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

by Robert Jordan

Those were the earliest and latest of the memories that had been planted in his skull. Nothing after Artur Paendrag Tanreall, and nothing before Maecine of Eharon.

But he certainly did not mean to take an Aiel wife. He wanted to dance with as many women as he could, while he could.

Only now he could not get another woman to look at him, not the Maidens or the others. It was as if Melindhra had hung a sign on him saying OWNED BY MELINDHRA OF THE JUMAI SHAIDO.

Women did not think the same as men, and Aielwomen did not think like anybody else in the world.

“You put yourself in the shadow of Rand al’Thor.” “I’m not in anybody’s shadow,” he said absently.

He was not about to be owned by any woman, however pretty she was. And no matter how good her hands were at loosening knotted muscles.

He had finally figured out that that medallion had somehow kept Moiraine from Healing him on her first try. So long as he had been touching it, her channeling had not affected him.

It was being near Rand that got Mat into these things. All he wanted from life was some good wine, a game of dice, and a pretty girl or three.

He was as sweaty as she, and freezing now that he had no fight for his life to occupy his mind.

“I saw you with the Nightrunner, Mat Cauthon.” That was one of the Aiel names for Myrddraal. “You are as tall as a man needs to be.”

That was the thought he could not pry out of his head. No one attacked without a reason.

His voice sounded cold, but better his voice than him. He held onto saidin, fought it, and the night’s icy chill remained something far off. He was aware of it, aware of each hair on his arms stirring with cold beneath his shirtsleeves, but it did not touch him.

“Do not make the mistake of thinking the Forsaken simple,” Moiraine said. “That could easily be fatal.”

“Shouting ‘Sammael and the Golden Bees,’ I heard,” another added. With her head wrapped in a shoufa, Rand could not make out who she was. She sounded young; some of the Maidens were no more than sixteen.

I have never liked Draghkar; we should never have made them.

“It was him. He tried to bait me into attacking him once in the same way, at Serendahar.” Oh, Light! The thought drifted across the surface of the Void. I said “me.”

He remembered Sammael’s face, a man—Not mine. Not my memory—a compact man with a short yellow beard. Asmodean had described all the Forsaken, but he knew this image was not made from that description.

You said he’d likely leave me to the Dark One, if he could. So why is he sure he’ll win now, if I decide to go after him?”

This time he dreamed of Aviendha hurling fire, only she was not hurling it at a Draghkar, and Sammael was sitting at her side, laughing.

“ ‘Even a queen stubs her toe, but a wise woman watches the path,’ ” she quoted softly.

Waking someone out of Tel’aran’rhiod was far from easy—shaking, even icy water in the face would not always do—and Nynaeve would not appreciate being pummeled awake after the bruising Cerandin had given her.

Whatever was going on, Nynaeve should be able to step out of the dream whenever she wished. Unless . . . Egwene said that the Wise Ones could hold someone in Tel’aran’rhiod against their will, though if they had taught her the trick, she had not passed it on to Elayne or Nynaeve.

She felt as if she were moving in a dream, floating, without feeling. How could this be?

The glow shining about Nynaeve grew and grew, until it overwhelmed the lamps, until it hurt to look at her except through slitted eyes.

Together, they would be stronger than either apart, but not as strong as if their two strengths were simply added.

A woman Warder. I wonder what Lan will think of that? No reason why she shouldn’t be. If any woman can, it would be her.”

A soldier who takes blame for comrades who fall in battle is a fool. You and I are soldiers in a battle, but you are not a fool, so stop behaving like one.”

“She . . . was . . . one of the heroes bound to the Wheel of Time, destined to be born again and again to make legends.

“Do you know how badly Moghedien was hurt? Maybe she is dead.” “I hope not,” the other woman almost snarled. “I want to make her pay. . . .”

“Galad. The Prophet. No boats. It is as if everything is conspiring to hold us here for Moghedien.

I am so tired, Elayne. Tired of being afraid of who might be around the next corner.

“There have been attempts to kill the Prophet.” It took Nynaeve a moment to realize that he was explaining why their weapons had been taken. “But you are his friends,” she protested. “You all followed Rand to Falme together.” She was not about to start calling him the Lord Dragon.

“The Prophecies say that the Lord Dragon will break all chains that bind, and it is so. The Lord Dragon’s radiance will protect us against the Shadow.”

“The Lord Dragon has been Reborn. The Shadow hangs over the world, and only the Lord Dragon can save us.

“Blessed be the name of the Lord Dragon in the Light.”

“There is no lord but the Lord Dragon, in whom the Light dwells, and I am but one humble voice of the Lord Dragon.

“No man has that right, for me or any other woman! If I chose to go naked, it would be none of your concern!”

There is only the Lord Dragon and the Light! All else is illusion, a snare set by the Shadow!”

The Lord Dragon cares for her as for a mother.” Another time, she would have given him a few choice words, and maybe a well-boxed ear. Rand had not rescued her—or not exactly, anyway—and she was only a handful of years older than he. A mother, indeed!

“A man is an oak, a woman a willow,” the saying ran. The oak fought the wind and was broken, while the willow bent when it must and survived. That did not mean she had to like bending.

Fool plans often did, for some reason, when men made them.

Rand might even enjoy having all those people kneel to him, if he was half as arrogant as Egwene claimed.

Some day she was going to get a chance to box Rand’s head for her need to do this!

There was no mistaking that beautiful face, the face she had been sure she would see. No other Whitecloak than Galad could have a reason to follow her, and none to follow Uno or Ragan.

The medallion made him safe from Moiraine, or any other Aes Sedai, as long as they did not get it away from him—surely one or another would try sooner or later—but nothing except his own wits kept him safe from some fool killing him along with a few thousand other fools. Or from Rand, or from being ta’veren.

And certainly not that he wanted anything like Rand’s bargain; the price to get into the game was too high. It was just that he seemed to be stuck with all the burdens of being ta’veren and none of the pleasure.

“Time to leave Rand in my dust. He’s got a bloody Aiel army and more Maidens than he can count taking care of him. He doesn’t need me.”

In some strange way he was tied to Rand’s success or failure in Tarmon Gai’don, him and Perrin both, three ta’veren all tangled together.

The histories would probably only mention Rand. Small chance he or Perrin would find ...

when he got too far from Rand, he had been drawn back like a hooked fish on some invisible line.