Only seven like this had been made, of cuendillar. Seals on the Dark One’s prison, seals that held the Dark One away from the world. He had two more, hidden away very carefully. Protected very carefully. Nothing could break cuendillar, not even the One Power—the lip of a delicate cup made of heartstone could scratch steel, or diamond—but three of the seven had been broken. He had seen them, shattered. And he had watched Moiraine carve a thin sliver from the edge of one. The seals were weakening, the Light alone knew why or how. The disc in his hands had the hard slickness of cuendillar, like a blend of the finest porcelain and polished steel—but he was sure it would break if he let it fall to the stones under his feet.
Three broken. Three in his possession. Where was the seventh? Only four seals stood between humankind and the Dark One. Four, if the last was still whole. Only four, standing between humankind and the Last Battle. How well did they still hold, weakened as they were?
Lews Therin’s voice came up like thunder. Break it break them all must break them must must must break them all break them and strike must strike quickly must strike now break it break it break it. . . .
Rand shook with the effort of fighting that voice down, forcing away a mist that clung like spiderwebs. His muscles ached as if he wrestled with a man of flesh, a giant. Handful by handful he stuffed the fog that was Lews Therin into the deepest crannies, the deepest shadows, he could find in his mind.
Abruptly he heard the words he was muttering hoarsely. “Must break it now break them all break it break it break it.” Abruptly he realized he had his hands over his head, holding the seal, ready to smash it to the white pavement. The only thing stopping him was Bashere, up on his toes, hands raised to grip Rand’s arms.
“I don’t know what that is,” Bashere said quietly, “but I think maybe you should wait before deciding to break it. Eh?” Tumad and the others were no longer watching Taim; they gaped wide-eyed at Rand. Even the Maidens had shifted their eyes to him, eyes full of concern. Sulin took a half step toward the men, and Jalani’s hand was outstretched toward Rand as if she did not realize it.
“No.” Rand swallowed; his throat hurt. “I don’t think I should.” Bashere stepped back slowly, and Rand brought the seal down just as slowly. If Rand had thought Taim unflappable, he had proof to the contrary now. Shock painted the man’s face. “Do you know what this is, Taim?” Rand demanded. “You must, or you wouldn’t have brought it to me. Where did you find it? Do you have another? Do you know where another is?”
“No,” Taim said, voice unsteady. Not with fear, precisely; more like a man who had felt a cliff unexpectedly crumbling under him and had somehow found himself back on solid ground. “That is the only one I. . . . I’ve heard all sorts of rumors since I escaped the Aes Sedai. Monsters leaping out of thin air. Strange beasts. Men talking to animals, and the animals talking back. Aes Sedai going mad like we’re supposed to. Whole villages going mad, killing each other. Some could be true. Half what I know to be true is no less insane. I heard some of the seals have been broken. A hammer could break that one.”
Bashere frowned, stared at the seal in Rand’s hands, then gasped. He understood.
“Where did you find it?” Rand repeated. If he could find the last. . . . Then what? Lews Therin stirred, but he refused to listen.
“In the last place you would expect,” Taim replied, “which I suppose is the first place to look for the others. A decaying little farm in Saldaea. I stopped for water, and the farmer gave it to me. He was old, with no children or grandchildren to pass it on to, and he thought I was the Dragon Reborn. He claimed his family had guarded it more than two thousand years. Claimed they were kings and queens during the Trolloc Wars, and nobles under Artur Hawkwing. His tale could have been true. No more unlikely than finding that in a hut only a few days ride from the Blightborder.”
Rand nodded, then stooped to gather up the rags. He was used to the unlikely happening around him; it had to happen elsewhere, sometimes. Hurriedly rewrapping the seal, he handed it to Bashere. “Guard this carefully.” Break it! He squashed the voice hard. “Nothing must happen to it.”
Bashere took the bundle reverently in both hands. Rand was unsure whether the man’s bow was for him or the seal. “For ten hours or ten years, it will be safe until you require it.”
For a moment Rand studied him. “Everybody’s waiting for me to go mad, afraid of it, but not you. You must have thought I finally was, just now, but you weren’t afraid of me even then.”
Bashere shrugged, grinning behind his gray-streaked mustaches. “When I first slept in a saddle, Muad Cheade was Marshal-General. The man was as mad as a hare in spring thaw. Twice every day he searched his bodyservant for poison, and he drank nothing but vinegar and water, which he claimed was sovereign against the poison the fellow fed him, but he ate everything the man prepared for as long as I knew him. Once he had a grove of oaks chopped down because they were looking at him. And then insisted they be given decent funerals; he gave the oration. Do you have any idea how long it takes to dig graves for twenty-three oak trees?”
“Why didn’t somebody do something? His family?”
“Those not mad as he was, or madder, were afraid to look at him sideways. Tenobia’s father wouldn’t have let anyone touch Cheade anyway. He might have been insane, but he could outgeneral anyone I ever saw. He never lost a battle. He never even came close to losing.”
Rand laughed. “So you follow me because you think I can out-general the Dark One?”
“I follow you because you are who you are,” Bashere said quietly. “The world must follow you, or those who survive will wish themselves dead.”
Slowly Rand nodded. The Prophecies said he would break nations and bind them together. Not that he wanted to, but the Prophecies were his only guide to how to fight the Last Battle, how to win it. Even without them, he thought the binding together was necessary. The Last Battle would not be just him against the Dark One. He could not believe that; if he was going mad, he was not yet mad enough to believe he was more than a man. It would be mankind against Trollocs and Myrddraal, too, and every sort of Shadowspawn the Blight could vomit out, and Darkfriends rising out of their hiding places. There would be other dangers on that road to Tarmon Gai’don, and if the world was not united. . . . You do what must be done. He was not sure whether that was himself or Lews Therin, but it was the trut