Ilyena never flashed her temper at me when she was angry with herself. When she gave me the rough side of her tongue, it was because she... His mind froze for an instant. He had never met a woman named Ilyena in his life. But he could summon up a face for the name, dimly; a pretty face, skin like cream, golden hair exactly the shade of Elayne's. This had to be the madness. Remembering an imaginary woman. Perhaps one day he would find himself having conversations with people who were not there.
Egwene's harangue shut off with a concerned look. “Are you all right, Rand?” The anger was gone from her voice as if it had never been. “Is something wrong? Should I fetch Moiraine back to —”
“No!” he said, and just as quickly softened his own tone. “She can't Heal...” Even an Aes Sedai could not Heal madness; none of them could Heal any of what ailed him. “Is Elayne well?”
“She is well.” Despite what Egwene had said, there was a hint of sympathy in her voice. That was all he really expected. Beyond what he had known when Elayne left Tear, what she was up to was an Aes Sedai concern and none of his; so Egwene had told him more than once, and Moiraine echoed her. The three Wise Ones who could dreamwalk, those Egwene was studying with, had been even less informative; they had their own reasons not to be pleased with him.
“I had best go, too,” Egwene went on, settling her shawl over her arms. “You are tired.” Frowning slightly, she said, “Rand, what does it mean to be buried in the Can Breat?”
He started to ask what under the Light she was talking about. Then he remembered using that phrase. “Just something I heard once,” he lied. He had no more idea what it meant than where it had come from.
“You rest, Rand,” she said, sounding twenty years older rather than two younger. “Promise me you will. You need it.” He nodded. She studied his face for a moment as though searching for the truth, then started for the door.
Rand's silver goblet of wine floated up from the carpet and drifted to him. He hastily snatched it out of the air just before Egwene looked back over her shoulder.
“Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this,” she said. “Elayne didn't give it to me as a message for you, but... She said she loves you. Perhaps you know already, but if you don't, you should think about it.” With that she was gone, the beads clicking together behind her.
Leaping from the table, Rand hurled the goblet away, splashing wine across the floor tiles as he rounded on Jasin Natael in a fury.
Chapter 3
(Dice)
Pale Shadows
Seizing saidin, Rand channeled, wove flows of Air that snatched Natael up from the cushions; the gilded harp tumbled to the dark red tiles as the man was pinned against the wall, immobile from neck to ankles and his feet half a pace above the floor. “I've warned you! Never channel when anyone else is around. Never!”
Natael tilted his head in that peculiar way he had, as if trying to look at Rand sideways, or watch without being noticed. “If she had seen, she would have thought it was you.” There was no apology in his voice, no diffidence, but no challenge either; he seemed to think he was offering a reasonable explanation. “Besides, you looked thirsty. A courtbard should look after his lord's needs.” That was one of the small conceits he surrounded himself with; if Rand was the Lord Dragon, then he himself must be a courtbard, not a simple gleeman.
Feeling disgusted with himself as much as angry at the man, Rand unraveled the weave and let him drop. Manhandling him was like picking a fight with a boy of ten. He could not see the shield that constricted the other man's access to saidin — it was female work — but he knew it was there. Moving a goblet was about the extent of Natael's ability, now. Luckily the shield had been hidden from female eyes, too. Natael called the trick “inverting”; he did not seem able to explain it, though. “And if she'd seen my face and was suspicious? I was as startled as if that goblet had flown at me by itself!” He stuck his pipe back between his teeth and sent up furious streams of smoke.
“She still wouldn't suspect.” Settling back onto the cushions, the other man took up the harp again, strumming a line of music that had a devious sound. “How could anyone suspect? I do not entirely believe the situation myself.” If there was even a touch of bitterness in his voice, Rand could not detect it.
He was not entirely sure he believed it either, though he had worked hard enough for it. The man in front of him, Jasin Natael, had another name. Asmodean.
Idly playing the harp, Asmodean did not look like one of the dreaded Forsaken. He was even moderately handsome; Rand supposed he would be attractive to women. It often seemed strange that evil had left no outward mark. He was one of the Forsaken, and far from trying to kill him, Rand hid what he was from Moiraine and everyone else. He needed a teacher.
If what was true for the women Aes Sedai called “wilders” also held for men, he had only one chance in four of surviving the attempt to learn to use the Power on his own. That was discounting the madness. His teacher had to be a man; Moiraine and others had told him often enough that a bird could not teach a fish to fly, nor a fish a bird to swim. And his teacher had to be someone experienced, someone who already knew all the things he needed to learn. With Aes Sedai gentling men who could channel as soon as they were found — and fewer were found every year — that left small choices. A man who had simply discovered he could channel would know no more than he did. A false Dragon who could channel — if Rand could find one not already caught and gentled — would not be likely to give up his own dreams of glory for another claiming to be the Dragon Reborn. What remained, what Rand had lured to him, was one of the Forsaken.
Asmodean plucked random chords as Rand took a seat on a cushion facing him. It was well to remember that the man had not changed, not inside, from the day so long ago when he had pledged his soul to the Shadow. What he did now, he did under duress; he had not come to the Light. “Do you ever think of turning back, Natael?” He was always careful of the name; one breath of “Asmodean,” and Moiraine would be sure he had gone over to the Shadow. Moiraine and maybe others. Neither he nor Asmodean might survive that.
The man's hands froze on the strings, his face utterly blank. “Turn back? Demandred, Rahvin, any of them would kill me on sight, now. If I was lucky. Except Lanfear perhaps, and you will understand if don't want to put her to the test. Semirhage could make a boulder beg for mercy and thank her for death. And as for the