Perrin shook his head, setting Gaul down. Grady eyed the wound in the man’s side, then called for one of the Aes Sedai to handle the Healing. They bustled around—some of the Two Rivers men calling out that Lord Goldeneyes had returned.
Faile. Faile had been here at Merrilor with the Horn.
I have to find her.
Rand was alone, unguarded in the wolf dream.
Burn it, that doesn’t matter! Perrin thought. If I lose Faile . . .
If Rand died, he would lose Faile. And everything else. There were still Forsaken out there. Perrin wavered. He had to go look for her, didn’t he? Wasn’t that his duty, as her husband? Couldn’t someone else look after Rand?
But . . . if not him, then who?
Though it ripped him apart, Perrin sought the wolf dream one last time.
Moridin scooped Callandor up off the floor. It burst alight with the One Power.
Rand stumbled away, holding his aching hand to his chest. Moridin laughed, raising the weapon high. "You are mine, Lews Therin. You are finally mine! I . . ". He trailed off, then looked up at the sword, perhaps in awe. "It can amplify the True Power. A True Power sa’angreal? How? Why?" He laughed louder.
A maelstrom churned about them.
"Channeling the True Power is death here, Elan!" Rand yelled. "It will burn you to a cinder!"
"It is oblivion!" Moridin yelled. "I will know that release, Lews Therin. I will take you with me".
The sword’s glow turned a violent crimson. Rand could feel the power emanating from Moridin as he drew in the True Power.
This was the most dangerous part of the plan. Min had figured it out. Callandor had such flaws, such incredible flaws. Created so that a man using it needed women to control him, created so that if Rand used it, others could take control of him . . .
Why was Rand to need a weapon with such flaws? Why did the prophecies mention it so? A sa’angreal for the True Power. Why would he ever need such a thing?
The answer was so simple.
"Now!" Rand yelled.
Nynaeve and Moiraine channeled together, exploiting the flaw in Callandor as Moridin tried to bring it to bear against Rand. Wind whipped in the tunnel. The ground quivered, and Moridin yelled, eyes going wide.
They took control of him. Callandor was flawed. Any man using it could be forced to link with women, to be placed in their control. A trap . . . and one he used on Moridin.
"Link!" Rand commanded.
They fed it to him. Power.
Saidar from the women.
The True Power from Moridin.
Saidin from Rand.
Moridin’s channeling the True Power here threatened to destroy them all, but they buffered it with saidin and saidar; then directed all three at the Dark One.
Rand punched through the blackness there and created a conduit of light and darkness, turning the Dark Ones own essence upon him.
Rand felt the Dark One beyond, his immensity. Space, size, time . . . Rand understood how these things could be irrelevant now.
With a bellow—three Powers coursing through him, blood streaming down his side—the Dragon Reborn raised a hand of power and seized the Dark One through the Bore, like a man reaching through water to grab the prize at the rivers bottom.
The Dark One tried to pull back, but Rand's claw was gloved by the True Power. The enemy could not taint saidin again. The Dark One tried to withdraw the True Power from Moridin, but the conduit flowed too freely, too powerfully to shut off now. Even for Shai’tan himself.
So it was that Rand used the Dark One’s own essence, channeled in its full strength. He held the Dark One tightly, like a dove in the grip of a hawk.
And light exploded from him.
CHAPTER 48
A Brilliant Lance
Elayne trotted her horse among heaps of dead Trollocs. The day was won. She had everyone who could stand searching for the living among the dead.
So many dead. Hundreds of thousands of men and Trollocs, lying in piles all across Merrilor. The rivers banks were slaughterhouses, the bogs mass graves, floating with corpses. Ahead of her, across the river, the Heights groaned and rumbled. She’d pulled her people away from there. She could barely sit on her horse.
The entire plateau collapsed upon itself, burying the dead. Elayne watched, feeling numb, feeling the ground shake. It—
Light.
She sat up straight, feeling the swelling of power in Rand. Her attention flew away from the Heights, instead focused on him. The feeling of supreme strength, the beauty of control and domination. A light shot into the sky far to the north, so bright that she gasped.
The end had come.
Thom stumbled back from the entrance to the Pit of Doom, shading his eyes with his arm as light—radiant as the sun itself—burst out of the cavern. Moiraine!
"Light", Thom whispered.
Light it was, breaking out of the top of the mountain of Shayol Ghul, a radiant beam that melted the mountain’s tip and shot straight into the sky.
Min raised her hand to her breast, stepping away from the rows of wounded for whom she’d been changing linens.
Rand, she thought, feeling his agonized determination. Far to the north, a beam of light rose into the air, so bright that it lit the Field of Merrilor even such a great distance away. The helpers and the wounded alike blinked, stumbling to their feet, shading their faces.
That light, a brilliant lance in the heavens, burned away the clouds and opened up the sky.
Aviendha blinked at the light, and knew it was Rand.
It drew her back from the brink of darkness, flooding her with warmth. He was winning. He was winning. He was so strong. She saw the true warrior in him now.
Nearby, Graendal stumbled to her knees, eyes glazed over. The unraveling gateway had exploded, but not with as large a blast as last time. Weaves and the One Power had sprayed out, just as Graendal tried to spin Compulsion.
The Forsaken turned to Aviendha, and she adopted an adoring gaze. She bowed down, as if worshipping Aviendha.
The explosion, Aviendha realized, numb. It had done something to the Compulsion weave. Honestly, she had expected that blast to kill her. It had done something else instead.
"Please, glorious one", Graendal said. "Tell me what you wish of me. Let me serve you!"
Aviendha looked back to the light that was Rand and held her breath.
Logain stepped from the ruins, holding a toddler—maybe two years of age—in his arms. The child’s weeping mother took her son from his hands. "Thank you. Bless you, Asha’ma
