Taking the Sword That Cannot Be Touched was one of the first major prophecies that he had fulfilled. But was his taking of Callandor a meaningless sign, or was it a step? Everyone knew the prophecy, but few asked the question that should have been inevitable. Why? Why did Rand have to take up the sword? Was it to be used in the Last Battle?
The sword was inferior as a sa'angreal, and he doubted that it was intended to be used simply as a sword. Why did the prophecies not speak of the Choedan Kal? He had used those to cleanse the taint. The access key gave Rand power well beyond what Callandor could provide, and that power came with no strings. The statuette was freedom, but Callandor was just another box. Yet talk of the Choedan Kal and their keys was absent from the prophecies.
Rand found that frustrating, for the prophecies were—in a way—the grandest and most stifling box of them all. He was trapped inside of them. Eventually, they would suffocate him.
I told them . . . Lews Therin whispered.
Told them what? Rand demanded.
That the plan would not work, Lews Therin said, voice very soft. That brute force would not contain him. They called my plan brash, but these weapons they created, they were too dangerous. Too frightening. No man should hold such Power. . .
Rand struggled with the thoughts, the voice, the memories. He couldn't recall much at all of Lews Therin's plan to Seal the Dark One's prison. The Choedan Kal—had they been built for that purpose?
Was that the answer? Had Lews Therin made the wrong choice? Why, then, was there no mention of them in the prophecies?
Rand turned to leave the empty chamber. "Guard this place no more," he said to the Defenders. "There is nothing here of worth. I'm not sure if there ever was."
The men looked shocked, mortified, like children just chastised by a beloved father. But there was a war coming, and he wouldn't leave soldiers behind to defend an empty room.
Rand gritted his teeth and strode into a hallway. Callandor. Where had Cadsuane hidden it? He knew she'd taken rooms in the Stone, again pushing the limits of his exile. He would have to do something about that. Cast her from the Stone, perhaps. He hurried up the stone steps, then left the stairwell on a random floor, continuing to move. Sitting now would drive him mad.
He worked so hard to keep from being tied with strings, but at the end of the day, the prophecies would see that he did what he was supposed to. They were more manipulative, more devious, than any Aes Sedai.
His anger welled up inside him, raging against its constraints. The quiet voice deep within shivered at the tempest. Rand leaned his left arm against the wall, bowing his head, teeth gritted.
"I will be strong," he whispered. And yet, the anger would not go away. And why should it? The Borderlanders defied him. The Seanchan defied him. The Aes Sedai pretended to obey him, yet dined with Cadsuane behind his back and danced at her command.
Cadsuane defied him most of all. Staying right near him, flouting his words of command and twisting his intentions. He pulled out the access key, fingering it. The Last Battle loomed, and he spent what little time he had riding to meetings with people who insulted him. The Dark One was unraveling the Pattern more each day, and those sworn to protect the borders were hiding in Far Madding.
He glanced around, breathing deeply. Something about this particular hallway seemed familiar. He wasn't certain why; it looked like all of the others. Rugs of gold and red. An intersection of hallways ahead.
Maybe he shouldn't have let the Borderlanders survive their defiance. Perhaps he should go back and see that they learned to fear him. But no. He didn't need them. He could leave them for the Seanchan. That Border-lander army would serve to slow his enemies here in the south. Perhaps that would keep the Seanchan from his flanks while he dealt with the Dark One.
But . . . was there, perhaps, a way to stop the Seanchan for good? He looked down at the access key. Once he had tried to use Callandor to fight the foreign invaders. He hadn't yet understood why the sword was so difficult to control: only after his disastrous assault had Cadsuane explained what she knew about it. Rand needed to be in a circle with two women before he could safely wield the sword that was not a sword.
That had been his first major failure as a commander.
But he had a better tool now. The most powerful tool ever created; surely no human could hold more of the One Power than he had when cleansing saidin. Burning Graendal and Natrin's Barrow away had required only a fraction of what Rand could summon.
If he turned that against the Seanchan, then he could go to the Last Battle with confidence, no longer worried about what was creeping along behind him. He had given them their chance. Several chances. He had warned Cadsuane, told her that he'd bind the Daughter of the Nine Moons to him. One way ... or another.
It would not take long.
There, Lews Therin said. We stood there.
Rand frowned. What was the madman babbling about? He glanced around. The wide hallway's floor was tiled in red and black patterns. A few tapestries fluttered on the walls. With shock, Rand realized that several of them depicted him, taking the Stone, holding Callandor, killing Trollocs.
Fighting the Seanchan wasn't our first failure, Lews Therin whispered. No, our first failure happened here. In this hallway.
Exhausted, following the battle with the Trollocs and Myrddraal. His side throbbing. The Stone still ringing with the cries of the wounded. Feeling he could do anything. Anything.
Standing above the corpse of a young girl. Just a child. Callandor glowing in his fingers. The body suddenly jerked.
Moiraine had stopped him. Bringing life to the dead was beyond him, she'd said.
How I wish she was still here, Rand thought. He had often been frustrated with her, but she—more than anyone else—had seemed to grasp just what it was he was expected to do. She'd made him more willing to do it, even when he'd been angry with her.
He turned away. Moiraine had been right. He could not bring life to those who were dead. But he was very good at bringing death to those who lived. "Gather your spear-sisters," Rand called over his shoulder to his Aiel guards. "We are going to battle."
"Now?" one of them asked. "It is nightfall!"
Rave I been walking that long? Rand thought with surprise. "Yes," he said. "The darkness won't matter; I shall create light enough." He fingered the access key, feeling a thrill and a horror at the same time. He had driven the Seanchan back into the ocean once. He would do so again. Alone.
Yes, he would drive them back—at least, the ones he left alive.
"Go!" he shouted at the Maidens. They left him, loping down the hallway. What had happened to his control? The ice had grown thin lately.
He walked back to the stairway and climbed a few flights up toward his rooms. The Seanchan would know his fury. They dared to provoke the Dragon Reborn? He offered them peace, and they laughed at him?
He threw open the door to his rooms, silencing the eager Defenders on guard outside with a sharply upraised hand. He was not in the mood for their prattle.
He stormed inside, and was annoyed to find that the guards had allowed someone inside. An unfamiliar figure stood with his back to Rand, looking out the open balcony doors. "What—" Rand began.
The man turned. It was not a stranger. Not a stranger at all.
It was Tam. His father.
Rand stumbled back. Was this an apparition? Some twisted trick of the Dark One? But no, it was Tam. There was no mistaking the man's kindly eyes. Though he was a head shorter than Rand, Tam had always seemed more solid than the world around him. His broad chest and steady legs could not be moved, not because he was strong—Rand had met many men of greater strength during his travels. Strength was fleeting. Tam was real. Certain and stable. Just looking at him brought comfort.
But comfort clashed with who Rand had become. His worlds met— the person he had been, the person he had become—like a jet of water on a white-hot stone. One shattering, the other turning to steam.
Tam stood, hesitant, in the balcony doorway, lit by two flickering lamps on stands in the room. Rand understood Tarn's hesitation. They were not blood father and son. Rand's blood father had been Janduin, clan chief of the Taardad Aiel. Tam was just the man who had found Rand on the slopes of Dragonmount.
Just the man who had raised him. Just the man who had taught him everything he knew. Just the man Rand loved and revered, and always would, no matter what their blood connection.
"Rand." Tarn's voice was awkward.
"Please," Rand said through his shock. "Please sit."
Tam nodded. He closed the balcony doors, then walked forward and took one of the chairs. Rand sat, too. They stared across the room at one another. The stone walls were bare; Rand preferred them unornamented with tapestries or paintings. The rug was yellow and red, and so large it reached to all four walls.
The room felt too perfect. A vase of freshly cut dara lilies and calima blossoms sat there, right where it should. Chairs in the center, arranged too correctly. The room didn't look lived m. Like so many places he stayed, it wasn't home. He hadn't truly had a home since he'd left the Two Rivers.
Tam sat in one chair, Rand in another. Rand realized he still had the access key in his hand, so he set it on the sun-patterned rug before him. Tam glanced at Rand's stump, but said nothing. He clenched his hands together, probably wishing he had something to work on. Tam was always more comfortable talking about uncomfortable things when he had something to do with his hands, whether it be checking the straps on a harness or shearing a sheep.
Light, Rand thought, feeling a sudden urge to enfold Tam in a hug. Familiarity and memories flooded back into his mind. Tam delivering brandy to the Winespring Inn for Bel Tine. The pleasure Tam took in his pipe. His patience and his kindness. His unexpected heron-mark sword. I know him so well. And yet I've rarely thought of him recently.
"How . . ." Rand said. "Tam, how did you get here? How did you find me?"
Tam chuckled quietly. "You've been sending nonstop messengers to all the great cities these last few days, telling them to marshal their armies for war. I think a man would have to be blind, deaf and drunk not to know where to find you."
"But my messengers haven't gone to the Two Rivers!"
"I wasn't in the Two Rivers," Tam said. "Some of us have been fighting alongside Perrin."
Of course, Rand thought. Nynaeve must have contacted Perrin—the colors swirled—she was so worried about him and Mat. It would have been easy for Tam to come back with her.
Was Rand really having this conversation? He had given up on returning to the Two Rivers, on ever seeing his father again. It felt so good, despite the awkwardness. Tarn's face held more lines than it had before, and the few determined streaks of black in his hair had finally given in and gone silver, but he was the same.
So many people had changed around Rand—Mat, Perrin, Egwene, Nynaeve—it was a wonder to meet someone from his old life who was the same. Tam, the man who had taught Rand to seek the void. Tam was a rock that seemed to him stronger than the Stone itself.
Rand's mood darkened slightly. "Wait. Perrin has been using Two Rivers folk?"
Tam nodded. "He needed us. That boy's put on a balancing act to impress any menagerie performer. What with the Seanchan and the Prophet's men, not to mention the Whitecloaks and the queen—-"
"The queen?" Rand said.
"Aye," Tam said. "Though she says she's not queen anymore. Elayne's mother."
"She lives, then?" Rand asked.
"She does, little thanks to the Whitecloaks," Tam said with distaste.
"Has she seen Elayne?" Rand asked. "You mentioned Whitecloaks— how did he run into Whitecloaks?" Tarn began to answer, but Rand held up a hand. "No. Wait. I can get a report from Perrin when I wish it. I will not have our time together spent with you acting the messenger."
Tarn smiled faintly.
"What?" Rand asked.
"Ah, son," he said, shaking his head, broad hardworking hands clasped before him, "they've really done it. They've gone and made a king out of you. What happened to the gangly boy, so wide-eyed at Bel Tine? Where's the uncertain lad I raised all those years?"
"He's dead," Rand said immediately.
Tam nodded slowly. "I can see that. You . . . must know then. . . . About. ..."
"That you're not my father?" Rand guessed.
Tam nodded, looking down.
"I've known since the day I left Emond's Field," Rand replied. "You spoke of it in your fever dreams. I refused to believe it for a time, but I was eventually persuaded."
"Yes," Tam said. "I can see how. I. ..." He gripped his hands together tightly. "I never meant to lie to you, son. Or, well, I guess I shouldn't call you that, should I?"
You can call me son, Rand thought. You are my father. No matter what some may say. But he couldn't force the words out.
The Dragon Reborn couldn't have a father. A father would be a weakness to be exploited, even more than a woman like Min. Lovers were expected. But the Dragon Reborn had to be a figure of myth, a creature nearly as large as the Pattern itself. He had difficulty getting people to obey as it was. What would it do if it were known that he kept his father nearby? If it were known that the Dragon Reborn relied upon the strength of a shepherd?
The quiet voice in his heart was screaming.
"You did well, Tam," Rand found himself saying. "By keeping the truth from me, you likely saved my life. If people had known that I was a foundling, and discovered near Dragonmount no less—well, word would have spread. I might very well have been assassinated as a child."
"Oh," Tam said. "Well, then, I&#