Hastily he wrenched his knives free, tearing each card in half before tucking the blade away. After a moment, he hunted through the cards littering the floor until he found the rulers of Coins and Winds, and tore them across, too. He felt a little foolish — it was over and done with; the cards were just cards again — but he could not help it.
None of the young lords crawling about on hands and knees tried to stop him. They scrambled out of his way, not even glancing at him. There would be no more gambling tonight, and maybe not for some nights to come. At least, not with him. Whatever had happened, it had been aimed at him, clearly. Even more clearly, it had to have been done with the One Power. They wanted no part of that.
“Burn you, Rand!” he muttered under his breath. “If you have to go mad, leave me out of it!” His pipe lay in two pieces, the stem bitten through cleanly. Angrily he grabbed his purse from the floor and stalked out of the room.
In his darkened bedchamber Rand tossed uneasily on a bed wide enough for five people. He was dreaming.
Through a shadowy forest Moiraine was prodding him with a sharp stick toward where the Amyrlin Seat waited, sitting on a stump with a rope halter for his neck in her hands. Dim shapes moved halfseen through the trees, stalking, hunting him; here a dagger blade flashed in the failing light, over there he caught a glimpse of ropes ready for binding. Slender and not as tall as his shoulder, Moiraine wore an expression he had never seen on her face. Fear. Sweating, she prodded harder, trying to hurry him to the Amyrlin's halter. Darkfriends and the Forsaken in the shadows, the White Tower's leash ahead and Moiraine behind. Dodging Moiraine's stick, he fled.
“It is too late for that,” she called after him, but he had to get back. Back.
Muttering, he thrashed on the bed, then was still, breathing more easily for a moment.
He was in the Waterwood back home, sunlight slanting through the trees to sparkle on the pond in front of him. There was green moss on the rocks at this end of the pond, and thirty paces away at the other end a small arc of wildflowers. This was where, as a child, he had learned to swim.
“You should have a swim now.”
He spun around with a start. Min stood there, grinning at him in her boy's coat and breeches, and next to her, Elayne, with her redgolden curls, in a green silk gown fit for her mother's palace.
It was Min who had spoken, but Elayne added, “The water looks inviting, Rand. No one will bother us here.”
“I don't know,” he began slowly. Min cut him off by twining her fingers behind his neck and pulling herself up on tiptoe to kiss him.
She repeated Elayne's words in a soft murmur. “No one will bother us here.” She stepped back and doffed her coat, then attacked the laces of her shirt.
Rand stared, the more so when he realized Elayne's gown was lying on the mossy ground. The DaughterHeir was bending, arms crossed, gathering up the hem of her shift.
“What are you doing?” he demanded in a strangled voice.
“Getting ready to go swimming with you,” Min replied.
Elayne flashed him a smile, and hoisted the shift over her head.
He turned his back hastily, though half wanting not to. And found himself staring at Egwene, her big, dark eyes looking back at him sadly. Without a word she turned and vanished into the trees.
“Wait!” he shouted after her. “I can explain.”
He began to run; he had to find her. But as he reached the edge of trees, Min's voice stopped him.
“Don't go, Rand.”
She and Elayne were in the water already, only their heads showing as they swam lazily in the middle of the pond.
“Come back,” Elayne called, lifting a slim arm to beckon. “Do you not deserve what you want for a change?”
He shifted his feet, wanting to move but unable to decide which way. What he wanted. The words sounded strange. What did he want? He raised a hand to his face, to wipe away what felt like sweat. Festering flesh almost obliterated the heron branded on his palm; white bone showed through rededged gaps.
With a jerk, he came awake, lying there shivering in the dark heat. Sweat soaked his smallclothes, and the linen sheets beneath his back. His side burned, where an old wound had never healed properly. He traced the rough scar, a circle nearly an inch across, still tender after all this time. Even Moiraine's Aes Sedai Healing could not mend it completely. But I'm not rotting yet. And I'm not mad, either. Not yet. Not yet. That said it all. He wanted to laugh, and wondered if that meant he was a little mad already.
Dreaming about Min and Elayne, dreaming of them like that.... Well, it was not madness, but it was surely foolishness. Neither one of them had ever looked at him in that way when he was awake. Egwene he had been all but promised to since they were both children. The betrothal words had never been spoken in front of the Women's Circle, but everyone in and around Emond's Field knew they would marry one day.
That one day would never come, of course; not now, not with the fate that lay ahead of a man who channeled. Egwene must have realized that, too. She must have. She was all wrapped up in becoming Aes Sedai. Still, women were odd; she might think she could be an Aes Sedai and marry him anyway, channeling or no channeling. How could he tell her that he did not want to marry her anymore, that he loved her like a sister? But there would not be any need to tell her, he was sure. He could hide behind what he was. She had to understand that. What man could ask a woman to marry him when he knew he had only a few years, if he was lucky, before he went insane, before he began to rot alive? He shivered despite the heat.
I need sleep. The High Lords would be back in the morning, maneuvering for his favor. For the Dragon Reborn's favor. Maybe I won't dream, this time. He started to roll over, searching for a dry place on the sheets — and froze, listening to small rustlings in the darkness. He was not alone.
The Sword That Is Not a Sword lay across the room, beyond his reach, on a thronelike stand the High Lords had given him, no doubt in the hopes he would keep Callandor out of their sight. Someone wanting to steal Callandor. A second thought came. Or to kill the Dragon Reborn. He did not need Thom's whispered warnings to know that the High Lord's professions of undying loyalty were only words of necessity.
He emptied himself of thought and emotions, assuming the Void; that much came without effort. Floating in the cold emptiness within himself, thought and emotion outside, he reached for the True Source. This time he touched it easily, which was not always the case.