Текст книги "A Memory of Light"

Автор книги: Robert Jordan

Соавторы: Brandon Sanderson
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Текущая страница: 70 (всего у книги 71 страниц)

This might actually work out. This might be a victory. She stopped beside an overturned supply cart, clutching her cour’souvra—it was still whole, thankfully. She smiled with a wide grin, then wove a small light to illuminate her way.

Yes . . . Look at the open sky, not the thunderclouds. She could turn this to her advantage. Why . . . in the matter of a few years, she could be ruling the world herself!

Something cold snapped around her neck.

Moghedien reached up with horror, then screamed. “No! Not again!” Her disguise melted away and the One Power left her.

A smug-looking suldam stood behind. “They said we could not take any who called themselves Aes Sedai. But you, you do not wear one of their rings, and you skulk like one who has done something wrong. I do not think you will be missed at all.”

“Free me!” Moghedien said, scratching at the a’dam. “Free me, you—”

Pain sent her to the ground, writhing.

“I am called Shanan,” the suldam said as another woman approached, a damane in tow. “But you may call me mistress. I think that we should return to Ebou Dar quickly.”

Her companion nodded, and the damane made a gateway.

They had to drag Moghedien through.

*

Nynaeve emerged from the Healing tent at Shayol Ghul. The sun was almost below the horizon.

“He’s dead,” she whispered to the small crowd gathered outside.

Saying the words felt like dropping a brick onto her own feet. She did not cry. She had shed those tears already. That did not mean that she didn’t hurt.

Lan came out of the tent behind her, putting an arm around her shoulders. She raised her hand to his. Nearby, Min and Elayne looked at one another.

Gregorin whispered to Darlin—he had been found, half dead, in the wreckage of his tent. Both of them frowned at the women. Nynaeve overheard part of what Gregorin said. “. . . expected the Aiel savage to be heartless, and maybe the Queen of Andor, but the other one? Not a tear.”

“They’re shocked,” Darlin replied.

No, Nynaeve thought, studying Min and Elayne. Those three know something I do not. I’ll have to beat it out of them.

“Excuse me,” Nynaeve said, walking away from Lan.

He followed.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“You shall not be rid of me in the next few weeks, Nynaeve,” he said, love pulsing through his bond. “Even if you want it.”

“Stubborn ox,” she grumbled. “As I recall, you are the one who insisted on leaving me so that you could march alone toward your presumed destiny.”

“And you were right about that,” Lan said. “As you so often are.” He said it so calmly that it was hard to be mad at him.

Besides, it was the women she was mad at. She chose Aviendha first and stalked up to her, Lan by her side.

“. . . with Rhuarc dead,” Aviendha was saying to Sorilea and Bair, “I think that whatever I saw must be able to change. It has already.”

“I saw your vision, Aviendha,” Bair said. “Or something like it, through different eyes. I think it is a warning of something we must not let happen.”

The other two nodded, then glanced at Nynaeve and grew as still-faced as Aes Sedai. Aviendha was just as bad as the others, completely calm as she sat in her chair, her feet wrapped in bandages. She might walk again someday, but she would never fight.

“Nynaeve al’Meara,” Aviendha said.

“Did you hear me say that Rand is dead?” Nynaeve demanded. “He went silently.”

“He that was wounded has woken from the dream,” Aviendha said evenly. “It is as all must do. His death was accomplished in greatness, and he will be celebrated in greatness.”

Nynaeve leaned down. “All right,” she said menacingly, embracing the Source. “Out with it. I chose you because you can’t run away from me.”

Aviendha displayed a moment of what might have been fear. It was gone in a flash. “Let us prepare his pyre.”

*

Perrin ran in the wolf dream. Alone.

Other wolves howled their sorrow for his grief. After he passed them, they would return to their celebrations, but that did not make their empathy any less real.

He did not howl. He did not cry out. He became Young Bull, and he ran.

He did not want to be here. He wanted slumber, true slumber. There, he could not feel the pain. Here he could.

I shouldn’t have left her.

A thought of men. Why did it creep in!

But what could I do? I promised not to treat her like glass.

Run. Run fast. Run until exhaustion came!

I had to go to Rand. I had to. But in doing so, I failed her!

To the Two Rivers in a flash. Back out, along the river. The Waste, then back, a long run toward Falme.

How could I be expected to hold them both, then let one go?

To Tear. Then to the Two Rivers. A blur, growling, moving as quickly as he could. Here. Here he had wed her.

Here he howled.

Caemlyn, Cairhien, Dumai’s Wells.

Here he saved one of them.

Cairhien, Ghealdan, Malden.

Here he had saved another.

Two forces in his life. Each had pulled at him. Young Bull finally collapsed near some hills somewhere in Andor. A familiar place.

The place where I met Elyas.

He became Perrin again. His thoughts were not wolf thoughts, his troubles not wolf troubles. He stared up at the sky that was now, after Rand's sacrifice, empty of clouds. He had wanted to be with his friend as he died.

This time, he would be with Faile where she had died.

He wanted to scream, but it would do no good. “I have to let go, don’t I?” he whispered toward that sky. “Light. I don’t want to. I learned. I learned from Malden. I didn’t do it again! I did what I was supposed to, this time.”

Somewhere nearby, a bird cried in the sky. Wolves howled. Hunting.

“I learned . . .”

A bird’s cry.

It sounded like a falcon.

Perrin threw himself to his feet, spinning. There. He vanished in an instant, appearing on an open field he did not recognize. No, he knew this field. He knew it! This was Merrilor, only without the blood, without the grass churned to mud, without the land blasted and broken.

Here he found a tiny falcon—as small as his hand—crying softly, with a broken leg pinned beneath a rock. Its heartbeat was faint.

Perrin roared as he woke, clawing his way out of the wolf dream. He stood up on the field of bodies, shouting into the night sky. Searchers nearby scattered in fear.

Where? In the darkness, could he find the same place? He ran, stumbling over corpses, through pits made by channelers or dragons. He stopped, looking one way, then another. Where. Where!

Flowery soap. A hint of perfume in the air. Perrin dashed toward it, throwing his weight against the corpse of an enormous Trolloc, lying almost chest-high atop other bodies. Beneath it, he found the carcass of a horse. Unable to truly consider what he was doing, or of the strength it should have required, Perrin pulled the horse aside.

Beneath, Faile lay bloodied in a small hollow in the ground, breathing shallowly. Perrin cried out and dropped to his knees, cradling her in his arms, breathing in her scent.

It took him only two heartbeats to shift into the wolf dream, carry Faile to Nynaeve far to the north and shift out. Seconds later, he felt her being Healed in his arms, unwilling to let go of her even for that.

Faile, his falcon, trembled and stirred. Then she opened her eyes and smiled at him.

*

The other heroes were gone. Birgitte remained as evening approached. Nearby, soldiers prepared Rand al’Thor’s pyre.

Birgitte could not stay much longer, but for now . . . yes, she could stay. A short time. The Pattern would allow it.

“Elayne?” Birgitte said. “Do you know something? About the Dragon?” Elayne shrugged in the waning light. The two stood at the back of the crowd gathering to watch the Dragon Reborn’s pyre be lit.

“I know what you’re planning,” Birgitte said to Elayne. “With the Horn.

And what am I planning?”

“To keep it,” Birgitte said, “and the boy. To have it as an Andoran treasure, perhaps a nation’s weapon.”

“Perhaps.”

Birgitte smiled. “It’s a good thing I sent him away, then.”

Elayne turned to her, ignoring those preparing Rand’s pyre. “What?”

“I sent Olver away,” Birgitte said. “With guards I trust. I told Olver to find someplace nobody would look, a place he could forget, and toss the Horn into it. Preferably the ocean.”

Elayne exhaled softly, then turned back toward the pyre. “Insufferable woman.” She hesitated. “Thank you for saving me from having to make that decision.”

“I thought you’d feel that way.” Actually, Birgitte had assumed it would take a long time before Elayne understood. But Elayne had grown in the last few weeks. “Anyway, I must be far from insufferable, since you’ve done an excellent job of suffering me these last months.”

Elayne turned to her again. “That sounds like a farewell.”

Birgitte smiled. She could feel it, sometimes, when it was coming. “It is.” Elayne looked sorrowful. “Must it be?”

“I’m being reborn, Elayne,” Birgitte whispered. “Now. Somewhere, a woman is preparing to give birth, and I will go to that body. It’s happening. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Birgitte chuckled. “Well, perhaps we will meet again. For now, be happy for me, Elayne. This means the cycle continues. I get to be with him again. Gaidai . . . I’ll be only a few years younger than he.”

Elayne took her arm, eyes watering. “Love and peace, Birgitte. Thank you.”

Birgitte smiled, then closed her eyes, and let herself drift away.

*

As evening settled onto the land, Tam looked up across what had once been the most feared place of all. Shayol Ghul. The last flickers of light showed plants growing here, flowers blooming, grass growing up around fallen weapons and over corpses.

Is this your gift to us, son? he wondered. A final one?

Tam lit his torch from the small, flickering flame that crackled in the pit nearby. He went forward, passing lines of those who stood in the night. They had not told many of Rand's funeral rites. All would have wanted to come. Perhaps all deserved to come. The Aes Sedai were planning an elaborate memorial for Egwene; Tam preferred a quiet affair for his son.

Rand could finally rest.

He walked past people standing with heads bowed. None carried light save Tam. The others waited in the dark, a small crowd of perhaps two hundred encircling the bier. Tams torch flickered orange off solemn faces.

In the evening, even with his light, it was hard to tell Aiel from Aes Sedai, Two Rivers man from Tairen king. All were shapes in the night, saluting the body of the Dragon Reborn.

Tam went up to the bier, beside Thom and Moiraine, who were holding hands, faces solemn. Moiraine reached over and gently squeezed Tam’s arm.

Tam looked at the corpse, gazing down into his son’s face by the fire’s light. He did not wipe the tears from his eyes.

You did well. My boy . . . you did so well.

He lit the pyre with a reverent hand.

*

Min stood at the front of the crowd. She watched Tam, with slumped shoulders, bow his head before the flames. Eventually the man walked back to join the Two Rivers folk. Abell Cauthon embraced him, whispering softly to his friend.

Heads in the night, shadows, turned toward Min, Aviendha and Elayne. They expected something from the three of them. A show of some sort.

Solemnly, Min stepped forward with the other two; Aviendha needed the help of two Maidens to walk, though she was able to stand by leaning on Elayne. The Maidens withdrew to leave the three of them alone before the pyre. Elayne and Min stood with her, watching the fire burn, consuming Rand’s corpse.

“I’ve seen this,” Min said. “I knew it would come the day I first met him. We three, together, here.”

Elayne nodded. “So now what?”

“Now . . .” Aviendha said. “Now we make sure that everyone well and truly believes he is gone.”

Min nodded, feeling the pulsing throb of the bond in the back of her mind. It grew stronger each moment.

*

Rand al’Thor—just Rand al’Thor—woke in a dark tent by himself. Someone had left a candle burning beside his pallet.

He breathed deeply, stretching. He felt as if he’d just slept long and deep. Shouldn’t he be hurting? Stiff? Aching? He felt none of that.

He reached to his side and felt no wounds there. No wounds. For the first time in a long while, there was no pain. He almost didn’t know what to make of it.

Then he looked down and saw that the hand prodding his side was his own left hand. He laughed, holding it up before him. A mirror, he thought.

I need a mirror.

He found one beyond the next partition of the tent. Apparently, he’d been left completely alone. He held up the candle, looking into the small mirror. Moridin’s face looked back at him.

Rand touched his face, feeling it. In his right eye hung a single saa, black, shaped like the dragon’s fang. It didn’t move.

Rand slipped back into the portion of the tent where he’d awakened. Laman’s sword was there, sitting atop a neat pile of mixed clothing. Alivia apparently hadn’t known what he would want to wear. She had been the one to leave these things, of course, along with a bag of coins from a variety of nations. She hadn’t ever cared much for either clothing or coin, but she had known he’d need both.

She will help you die. Rand shook his head, dressing and gathering the coins and the sword, then slipping out of the tent. Someone had left a good horse, a dappled gelding, tied not far away. That would do him well. From Dragon Reborn to horsethief. He chuckled to himself. Bareback would have to do.

He hesitated. Nearby, in the darkness, people were singing. This was Shayol Ghul, but not as he remembered it. A blooming Shayol Ghul, full of life.

The song they sang was a Borderlander funeral song. Rand led the horse through the night to get a little closer. He peered between the tents to where three women stood around a funeral pyre.

Moridin, he thought. He’s being cremated with full honors as the Dragon Reborn.

Rand backed away, then mounted the dapple. As he did so, he noticed one figure who was not standing by the fire. A solitary figure, who looked toward him when all other eyes were turned away.

Cadsuane. She looked him up and down, eyes reflecting firelight from the glow of Rand's pyre. Rand nodded, waited for a moment, then turned the horse and heeled it away.

*

Cadsuane watched him go.

Curious, she thought. Those eyes had confirmed her suspicions. That would be information she could use. No need to keep watching this sham of a funeral, then.

She walked away through the camp, and there strolled directly into an ambush.

“Saerin,” she said as the women fell in around her. “Yukiri, Lyrelle, Rubinde. What is this?”

“We would like direction,” Rubinde said.

“Direction?” Cadsuane snorted. “Ask the new Amyrlin, once you find some poor woman to put into the position.”

The other women continued to walk with her.

As it hit her, Cadsuane stopped in place.

“Oh, blood and ashes, no!” Cadsuane said, spinning on them. “No, no, no”

The women smiled in an almost predatory way.

“You always talked so wisely to the Dragon Reborn of responsibility,” Yukiri said.

“You speak of how the women of this Age need better training,” Saerin added.

“It is a new Age,” Lyrelle said. “We have many challenges ahead of us . . . and we will need a strong Amyrlin to lead us.”

Cadsuane closed her eyes, groaning.

*

Rand breathed a sigh of relief as he left Cadsuane behind. She did not raise an alarm, though she had continued to study him as he put distance between them. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed her walking off with some other Aes Sedai.

She worried him; she probably suspected something he wished she did not. It was better than her raising an alarm, though.

He sighed, fishing in his pocket, where he found a pipe. Thank you, Alivia, for that, he thought, packing it with tabac from a pouch he found in the other pocket. By instinct, he reached for the One Power to light it.

He found nothing. No saidin in the void, nothing. He paused, then smiled and felt an enormous relief. He could not channel. Just to be certain, he tentatively reached for the True Power. Nothing there either.

He regarded his pipe, riding up a little incline to the side of Thakan dar, now covered in plants. No way to light the tabac. He inspected it for a moment in the darkness, then thought of the pipe being lit. And it was.

Rand smiled and turned south. He glanced over his shoulder. All three women at the pyre had turned from it to look directly at him. He could make them out, though not much else, by the light of the burning body.

I wonder which of them will follow me, he thought, then smiled deeper. Rand al’Thor, you’ve built up quite a swelled head, haven’t you? Assuming that one, or more, would follow.

Maybe none of them would. Or maybe all of them would, in their own time. He found himself chuckling.

Which would he pick? Min . . . but no, to leave Aviendha? Elayne. No. He laughed. He couldn’t pick. He had three women in love with him, and didn’t know which he would like to have follow him. Any of them. All of them. Light, man. You’re hopeless. Hopelessly in love with all three, and there's no way out of it.

He heeled the horse into a canter, heading farther south. He had a purse full of coin, a good horse and a strong sword. Laman’s sword, which was a better sword than he’d have wanted. It might draw attention. It was a true heron-marked sword with a fine blade.

Did Alivia realize how much money she’d given him? She didn't know a thing about coins. She’d probably stolen the lot of it, so he wasn't just a horsethief. Well, he’d told her to get him some gold, and she’d done it. He could buy an entire farm in the Two Rivers with what he carried.

South. East or west would do, but he figured he wanted to go someplace away from it all for good. South first, then maybe out west, along the coast. Maybe he could find a ship? There was so much of the world he hadn't seen. He’d experienced a few battles, he’d gotten caught up in a huge Game of Houses. Many things he hadn’t wanted anything to do with. He’d seen his father’s farm. And palaces. He’d seen a lot of palaces.

He just had not had the leisure to have a real look at much of the world. That will be new, he thought. Traveling without being chased, or having to rule here or there. Traveling where he could just sleep in a barn in exchange for splitting someone’s firewood. He thought about that, and found himself laughing, riding on south and smoking his impossible pipe. As he did so, a wind rose up around him, around the man who had been called lord, Dragon Reborn, king, killer, lover and friend.

The wind rose high and free, to soar in an open sky with no clouds. It passed over a broken landscape scattered with corpses not yet buried. A landscape covered, at the same time, with celebrations. It tickled the branches of trees that had finally begun to put forth buds.

The wind blew southward, through knotted forests, over shimmering plains and toward lands unexplored. This wind, it was not the ending. There are no endings, and never will be endings, to the turning of the Wheel of Time.

But it was an ending.

*

And it came to pass in those days, as it had come before and would come again, that the Dark lay heavy on the land and weighed down the hearts of men, and the green things failed, and hope died. And men cried out to the Creator, saying, O Light of the Heavens, Light of the World, let the Promised One be born of the mountain, according to the prophecies, as he was in ages past and will be in ages to come. Let the Prince of the Morning sing to the land that green things will grow and the valleys give forth lambs. Let the arm of the Lord of the Dawn shelter us from the Dark, and the great sword of justice defend us. Let the Dragon ride again on the winds of time.

—from Charal Drianaan te Calamon,

The Cycle of the Dragon.

Author unknown, the Fourth Age.

He came like the wind, like the wind touched everything, and like the wind was gone.

—from The Dragon Reborn.

By Loial, son of Arent son of Halan,

the Fourth Age.

The End

of the Last Book of

The Wheel of Time

About the Authors

Robert Jordan was born in 1948 in Charleston, South Carolina. He taught himself to read when he was four with the incidental aid of a twelve-years-older brother, and was tackling Mark Twain and Jules Verne by five. He was a graduate of the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina, with a degree in physics. He served two tours in Vietnam with the U.S. Army; among his decorations are the Distinguished Flying Cross with bronze oak leaf cluster, the Bronze Star with “V” and bronze oak leaf cluster, and two Vietnamese Gallantry Crosses with Palm. A history buff, he also wrote dance and theater criticism. He enjoyed the outdoor sports of hunting, fishing, and sailing, and the indoor sports of poker, chess, pool, and pipe collecting. He began writing in 1977 and continued until his death on September 16, 2007.

Brandon Sanderson was born in 1975 in Lincoln, Nebraska. After a semester as a biochem major, Brandon came to his senses and recognized writing as his true vocation. He switched to English, graduating from Brigham Young University, then returning for a master’s in creative writing. During this time Brandon wrote thirteen novels, finally publishing his sixth, Elantris, in 2005. He has since released books for both adults and young readers, including the Mistborn trilogy, Warbreaker, The Way of Kings, and the Alcatraz series. He lives with his wife and children in Utah, where he often plays Magic: The Gathering, regularly eats mac-and-cheese, and occasionally teaches writing at BYU. Find more at www.brandonsanderson.com.