“Do we have to do it this way?” Mat said. “What do you have against riding?” Rand only looked at him, and he shrugged uncomfortably. “Oh, burn me. If you're trying to decide....” Taking both horses' reins in one hand, he dug a coin from his pocket, a gold Tar Valon mark, and sighed. “It would be the same coin, wouldn't it.” He rolled the coin across the backs of his fingers. “I'm... lucky sometimes, Rand. Let my luck choose. Head, the one that points to your right; flame, the other. What do you say?”
“This is the most ridiculous,” Egwene began, but Moiraine silenced her with a touch on the arm.
Rand nodded. “Why not?” Egwene muttered something; all he caught were “men” and “boys,” but it did not sound a compliment.
The coin spun into the air off Mat's thumb, gleaming dully in the sun. At its peak, Mat snatched it back and slapped it down on the back of his other hand, then hesitated. “It's a bloody thing to be trusting to the toss of a coin, Rand.”
Rand laid his palm on one of the symbols without looking. “This one,” he said. “You chose this one.”
Mat peeked at the coin and blinked. “You're right. How did you know?”
“It has to work for me sooner or later.” None of them understood— he could see that — but it did not matter. Lifting his hand, he looked at what he and Mat had picked. The triangle pointed left. The sun had slid down from its apex. He had to do this right. A mistake, and they could lose time, not gain it. That had to be the worst outcome. It had to be.
Standing, he dug into his pouch and pulled out the small hard object, a carving of shiny dark green stone that fit easily into his hand, a roundfaced roundbodied man sitting crosslegged with a sword across his knees. He rubbed a thumb over the figure's bald head. “Gather everyone close. Everyone. Rhuarc, have them bring those pack animals up here. Everyone has to be as close to me as possible.”
“Why?” the Aielman asked.
“We're going to Rhuidean.” Rand bounced the carving on his palm and bent to pat the Portal Stone. “To Rhuidean. Right now.”
Rhuarc gave him a long flat look, then straightened, already calling to the other Aiel.
Moiraine took a step closer up the grassy slope. “What is that?” she asked curiously.
“An angreal,” Rand said, turning it in his hand. “One that works for men. I found it in the Great Holding when I was hunting that doorway. It was the sword that made me pick it up, and then I knew. If you are wondering how I mean to channel enough of the Power to take us all — Aiel, pack mules, everybody and everything — this is it.”
“Rand,” Egwene said anxiously, “I am sure you think you are doing what is best, but are you certain? Are you certain that angreal is strong enough? I can't even be sure it is one. I believe you if you say it is, but angreal vary, Rand. At least, those that women can use do. Some are more potent than others, and size or shape is no guide.”
“Of course I'm certain,” he lied. There had been no way to test it, not for this purpose, not without letting half of Tear know he was up to something, but he thought it would do. Just. And as small as it was, no one would know it was gone from the Stone unless they decided to inventory the Holding. Not likely, that.
“You leave Callandor behind and bring this,” Moiraine murmured. “You seem to have considerable knowledge of using Portal Stones. More than I would have thought.”
“Verin told me a good bit,” he said. Verin had, but it had been Lanfear who first explained them to him. He had known her as Selene, then, but he did not intend explaining that to Moiraine any more than he would tell her of the woman's offer of help. The Aes Sedai had taken the news of Lanfear's appearance too calmly, even for her. And she had that weighing look in her eyes, as if she had him on balance scales in her mind.
“Take a care, Rand al'Thor,” she said in that icy, musical voice. “Any ta'veren shapes the Pattern to one degree or another, but a ta'veren such as you might rip the Age Lace for all of time.”
He wished he knew what she was thinking. He wished he knew what she was planning.
The Aiel climbed the hill with their pack mules, covering the slope as they crowded close around him and the Portal Stone, crowding in shoulder to shoulder on everyone but Moiraine and Egwene. Those two they left a little space. Rhuarc nodded at him as if saying, It is done, it is in your hands now.
Hefting the shiny green angreal, he thought of telling the Aiel to leave the animals, but there was the question of whether they would, and he wanted to arrive with all of them, with all feeling he had done well by them. Goodwill might be in short supply in the Waste. They watched him with imperturbable faces. Some had veiled themselves, though. Mat, nervously rolling that Tar Valon mark across the backs of his fingers over and over, and Egwene, sweat beading on her face, were the only ones who seemed anxious. There was no point in waiting any longer. He had to move faster than anyone thought he could.
He wrapped himself in the Void and reached out for the True Source, that sickly flickering light that was always there, just over his shoulder. The Power filled him, breath of life, wind to uproot oaks, summer wind sweetened with flowers, foul waftings from a midden heap. Floating in emptiness, he fixed the lightninglaced triangle before him and reached through the angreal, drew deeply at the raging torrent of saidin. He had to carry them all. It had to work. Holding that symbol, he pulled at the One Power, pulled it into him until he was sure he would burst. Pulled more. More.
The world seemed to wink out of existence.
Chapter 23
(Spears and Shield)
Beyond the Stone
Egwene stumbled, flinging her arms around Mist's neck as the ground tilted under her feet. All about her, Aiel contended with braying, sliding pack mules on a steep rocky slope where nothing grew. Heat remembered from Tel'aran'rhiod hammered her. The air shimmered before her eyes: the ground burned her feet through the soles of her shoes. Her skin prickled painfully for a moment, then sweat gushed from every pore. It only dampened her dress, and the sweat seemed to evaporate immediately.
The struggling mules and tall Aiel nearly hid the surroundings from her, but she saw a bit in flashes between them. A thick gray stone column angled out of the ground not three paces from her, scoured by windblown sand until there was no telling whether it had ever been twin to the Portal Stone in Tear. Rugged slabsided mountains that looked carved by a mad giant's axe broiled beneath a blazing sun in a cloudless sky. Yet in the center of the long, barren valley far below, a mass of dense fog hung, billowing like clouds; that scalding sun should surely have burned it off in moments, but the fog rolled untouched. And out of that roiling gray stuck the tops of towers, some spired, some ending abruptly as though the masons still worked.
“He was right,” she murmured to herself. “A city in clouds.”
Clutching his gelding's bridle, Mat Was staring around wide eyed. “We made it!” He laughed at her. “We made it, Egwene, and without any... . Burn me, we made it!” He tugged open his shirt laces at the neck. “Light, it's hot. Burn me for true!”
Abruptly she realized Rand was on his knees, head down, supporting himself with one hand on the ground. Pulling her mare behind her, she pushed through the milling Aiel to him just as Lan helped him to his feet. Moiraine was already there, studying Rand with apparent calm — and the slight tightness at the corners of her mouth that meant she would like to box his ears.
“I did it,” Rand panted, looking around. The Warder was all that was holding him upright; his face was drained and drawn, like a man on his deathbed.
“You came close,” Moiraine said coolly. Very coolly. “The angreal was not sufficient to the task. You must not do this again. If you take chances, they must be reasoned and for a strong purpose. They must be.”
“I don't take chances, Moiraine. Mat's the fellow for chances.” Rand forced his right hand open; the angreal, the fat little man, had driven the point of its sword into his flesh, right into the branded heron. “Maybe you're right. Maybe I did need one a little stronger. A little bit, maybe...” He gave a huffing laugh. “It worked, Moiraine. That is what's important. I've outrun them all. It worked.”
“That is what matters,” Lan said, nodding.
Egwene made a vexed tsk. Men. One almost killed himself, then tried to make a joke of it, and another told him he had done the right thing. Did they never grow up?
“The fatigue of channeling is not like other tiredness,” Moiraine said. “I cannot rid you of it completely, not when you have channeled as much as you did, but I will do what I can. Perhaps what remains will remind you to be more careful in future.” She was angry; there was a definite hint of satisfaction in her voice.
The glow of saidar surrounded the Aes Sedai as she reached up to take Rand's head in her hands. A shuddering gasp burst out of him, and he shivered uncontrollably, then jerked back from her, pulling free of Lan as well.
“Ask, Moiraine,” Rand said coldly, stuffing the angreal into his belt pouch. “Ask, first. I'm not your pet dog that you can do whatever you want to whenever you want.” He scrubbed his hands together to rub away the tiny trickle of blood.
Egwene made that vexed sound again. Childish, and ungrateful to boot. He could stand by himself now, though his eyes still looked weary, and she did not have to see his palm to know the tiny puncture was gone as if it had never been. Purely ungrateful. Surprisingly, Lan did not call him down for speaking to Moiraine in that fashion.
It came to her that the Aiel had gone absolutely still now that they had the mules quieted. They stared outward warily, not toward the valley and the fog shrouded city that must be Rhuidean, but at two camps, one to either side of them perhaps half a mile away. The two clusters of dozens upon dozens of low, opensided tents, one twice as large as the other, clung to the mountain slope and very nearly disappeared against it, but the graybrown Aiel in each camp were clearly visible, short spears and arrownocked horn bows in hand, veiling themselves if they were not already. They seemed poised on the balls of their feet, ready to attack.
“The peace of Rhuidean,” a woman's voice called from upslope, and Egwene could feel the tension leaving the Aiel surrounding her. Those among the tents began lowering their veils, though they still watched cautiously.
There was a third, much smaller encampment farther up the mountain, she realized, a few of the low tents on a small level patch. Four women were walking down from that camp, sedate and dignified in dark bulky skirts and loose white blouses, with brown or gray shawls around their shoulders despite heat that was beginning to make Egwene feel light headed, and many necklaces and bracelets of ivory and gold. Two had white hair, one hair the color of the sun, flowing down their backs to the waist and held back from their faces by folded kerchiefs tied around the forehead.
Egwene recognized one of the white haired women: Amys, the Wise One she had met in Tel'aran'rhiod. Again she was struck by the contrast between Amys's sundarkened features and her snowy hair; the Wise One just did not look old enough. The second whitehaired woman had a creased grandmotherly face, and one of the others, with graystreaked dark hair, seemed almost as old. She was sure all four were Wise Ones, very likely the same who had signe