CHAPTER 35

A Halo of Blackness

The cool sea breeze washed across Rand the moment he rode through the gateway. That soft, featherlike wind carried with it the scents of a thousand cook fires scattered through the city of Falme, heating morning stews.

Rand reined in Tai’daishar, unprepared for the memories those scents would carry with them. Memories of a time when he’d still been uncertain about his role in the world. Memories of a time when Mat had constantly ribbed him for wearing fine coats, despite the fact that Rand tried to avoid them. Memories of a time when he had been ashamed of the banners that now flapped behind him. He had once insisted on keeping them hidden, as if in doing so he could hide from his own fate.

The procession waited for him, buckles creaking, horses snorting. Rand had visited Falme once, briefly. Back in those days, he hadn’t been able to stay anywhere for long. He’d spent those months either chasing or being chased. Fain had led him to Falme, bearing the Horn of Valere and the ruby dagger to which Mat had been bound. The colors flashed again, as he thought of Mat, but Rand ignored them. For these few moments, he wasn’t in the present.

Falme marked a turning point in Rand’s life as profound as the one that had later occurred in the barren lands of the Aiel, when he had proven himself to be the Car’a’carn. After Falme, there had been no more hiding, no more fighting what he was. This was the place where he’d first acknowledged himself as a killer, the place where he’d first realized what a danger he was to those around him. He’d tried to leave them all behind. They’d come after him.

At Falme, the shepherd boy had burned, his ashes scattered and blown away by those ocean winds. From those ashes, the Dragon Reborn had risen.

Rand kneed Tai’daishar forward, and the procession began again. He had ordered the gateway opened a short ride from the city, hopefully out of eyesight of damane. Of course he had Asha’man creating it—thereby hiding the weaves from women—but he didn’t want to give them any clues about Traveling. The Seanchan inability to Travel was one of his greatest advantages.

Falme itself stood on a small spit of land—Toman Head—jutting out into the Aryth Ocean. High cliffs along both sides broke the waves, creating a soft, distant roar. The city’s dark stone buildings covered the peninsula like rocks on the bed of a river. Most were squat, one-story buildings—built wide, as if the inhabitants expected the waves to wash up over the cliffs and crash against their homes. The grasslands here didn’t show as much withering as the land did to the north, but the new spring grass was starting to look yellow and wan, as if the blades regretted poking their heads out of the soil.

The peninsula sloped down to a natural harbor, and numerous Seanchan ships lay at anchor there. Seanchan flags flew, proclaiming this city a part of their empire; the banner that fluttered highest above the city displayed a golden hawk in flight, clutching three bolts of lightning. It was fringed with blue.

The strange creatures the Seanchan had brought from their side of the ocean moved through distant streets, too far off for Rand to make out details. Raken flew in the sky; the Seanchan apparently had a large stable of them here. Toman Head was just south of Arad Doman, and this city was no doubt a major staging area for the Seanchan campaign to the north.

That conquest would end today. Rand had to make peace, had to convince the Daughter of the Nine Moons to call off her armies. That peace would be the calm before a storm. He wouldn’t be protecting his people from war; just preserving them so that they could die for him elsewhere. But he would do what had to be done.

Nynaeve rode up beside him as they continued toward Falme. Her neat dress of blue and white was cut after the Domani fashion, but made of a much thicker—and far more modest—material. She seemed to be adopting fashions from around the world, wearing dresses from the cities she visited, but imposing her own sense of what was proper upon them. Once, perhaps, Rand would have found this amusing. That emotion no longer seemed possible for him. He could only feel the cold stillness inside, the stillness that capped a fountain of frozen rage.

He would keep the rage and stillness balanced long enough. He had to.

“And so we return,” Nynaeve said. Her multicolor ter’angreal jewelry somewhat spoiled the look of her neatly tailored dress.

“Yes,” Rand said.

“I remember the last time we were here,” she said idly. “Such chaos, such madness. And at the end of it all, we found you with that wound in your side.”

“Yes,” Rand whispered. He had earned that first of his unhealable wounds here, fighting Ishamael in the skies above the city. The wound grew warm as he thought of it. Warm, and painful. He had started regarding that pain as an old friend, a reminder that he was alive.

“I saw you up in the air,” Nynaeve said. “I didn’t believe it. I . . . tried to Heal that wound, but I was still blocked then, and couldn’t summon the anger. Min wouldn’t leave your side.”

Min hadn’t come with him this day. She remained close to him, but something had changed between them. Just as he had always feared that it would. When she looked at him, he knew she saw him killing her.

Just a few weeks before, he wouldn’t have been able to keep her from accompanying him, no matter what. Now she remained behind without a single protest.

Coldness. It would be over soon. No room for regret or sorrow.

The Aiel ran ahead to check for an ambush. Many of them wore the red headbands. Rand wasn’t worried about an ambush. The Seanchan would not betray him, not unless there was another Forsaken in their midst.

Rand reached down, touching the sword he wore at his waist. It was the curved one, with the scabbard of black, painted with the twisting dragon, red and gold. For more reasons than one, it made him think of the last time he had been in Falme.

“I killed a man with a sword for the first time in this city,” Rand said softly. “I’ve never spoken of it. He was a Seanchan lord, a blademaster. Verin had told me not to channel in the city, so I faced him with the sword only. I beat him. Killed him.”

Nynaeve raised an eyebrow. “So you do have a right to carry a heron-mark blade.”

Rand shook his head. “There were no witnesses. Mat and Hurin were fighting elsewhere. They saw me right after the fight, but did not witness the killing blow.”

“What do witnesses matter?” she scoffed. “You defeated a blademaster, so you are one. Whether or not it was seen by others is immaterial.”

He looked at her. “Why carry the heron mark if not to be seen by others, Nynaeve?”

She didn’t respond. Ahead, just outside of the city, the Seanchan had erected a striped pavilion of black and white. There appeared to be hundreds of sul’dam and damane pairs surrounding the open-sided tent, damane wearing the distinctive gray dress, sul’dam wearing their dresses of red and blue with the lightning bolt on the breast. Rand had brought only a few channelers: Nynaeve, three Wise Ones, Corele, Narishma, Flinn. A fraction of what he could access, even without turning to his forces stationed in the east.

But no, it was better to bring only a token guard, to look as though he came in peace. If this meeting turned into a battle, Rand’s only hope would be a quick escape via gateway. Either that . . . or do something to end the fight himself.

The figurine of the man holding aloft the sphere hung from the saddle before him. With it, he might be able to stand against a hundred damane. Two hundred. He could remember the Power he’d held when cleansing saidin. It had been the Power to level cities, to destroy any who stood against him.

No. It wouldn’t turn to that. He couldn’t afford to let it turn to that. Surely the Seanchan knew that attacking him would lead to disaster. Rand had come to meet with them again, aware that a traitor in their ranks had tried to capture or kill him. They would have to see his sincerity.

But if they didn’t. . . . He reached down and grasped the access key, just in case, and slipped it into his oversized outer coat pocket. Then, taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and sought the void. There, he seized the One Power.

Nausea and dizziness threatened to toss him to the ground. He wobbled, legs gripping Tai’daishar, hand clutching the access key in its pocket. He gritted his teeth. In the back of his mind, Lews Therin roused. The madman scrambled for the One Power. It was a desperate fight, and when Rand finally won, he found that he’d slumped in his saddle.

And he was muttering to himself again.

“Rand?” Nynaeve asked.

Rand straightened his back. He was Rand, wasn’t he? Sometimes, after a battle like this, he had trouble recalling who he was. Had he finally pushed Rand, the intruder, into seclusion and become Lews Therin? The previous day, he had woken at midday, huddled in the corner of his rooms, crying and whispering to himself about Ilyena. He could feel the soft texture of her long golden hair in his hands, and could remember holding her close. He could remember seeing her dead at his feet, slain by the One Power.

Who was he?

Did it really matter?

“Are you all right?” Nynaeve asked again.

“We are fine.” Rand did not realize he’d used the plural until the words were out of his mouth. His vision was recovering, though it still seemed just a little bit fuzzy. Everything was distorted a fraction, as it had been since the battle where Semirhage had taken his hand. He barely noticed it anymore.

He straightened, then drew a little extra power through the access key, filling himself with saidin. It was so sweet, despite the nausea that it caused. He longed to take in more, but held himself back. He already held more of the Power than any man could unaided. It would be enough.

Nynaeve glanced at the figurine at his side. The globe at the top glowed faintly. “Rand. . . .”

“I’m only holding a little extra, as a precaution.” The more of the One Power a person held, the more difficult it was to shield them. If the damane tried to capture him, they would be shocked by his resilience. He might be able to resist a full circle.

“I will not be captured again,” he whispered. “Never again. They will not take me by surprise.”

“Maybe we should turn back,” Nynaeve said. “Rand, we don’t have to meet them on their terms. It—”

“We stay,” Rand said softly. “We deal with them here and now.” Ahead, he could see a figure sitting in the pavilion at a table on a dais. There was a chair across from the figure, on an equal level. That surprised him; from what he knew of the Seanchan, he had expected to have to argue for equal footing with one of the Blood.

Was this the Daughter of the Nine Moons? This child? Rand frowned as they approached, but realized that she wasn’t actually a child, just a very small woman. Dressed in black clothing, she had dark skin, like one of the Sea Folk. There were gray-white ashes on the cheeks of her calm, round face. Upon close inspection, she appeared to be near his own age.

Rand took a deep breath and dismounted. It was time for the war to end.

The Dragon Reborn was a young man. Tuon had been told that, but something about it still surprised her.

Why should she be surprised by this youth? Conquering heroes were often young. Artur Hawkwing himself, the Empire’s great progenitor, had been a young man when he’d begun his conquest.

Those who conquered, those who dominated the world, burned themselves out quickly, like lamps with untrimmed wicks. He wore gold and red on black, the buttons on his coat sparkling as he dismounted from his large black gelding and approached the pavilion. The black coat had red and gold embroidery on the cuffs—the missing hand was quite obvious, looking at those cuffs—but his clothing was otherwise unadorned. As if he saw no need to distract from his face with finery.

His hair was the color of a deep sunset, a dark red. He had a regal bearing to him—a stride that was firm, each step confident, eyes straight ahead. Tuon had been trained to walk that way, to give no quarter, in the way she stepped. Who had trained him, she wondered. Likely, he had the finest of teachers to prepare him in the ways of kings and leaders. Yet reports said he had grown up as a farmer in a rural village. A story, carefully spread to bring him credibility with the common people, perhaps?

He strode up to the pavilion, a marath’damane on his left. The woman wore a dress colored like the sky on a clear day, set with trim like clouds. She wore her hair in a single dark braid and adorned herself with a set of gaudy jewelry. She seemed displeased by something, her brow furrowed, her mouth a tight line. Her presence made Tuon shiver. One would think she’d have grown more accustomed to marath’damane, after traveling with Matrim. But not so. They were unnatural. Dangerous. Tuon could no more grow comfortable around an unleashed damane than she could tolerate having a grassfang twisted around her ankle, its tongue tickling her skin.

Of course, if the marath’damane was unsettling, then the two men who walked to the right of the Dragon were more so. One, little more than a youth, wore his hair in braids tied with bells. The other was an older man with white hair and a tanned face. Despite the difference in their ages, both walked with the casual swagger of men well acquainted with battle. And both wore black coats, sparkling pins on the high collars. Asha’man, they were called. Men who could channel. Abominations best killed quickly. In Seanchan, there had been a very few who—in their lust for an unanticipated edge—had tried to train these Tsorov’ande Doon, these Black-Souled Tempests. The fools had fallen quickly, often destroyed by the very tools that they sought to control.

Tuon steeled herself. Karede and the Deathwatch Guards around her grew tense. It was subtle—fists tightening at their sides, breaths inhaled and released slowly. Tuon didn’t turn toward them, though she made a covert gesture to Selucia.

“You are to maintain your calm,” the Voice said softly to the men.

They would do so—they were Deathwatch Guard. Tuon hated to make the comment, as it would lower their eyes. But she would not have a mishap. Meeting with the Dragon Reborn would be dangerous. There was no avoiding that. Even with twenty damane and sul’dam on each side of the pavilion. Even with Karede at her back and Captain Musenge and a force of archers watching from a covered rooftop just within bowshot. Even with Selucia at her right, tense and ready to pounce, like a jagwin on the high rocks. Even with all of that, Tuon was exposed. The Dragon Reborn was a bonfire inexplicably lit inside a house. You could not prevent it from damaging the room. You just hoped to save the building.

He walked directly to the chair opposite Tuon and sat down, never once questioning that she had set him as her equal. She knew that the others wondered why she still wore the ashes of mourning, why she hadn’t proclaimed herself Empress. The mourning period was over, but Tuon had not taken her throne.

It was because of this man. The Empress could not meet anyone, not even the Dragon Reborn, as an equal. The Daughter of the Nine Moons, however . . . this one man could be her equal. And so she had hesitated. The Dragon Reborn would not likely respond well to another setting herself above him, no matter if that other had a perfectly legitimate reason for doing so.

As he sat down, a distant flare of lightning arced between two clouds, though Malai—one of the damane who could tell fortunes of the weather—had insisted that no rain was near. Lightning on a day without rain. Tread very lightly, she thought, reading the omen, and be careful what you speak. Not the most illuminating of omens. If she trod any more carefully, she would have to take flight into the air!

“You are the Daughter of the Nine Moons,” the Dragon Reborn said. It was a statement, not a question.

“You are the Dragon Reborn,” she replied. Looking into those slatelike eyes, she realized that she had been wrong in her first impression. He was not a young man. Yes, his body might be that of a youth. But those eyes . . . those were old eyes.

He leaned forward slightly. Her Deathwatch Guards tensed, leather creaking. “We will make peace,” al’Thor said. “Today. Here.”

Selucia hissed softly. His words sounded a great deal like a demand. Tuon had shown him great respect by placing him at her level, but one did not give orders to the Imperial family.

Al’Thor glanced at Selucia. “You can tell your bodyguard that she can relax,” he said dryly. “This meeting will not turn to conflict. I will not allow it.”

“She is my Voice,” Tuon said carefully, “and my Truthspeaker. My bodyguard is the man behind my chair.”

Al’Thor snorted softly. So he was an observant man. Or a lucky one. Few had correctly guessed Selucia’s nature.

“You wish for peace,” Tuon said. “Have you terms for your . . . offer?”

“It is not an offer, but a necessity,” al’Thor said. He spoke with softness. All of these people spoke with such quick words, yet al’Thor’s had a weight to them. He reminded her of her mother. “The Last Battle comes. Surely your people remember the prophecies. By prosecuting this war of yours, you endanger us all. My forces—everyone’s forces—are needed in the struggle against the Shadow.”

The Last Battle would be between the Empire and the forces of the Dark One. Everybody knew that. The prophecies clearly showed that the Empress would defeat those who served the Shadow, and then she would send the Dragon Reborn in to duel with Lighteater.

How much had he fulfilled? He didn’t seem blinded yet, so that had yet to happen. The Essanik Cycle said that he would stand on his own grave and weep. Or did that prophecy refer to the dead walking, as they did already? Certainly, some of those spirits had walked across their own graves. The writings were unclear, sometimes.

This people seemed to have forgotten many of the prophecies, just as they forgot their oaths to watch for the Return. But she did not say this. Watch your words carefully. . . .

“You believe the Last Battle is close, then?” she asked.

“Close?” al’Thor asked. “It is as close as an assassin, breathing his foul breath upon your neck as he slides his knife across your skin. It is close like the last chime of midnight, after the other eleven have struck. Close? Yes, it is close. Horribly close.”

Had the madness taken him already? If it had, that would make things much more difficult. She studied him, searching for signs of insanity. He seemed in control of himself.

A sea breeze blew through the canopy, ruffling the canvas and carrying with it the scent of rotten fish. Many things seemed to be rotting these days.

Those creatures, she thought. The Trollocs. What did their appearance foretell? Tylee had destroyed them, and the scouts had found no others. Looking at the intensity of this man, she hesitated. Yes, the Last Battle was close, perhaps as close as he said. That made it all the more important that she unify these lands beneath her banner.

“You must see why this is so important,” the Dragon Reborn said. “Why do you fight me?”

“We are the Return,” Tuon said. “The omens said it was time for us to come, and we expected to find a united kingdom, ready to praise us and lend us armies for the Last Battle. Instead, we found a fractured land that had forgotten its oaths and prepared for nothing. How can you not see that we must fight? It does not bring us pleasure to kill you, no more than it brings a parent joy to discipline a child who has gone astray.”

Al’Thor seemed incredulous. “We are children to you?”

“It was a metaphor only,” Tuon said.

He sat for a moment, then rubbed his chin with his hand. Did he blame her for the loss of the other one? Falendre had spoken of it.

“A metaphor,” he said. “An apt one, perhaps. Yes, the land did lack unity. But I have forged it together. The solder is weak, perhaps, but it will hold long enough. If not for me, then your war of unification would be commendable. As it is, you are a distraction. We must have peace. Our alliance need last only until my life ends.” He met her eyes. “I assure you that will not be overly long.”

She sat at the wide table, arms folded before her. If al’Thor stretched out his arm, he would not be able to reach her. That was intentional, though the precaution was laughable, in hindsight. He would not need his hand should he decide to kill her. Best not to think of that.

“If you see the value of unification,” she said, “then perhaps you should unite your lands beneath the Seanchan banner, have your people take the oaths and—” The woman standing behind al’Thor, the marath’damane, opened eyes wide as Tuon spoke.

“No,” al’Thor said, interrupting Tuon.

“But surely you can see that one ruler, with—”

“No,” he said, softly, yet more firmly. More dangerous. “I will not see another person chained by your foul leashes.”

“Foul? They are the only way to deal with those who can channel!”

“We have survived without them for centuries.”

“And you have—”

“This is not a point I will concede,” al’Thor said.

Tuon’s guards—Selucia included—gritted their teeth, and the guards dropped hands to sword hilts. He had interrupted her twice in a row. The Daughter of the Nine Moons. How could he be so bold?

He was the Dragon Reborn, that was how. But his words were foolishness. He would bow before her, once she was Empress. The prophecies demanded it. Surely that meant that his kingdoms would join with the Empire.

She had let the conversation slip out of her control. The marath’damane were a touchy subject to many on this side of the ocean. They likely understood the logic in leashing the women, but their traditions were difficult to relinquish. That was no doubt why they were so disturbed by talking about these things.

She needed to nudge the conversation in other directions. Into a realm that would throw the Dragon Reborn off guard. She studied him. “Is this all our conversation is to be about?” she said. “We sit across from one another and speak only of our differences?”

“What else would we talk about?” al’Thor said.

“Perhaps something we have in common.”

“I doubt there is much in that area that is relevant.”

“Oh?” Tuon said. “And what of Matrim Cauthon?”

Yes, that shocked him. The Dragon Reborn blinked, mouth opening slightly. “Mat?” he said. “You know Mat? How . . .”

“He kidnapped me,” Tuon said. “And dragged me most of the way across Altara.”

The Dragon Reborn gaped, then shut his mouth. “I remember now,” he said softly. “I saw you. With him. I did not connect you to that face. Mat . . . what have you been doing?”

You saw us? Tuon thought skeptically. So the madness had manifested itself. Would that make him easier to manipulate, or more difficult? Probably the latter, unfortunately.

“Well,” al’Thor finally said, “I trust that Mat had his reasons. He always does. And they seem so logical to him at the time. . . .”

So, Matrim did know the Dragon Reborn; he would be an excellent resource to her. Perhaps that was why he had been brought to her, so she would have a means of learning about the Dragon Reborn. She would have to recover him before he could help her in that area.

Matrim would not like that, but he would have to see reason. He was First Prince of the Ravens. He needed to be raised to the High Blood, shave his head and learn the proper way of living. That all seemed a shame to her—for reasons she could not explain to herself.

She couldn’t help asking after him a little more. Partly because the topic appeared to unbalance al’Thor, and partly because she was curious. “What type of man is he, this Matrim Cauthon? I must admit, I found him to be something of an indolent scoundrel, too quick to find excuses to avoid oaths he’d taken.”

“Don’t speak of him that way!” Surprisingly, the words came from the marath’damane standing beside al’Thor’s chair.

“Nynaeve . . .” al’Thor began.

“Don’t hush me, Rand al’Thor,” the woman said, folding her arms. “He’s your friend too.” The woman looked back at Tuon, meeting her eyes. Meeting them. A marath’damane!

She continued, “Matrim Cauthon is one of the finest men you will ever know, Your Highness, and I won’t listen to ill speech of him. What’s right is right.”

“Nynaeve is right,” al’Thor said reluctantly. “He is a good man. Mat may seem a little rough at times, but he is as solid a friend as one could hope for. Though he does grumble about what his conscience makes him do.”

“He saved my life,” the marath’damane said. “Rescued me at great cost and personal danger when no other thought to come for me.” Her eyes were afire with anger. “Yes, he drinks and gambles far too much. But don’t speak of him as if you know him, because you don’t. His heart is golden, under it all. If you’ve hurt him. . . .”

“Hurt him?” Tuon said. “He kidnapped me!”

“If he did so, then there was cause,” Rand al’Thor said.

Such loyalty! Once again, she was forced to reassess her view of Matrim Cauthon.

“But this is irrelevant,” al’Thor said, standing up suddenly. One of the Deathwatch Guards drew his sword. Al’Thor glared at the guard, and Karede quickly motioned at the man, who replaced his sword, ashamed, his eyes lowered.

Al’Thor placed his hand on the table, palm down. He leaned forward, trapping Tuon’s eyes with his own. Who could look away from those intense gray eyes, like steel? “None of this matters. Mat doesn’t matter. Our similarities and our differences do not matter. All that matters is need. And I need you.”

He leaned forward further, looming. His form didn’t change, but he suddenly seemed a hundred feet tall. He spoke in that same calm, piercing voice, but there was a threat to it now. An edge.

“You must call off your attacks,” he said, nearly a whisper. “You must sign a treaty with me. These are not requests. They are my will.”

Tuon found herself longing, suddenly, to obey him. To please him. A treaty. A treaty would be excellent, it would give her a chance to stabilize her hold on the lands here. She could plan how to restore order back in Seanchan. She could recruit and train. So many possibilities opened to her, as if her mind were suddenly determined to see every advantage of the alliance and none of the flaws.

She reached for those flaws, scrambling to see the problems in uniting herself with this man. But they became liquid in her mind and slipped away. She couldn’t snatch them up and form objections. The pavilion grew silent, the breeze falling still.

What was happening to her? She felt short of breath, as though a weight constricted her chest. She felt as if she couldn’t help but bend before the will of this man!

His expression was grim. Despite the afternoon light, his face was shadowed, far more so than everything else beneath the pavilion. He held her eyes still, and her breaths came quick and short. In the corners of her vision, she thought she saw something around him. A dark haze, a halo of blackness, emanating from him. It warped the air like a great heat. Her throat constricted, and words were forming. Yes. Yes. I will do as you ask. Yes. I must. I must.

“No,” she said, the word barely a whisper.

His expression grew darker, and she saw fury in the way he pressed his hand down, fingers trembling with the force. The way he clenched his jaw. The way his eyes opened wider. Such intensity.

“I need—” he began.

“No,” she repeated, confidence growing. “You will bow before me, Rand al’Thor. It will not happen the other way around.” Such darkness! How could one man contain it? He seemed to throw a shadow the size of a mountain.

She could not ally with this creature. That seething hatred, it terrified her, and terror was an emotion with which she was unfamiliar. This man could not be allowed freedom to do as he wished. He had to be contained.

He watched her for a moment longer. “Very well,” he said. His voice was ice.

He spun, stalking away from the pavilion, not looking back. His entourage followed; they all, including the marath’damane with the braid, looked disturbed. As if they themselves weren’t certain what—or who—they followed in this man.

Tuon watched him go, panting. She could not let the others see how rattled she was. They couldn’t know that, in that last moment, she’d feared him. She watched until his mounted figure had passed beyond the hillsides. And still her hands shook. She did not trust herself to speak.

Nobody spoke in the time it took her to calm herself. Perhaps they were as shaken as she. Perhaps they sensed her worry. Finally, long after al’Thor had gone, Tuon stood. She turned and regarded the collected Blood, generals, soldiers and guards. “I am the Empress,” she said in a soft voice.

As one, they fell to their knees, even the High Blood prostrating themselves.

That was the only ceremony needed. Oh, there would be a formal crowning back in Ebou Dar, with processions and parades and audiences. She would accept the personal oaths of allegiance from each member of the Blood, and would have the chance—by tradition—to execute any of them by her own hand, without reason, who she felt had opposed her ascent to the throne.

There would be all of that and more. But her declaration was the true coronation. Spoken by the Daughter of the Nine Moons after the period of mourning.

Festivities began the moment she bade them all rise. There would be a week of jubilation. A necessary distraction. The world needed her. It needed an empress. From this moment on, everything would change.

As the da’covale rose and began to sing the praises of her coronation, Tuon stepped up to General Galgan. “Pass the word to General Yulan,” she said softly. “Tell him to prepare his attack against the marath’damane of Tar Valon. We must strike against the Dragon Reborn, and quickly. This man cannot be allowed to gain any more strength than he already has.”