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

by Robert Jordan

Even in Rhuidean, when he had told Rand he was going, he had been sure something would get in the way. It had, in a manner of speaking; Mat had made it out of the Waste, but he was no further from Rand than before. This time, he did not think he would be diverted.

“Not like I was abandoning him,” he muttered. “If he can’t bloody take care of himself by now, he’ll never be able to. I’m not his bloody nursemaid.”

arranged a dark yellow silk scarf to hide the hanging scar on his throat, then snatched up his hat and ducked out.

Mat wondered whether Rand realized that he was giving her anything and everything she asked.

For a while Mat had thought Rand had gotten the upper hand there, but he was not so sure any longer, even if Moiraine did do everything but curtsy and fetch Rand’s pipe.

Rand’s tent was on a hilltop by itself, naturally, that red banner on a staff at its front. It rippled in a light breeze, sometimes standing out enough to show the black-and-white disc. The thing made Mat’s skin crawl as much as the Dragon banner had. If a man wanted to avoid Aes Sedai entanglemen...

The thought put a sour twist to his mouth. Those rules came from other men’s memories; the only rules he wanted to remember were “Never kiss a girl whose brothers have knife scars” and “Never gamble without knowing a back way out.”

Why Rand wanted him around was a mystery. He almost never played anything merry on that harp.

sometimes Egwene did, too; she had certainly changed, half Wise One and half Aes Sedai—but

This side of the Spine of the World had not seen an army like that since Artur Hawkwing’s time.

The seven clans with Rand almost doubled that, easily enough to face Couladin or the four clans. Either or. Not both, not at once. But both at once might be what Rand had to fight.

“A pretty situation, wouldn’t you say?” Mat’s head jerked up at Lan’s voice, but the Warder had entered the tent alone.

Thumbs tucked behind his sword belt, Lan stood beside Mat, looking down at the map. His face gave away as much as a statue’s would.

“Tomorrow should bring the largest battle since Artur Hawkwing.”

He wanted to talk about something besides Couladin. This fight is none of mine. I’m not running away from anything that concerns me in the least.

The only thing certain is that Couladin is not going anywhere.” Couladin again.

Perhaps Lan would leave him in silence. He just wanted to say his piece to Rand and go.

Should we rush down on Couladin with everything and crush him tomorrow?” “That sounds as good to me as any other plan,” Natael replied dourly.

“I lead no armies, Warder. I command nothing save myself, and not always that.”

“Two reasons. If you surround Couladin, trap him between you and the city, you might crush him against it.”

“Press him enough, and you’ll find yourself fighting inside Cairhien. Nasty thing, fighting in a city. And the idea is to save the place, not finish ruining it.”

Frowning, he squatted with his elbows on his knees. Lan got down with him, but he hardly noticed. A dicey problem. And fascinating.

Always leave a way out, unless you really want to find out how hard a man can fight when he’s nothing to lose.”

The names flickered through his head, the images of bloody fields forgotten even by historians. Absorbed in the map as he was, they did not register as anything but his own remembrances.

He more than merely liked gambling, and battle was a gamble to make dicing in taverns a thing for children and toothless invalids.

Make the wrong wager, a foolish bet, and cities died, or whole nations.

Only take half of what you have against Couladin. That makes it an even fight, but you have to settle for it.”

There was no such thing as fairness in war. You took your enemy from behind, when he least expected it, when and where he was weakest.

“Everything always changes. The best plan lasts until the first arrow leaves the bow.

At least he had not been babbling in the Old Tongue. Blood and ashes, but I hope I wasn’t!

Mat turned to go, and found Rand standing just inside the tent, absently twisting that odd bit of tasseled spear as if he did not realize he was holding it.

“I will be sorry to see you go,” Rand said quietly. “Don’t try to talk me out of—” Mat blinked. “That’s it? You’ll be sorry to see me go?” “I’ve never tried to make you stay, Mat. Perrin went when he had to, and so can you.”

“This isn’t for me, Rand. I don’t know anything about battles, and I don’t want to know.”

He avoided looking at Lan and Natael. If either man cracked his teeth, he would punch him right in the mouth. Even the Warder.

“I’d forget saying goodbye to Egwene, were I you. I am no longer certain how much of what I tell her I might as well be telling Moiraine, or the Wise Ones, or both.” “I reached that conclusion a long time ago. She’s left Emond’s Field further behind than either of us. And regrets it less.” “Maybe,” Rand said sadly.

“The Light shine on you, Mat,” he added, sticking out his hand, “and send you smooth roads, fair weather and pleasant company until we meet again.”

If he could forget that Rand could channel—and he had not thought of it once in days; days!—then it was far past time to be gone.

Rand stood staring after Mat long after the tent flaps had fallen to hide him.

Of course, he was the one who had said Mat seemed surprisingly knowledgeable about military matters. And Lan was not going to ask the obvious question, either, which was good. Rand had no right to give the little answer he had.

The important thing was that he knew Mat had gained more on the other side of that doorway ter’angreal than a tendency to spout the Old Tongue when not thinking.

He hoped Mat had a fine time while he was free. He hoped that Perrin was enjoying himself in the Two Rivers, showing off Faile to his mother and sisters, maybe marrying her.

He hoped it because he knew he would draw them back, ta’veren pulling at ta’veren, and he the strongest.

Eventually he would pull his friends back to him, however far they went, and when they came, he would use them, however he could. However he had to. Because he did have to. Because whatever the Prophecy of the Dragon said, he was sure the only chance he had of winning Tarmon Gai’don lay in having all three of them, three ta’veren who had been tied together since infancy, tied together once more.

If Rand could not tell Lan Mat’s secrets, he would not spread them before one of the Forsaken, however tame he appeared.

“Play it, unless you know a sadder. Play something to make your soul weep. If you have one still.”

The Warder made a formal bow before stepping outside. It was the first time that he had ever done that, but Rand noticed only absently.

The battle would begin tomorrow.

I’ve planned a hundred battles this size or more and given orders that led to ten times as many.

Lews Therin knew war—had known war—but not Rand al’Thor, and that was him.

His only real contribution had been to say that Couladin had to be defeated without destroying the city.