The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,367

that had unsettled him, something he couldn’t quite define. And so he stalked through the Stone of Tear, two Aiel Maidens trailing behind him, his presence startling servants and unnerving Defenders.

The corridors twisted and turned. The walls—where unadorned by tapestry—were the color of wet sand, but they were far stronger than any rock Rand knew, alien and strange; each smooth span a reminder that this place was not natural.

Rand felt the same way. He had the form of a human. Indeed, he had the mannerisms and history of one. But he was a thing that no human—not even he himself—could understand. A figure of legend, a creation of the One Power, as unnatural as a ter’angreal or a fragment of cuendillar. They dressed him up like a king, just as they dressed these corridors with tasseled gold and red rugs. Just as they hung the walls with those tapestries, each one depicting a famous Tairen general. Those decorations were intended for beauty, but they were also intended to obscure. The patches of naked wall highlighted how alien the place was. Rugs and tapestries made it all feel more . . . human. Just as giving Rand a crown and a fine coat allowed them to accept him. Kings were supposed to be a little different. Never mind his much more alien nature, hidden beneath the crown. Never mind his heart of a man long dead, his shoulders created to bear the weight of prophecy, his soul crushed by the needs, wants and hopes of a million people.

Two hands. One to destroy, the other to save. Which had he lost?

It was easy to go astray in the Stone. Long before the Pattern had begun to unravel, these twisting corridors of brown rock had been misleading. They were designed to befuddle attackers. Intersections came unexpectedly; there were few landmarks, and the inner corridors of the keep didn’t have windows. The Aiel said they had been impressed with how difficult it had been to seize the Stone. It hadn’t been the Defenders who had impressed them, but the sheer scope and layout of the monstrous building.

Fortunately, Rand had no particular goal. He simply wanted to walk.

He had accepted what he needed to be. Why was he so bothered by it, then? A voice deep down—one not in his head, but in his heart—had begun to disagree with what he did. It was not loud or violent like Lews Therin’s; it just whispered, like a forgotten itch. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. . . .

No! he thought. I must be strong. I have finally become what I must be!

He stopped in the corridor, teeth gritted. In his deep coat pocket, he carried the access key. He fingered it, its contours cold and smooth. He didn’t dare leave it to the care of a servant, no matter how trusted.

Hurin, he realized. That’s what is bothering me. Seeing Hurin.

He resumed walking, straightening his back. He had to be strong—or at least appear strong—at all times.

Hurin was a relic from an earlier life. Days when Mat had still mocked Rand’s coats, days when Rand had hoped that he’d marry Egwene and somehow return to the Two Rivers. He had traveled with Hurin and Loial, determined to stop Fain and get back Mat’s dagger, to prove that he was a friend. That had been a much simpler time, although Rand hadn’t known it. He’d have wondered if anything could grow more complicated than thinking his friends hated him.

The colors shifted in his vision. Perrin walking through a dark camp, that stone sword looming in the air above him. The vision changed to Mat, who was still in that city. It was Caemlyn? Why could he be near Elayne, when Rand had to remain so far away? He could barely feel her emotions through the bond. He missed her so. Once they had stolen kisses from one another in the halls of this very fortress.

No, he thought. I am strong. Longing was an emotion he mustn’t feel. Nostalgia got him nowhere. He tried to banish both, ducking into a stairwell and moving down the steps, working his body, trying to make his breath come in gasps.

Do we run from the past, then? Lews Therin asked softly. Yes. That is well. Better to run than to face it.

Rand’s time with Hurin had ended at Falme. Those days were indistinct in his mind. The changes that had come upon him then—realizing that he had to kill, that he could never