“The Light illumine and protect us,” Elayne murmured in a faint voice.“I thought... I thought the Forsaken were the worst we had to worry about, now.”
“Are you sure, Moiraine?” Nynaeve said. “Rand was certain — is certain — that he killed the Dark One. You seem to be saying Ba'alzamon was not the Dark One at all. I don't understand! How can you be so sure? And if he was not the Dark One, who was he?”
“I can be sure for the simplest of reasons, Nynaeve. However fast decay took it, that was a man's body. Can you believe that if the Dark One were killed he would leave a human body? The man Rand killed was a man. Perhaps he was the first of the Forsaken freed, or perhaps he was never entirely bound. We may never know which.”
“I... may know who he was.” Egwene paused with an uncertain frown. “At least, I may have a clue. Verin showed me a page from an old book that mentioned Ba'alzamon and Ishamael together. It was almost High Chant and very nearly incomprehensible, but I remember something about 'a name hidden behind a name.' Maybe Ba'alzamon was Ishamael.”
“Perhaps,” Moiraine said. “Perhaps it was Ishamael. But if it was, at least nine of the thirteen still live. Lanfear, and Sammael, and Ravhin, and... Paah! Even knowing that some of those nine at least are free is not the most important thing.” She laid a hand atop the blackandwhite disc on the table. “Three of the seals are broken. Only four still hold. Only those four seals stand between the Dark One and the world, and it may be that even with those whole he can touch the world after a fashion. Whatever battle we won here — battle or skirmish — it is far from the last.”
Mat watched their faces firm — Egwene's and Nynaeve's and Elayne's; slowly, reluctantly, but determinedly, too — and shook his head. Bloody women! They're all ready to go on with this, go on chasing the Black Ajah, trying to fight the Forsaken and the bloody Dark One. Well, they needn't think I am going to come pull them out of the soup pot again. They just needn't think it, that's all!
One of the tall, paired doors pushed open while he was trying to think of something to say, and a tall young woman of regal bearing entered the room, wearing a coronet with a golden hawk in flight above her brows. Her black hair swept to pale shoulders, and her dress of the finest red silk left those shoulders bare, along with a considerable expanse of what Mat noted as an admirable bosom. For a moment she studied Rhuarc interestedly with large, dark eyes; then she turned them on the women at the table, coolly imperious. Mat she appeared to ignore completely.
“I am not used to being given messages to carry,” she announced, flourishing a folded parchment in one slim hand.
“And who are you, child?” Moiraine asked.
The young woman drew herself up even more, which Mat would have thought was impossible. “I am Berelain, First of Mayene.” She tossed the parchment down on the table in front of Moiraine with a haughty gesture and turned back to the door.
“A moment, child,” Moiraine said, unfolding the parchment. “Who gave this to you? And why did you bring it, if you are so unused to carrying messages?”
“I... do not know.” Berelain stood facing the door; she sounded puzzled. “She was... impressive.” She gave herself a shake and seemed to recover her opinion of herself. For a moment she studied Rhuarc with a small smile. “You are the leader of these Aielmen? Your fighting disturbed my sleep. Perhaps I will ask you to dine with me. One day quite soon.” She looked over her shoulder at Moiraine. “I am told the Dragon Reborn has taken the Stone. Inform the Lord Dragon that the First of Mayene will dine with him tonight.” And she marched out of the room; Mat could think of no other way to describe that stately, onewoman procession.
“I would like to have her in the Tower as novice.” Egwene and Elayne said it almost like echoes, then shared a tight smile.
“Listen to this,” Moiraine said.“'Lews Therin was mine, he is mine, and he will be mine, forever. I give him into your charge, to keep for me until I come.' It is signed 'Lanfear.'” The Aes Sedai turned that cool gaze on Mat. “And you thought it was done? You are ta'veren, Mat, a thread more crucial to the Pattern than most, and the sounder of the Horn of Valere. Nothing is done for you, yet.”
They were all looking at him. Nynaeve sadly, Egwene as though she had never seen him before, Elayne as if she expected him to change into someone else. Rhuarc had a certain respect in his eyes, though Mat would just as soon have done without it, all things considered.
“Well, of course,” he told them. Burn me! “I understand.” I wonder how soon Thom will be fit to travel? Time to run. Maybe Perrin will come with us. “You can count on me.”
From outside, the cries still rose, unceasing. “The Dragon! Al'Thor! The Dragon! Al'Thor! The Dragon! Al'Thor! The Dragon!”
And it was written that no hand but his should wield the Sword held in the Stone, but he did draw it out, like fire in his hand, and his glory did burn the world. Thus did it begin. Thus do we sing his Rebirth. Thus do we sing the beginning.
— from Do'in Toldara te, Songs of the Last Age,
Quarto Nine: The Legend of the Dragon. Composed by
Boanne, Songmistress at Taralan, the Four
