Putting his eyes firmly forward, he touched Egwene’s letter in his coat pocket, where it lay carefully wrapped in layers of silk. Just a few words to say she loved him, that she must go; no more. He read it five or six times a day. She never mentioned his promise. Well, he had not raised a hand against al’Thor. He had been stunned to learn the man was a prisoner and had been for days when he heard of it. Somehow he must make her understand that. He had promised her not to raise his hand against the man, and he would not if he died for it, but he would not raise a hand to help him either. Egwene had to understand that. Light, she had to.
Sweat trickled down his face, and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Egwene he could do nothing about yet except pray. He could about Min. Somehow he had to. She did not deserve to be carried to the Tower a prisoner; he would not believe it. If the Warders would only slacken the guard on her, he could. . . . Suddenly Gawyn became aware of a horse galloping back down the road toward the wagons through sheets of dust, seemingly with no rider. “Jisao,” he ordered, “tell the wagon drivers to halt. Hal, tell Rajar to ready the Younglings.” Without a word they wheeled their horses and galloped. Gawyn waited.
That was Benji Dalfor’s steel-dust gelding, and as it came closer, Gawyn could see Benji doubled over and clinging to the gelding’s mane. The horse almost went past before Gawyn could seize the reins.
Benji turned his head without straightening, peered at Gawyn with glazed eyes. There was blood around his mouth, and he had one arm tight against his middle as if trying to hold himself together. “Aiel,” he mumbled. “Thousands. All sides, I think.” Suddenly he smiled. “Cold today, isn’t—” Blood gushed out of his mouth, and he toppled to the road, staring unblinking at the sun.
Gawyn spun his stallion around, galloping toward the wagons. There would be time for Benji later, if any of them were alive.
Galina rode to meet him, linen dustcloak flaring behind her, dark eyes blazing fury in that serene face. She had been furious constantly since the day after al’Thor tried to escape. “Who do you think you are, ordering the wagons stopped?” she demanded.
“There are thousands of Aiel closing on us, Aes Sedai.” He managed to keep his tone polite. The wagons were stopped at least, and the Younglings forming up, but wagon drivers fingered their reins impatiently, servants peered about fanning themselves, Aes Sedai chatted with Warders.
Galina’s lips writhed contemptuously. “You fool. No doubt those are the Shaido. Sevanna said she would give us an escort. But if you doubt, take your Younglings and see for yourself. These wagons will keep moving toward Tar Valon. It is time you learned that I give the orders here, not—”
“And if they are not your tame Aiel?” This was not the first time in the last few days that she had suggested he lead a scout himself; he suspected if he did, he would find Aiel, and not tame. “Whoever they are, they’ve killed one of my men.” At least one; there were still six scouts out. “Maybe you should consider the possibility these are al’Thor’s Aiel, come to rescue him. It will be too late when they start spitting us.”
It was only then that he realized he was shouting, but Galina’s anger actually faded. She looked up the road to where Benji lay, then nodded slowly. “Perhaps it would not be unwise to be cautious this once.”
Rand labored for breath; the air inside the chest felt thick and hot. Luckily he could not smell it any longer. They sluiced him off with a bucket of water each night, but that was hardly a bath, and for a time after they closed the lid on him each morning and latched it, the stench added by yet another day exposed to the full blast of the sun assaulted his nose. Holding the Void was an effort. He was a mass of stripes; not an inch of him from shoulders to knees but burned even before sweat touched it, and those ten thousand flames flickered on the borders of emptiness, trying to consume it. The half-healed wound in his side throbbed in the distance, but the emptiness around him quivered with every throb. Alanna. He could feel Alanna. Close. No. He could not waste time thinking about her; even if she had followed, six Aes Sedai would not be able to free him. If they did not decide to join Galina. No trust. Never again trust for any Aes Sedai. Maybe he was imagining it anyway. Sometimes he did imagine things in here, cool breezes, walking. Sometimes he lost thought of anything else and hallucinated about walking free. Just walking. Hours lost in what was important. He labored for breath, and he felt his way across the ice-slick barrier that divided him from the Source. Again and again, fumbling to those six soft points. Soft. He could not stop. The fumbling was important.
Dark, Lews Therin moaned in the depths of his head. No more dark. No more. Over and over again. Not too badly, though. Rand just ignored him this time.
Suddenly he gasped; the chest was moving, grating loudly along the wagon bed. Was it night already? Welted flesh flinched involuntarily. There would be another beating before he was fed and doused with water and trussed like a goose to sleep however he could. But he would be out of the box. The darkness around him was incomplete, a deep dark gray. The tiny crack around the lid let in the smallest amount of light, though he could not see with his head jammed between his knees, and his eyes took as long each day to see anything but blackness as his nose did to grow deadened. Even so, it must be night.
He could not help groaning as the chest tilted; there was no room for him to slide, but he shifted, putting new strains on muscles sore beyond sore. His tiny prison thumped to the ground hard. The lid would open soon. How many days in the broiling sun? How many nights? He had lost count. Which one would it be this time? Faces spun through his head. He had marked down every woman when she took her turn at him. They were a jumble now; remembering which came where or when seemed beyond him. But he knew that Galina and Erian and Katerine had beaten him most often, the only ones to do so more than once. Those faces glowed in his mind with a feral light. How often did they want to hear him scream?
Abruptly it came to him that the chest should have been opened by now. They intended to leave him in here all night, and then there would be tomorrow’s sun, and—Muscles too bruised and sore to move managed a frantic heave. “Let me out!” he shouted hoarsely. Fingers scrabbled painfully behind his back, futilely. “Let me out!” he screamed. He thought he heard a woman laugh.
For a time he wept, but then tears dried up in rage like a furnace. Help me,
