The Gathering Storm

'Yes, you leave within the hour,' Rand said, turning to walk up the graceful white stairs.

Dobraine saluted, stoic as always, and left out the front doorway. He obeyed immediately. No word of complaint. He was a good man. Rand knew he was.

Light, what is happening to me? Rand thought. / need to trust some people. Don't I?

Trust. . . ? Lews Therin whispered. Yes, perhaps we can trust him. He cannot channel. Light, the one we can't trust at all is ourselves. . . .

Rand clenched his jaw. He would reward Dobraine with the kingdom if Alsalam couldn't be found. Ituralde didn't want it.

The stairs rose straight and broad to a landing, then split and twisted up to the second floor, touching the landing there on two separate sides. 'I need an audience chamber,' Rand said to the servants below, 'and a throne. Quickly.'

Less than ten minutes later, Rand sat in a plushly decorated sitting room on the second floor, waiting for the merchant Milisair Chadmar to be brought to him. His ornately carved white wood chair wasn't quite a throne, but it would do. Perhaps Milisair had used it for audiences herself. The room did seem laid out like a throne room, with a shallowly raised dais for him to sit on. Both dais and floor below were covered in a textured green and red rug of fanciful design which matched the Sea Folk porcelain on pedestals at the corner. Four broad windows behind him—each large enough to walk through—ushered overcast sunlight into the room, and it fell on his back as he sat in the chair and leaned forward, one arm resting across his knees. The figurine sat on the floor just before him.

Shortly, Milisair Chadmar walked through the doorway past the Aiel guards. She wore one of those famous Domani dresses. It covered her body from neck to toe but was barely opaque and clung to every curve—of which she had more than her fair share. The dress was of deep green, and she wore pearls at her neck. Her dark hair, in tight curls, hung down past her shoulders, several locks framing her face. He hadn't expected her to be so young, barely into her thirties.

It would be a shame to execute her.

Just one day, he thought to himself, and already I think of executing a woman for not agreeing to follow me. There was a time when I could barely stand to execute deserving criminals. But he would do what must be done.

Milisair's deep curtsy seemed to imply that she accepted his authority. Or perhaps it was simply a means of allowing him a better view of what the dress accentuated. A very Domani thing to do. Unfortunately for her, he already had more problems with women than he knew how to handle.

'My Lord Dragon,' Milisair said, rising from her curtsy. 'How may I serve you?'

'When was the last communication you had from King Alsalam?'

Rand asked. He pointedly didn't give her leave to sit in one of the room's chairs.

'The King?' she asked, surprised. 'It has been weeks now.'

'I will need to speak to the messenger who brought the latest message,' Rand said.

'I am not certain he can be found.' The woman sounded, flustered. 'I do not keep track of the coming and going of every messenger in the city, my Lord.'

Rand leaned forward. 'Do you lie to me?' he asked softly.

Her mouth opened, perhaps in shock at his bluntness. The Domani were no Cairhienin—who had a seemingly inborn political craftiness— but they were a subtle people. Particularly the women.

Rand was neither subtle nor crafty. He was a sheepherder turned conqueror, and his heart was that of a Two Rivers man, even if his blood was Aiel. Whatever politicking she was used to playing, it wouldn't work on him. He had no patience for games.

'I . . .' Milisair said, staring at him. 'My Lord Dragon. . . .'

What was she hiding? 'What did you do with him?' Rand asked, making a guess. 'The messenger?'

'He knew nothing of the King's location,' Milisair said quickly, the words seeming to spill from her. 'My questioners were quite thorough.'

'He is dead?'

'I. . . . No, my Lord Dragon.'

'Then you will have him brought to me.'

She paled further, and glanced to one side, perhaps reflexively seeking escape. 'My Lord Dragon,' she said hesitantly, bringing her eyes back to him. 'Now that you are here, perhaps the King will remain . . . hidden. Perhaps there is no need to seek him out further.'

She thinks he's dead too, Rand thought. It has made her take risks.

'There is need to find Alsalam,' Rand said, 'or at least discover what happened to him. We need to know his fate so that you can choose a new king. That is how it happens, correct?'

'I'm certain you can be crowned quickly, my Lord Dragon,' she said smoothly.

'I will not be king here,' Rand said. 'Bring me the messenger, Milisair, and perhaps you will live to see a new king crowned. You are dismissed.'

She hesitated, then curtsied again and withdrew. Rand caught a glimpse of Min standing outside with the Aiel, watching the merchant depart. He caught her eyes, and she looked troubled. Had she seen any viewings about Milisair? He almost called to her, but she vanished, walking away with a quick step. To the side, Alivia watched her go with curiosity. The former damane had stayed aloof recently, as if biding her time, waiting until she could fulfill her destiny in helping Rand die.

He found himself standing. That look in Min's eyes. Was she angry with him? Was she remembering his hand at her neck, his knee pressing her against the floor?

He sat back down. Min could wait. 'All right,' he said, addressing the Aiel. 'Bring me my scribes and stewards, along with Rhuarc, Bael and whatever city worthies haven't fled the city or been killed in riots. We need to go over the grain distribution plans.'

The Aiel sent runners and Rand settled back into his chair. He would see the people fed, restore order and gather the Council of Merchants. He would even see that a new king was chosen.

But he would also find out where Alsalam had gone. For there, his instincts said, was the best place to find Graendal. It was his best lead.

If he did find her, he would see that she died by balefire, just like Semirhage. He would do what must be done.

CHAPTER 30 Old Advice

Gawyn remembered very little of his father—the man had never been much of a father, to him at least—but he did have a strong memory of a day in the Caemlyn palace gardens. Gawyn had been standing beside a small pond, pitching pebbles into it. Taringail had walked past down the Rose March, young Galad at his side.

The scene was still vivid in Gawyn's mind. The heavy scent of the roses in full bloom. The silver ripples on the pond, the minnows scattering away from the miniature boulder he'd just tossed at them. He could picture his father well. Tall, handsome, hair with a slight wave to it. Galad had been straight-backed and somber even then. A few months later, Galad would rescue Gawyn from drowning in that very pond.

Gawyn could hear his father speak words that he'd never forgotten. Whatever else one thought of Taringail Damodred, this bit of advice rang true. 'There are two groups of people you should never trust,' the man had been saying to Galad as they passed. 'The first are pretty women. The second are Aes Sedai. Light help you, son, if you ever have to face someone who is both.' Light help you,