The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time, #8)

by Robert Jordan

Who would sup with the mighty must climb the path of daggers. —Anonymous notation found inked in the margin of a manuscript history (believed to date to the time of Artur Hawkwing) of the last days of the Tovan Conclaves

On the heights, all paths are paved with daggers. —Old Seanchan saying

Many of the girls and women Verin had spoken to over the years could not make themselves form the weaves, much less use them, and a fair number could not even make themselves remember how. From bits and pieces and scraps of half-remembered weaves created by untrained girls for very limited purposes, Verin had reconstructed a thing forbidden by the Tower since its founding. In the beginning it had been simple curiosity on her part. Curiosity, she thought wryly, working at the weave on Beldeine, has made me climb into more than one pickling kettle. Usefulness came later.

The Fisher was always worked as a man, a bandage blinding his eyes and one hand pressed to his side, a few drops of blood dripping through his fingers. The reasons, like the source of the name, were lost in the mist of time. That troubled him sometimes, enraged him, what knowledge might be lost in the turnings of the Wheel, knowledge he needed, knowledge he had a right to. A right!

East the wind blew across Tremalking, where the fair-skinned Amayar farmed their fields, and made fine glass and porcelain, and followed the peace of the Water Way. The Amayar ignored the world beyond their scattered islands, for the Water Way taught that this world was only illusion, a mirrored reflection of belief, yet some watched the wind carry dust and deep summer heat where cold winter rains should be falling, and they remembered tales heard from the Atha’an Miere. Tales of the world beyond, and what prophecy said was to come. Some looked to a hill where a massive stone hand rose from the earth, holding a clear crystal sphere larger than many houses. The Amayar had their own prophecies, and some of those spoke of the hand and the sphere. And the end of illusions.

“The boy confuses them,” she said. “He needs to be strong, and makes himself harder. Too hard, already, and he will not stop until he is stopped. He has forgotten how to laugh except in bitterness; there are no tears left in him. Unless he finds laughter and tears again, the world faces disaster. He must learn that even the Dragon Reborn is flesh. If he goes to Tarmon Gai’don as he is, even his victory may be as dark as his defeat.”

“I offer you water oath,” she said solemnly, picking up one of the cups. “By this, we are bound as one, to teach Rand al’Thor laughter and tears.” She sipped, and Cadsuane imitated her.

“Give up?” Siuan laughed. “I’ll be giving up nothing.” Her back straightened, and her voice began to gain strength, and then passion. “The Oaths are what make us more than simply a group of women meddling in the affairs of the world. Or seven groups. Or fifty. The Oaths hold us together, a stated set of beliefs that bind us all, a single thread running through every sister, living or dead, back to the first to lay her hands on the Oath Rod. They are what make us Aes Sedai, not saidar. Any wilder can channel. Men may look at what we say from six sides, but when a sister says, ‘This is so,’ they know it’s true, and they trust. Because of the Oaths. Because of the Oaths, no queen fears that sisters will lay waste to her cities. The worst villain knows he’s safe in his life with a sister unless he tries to harm her. Oh, the Whitecloaks call them lies, and some people have strange ideas about what the Oaths entail, but there are very few places an Aes Sedai cannot go, and be listened to, because of the Oaths. The Three Oaths are what it is to be Aes Sedai, the heart of being Aes Sedai. Throw that on the rubbish heap, and we’ll be sand washing away in the tide. Give up? I will be gaining.”

We have walked to the door and put our hands on the latch. If you are afraid to walk through, then you all but ask the world to believe that you are nothing but Elaida’s puppets.”

“I don’t think we can,” Egwene cut in. “Takima, what does the Law of War say about the Amyrlin Seat?” Romanda was left with her mouth hanging open. Takima’s lips writhed. The diminutive Brown looked more than ever a bird wishing to take flight. “The Law . . . .” she began, then took a deep breath and sat up straight. “The Law of War states, ‘As one set of hands must guide a sword, so the Amyrlin Seat shall direct and prosecute the war by decree. She shall seek the advice of the Hall of the Tower, but the Hall shall carry out her decrees with all possible speed, and for the sake of unity, they shall. . . .” She faltered, and had to visibly force herself to go on. “. . . they shall and must approve any decree of the Amyrlin Seat regarding prosecution of the war with the greater consensus.”

“There’s an end to delays, daughter,” Egwene cut in. “No more dragging our feet.” Would she be another Gerra, or another Shein? Either was still possible. “In one month, we will Travel from here.” No; she was Egwene al’Vere, and whatever the secret histories would say of her faults and virtues, the Light only knew, but they would be hers, not copies of some other woman’s. “In one month, we will begin the siege of Tar Valon.” This time, the silence was broken only by the sound of Takima weeping.

Bashere lowered his voice to a murmur. “You aren’t thinking straight. That was a good plan, in the beginning, but their general thinks fast. He spread out to blunt our attacks before we could fall on him spread out marching. We’ve cost him even so, it seems, and now he’s pulling everything together. You won’t catch him by surprise. He wants us to come at him. He’s out there waiting for it. Asha’man or no Asha’man, if we stand nose-to-nose with this fellow, I think maybe the vultures grow fat and nobody rides away.” “Nobody stands nose-to-nose with the Dragon Reborn,” Rand growled. “The Forsaken could tell him that, whoever he is. Right, Flinn? Dashiva?”

“You think I can’t surprise him, Bashere? Watch!” Pulling the long bundle loose, he stripped away the cloth covering, and Rand heard gasps as raindrops glistened on a sword seemingly made of crystal. The Sword That Is Not a Sword. “Let’s see if he’s surprised by Callandor in the hands of the Dragon Reborn, Bashere.”

“I am the storm,” he whispered—a shout in his ears, a roar—and he channeled.

Shoving Callandor high, he screamed at them. “Come against me, if you dare! I am the storm! Come if you dare, Shai’tan! I am the Dragon Reborn!” A thousand sizzling lightning bolts hailed down from the clouds.

I’ve lost, Rand thought dully. I’m the Dragon Reborn, but for the first time, I’ve lost. Suddenly, Lews Therin raged up inside him, sly digs forgotten. I’ve never been defeated, he snarled. I am the Lord of the Morning! No one can defeat me! Rand sat in the rain, turning the Crown of Swords in his hands, looking at Callandor lying in the mud. He let Lews Therin rage.

“Send out orders for retreat,” Yulan ordered, and saw the men standing around him jerk. For the second time on these shores, the Ever Victorious Army had suffered a devastating defeat, and Yulan did not think he was the only one who wept.

“I am Elayne Trakand,” she announced loudly, surprised at how calm she sounded. Her voice carried, and across the great plaza people turned from staring at her companions to stare at her. The ancient formula rolled from her tongue. “In the name of House Trakand, by right of descent from Ishara, I have come to claim the Lion Throne of Andor, if the Light wills it so.” The gates opened wide.

The light of saidar sprang up around the thirteen sisters near the Sitters, around all of them together, and a thick slash of silver appeared in the middle of the clearing, rotating into a gateway ten paces tall and a hundred wide. Falling snow drifted through from the other side. Shouted orders rose among the soldiers, and the first armored heavy cavalry rode through. The swirling snow beyond the gateway was too thick to see far, yet Egwene imagined that she could make out the Shining Walls of Tar Valon, and the White Tower itself. “It has begun, Mother,” Sheriam said, sounding almost surprised. “It has begun,” Egwene agreed. And the Light willing, soon Elaida would fall. She was supposed to wait until Bryne said sufficient of his soldiers were through, but she could not stop herself. Digging her heels into Daishar’s flanks, she rode through into the falling snow, onto the plain where Dragon-mount reared black and smoking against a white sky.

Across the nations the stories spread like spiderweb laid upon spiderweb, and men and women planned the future, believing they knew truth. They planned, and the Pattern absorbed their plans, weaving toward the future foretold.