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.
That conquest would end today. Rand
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
"And so we return," Nynaeve said. Her multicolor
"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
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?"
