The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,353

don’t know. It . . . it might be getting too late to do anything to change him.”

“That boy will laugh again,” Cadsuane said quietly, but intensely. “I didn’t live this long to fail now.”

“What does it matter?” Corele said.

Nynaeve turned in shock.

“Well?” Corele set down her mending. “What does it matter? We’re obviously going to succeed.”

“Light!” Nynaeve said. “What gave you that idea?”

“We’ve just spent all afternoon drilling this girl about her visions.” Corele nodded to Min. “They always come true, and she’s seen things that obviously can’t happen until after the Last Battle. So we know that Rand is going to defeat the Dark One. The Pattern has already decided it. We can stop worrying.”

“No,” Min said. “You’re wrong.”

Corele frowned. “Child, are you saying that you lied about the things you’ve seen?”

“No,” Min said. “But if Rand loses, there is no Pattern.”

“The girl is correct.” Cadsuane sounded surprised. “What this child sees are weavings in the Pattern from a time still distant—but if the Dark One wins, he will destroy the Pattern entirely. This is the only way the visions could fail to occur. The same holds for other prophecies and Foretellings. Our victory is by no means sure.”

That stilled the room. They weren’t playing at village politics or national dominance. At stake was creation itself.

Light. Can I withhold this information if there’s any chance of it helping Lan? It wrenched her heart to think of him, and she had few options. In fact, Lan’s only hope seemed to rest in the armies Rand could marshal and the gateways his people could form.

Rand had to change. For Lan. For them all. And she had no idea what to do other than, unfortunately, to trust Cadsuane. Nynaeve swallowed her pride and spoke. “Do you know the location of a statue of an enormous sword, fallen to the earth as if stabbing it?”

Corele and Merise glanced at each other in confusion.

“The hand of the amahn’rukane.” Cadsuane turned from Min with a raised eyebrow. “The full statue was never finished, from what scholars can tell. It rests near the Jehannah Road.”

“Perrin is camping in its shadow.”

Cadsuane pursed her lips. “I assumed he would go eastward, toward lands al’Thor has captured.” She took a deep breath. “All right. We are going for him right now.” She hesitated, then glanced at Nynaeve. “In answer to your question earlier, child, Perrin actually isn’t important to our plans.”

“He isn’t?” Nynaeve asked. “But—”

Cadsuane raised a finger. “There are people with him who are vital. One in particular.”

CHAPTER 45

The Tower Stands

Egwene walked slowly through the rebel camp, wearing a crimson gown, its skirts divided for riding. The color raised not a few eyebrows. Considering what the Red Ajah had done, these Aes Sedai weren’t likely to wear the hue. Even the camp’s serving women had noticed, selling their red and maroon dresses or cutting them up for rags.

Egwene had asked for the crimson specifically. In the Tower, sisters had formed the habit of wearing only their own Ajah’s color, and the practice had helped fuel the division. While it was good to be proud of your Ajah affiliation, it was dangerous to begin assuming that you couldn’t trust anyone wearing other colors.

Egwene was all Ajahs. Today, the red symbolized many things to her. The impending reunification with the Red Ajah. A reminder of the division that needed to be righted. A sign of the blood that would be spilled, the blood of good men who fought to defend the White Tower.

The blood of the dead Aes Sedai, beheaded not an hour ago by Egwene’s order.

Siuan had found her Great Serpent ring; it felt very good to have it on her finger again.

The sky was an iron gray, and the scent of dirt rose into the air, accompanying the bustling motion around the camp. Women hurriedly washed clothing, as if they were late in getting their patrons ready for a festival. Novices ran—literally ran—from lesson to lesson. Aes Sedai stood about with arms folded, eyes ready to burn any who didn’t keep up the tempo.

They sense the tension of the day, Egwene thought. And can’t help but be made anxious by it. The night before, with its attack by the Seanchan. Followed by the return of the Amyrlin, who had spent the morning cleansing the Aes Sedai. And now afternoon, and the beating drums of war.

She doubted that Bryne’s own camp was in such a state. He’d have his men ready for attack; he probably could have assaulted