Lord of Chaos

## Epilogue

#### The Answer

The man only paused long enough to rest his hand on the door of the sedan chair, and was away as soon as Falion took the note from his fingers. Her rap had the two bearers moving almost before the fellow in Tarasin Palace livery stepped back into the crowd of the square.

There was only one word on the small square of paper. Gone. She crumpled it in her fist. Somehow they had slipped out again without her people inside seeing. Months of futile search had convinced her there was no cache of angreal, whatever Moghedien believed. She had even considered putting a Wise Woman or two to the question; one of them might know its whereabouts, if it existed. And horses might fly. All that kept her here in this wretched city was the simple fact that when one of the Chosen gave a command, you obeyed until it was changed. Anything else was a short road to a painful death. Yet if Elayne and Nynaeve were here . . . they had ruined everything in Tanchico. Whether or not they really were full sisters—impossible as that seemed—Falion would not take their presence as coincidence. Maybe there was a cache. For the first time she was glad that Moghedien had ignored her since giving her her orders so many months ago in Amadicia. What had felt like abandonment might yet be a chance for advancement in the Chosen’s eyes. That pair might yet lead her to the cache, and if not, if there was no cache . . . Moghedien had seemed to have interest in Elayne and Nynaeve themselves. Delivering them would certainly be better than nonexistent angreal.

Leaning back, she let the sway of the chair soothe her. She did hate this city—she had come here as a runaway, when she was a novice—but perhaps this visit would end pleasantly after all.

Sitting in his study, Herid was peering into his pipe and wondering whether he had the means of lighting it at hand when the gholam squeezed under the door. Of course, even if Fel had been paying attention, he would not have believed, and once the gholam was inside the room, few men would have stood any chance.

When Idrien came to Fel’s study later, she stared at what was piled none too neatly on the floor beside the table. It took her a moment to realize what it was, and when she did, she fainted before she could get a scream out. However many times she heard of someone torn limb from limb, she had never seen it before.

The rider turned his horse at the top of the hill for a last look back at Ebou Dar, gleaming white in the sun. A good city for looting, and from what he had learned of the local people, they would resist, so the Blood would allow looting. They would resist, but he hoped the other eyes were bringing back reports of disunity such as he had seen. Resistance would not last long, where a so-called queen ruled a tiny patch of ground, and that combined the best possibilities. Wheeling his mount, he rode west. Who knew? Perhaps that fellow’s comment had been an omen. Perhaps the Return would come soon, and the Daughter of the Nine Moons with it. Surely that would be the greatest omen of victory.

Lying on her back in the night, Moghedien stared at the roof of the tiny tent she was allowed to herself as one of the Amyrlin’s servants. From time to time her teeth ground, but as soon as she realized it, she stilled them again, very conscious of the a’dam necklace tight around her neck. This Egwene al’Vere was harder than Elayne or Nynaeve had been; she tolerated less and demanded more. And when she passed the bracelet to Siuan or Leane, especially Siuan . . . Moghedien shivered. That must be what it would be like if Birgitte could wear the bracelet.

The tent flap moved aside, admitting just enough moonlight for her to make out a woman ducking in.

“Who are you?” Moghedien demanded roughly. When they sent for her in the night, whoever came always brought a lantern.

“Call me Aran’gar, Moghedien,” an amused voice said, and a small light bloomed inside the tent.

Her own name clove Moghedien’s tongue to the roof of her mouth; that name meant death here. She was struggling to speak, to say her name was Marigan, when suddenly she became truly aware of the light. A small glowing white ball, pale, hanging in the air near her head. With the a’dam on her, she could not do more than think of saidar without permission, but she could still feel it channeled, see the webs woven. This time she felt nothing, saw nothing. Just a tiny ball of pure light.

She stared at the woman who had called herself Aran’gar, recognizing her now. Halima, she thought; secretary to one of the Sitters, she believed. But a woman certainly, if one who looked as though she had been designed by a man. A woman. But that ball of light had to be saidin! “Who are you?” Her voice shook slightly, and she was surprised it was so steady.

The woman smiled at her—a very amused smile—as she settled beside the pallet. “I told you, Moghedien. My name is Aran’gar. You will learn that name in the future, if you are lucky. Now, listen to me carefully, ask no more questions. I will tell you what you need to know. In a moment I will remove your pretty necklace. When I do, you will vanish as quickly and silently as Logain did. If you do not, you will die here. And that will be a shame, because you are summoned to Shayol Ghul this very night.”

Moghedien licked her lips. Summoned to Shayol Ghul. That could mean eternity in the Pit of Doom, or immortality ruling the world, or anything in between. Little chance it meant being named Nae’blis, not if the Great Lord knew enough of how she had spent the past months to send someone to free her. Yet it was a summons she could not refuse. And it meant an end to the a’dam at last. “Yes. Remove it. I will go immediately.” There was no point to delaying anyway; she was stronger than any woman in the camp, but she did not intend to give a circle of thirteen a chance at her.

“I thought you would see it so,” Halima—or Aran’gar—chuckled richly. She touched the necklace, flinching slightly, and Moghedien wondered again about a woman who apparently channeled saidin and was hurt, however faintly, by touching what should only hurt a man who could channel. Then the necklace was off, being slipped hastily into the woman’s pouch. “Go, Moghedien. Go, now.”

When Egwene reached the tent and put her head and lantern in, she found only disturbed blankets. She withdrew slowly.

“Mother,” Chesa fussed behind her, “you should not be out in the night air. Night air is bad air. If you wanted Marigan, I could have fetched her.”

Egwene looked around. She had felt the necklace come off, and felt the flash of pain that meant a man who could channel had brushed the link. Most people were already asleep, but a few still sat outside their tents around low fires, and some not far. It might be possible to find out which man had come to “Marigan’s” tent.

“I think she has run away, Chesa,” she said. Chesa’s angry mutterings about women who deserted their mistresses followed her back to her own tent. It could not have been Logain, could it? He would not have come back, could not have known. Could he?

Demandred knelt in the Pit of Doom, and for once he did not care that Shaidar Haran watched his trembling with that eyeless, impassive gaze. “Have I not done well, Great Lord?” The Great Lord’s laughter filled Demandred’s head.

The unstained tower breaks and bends knee to the forgotten sign.
The seas rage, and stormclouds gather unseen.
Beyond the horizon, hidden fires swell, and serpents nestle in the bosom.
What was exalted is cast down; what was cast down is raised up.
Order burns to clear his path.

—The Prophecies of the Dragon
translation by Jeorad Manyard
Governor of the Province of Andor
for the High King, Artur Paendrag Tanreall

#### The End
of the Sixth Book of
The Wheel of Time