “They badly wantto capture that city.” Lidrinhad been untested as anofficer before this campaignbegan.Hewasaveterannow.Although Ituralde and hisforces had won nearly every

engagement they’d had withtheSeanchan,Lidrinhadseenthree of his companionofficers fall, poor JaalamNishur among them. Fromtheir deaths, Lidrin hadlearned one of the bitterlessons of warfare: winningdidn’t necessarily meanliving. And following ordersoften didn’t mean eitherwinningorliving.Lidrin didn’t wear his

customary uniform. Neither

didIturaldeoranyofthemenwithhim.Theiruniformshadbeen needed elsewhere, andthat left them with simpleworn coats and browntrousers, many borrowed orboughtfromlocals.Ituralde raised his looking

glass again, thinking onLidrin’s comment. TheSeanchan did indeed marchwith speed; they wereplanning to take Darlunaquickly. They saw the

advantage it would offer, forthey were a clever foe, andthey had returned to Ituraldean excitement he hadassumedthathe’dleftbehindyearsago.“Yes, they push hard,” he

said. “But what would youdo, Lidrin? An enemy forceof two hundred thousandbehind you, another of ahundred and fifty thousandahead of you. With enemiesonallsides,wouldyoumarch

your men maybe just a littletoo hard if you knew thatyou’dfindrefugeattheend?”Lidrin did not respond.

Ituralde turned his lookingglass,examiningspringfieldsclusteredwithworkers goingabout their planting. Darlunawas a large city for theseparts. Nothing here in thewest could match the grandcitiesoftheeastandsouth,ofcourse, regardless of whatpeople from Tanchico or

Falme would like to claim.Still, Darluna had a sturdygranite wall a good twentyfeettall.Therewasnobeautyto the fortification, but thewall was solid, and itwrappedacitybigenoughtomake any countryboygawk.In his youth, Ituralde wouldhavecalleditgrand.Thatwasbefore he’d gone to fight theAielatTarValon.Eitherway, itwas thebest

fortificationtobefoundinthe

area, and the Seanchancommanders no doubt knewit.Theycouldhavechosentohunker down on a hilltop;fighting surrounded wouldmake full use of thosedamane.However,thatwouldnotonly leaveno retreat, butwould leave them minimalopportunities for supply. Acity would have wells andperhapsleftoverwinterstoresinsidethewall.AndDarluna,which had had its garrisons

pressed into serviceelsewhere, was far too smalltoofferseriousresistance....Ituralde lowered his

lookingglass.Hedidn’tneedit to know what washappening as the Seanchanscouts reached the city,demanding that the gates beopened to the invadingforce.Heclosedhiseyes,waiting.Lidrin exhaled softly

beside him. “They didn’tnotice,” he whispered.

“They’removing the bulk oftheir forces up to the walls,waitingtobeletin!”“Give the order,” Ituralde

said,openinghiseyes.Therewas one problem withsuperiorscoutsliketheraken.When you had access to atool so useful, you tended torelyuponit.Andreliancelikethatcouldbeexploited.In the distance, the

“farmers”onthefieldstossedaside their tools and pulled

bows from hidden clefts inthe ground. The gates to thecity opened, revealing thesoldiers hiding inside—soldiers that the Seanchanraken scouts had claimedwereafour-dayrideaway.Ituralde raised his looking

glass.Thebattlebegan.

TheProphet’sfingersbitdirt,tearingtrenchesinthesoilas

hescrambleduptothetopofthe forested hillside. Hisfollowers straggled behind.Sofew.Sofew!Buthewouldrebuild. The glory of theDragonRebornfollowedhim,andnomatterwherehewent,hefoundwillingsouls.Thosewith hearts that were pure,those who had hands thatburned to destroy theShadow.Yes!Thinknotofthepast,

think of the future,when the

LordDragonwouldrulealloftheland!Whenmenwouldbesubjectonlytohim,andtohisProphet beneath him. Thosedays would be gloriousindeed, days when nonewoulddarescorntheProphetor deny his will. Days whentheProphetwouldn’thave tosuffer the indignity of livingneartheverycamp—theveryone—as Shadowspawn likethat creature Aybara.Glorious days.Glorious days

werecoming.Itwasdifficult tokeephis

thoughts on those futureglories. The world aroundhim was filthy. Men deniedthe Dragon and sought theShadow. Even his ownfollowers. Yes! That musthave been why they hadfallen. That must have beenwhy so many died whenassaulting thecityofMaldenanditsDarkfriendAiel.The Prophet had been so

certain.He had assumed thattheDragonwouldprotecthispeople, lead them to apowerful victory. Then theProphet would finally havegotten his wish. He couldhave killed Perrin Aybarawith his own hands! Twistthat too-thick bull’s neck inhis fingers, twist it around,squeezing, feeling the bonescrack, the flesh wring, thebreathstop.The Prophet reached the

top of the ridge and brushedthe dirt from his fingers. Hebreathedinandout,scanningaround him, underbrushrustlingashis few remainingfollowers climbed up towardhim. The canopy was denseoverhead, and very littlesunlight peeked through.Light.Radiantlight.The Dragon had appeared

to him the night before theattack.Appeared in glory!Afigureoflight,glowinginthe

air in shimmering robes.KillPerrin Aybara! the Dragonhad commanded. Kill him!And so the Prophet had senthis very best tool, Aybara’sowndearfriend.That boy, that tool, had

failed. Aram was dead. TheProphet’smenhadconfirmedit. Tragedy! Was that whytheyhadnotprospered?Wasthatwhy,outofhisthousandsoffollowers,henowonlyhadabarehandful?No.No!They

musthaveturnedagainsthim,secretly worshipping theShadow. Aram! Darkfriend!Thatwaswhyhehadfailed.Thefirstofhisfollowers—

battered, dirtied, bloodied,exhausted—reached the topof the ridge. They worethreadbare clothing. Clothingthat did not set them aboveothers. The clothing ofsimplicityandgoodness.The Prophet counted them

off.Fewerthanahundred.So

few. This cursed forest wasso dark, despite the daylight.Thick trunks stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and the skyoverheadhadgrowndimwithcloud cover. The underbrushof thin-branched boneweedshrubs matted together,forming an almost unnaturalbarrier, and those shrubsscratched like claws on hisskin.With that underbrush and

the sharp earthen bank, the

army could not follow thisway.ThoughtheProphethadescaped fromAybara’s campbarely an hour before, healreadyfeltsafe.Theywouldgo north, where Aybara andhis Darkfriends would notfindthem.There,theProphetcould rebuild.He had stayedwithAybaraonlybecausehisfollowers had been strongenough to keep Aybara’sDarkfriendsaway.His dear followers. Brave

men, and true, every one.Killed by Darkfriends. Hemourned them, bowing hishead andmuttering a prayer.His followers joined him.They were weary, but thelight of zeal shone in theireyes.Anywhowereweak,orwho lacked dedication, hadfled or been killed long ago.These were the best, themightiest, the most faithful.Each one had killed manyDarkfriends in the name of

theDragonReborn.With them, he could

rebuild. But first he had toescape Aybara. The Prophetwas too weak, now, to facehim. But later he would killhim.Yes . . .Fingerson thatneck...Yes...The Prophet could

remember a time when he’dbeen called something else.Masema. Those days weregrowing very blurry to him,likememories from a former

life. Indeed, just as all menwere reborn into the Pattern,so had Masema been reborn—he had cast off his old,profane life and had becometheProphet.The last of his followers

joinedhimatopthecliffface.Hespatattheirfeet.Theyhadfailed him. Cowards. Theyshouldhavefoughtbetter!Heshouldhavebeenabletowinthatcity.He turned north and

pushedhiswayforward.Thislandscape was growingfamiliar to him, though theyhad nothing like it up in theBorderlands. They wouldclimb to the highlands, thencross over and enter AlmothPlain. There wereDragonswornthere,followersof the Prophet, even ifmanydidn’tknowofhim.Therehecouldrebuildquickly.Hepushedthroughapatch

ofthedarkbrushandentered

a small clearing. His menfollowed quickly. Theywould need food, soon, andhe would have to send themhunting. No fires. Theycouldn’taffordtoalert—“Hello, Masema,” a quiet

voicesaid.He hissed, spinning, his

followers bunching aroundhimandpullingoutweapons.Swords for some, knives,quarterstaffs, and theoccasional polearm. The

Prophet scanned the dimafternoon clearing, searchingfor the onewho had spoken.He found her standing on alittle outcrop of rock a shortdistanceaway,awomanwitha prominent Saldaean nose,slightly tilted eyes, andshoulder-length black hair.She wore green, with skirtsdivided for riding, her armsfoldedinfrontofher.Faile Aybara, wife of the

Shadowspawn, Perrin

Aybara. “Take her!” theProphet screamed, pointing.Several of his followersscrambled forward, but mosthesitated.Theyhadseenwhathe had not. Shadows in theforest behind Aybara’s wife,a half-circle of them. Theyweretheshapesofmen,withbows pointed into theclearing.Faile waved with a sharp

motion, and the arrows flew.Those of his followers who

had run at his bidding fellfirst, crying out in the silentforest before falling to theloamy earth. The Prophetbellowed, each arrowseeming to pierce his ownheart.His beloved followers!His friends! His dearbrothers!An arrow slammed into

him, throwing him backwardto the ground. Around him,men died, just as they hadearlier.Why,why hadn’t the

Dragon protected them?Why?Suddenly,thehorrorofit all returned to him, thesinkingterrorofwatchinghismen fall in waves, atwatching them die at thehands of those DarkfriendAiel.It was Perrin Aybara’s

fault. Ifonly theProphethadseenearlier,backintheearlydays, before he’d evenrecognized the Lord Dragonforwhohewas!

“It’smyfault,”theProphetwhispered as the last of hisfollowers died. It had takenseveral arrows to stop someof them. That made himproud.Slowly, he forced himself

back to his feet, hand to hisshoulder, where the shaftsprouted.He’d lost toomuchblood. Dizzy, he fell to hisknees.Failesteppeddownoffher

stone and entered the

clearing. Two womenwearing trousers followed.They looked concerned, butFaile ignored their proteststhat she stay back. Shewalked right up to theProphet, then slid her knifefrom her belt. It was a fineblade, with a cast hilt thatshowed a wolf’s head. Thatwas well. Looking at it, theProphet remembered the daywhen he’d earned his ownblade.Thedayhisfatherhad

givenittohim.“Thank you for helping to

assault Malden, Masema,”Faile said, stopping right infront of him. Then shereached up and rammed thatknife into his heart. He fellbackward, his ownbloodhotonhischest.“Sometimes, a wife must

dowhatherhusbandcannot,”heheardFailetellherwomenashiseyesfluttered,tryingtoclose. “It is a dark thing we

did this day, but necessary.Letnoone speakof it tomyhusband. He must neverknow.”Her voice grew distant.

TheProphetfell.Masema.Thathadbeenhis

name.He’dearnedhisswordon his fifteenth birthday.Hisfatherhadbeensoproud.It’s over, then, he thought,

unabletokeephiseyesopen.He closed them, falling as ifthrough an endless void.Did

I do well, Father, or did Ifail?Therewasnoanswer.And

he joined with the void,tumbling into an endless seaofblackness.

CHAPTER1

TearsfromSteel

TheWheelofTimeturns,andAges come andpass, leavingmemories that becomelegend. Legend fades tomyth, and evenmyth is longforgotten when the Age thatgave it birth comes again. Inone Age, called the ThirdAge by some, anAge yet tocome, an Age long past, a

wind rose around thealabaster spire known as theWhite Tower. The windwasnot the beginning. There areneither beginnings norendings to the turning of theWheelofTime.But itwasabeginning.The wind twisted around

the magnificent Tower,brushing perfectly fittedstones and flapping majesticbanners. The structure wassomehow both graceful and

powerful at the same time; ametaphor, perhaps, for thosewhohadinhabiteditforoverthree thousand years. Fewlooking upon the Towerwould guess that at its heart,it had been both broken andcorrupted.Separately.The wind blew, passing

through a city that seemedmore a work of art than aworkaday capital. Eachbuilding was a marvel; eventhe simple granite shopfronts

had been crafted bymeticu