He walked on the road before the palace, taking a deep breath. The butterchain trees were in bloom, the bright yellow blossoms spilling out of the gardens and hanging over the courtyard walls. Children played in them, throwing the petals into the air.
Not a cloud marred the brilliant sky. Rand looked up, raising his arms, and stepped out from beneath the blossoming branches into the deep warming sunlight. No guards stood at the way into the palace, only a kindly servant who answered questions for some visitors.
Rand strode forward, feet leaving tracks in golden petals as he approached the entrance. A child came toward him, and Rand stopped, smiling at her.
She stepped up, reaching to touch the sword at Rand’s waist. The child seemed confused. "What is it?" she asked, looking up with wide eyes.
"A relic", Rand whispered.
Laughter from the other children turned the girl’s head, and she left him, giggling as one of the children threw an armful of petals into the air.
Rand walked on.
IS THIS PERFECTION FOR YOU? The Dark One's voice felt distant. He could pierce this reality to speak to Rand, but he could not appear here as he had in the other visions. This place was his antithesis.
For this was the world that would exist if Rand killed him in the Last Battle.
"Come and see", Rand said to him, smiling.
No reply. If the Dark One allowed himself to be drawn too fully into this reality, he would cease to exist. In this place, he had died.
All things turned and came again. That was the meaning of the Wheel of Time. What was the point of winning a single battle against the Dark One, only to know that he would return? Rand could do more. He could do this.
"I would like to see the Queen", Rand asked of the servant at the Palace doors. "Is she in?"
"You should find her in the gardens, young man", the guide said. He looked at Rand’s sword, but out of curiosity, not worry. In this world, men could not conceive that one would want to hurt another. It didn’t happen.
"Thank you", Rand said, walking into the Palace. The hallways were familiar, yet different. Caemlyn had nearly been razed during the Last Battle, the Palace burned. The reconstruction resembled what had been there before, but not completely.
Rand strolled the hallways. Something worried him, a discomfort from the back of his mind. What was it . . .
Do not be caught here, he realized. Do not be complacent. This world was not real, not completely. Not yet.
Could this have been a plan of the Dark One? To trick Rand into creating paradise for himself, only to enter it and be trapped while the Last Battle raged? People were dying as they fought.
He had to remember that. He could not let this fancy consume him. That was difficult to remember as he entered the gallery—a long hallway, lined with what appeared to be windows. Only, those windows did not look out at Caemlyn. These new glass portals allowed one to see other places, like a gateway always in place.
Rand passed one that looked out into a submerged bay, colorful fish darting this way and that. Another gave a view of a peaceful meadow high in the Mountains of Mist. Red flowers pushed up through the green, like specks of paint scattered on the floor following a painter’s daily work.
On the other wall, the windows looked at the great cities of the world. Rand passed Tear, where the Stone was now a museum to the days of the Third Age, with the Defenders as its curators. None of this generation had ever carried a weapon, and were baffled by the stories of their grandparents having fought. Another showed the Seven Towers of Malkier, built strong again—but as a monument, not a fortification. The Blight had vanished upon the Dark One’s death, and the Shadowspawn had fallen dead immediately. As if the Dark One had been linked to them all, like a Fade leading a fist of Trollocs.
Doors did not bear locks. Coinage was a nearly forgotten eccentricity. Channelers helped create food for everyone. Rand passed a window to Tar Valon, where the Aes Sedai Healed any who came and created gateways to bring loved ones together. All had everything they needed.
He hesitated beside the next window. It looked out at Rhuidean. Had this city ever been in a desert? The Waste bloomed, from Shara to Cairhien.
And here, through the window, Rand saw the Chora Fields—a forest of them, surrounding the fabled city. Though he could not hear their words, he saw the Aiel singing.
No more weapons. No more spears to dance. Once again, the Aiel were a people of peace.
He continued on. Bandar Eban, Ebou Dar, the Seanchan lands, Shara. Each nation was represented, though these days, people didn’t pay much heed to borders. Another relic. Who cared who lived in what nation, and why would someone try to "own" land? There was enough for all. The blooming of the Waste had opened up room for new cities, new wonders. Many of the windows Rand passed looked at places he did not know, though he was pleased to see the Two Rivers looking so majestic, almost like Manetheren come again.
The last window gave him pause. It looked upon a valley in what had once been the Blasted Lands. A stone slab, where a body had been burned long ago, rested here alone. Overgrown with life: vines, grass, flowers. A furry spider the size of a child’s hand scurried across the stones.
Rand’s grave. The place where his body had been burned following the Last Battle. He lingered a long while at that window before finally forcing himself to move on, leaving the Gallery and making his way to the Palace gardens. Servants were helpful whenever he spoke to them. Nobody questioned why he wanted to see the Queen.
He assumed that when he found her, she would be surrounded by people. If anyone could see the Queen, wouldn’t that demand all of her time? Yet when he approached her sitting in the Palace gardens beneath the boughs of the Palace’s chora tree, she was alone.
This was a world without problems. A world where people worked out their own grievances easily. A world of giving, not dispute. What would someone need of the Queen?
Elayne was as beautiful as she’d been when they’d last parted. She was no longer pregnant, of course. A hundred years had passed since the Last Battle. She appeared to have not aged a day.
Rand approached her, glancing at the garden wall that he had once fallen over, tumbling down to meet her for the first time. These gardens were far different, but that wall remained. It had weathered the scouring of Caemlyn and the coming of a new Age.
Elayne looked at him from her bench. Her eyes widened immediately, and her hand went to her mouth. "Rand?"
He fixed his gaze on her, hand resting on the pommel of Laman’s sword. A formal posture. Why had he taken it?
Elayne smiled. "Is this a prank? Daughter, where are you? Have you used the Mask of Mirrors to trick me again?"
"It is no trick, Elayne", Rand said, sinking down onto one knee before her so that their heads were level. He looked into her eyes.
Something was wrong.
"Oh! But how can it be?" she asked.
That wasn’t Elayne . . . was it? The tone seemed off, the mannerisms wrong. Could she have changed so much? It had been a hundred years. "Elayne?" Rand asked. "What has happened to you?"
"Happened? Why, nothing! The day is grand, wonderful. Beautiful and peaceful. How I like to sit in my gardens and enjoy the sunlight".
Rand frowned. That simpering tone, that vapid reaction . . . Elayne had never been like that.
"We shall have to prepare a feast!" Elayne exclaimed, clapping her hands. "I will invite Aviendha! It is her week off from singing, though she is probably doing nursery duty. She usually volunteers there".
"Nursery duty?"
"In Rhuidean", Elayne said. "Everyone so likes to play with the children, both here and there. There is grand competition to care for the children! But we understand the need to take turns".
Aviendha. Tending children and singing to chora trees. There was nothing wrong with that, really. Why shouldn’t she enjoy such activities?
But it was wrong, too. He thought Aviendha would be a wonderful mother, but to imagine her seeking to spend all day playing with other people’s children . . .
Rand looked into Elayne’s eyes, looked into them deeply. A shadow lurked back there, behind them. Oh, it was an innocent shadow, but a shadow nonetheless. It was like . . . like that . . .
Like that shadow behind the eyes of someone who had been Turned to the Dark One.
Rand jumped to his feet and stumbled backward. "What have you done here?" he shouted into the sky. "Shai’tan! Answer me!"
Elayne cocked her head. She wasn’t afraid. Fear did not exist in this place. "Shai’tan? I swear I remember that name. It has been so long. I get forgetful sometimes".
"SHAITAN!" Rand bellowed.
I HAVE DONE NOTHING, ADVERSARY. The voice was distant. THIS IS YOUR CREATION.
"Nonsense!" Rand said. "You’ve changed her! You’ve changed them all!"
DID YOU THINK THAT REMOVING ME FROM THEIR LIVES WOULD LEAVE THEM UNALTERED?
The words thundered through Rand. Aghast, he stepped away as Elayne rose, obviously concerned for him. Yes, he saw it now, the thing behind her eyes. She was not herself . . . because Rand had taken from her the ability to be herself.
I TURN MEN TO ME, Shaitan said. IT IS TRUE. THEY CANNOT CHOOSE GOOD ONCE I HAVE MADE THEM MINE IN THAT WAY. HOW IS THIS ANY DIFFERENT, ADVERSARY?
IF YOU DO THIS, WE ARE ONE.
"No!" Rand screamed, holding his head in his hand, falling to his knees. "No! The world would be perfect without you!"
PERFECT. UNCHANGING. RUINED. DO THIS, IF YOU WISH, ADVERSARY. IN KILLING ME, I WOULD WIN.
NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, I WILL WIN.
Rand screamed, curling up as the Dark One’s next attack washed over him. The nightmare Rand had created exploded outward, ribbons of light spraying away like streaks of smoke.
The darkness around him shook and trembled.
YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM.
The Pattern—glowing, vibrant—wrapped around Rand again. The real Pattern. The truth of what was happening. In creating his vision of a world without the Dark One, he had created something horrible. Something awful. Something worse than would have been before.
The Dark One attacked again.
Mat pulled back from the fighting, resting his ashandarei on his shoulder. Karede had demanded the chance to fight—the more hopeless the situation, the better. Well, the man should be bloody well pleased with this. He should be dancing and laughing! He had his wish. Light, but he did.
Mat sat down on a dead Trolloc, the only seat available, and drank deeply from his waterskin. He had the pulse of the battle, its rhythm. The beat it played was forlorn. Demandred was clever. He had not gone for Mat’s bait at the ford, where he had positioned a smaller army. Demandred had sent Trollocs there, but held back his Sharans. Had Demandred abandoned the Heights to attack Elayne’s army, Mat would have swept his own armies across the top of the Heights from the west and the northeast to smash the Shadow from behind. Now Demandred was trying to get his troops behind Elayne’s forces, and Mat had stopped him for the time being. But how long could he hold?
The Aes Sedai were not doing well. The Sharan channelers were winning that fight. Luck, Mat thought. We’ll need more than a little of you today. Don’t abandon me now.