The Fires of Heaven (The Wheel of Time #5)

The Fires of Heaven (The Wheel of Time #5) Page 271

He barely glanced at Moghedien. “I thought about those flames, coming up here. I thought it might have been you or... Where is this? Is this where you meet Egwene?”

Looking up at him, Nynaeve tried not to swallow. So cold, that face. “Rand, the Wise Ones say what you've done, what you are doing, is dangerous, even evil. They say you lose something of yourself if you come here in the flesh, some part of what makes you human.”

“Do the Wise Ones know everything?” He brushed past her and stood staring at the colonnade. “I used to think Aes Sedai knew everything. It doesn't matter. I don't know how human the Dragon Reborn can afford to be.”

“Rand, I...” She did not know what to say. “Here, let me Heal you at least.”

He held still for her to reach up and take his head in her hands. For her part, she had to suppress a wince. His fresh wounds were not serious, only numerous — what could have bitten him; she was sure most of these were bites — but the old wound, that halfhealed, neverhealing wound in his side, that was a sinkhole of darkness, a well filled with what she thought the taint of saidin must be like. She channeled the complex flows, Air and Water, Spirit, even Fire and Earth in small amounts, that made up Healing. He did not roar and flail about. He did not even blink. He shivered. That was all. Then he took her wrists and brought her hands down from his face. She was not reluctant. His new injuries were gone, every bite and scrape and bruise, but not the old wound. Nothing had changed about that. Anything short of death should be capable of being Healed, even that. Anything!

“Is he dead?” he asked quietly. “Did you see him die?”

“He's dead, Rand. I saw.”

He nodded. “But there are others still, aren't there? Other... Chosen.”

Nynaeve felt a stabbing sliver of fear from Moghedien, but she did not glance back. “Rand, you must go. Rahvin is dead, and this place is dangerous for you as you are. You must go, and not come back here in the body.”

“I will go.”

He did nothing that she could see or feel — of course, she could not — but for a moment she thought the hallway behind him had... turned in some way. But it did not look any different. Except... She blinked. There was no halfgone column in the colonnade beyond him, no hole in the stone railing.

He went on as if nothing had happened. “Tell Elayne... Ask her not to hate me. Ask her...” Pain twisted his face. For a moment she saw the boy she had known, looking as though something precious was being ripped away from him. She reached out to comfort him, and he stepped back, his face stone again, and bleak. “Lan was right. Tell Elayne to forget me, Nynaeve. Tell her I've found something else to love, and there's no room left for her. He wanted me to tell you the same thing. Lan has found someone else, too. He said for you to forget him. Better never to have been born than to love us.” He stepped back again, three long steps, the hall seemed to turn dizzyingly with him in it — or part of the hall did — and he was gone.

Nynaeve stared at where he had been, and not at the fitfully flickering reappearance of the damage to the colonnade. Lan had told him to say that?

“A... remarkable man,” Moghedien said softly. “A very, very dangerous man.”

Nynaeve stared at her. Something new was coming through the bracelet to her. Fear was still there, but muted by... Expectation might have been the best way to describe it.

“I have been helpful, have I not?” Moghedien said. “Rahvin dead, Rand al'Thor saved. None of it would have been possible without me.”

Nynaeve understood now. Hope more than expectation. Sooner or later Nynaeve would have to wake. The a'dam would vanish. Moghedien was trying to remind her of her aid — as if it had not had to be wrenched out of her — just in case Nynaeve might be steeling herself to kill before she went. “It is time for me to go, too,” Nynaeve said. Moghedien's face did not alter, but fear strengthened and so did hope. A large silver cup appeared in Nynaeve's hand, apparently filled with tea. “Drink this.”

Moghedien edged back. “What —?”

“Not poison. I could kill you easily enough without, if that was my aim. After all, what happens to you here is real in the waking world, too.” Hope much stronger than fear now. “It will make you sleep. A deep sleep; too deep to touch Tel'aran'rhiod. It's called forkroot.”

Moghedien took the cup slowly. “So I cannot follow you? I will not argue.” She tipped back her head and swallowed until the cup was empty.

Nynaeve watched her. That much should put her down quickly. Yet a cruel streak made her speak. She knew it was cruel and did not care. Moghedien should not have any quiet rest at all. “You knew Birgitte was not dead.” Moghedien's gaze narrowed slightly. “You knew who Faolain is.” The other woman's eyes tried to widen, but she was already drowsy. Nynaeve could feel the forkroot's effects spreading. She concentrated on Moghedien, held there in Tel'aran'rhiod. No easy sleep for one of the Forsaken. “And you knew who Siuan is, that she used to be the Amyrlin Seat. I've never mentioned that in Tel'aran'rhiod. Never. I'll see you very shortly. In Salidar.”

Moghedien's eyes rolled up her head. Nynaeve was not sure whether it was the forkroot or a faint, but it did not matter. She released the other woman, and Moghedien winked out. The silver collar rang as it hit the floortiles. Elayne would be happy about that, at least.

Nynaeve stepped out of the Dream.

Rand trotted along the corridors of the palace. There seemed to be less damage than he remembered, but he did not really look. He strode out into the great courtyard at the front of the palace. Blasts of Air knocked the tall gates half off their hinges. Beyond lay a huge oval plaza, and what he had been searching for. Trollocs and Myrddraal. Rahvin was dead, and the other Forsaken were elsewhere, but there were Trollocs and Myrddraal to kill in Caemlyn.

They were fighting, a milling mass of hundreds, perhaps thousands, surrounding something he could not see through their blackmailed numbers, as tall as a Myrddraal on its horse. Just barely he could make out his crimson banner deep in their midst. Some swung round to face the palace as the gates were hurled asunder.

Yet Rand stopped dead. Balls of fire rolled through the packed blackmailed mass, and burning Trollocs lay everywhere. It could not be.

Not daring to hope or think, he channeled. Shafts of balefire leaped from his hands as fast as he could weave them, narrower than his little finger, precise and cut off as soon as they struck. They, were much less powerful than the one he had used against Rahvin at the end, than any he had used against Rahvin, but he could not risk one slicing through to those trapped in the center of all those Trollocs. It made little difference. The firststruck Myrddraal seemed to reverse colors, become a whiteclad black shape, then it was drifting motes that vanished as its horse fled madly. Trollocs, Myrddraal, every one that turned toward him went the same, and then he began carving into the backs of those still facing the other way, so a continuous haze of sparkling dust seemed to fill the air,