Blood on the rocks . . .
Nynaeve raised a hand to her mouth.
"It has to happen, Nynaeve", Rand said. "You cannot stop it. The prophecy does not say anything about me living through this. I’ve always found that odd, haven’t you? Why would it speak of the blood, but not what comes after?" He shook his head, then unsheathed Callandor from his back. "Moiraine, Nynaeve, will you lend me your strength and join me in a circle?"
"Do you wish one of us to lead", Moiraine said hesitantly, "so you can use that safely?"
"I’m not planning to be safe", Rand said. "A circle, please".
The two women exchanged a look. So long as he led the circle, another could strike and seize control of him. Neither liked the request, obviously. He wasn’t certain if he should be pleased that the two of them had started to get along—perhaps, instead, he should worry about them teaming up against him.
That seemed like a thought from simpler days. Easier days. He smiled wryly, but knew that the smile did not reach his eyes. Moiraine and Nynaeve fed him their strength, and he accepted it. Thom kissed Moiraine, and then the three of them turned to regard the opening before them. It led back down, toward the base of the mountain, and the fiery pit that was the closest thing this world knew to the Dark Ones dwelling.
Shadows from a returned sun dimmed the cavern mouth around him. Wind tugged at him, his foot warm with his own blood. I will not walk out of this pit alive, he thought.
He no longer cared. Survival was not his goal. It had not been for some time.
He did want to do this right. He had to do this right. Was it the right time? Had he planned well enough?
IT IS TIME. LET THE TASK BE UNDERTAKEN.
The voice spoke with the inevitability of an earthquake, the words vibrating through him. More than sound in the air, far more, the words spoke as if from one soul to another. Moiraine gasped, eyes opening wide.
Rand was not surprised. He had heard this voice once before, and he realized that he had been expecting it. Hoping for it, at least.
"Thank you", Rand whispered, then stepped forward into the Dark One’s realm, leaving footprints of blood behind.
CHAPTER 24
To Ignore the Omens
Fortuona, Empress of the Seanchan Empire, studied her husband as he gave orders to their forces. They were arrayed outside the palace in Ebou Dar, and she herself sat upon an elaborate mobile throne, outfitted with poles at the bottom so she could be carried by a dozen soldiers.
The throne lent her grandeur, but also gave an illusion of immobility. An assassin would assume that she could not move quickly while wearing her formal silks, her gown draping down in front and tumbling toward the ground. They would be surprised, then, that she could break free of the outer garments at the flick of a wrist.
"He has changed, Greatest One", Beslan said to her. "And yet he hasn’t. I don’t know what to make of him any longer".
"He is what the Wheel has sent us", Fortuona replied. "Have you considered what you will do?"
Beslan kept eyes forward. He was impetuous, often governed by his emotions, but no more so than the other Altarans. They were a passionate people, and were making a fine addition to the Empire now that they were properly tamed.
"I will do as has been suggested", Beslan said, face flushed.
"Wise", Fortuona said.
"May the throne stand forever", Beslan said. "And may your breath continue as long, Greatest One". He bowed, withdrawing to do as he should. Fortuona could march to war, but these were Beslan’s lands to govern. He so wanted to be part of the battle, but now he understood that he was needed here.
Selucia watched him go, nodding in approval. That one is becoming a strong asset as he learns proper restraint, she signed.
Fortuona said nothing. Selucia’s motions carried an implication, one that Fortuona would have missed save for their long association. Beslan was learning. Other men, however . . .
Mat started cursing up a storm nearby, gathered with the Seanchan commanders. She could not hear exactly what had set him off. What had she done, in yoking herself to him?
I have followed the omens, she thought.
She caught him glancing toward her before he returned to his raving. He would have to be taught restraint, but teaching him . . . it would be difficult. Far more difficult than teaching Beslan had been. At least Selucia did not speak her condemnations out loud. The woman was now Fortuona's Truthspeaker, though Fortuna could sense that Selucia was finding the position grating. She would prefer to remain only Fortuona's Voice. Perhaps the omens would show Fortuona someone else fitting as a Truthspeaker.
Are we really going to do as he says? Selucia signed.
This world is chaos, Fortuona signed back. Not a straight answer. She did not want to give straight answers at the moment. Selucia would puzzle out the meaning.
The Seanchan commonly said "may she live forever" in regard to the Empress. To some, it was a platitude or a mere ritual of allegiance. Fortuona had always seen much more to it. That phrase encapsulated the strength of the Empire. An Empress had to be crafty, strong, and skilled if she was to survive. Only the fittest deserved to sit on the Crystal Throne. If one of her siblings, or a member of the High Blood like Galgan, managed to kill her, then her death served the Empire—for she had obviously been too weak to lead it.
May she live forever. May she be strong enough to live forever. May she be strong enough to lead us to victory. She would bring order to this world. That was her goal.
Matrim stalked past on the army’s gathering grounds, passing ten paces before Fortuona's throne. He wore an Imperial high general’s uniform, although not well. He kept snagging the paltron-cloths on things. A high general’s regalia was meant to give the bearer authority, to enhance his grace as cloth rippled in response to his careful movements. On Matrim, it was like wrapping a racehorse in silk and expecting him to run. He had a kind of grace, but it was not the grace of court.
Lesser commanders trailed after him. Matrim baffled the Blood. That was good, as it kept them off balance. But he also represented disorder, with his random ways and constant stabs at authority. Fortuona represented order, and she had married chaos himself. What had she been thinking?
"But what of the Sea Folk, Highness?" General Yulan said, stopping beside Matrim in front of Fortuona.
"Stop worrying about the bloody Sea Folk", Matrim snapped. "If you say the words ‘Sea Folk’ one more time, I’ll hang you by your toenails from one of those raken you fly about on and sen
