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

by Robert Jordan

With his coming are the dread fires born again. The hills burn, and the land turns sere. The tides of men run out, and the hours dwindle. The wall is pierced, and the veil of parting raised. Storms rumble beyond the horizon, and the fires of heaven purge the earth.

There is no salvation without destruction, no hope this side of death.

Many would have accounted her beautiful, at first glance, but a second look made it clear that the severity of her ageless, Aes Sedai face was not a momentary matter. Today there was something more, a light of anger in her dark eyes. If anyone had noticed.

“The Trollocs might as well have vanished. The entire Blight seems quiet enough for two farmers and a novice to guard.”

Much effort had gone into capturing Taim, and as much into hiding his escape. No good to the Tower if the world learned they could not hold on to a false Dragon once he was taken.

The man could channel—he had been on his way to Tar Valon to be gentled, cut off from the One Power forever, when he was broken free—yet that was not what curbed tongues.

Once the existence of a man able to channel the One Power had been the deepest anathema; hunting such men down was the main reason of existence for the Red, and every Ajah helped as it could.

He must move his army back where it can be used if the Blight wakes up.”

And she smiled too much for Elaida’s liking. Especially at men. Greens always did.

The Panarch Amathera has apparently vanished, and it seems an Aes Sedai may have been involved. . . .”

The Amyrlin’s study sat only a few levels up in the White Tower, yet this room was the heart of the Tower as surely as the Tower itself, the color of bleached bone, was the heart of the great island city of Tar Valon, cradled in the River Erinin. And Tar Valon was, or should be, the heart of the world.

A room of power, a reflection of Amyrlins who had made thrones dance to their calling for nearly three thousand years. And they did not even ask her opinion.

If Morgase discovers that we have lost her stepson, she may begin to ask more questions concerning the whereabouts of her daughter, yes? And if she learns we have lost the Daughter-Heir, Andor may become as closed to us as Amadicia.”

Morgase will reestablish order, but it will take time for her to have the throne secure. Until that is done, she will have little energy left to worry about other matters, even the Daughter-Heir.

“At least we still have her son in hand.” Joline smiled. “Gawyn do hardly be in hand,” Teslyn said sharply.

The Tower had often in its history been cautious of necessity—too many feared them, too many distrusted them—but it had never feared anything or anyone. Now, it feared.

Bonwhin, tall and proud, ordering Aes Sedai in their manipulations of Artur Hawkwing; Bonwhin, defiant, on the white walls of Tar Valon, under siege by Hawkwing’s forces; and Bonwhin, kneeling and humbled, before the Hall of the Tower as they stripped her of stole and staff for nearly destroying the Tower.

They did not understand that constant reminder of the price of failure was necessary.

Two men fought among clouds, seemingly in the sky, wielding lightning for weapons. One had a face of fire. The other was tall and young, with reddish hair.

It was the youth who caused the fear, who made even Elaida’s teeth clench. She was not sure if it was in anger, or to keep them from chattering. But fear could and must be controlled. Control was all.

Perhaps they had put her on the Amyrlin Seat, but now she was the Amyrlin.

If you have not the backbone even to look at a painting, what courage can you have for what is to come? Cowards are no use to the Tower!”

“Rand al’Thor. A man who can channel.”

if the Forsaken were truly free, all might be lost—but somehow she had managed to refuse some answers.

“Rand al’Thor is the Dragon Reborn, daughters.”

He is the one spoken of in the Prophecies. The Dark One is breaking free of his prison, the Last Battle is coming, and the Dragon Reborn must be there to face him or the world is doomed to fire and destruction so long as the Wheel of Time turns.

We must have him in hand to see he fights in the Last Battle. Or do any of you believe he will go willingly to his prophesied death to save the world?

A man who must be going mad already? We must have him in control!”

The first step would be leaving Alviarin in the dark concerning Master Fain, or whatever his real name was.

Still, one Aes Sedai, one Amyrlin even, was much like another to him. Fools. Dangerous fools, true, but useful dupes at times.

The Horn of Valere was there, the fabled Horn made to call dead heroes back from the grave for the Last Battle.

The dagger was there. He felt its pull where he stood. He could have pointed to it. It was his, a part of him, stolen and mired away here by these Aes Sedai.

Too dangerous to return to Aridhol, perchance to be trapped there again. He shivered. So long trapped. Not again.

Al’Thor’s portrait tugged at him almost as much as the man would, sent rage and hate roiling along his veins. Because of that young man, he had suffered pain beyond remembering, pain he did not let himself remember, and suffered far worse than pain. He had been broken and remade because of al’Thor.

“Rand al’Thor is devious and sly, uncaring of anyone or anything but his own power.”

If she gave him al’Thor, he might leave her alive when he finally went, even if she was Aes Sedai.

Friends of the Dark—Darkfriends they were called, now—had begun learning just how strictly they would be kept to their vows now that Rahvin and the others were freed.

Snatching at saidin, he filled himself with the Power, the taint on the male half of the True Source rolling off the protection of his bonds and oaths, the ties to what he knew as a greater power than the Light, or even the Creator.

They call untutored children Aes Sedai when half of what they know is self-taught tricks and the other half barely scratches the surface.”

“Would you still be so complacent if those untutored children put a circle of thirteen around you?”

The day would come soon when the world gave up the name Forsaken and knelt to the Chosen. It had been promised, so very long ago.

As long as you are under my eye.” Who trusted Lanfear behind him deserved the knife he might well find in his back.

Blue-eyed and golden-haired, with a neat square-trimmed beard, he would perhaps have been above the ordinary in looks except for a slanting scar, as if a red-hot poker had been dragged across his face from hairline to jaw. He could have had it removed as soon as it was made, all those long years ago, but he had elected not to.

“Nearly half the surviving Chosen in one place. And no one trying to kill anyone. Who would have expected it before the Great Lord of the Dark returns?

“I doubt he is arrogant enough for that,” Lanfear replied smoothly. “He can see where it took Ishamael. And that is the point. A point Graendal raised.

Once we were thirteen, immortal. Now four are dead, and one has betrayed us. We four are all who meet here today, and enough.”

“Is he really so strong?” Rahvin asked quietly. “This Rand al’Thor. Could he have overwhelmed you, face-to-face?”

An untrained shepherd! Untrained unless Asmodean was trying.

“He is Lews Therin Telamon reborn,” Lanfear said just as softly, “and Lews Therin was as strong as any.”

Sammael absently rubbed the scar across his face; it had been Lews Therin who gave it to him. Three thousand years ago and more, well before the Breaking of the World, before the Great Lord was ...