Nope, he's not dead but

We got that thing we wanted

Thank you, kind strangers

"Do you think… Is it possible that he's dead?" Taim wondered.

They were on the balcony, each with a glass of wine in hand after another long day of intensive teaching. The cool spring air was refreshing. Natael took a moment to savour the idea of Demandred being dead, but he knew that it was unlikely; if Barid Bel had died, they would know it. "I highly doubt it. Must be busy wreaking havoc wherever he is. Too busy for us."

"What about Moridin?" Taim went on, still with a faint trace of hope in his voice.

Natael sighed. "Believe me, if the Nae'blis were dead, there would have been an announcement and, to be perfectly honest, I'd much rather that didn't happen, because Demandred is likely to succeed him." And because Elan was the only reason why they were both still alive.

"Mind you, I enjoy the relative peace and quiet… But it makes me uncomfortable, not knowing what's going on. Waiting for either of them to reappear, with no clue when that may be, or what they'll come up with to make our lives difficult again."

It had been months since they'd received interesting titbits from their eyes and ears – Demandred or other Chosen must have bought them off, or killed them altogether. They already knew that much of their correspondence had been intercepted by Atal, and some other Darkfriend must have taken over since Atal's demise. They had not heard from al'Thor, either, nor even from Logain, although it had been more than two weeks since the six Red Aes Sedai had left the Black Tower, each with a man bonded to her.

He took a sip of wine. He had come to appreciate even the lesser vintages of this Age; perhaps his palate had regressed due to being continually forced to taste these inferior wines. Or perhaps the company was pleasant enough that it didn't matter how terrible the content of his glass was.

"Think about something else," Natael advised Taim. "Consider how far we've come instead. How successful we've been." They had lost many good men, but they had managed to replenish the ranks over the months. They had forty-two Asha'man, a hundred and sixty-six Dedicated, and over three hundred Soldiers. Some of the latter wouldn't be of any use in combat, because they were too weak in the Power, but they were eager to fight regardless. To participate in the war effort. Taim and Natael would find them a purpose, when the time came.

Taim was watching a group of Soldiers below, practicing their sword forms. They could serve as bodyguards to their more powerful recruits, a last line of defence, if all else failed. Unlike Natael, they could wield their swords adequately, even masterfully, in some cases. They would be far from useless on the battlefield.

"We've done a good job," Taim murmured in assent. He sounded proud, not of himself, but of their students. "Some of them have come a long way."

Indeed; all the peasants, an assortment of farmers, illiterate craftsmen, former soldiers, lowly merchants – and possibly a few men who used to partake in criminal activities. They had come to the Black Tower hoping to accomplish something, to better themselves. And they had. They were a part of something bigger than themselves, now. They would take part in the eternal war between good and evil when it reached its peak at the Last Battle. Even if they didn't survive, they would die knowing that they'd made a difference in the world. Or that they'd died trying. They would go to battle not with a heavy heart, for they knew what they were fighting for: mankind itself and, to a lesser extent, for their loved ones, for their children, for – the Light willing – future generations.

That was the main difference between the servants of the Light and that of the Shadow, in Natael's opinion: the selfless reasons for which they fought. They considered the bigger picture, rather than their own, personal needs. That was why it had been so difficult for him to turn his back on the Shadow, because he was so selfish. If not for Taim, he would still be trying to regain the Great Lord's favour. But Taim had taught him that what he did, that each of his action, even as a single individual, had an impact on the world. Every man had a purpose. No one was useless. Everyone fought for something and, recently, Natael had realised that he was no longer fighting for himself, or not only himself. He was fighting for Taim. He was fighting for the Black Tower, for his men and their families. He was no servant of the Light; he was simply on the side of life.

"What are you thinking about?" Taim asked with a faint smile.

Natael cleared his throat. "Nothing important… The dichotomy of good and evil, the grand scheme of things, our place in the Pattern, life and death."

"Ah, yes," Taim said with a chuckle. "Some of our men have come a long way, but you have come further than any of them."

That was an understatement. Sometimes, Natael barely recognised himself – not physically, for he had not changed at all in that regard, but he had trouble associating his own thoughts with the man he was, or used to be. Deep down, he knew that he was still the same self-absorbed, slightly vain man he had always been. But he was someone else now, a better version of himself, so to speak. Someone who deserved to be with a man as brilliant as Taim, hopefully. He'd often felt inadequate before, and especially this past year, in comparison to Taim, but that feeling was slowly receding. They were different, certainly, but they completed each other, like two pieces of a puzzle that fitted perfectly. His love for the other man had been impossible to comprehend, at first. He'd never felt this way for anyone else before, not even Elan.

Of course, that was the scary part of his relationship with Taim: what if it ended? What if Taim died? Would Natael survive such a devastating blow? He would never say this aloud for fear that one of his enemies might overhear, but if they wanted to destroy Natael, all they had to do was to kill Taim. Did Ishamael know that? Did he understand how much he cared for Taim?

Did Demandred know? No, surely not. Such preoccupations were beyond him. Demandred didn't know what love was. He'd made a big show of being jealous when Lews Therin had "stolen" Ilyena from him, but Demandred had never truly loved her. He was obsessed with her, just like he was obsessed with Lews Therin. That wasn't love. That was a mental affliction.

"Lost in your own mind again, mm?" Taim said. Natael flushed in embarrassment. He did tend to have long internal monologues instead of speaking with him. "That's alright. If I wanted to know everything you felt and thought, I would have bonded you a long time ago," he added slyly.

No, never that. He did love Taim, but that was too invasive. He liked to have his privacy, and he was sure that Taim did, too. "Please don't ever do that again."

Taim chortled. "I won't. It was too disturbing. Besides, I can read you perfectly well without the bond. I don't need it." He put his glass on the railing and moved closer to Natael, looking deep into his eyes. "For example, I can tell that you want to go to bed, but you don't want to sleep right away."

It was not always easy to maintain eye contact, when he said things like that. Especially since he was absolutely right in his assumption. Taim closed the gap between them. Unfortunately, there was a soft rap on the door.

"Ugh, Gorman… Terrible timing, as usual," Natael complained. Taim chuckled lightly and walked inside the study to open the door.

Natael was too far to make out what was being said and didn't really care. Gorman was just giving Taim his evening report on the day's activities… Hopefully. It was too late for impromptu visitors or worrisome news, surely.

"Nate? Care to join us?" Taim called. There was the faintest edge of tension in his tone. No matter how late it was, there was something that required their attention.

Natael gulped down the remainder of his glass and made his way inside. Gorman looked agitated; that was the first thing that Natael noticed. As one of the Fake Turned, it shouldn't be the case. The news must be dire. "What is it?"

Taim gestured for Gorman to repeat what he'd already told him: "There are…people at the gates, Ghraem. They-"

"At this hour?" Natael interrupted him.

Gorman wrung his hands. "Um, aye, m'lord. They…well, they asked for you personally."

"For me?" he repeated, surprised. That was a first. He was pleasantly surprised indeed. At last someone recognised his authority as co-leader of the-

"They asked to speak to, um, to Nessosin, m'lord."

That explained why the Asha'man was so agitated, at least. Natael glanced at Taim, but his face was impassive. "Who are they? What do they want?"

"They wouldn't say, m'lord," Gorman stammered. "We questioned them, of course, but… They're foreigners. They struggle with the Common Tongue. The woman who appears to be their leader has refused to speak to us at all."

Curiouser and curiouser… "How many?"

"Nine. An old man and eight women, m'lord."

"What do they look like?" Could they be Seanchan? As far as Natael knew, even the western invaders spoke the Common Tongue, though with a heavy accent. And anyway, what did the Seanchan look like, exactly?

Gorman hesitated. "They're all very…different-looking. Some have fair skin, others dark… One of the women is tall, with red hair and blue eyes, like an Aiel. Each woman is wearing a different colour, as if they were Aes Sedai, but they don't look like Aes Sedai. You know, the…agelessness thing. They don't have it. And their faces are tattooed, Ghraem."

Tattoos? He glanced at Taim again, feeling more and more alarmed. The only people he'd ever encountered who bore tattoos were the savage male channelers who had aided Demandred after their failed ambush. But why would Demandred's people be waiting at the gates, politely requesting an audience?

Taim was stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Is the man a channeler?"

"I don't think so, M'Hael. And if the women can channel, well, they didn't embrace the Source while I was around."

Natael sighed. "We ought to see for ourselves, I suppose."

They followed Gorman outside. Taim kept asking questions as they made their way toward the gates, but the Asha'man was hard-pressed to answer them. Natael kept quiet; he was too busy worrying. What evil plan had Demandred concocted this time?

He began studying their unexpected visitors as soon as they appeared in his line of sight: seven of the women stood in a semi-circle in front of another woman on a horse, presumably their leader. The latter appeared to be well in her seventies and she was all in white – her clothes, her hair, her porcelain skin, even the horse itself, everything about her was white save the black tattoo that contrasted with her pallor. The other women were dressed more colourfully, but not all of them were wearing gowns, or even skirts. One of them wore a moss-green blouse over black trousers and heavy, muddy boots.

The old man was seated on the ground a little distance away from the women, his legs crossed. His eyes were closed. Had he fallen asleep while waiting for Taim and Natael? He looked utterly non-descript: a bald head, a scraggly grey beard and plain clothes. He was the only one whose face wasn't tattooed.

None of the women moved forward as Taim and Natael approached. They had both seized saidin, though Natael didn't feel particularly threatened.

Not yet.

Taim cleared his throat. "Good evening and welcome to the Black Tower." He bowed slightly. Whoever their leader was, she certainly appeared regal enough to warrant such deference.

A woman – the one who looked like an Aiel – said something harsh in response. She was wearing a turquoise silk blouse over baggy trousers of the same material and colour. Natael couldn't make out the words, but he recognised the language: it was the one in which Demandred had given orders to his minions, after the ambush. It reminded him vaguely of the Old Tongue, but not sufficiently for him to understand any of it. Were there parts of the world where people had not adopted the Common Tongue and instead kept to the Old Tongue, though it had changed deeply after three thousand years, morphing into a whole new language?

Again, Seanchan came to mind.

The woman spoke again, addressing Taim, and this time Natael caught a word: Nessosin.

He raised a hand. "That would be me. You know, it is considered proper to introduce yourself, when-"

This time, it was the woman in the moss-green blouse who spoke, still in that same, distorted version of the Old Tongue. She was staring right at Natael, her piercing brown eyes watching him like a hawk. Suddenly, she switched to the Common Tongue. "We must talk." Her accent was atrocious, but at least she was making an effort. She pointed to the old man, who had not moved. "He will…translate."

Natael glanced at the man expectantly, but he didn't react, so he returned his attention to the woman. "Who are you people?"

"I…am Shendla." She gestured at the other women. "Ayyad." Natael was not familiar with the word. Shendla indicated the old man again. "Mintel. Abrishi." Was that a surname, or a title of sorts?

Taim must have noticed the same thing Natael did: Shendla had not introduced their leader, the regal woman on her white horse. "Who is she?" Taim asked. He sounded impatient.

Shendla shrugged and didn't bother to respond.

Taim exhaled sharply to show his annoyance. "Should we wake the old man?"

One of the women, a youthful-looking brunette with freckles sprayed around her tattoo, gasped loudly, then immediately covered her mouth with her left hand. Turquoise lady muttered angrily under her breath.

Shendla was shaking her head. "Must…wait. Meditating."

Taim took a step forward, electricity crackling at the tip of his fingers. "Enough of this charade," he said through gritted teeth. "I demand to know who you are, where you hail from, and what you want. Right this instant."

Natael put a hand on his shoulder. Diplomacy was not Taim's forte, these days. He knew that the younger man was tired, exhausted even, but he had to maintain some semblance of poise, at least in public.

Shendla didn't seem fazed, not even at the sight of the minuscule, saidin-woven lightning bolts. She didn't fear male channelers. Natael didn't really expect her to reply, but she did. All of it was in her native language, but in the end she uttered one word that they both understood, a name, the very one Natael had been dreading to hear: Demandred.

Taim rolled his eyes. "What in the Pit of Doom does he want now? And why did he send you? He usually comes in person."

Shendla narrowed her eyes at him. Natael had a feeling that, while she had some knowledge of the Common Tongue, Taim was speaking too fast for her to understand. He glanced at the old man, their interpreter, but his eyes were still closed. He was meditating, according to Shendla. Why was that more important than translating their conversation?

"We are…Ayyad," Shendla said slowly, emphasising each syllable.

That word again. Was it supposed to mean something to them? Natael eyed Taim questioningly. "Never heard of it. What nation are you from? What land?" Taim insisted. "Where in the world? Seanchan?" He pointed to the west.

Shendla raised an eyebrow…and pointed the other way. "Sha-ra," she enunciated.

Shara. Of course! Nobody knew anything about the Sharans. They were barely part of the world… It was a perfect place to hide. Well, Demandred wouldn't call it hiding… But al'Thor would never guess where Demandred was, so far removed from civilisation. His actions in Shara would have little to no influence over the events of the main continent. He could do what he bloody well wanted, and no one would ever know – not until he decided to let them know. He could raise an immense army without anyone finding out…until it was too late.

Finally, they knew where the bloody Forsaken was holed up! And Shendla had just given up the information without hesitation… Mm. That didn't bode well. Was this a trap?

"What does 'Ayyad' mean?" Taim asked.

Natael scowled at him. Surely there were more important questions to-

The old man had finally opened his eyes. He addressed Shendla in their own language as he unfurled from his sitting position, with more agility than Natael would have managed. "The Ayyad are the rulers of Shara," the old man said in the Common Tongue. He had a distinct accent, but he spoke fluently. "They are channelers of the One Power."

Sharan Aes Sedai, in other words. Ugh, Aes Sedai. "I trust they're not here to cause trouble?" Taim said dryly.

The old man chuckled. "Oh no! Quite the opposite. I am Mintel," he introduced himself politely. "You have already met Shendla. The others are only here as her retinue on this day."

"If she's their leader, why isn't she the one on the horse?"

Mintel laughed again. He was a cheerful fellow, apparently. "On this day, Shendla is in charge, for she is the one closest to Bao. Also, this was her idea."

"Bao?" Natael and Taim repeated in unison.

"The one you call Demandred," Mintel explained.

Shendla said something in…Sharan. Mintel nodded. "Shendla asks if it would be convenient to have a private chat."

"Did Demandred send you?" Natael demanded.

"Bao is not aware of our visit here, no."

Natael hesitated. Was this a trap, or not? Taim made the decision for the both of them. "Come in, please. Follow us. We'll talk in our study."

The Sharan delegation moved as one, with the white horse and its rider in tow. The few Asha'man who were still outside gawked at the foreigners with wide eyes. At the palace's entrance, the leader of the Ayyad finally dismounted. Gorman held the door for everyone. Mintel was the first inside, followed closely by Shendla, then the white lady. The rest filed in like a rainbow: turquoise, midnight blue, purple, gold, orange and crimson. Taim and Natael led everyone upstairs and Gorman was despatched to find more chairs. The seating arrangement was going to be a hassle; the study wasn't meant to hold so many people at once. Taim took place in his own chair behind the desk, and Natael chose to remain standing at his side. A few minutes later, it became apparent that only the white lady was going to sit after all. The other women stood near the door like a colourful background, all except Shendla. She and Mintel stood on either side of the white lady.

"Well then," Taim said when everyone was settled. "Why are you here?"

"We have come to seek your assistance, Master Nessosin," Mintel said without preamble.

"I'd rather you call me Natael. Or, even better, Ghraem."

Shendla snorted inelegantly, but made no comment. She gestured for Mintel to continue. "According to Shendla, you are one of the Shadowsouled, like Bao."

Shadowsouled? Mm. It had a nice ring to it. "I was one of them," he corrected.

"Indeed," Mintel said. "Shendla tells us that you have been…separated from Heartsbane. The Dark One."

Natael scowled. "How does Shendla know this? Did Demandred-"

"Bao has not been forthcoming with information, and he has been posing as one of us for over a year, yet we have been aware of his true identity for several months now. Thanks to Shendla."

Natael was about to repeat his question, but Shendla forestalled him. "I…see things."

"She has visions in her dreams," Mintel expanded. "Accurate dreams which sometimes reveal the true nature of people, and occasionally foretell the future."

"In short, she's a Dreamer," Taim said. "And that's how she figured out who…Bao really was." Mintel nodded. "But does he know that she knows?"

"There is no way to be certain. He has never mentioned it. Bao is quite fond of Shendla, which, I think, is why he eludes the matter of his true nature when he is around her. I believe…perhaps he is afraid of how she would react, if she knew. He's afraid of disappointing her."

"That's highly unlikely," Natael commented. "Demandred doesn't care what anyone else thinks of him, not since he crossed over to the Shadow. As for his supposed 'fondness' of her… That's laughable, really. He's incapable of feeling anything of the sort. He's half rage and half envy. He's consumed by his desire to kill Lews Therin. Nothing else matters to him. If he's somehow convinced you that he cares for you," he told Shendla, "then he's been manipulating you for his own purposes, nothing more. You're just another pawn to him."

Mintel looked at Shendla questioningly, but she shook her head: she'd understood the gist of it and didn't need a translation. She replied in her own language, though, and that was Mintel's time to shine. "That was what we initially believed," the old man translated. "When Shendla understood who Bao really was, she felt betrayed. Used. We both did. We thought he had taken advantage of our sacred prophecies to deceive us."

"What prophecies?" Taim asked.

"Bao is soon to become the Wyld, our prophesised saviour. At this very moment, he has undertaken a journey to retrieve the second part of the relic we call D'jedt. When he returns tomorrow from Rai'lair, the Hearttomb, he will officially be the Wyld. Then, he will be crowned king, and he will have control over Shara and its armies, and even over the Ayyad, for he is destined to lead us into battle at Tarmon Gaidon and save us."

"So he studied your silly prophecies, accomplished them and fooled you all," Taim summed up, "and now your people believe he's some kind of hero who will…what, exactly? What is he supposed to save you from?"

Shendla was shaking her head adamantly. "Not planned."

"Bao was unaware of our prophecies when he accomplished the first few," Mintel said. "He led the revolution of the slaves and freed the male Ayyad as a distraction to obtain the rod, the first element of D'jedt, but it was not a calculated move, of that we are certain. Shendla and I were both there. It was a real gamble on Bao's part, in truth."

That was puzzling. "So…you genuinely believe that Demandred is the Wyld? That one of the Shadowsouled is your saviour?"

Mintel sighed. "It would appear so."

"Alright," Taim said, as if that was nothing out of the ordinary, "but what about the Last Battle? Why does he need to save you?"

"As I'm sure you know, since you have your own prophecies, they can be…convoluted. They rarely make sense, at least until an event comes to pass that reminds us of some enigmatic line on an ancient piece of parchment. We have always believed that the Wyld was meant to defeat Heartsbane at the Last Battle, thus delivering us from its evil," Mintel said, "though it is never explicitly mentioned in the old texts. It was simply…a logical assumption."

"Wyld," Shendla repeated, though Natael wasn't sure why. She was looking at Mintel insistently.

"Oh, yes. There was that to consider, of course. In isleh, the language we speak between us, a derived form of what you call the Old Tongue, 'Wy-eld' means dragon slayer."

"That makes no sense at all," Taim noted. "The Dragon is mankind's saviour. He's the one who's supposed to defeat the Dark One at the Last Battle. If your so-called saviour were to eliminate the real saviour…"

"Again, the prophecies are unclear," Mintel said with an apologetic shrug. "My personal belief, that is to say my interpretation of the texts, is that the Wyld is meant to slay the Dragon if the Dragon were somehow to fall in the hands of the Shadow, and were therefore unable to accomplish his fate. Then the Wyld would take his place and vanquish Heartsbane himself."

"But…Demandred serves the Dark One," Natael felt the need to point out the obvious. "He has no intention of defeating Him. He's making use of your too-vague prophecies, selecting only the passages that suit him, taking them out of context. Namely, slaying the dragon."

"So we assumed," Mintel agreed. "But it appears that, after spending so much time amongst us, amongst his people, Bao's…ambitions have changed. Evolved."

"If you try to tell us that he's abandoned the idea of killing Lews Therin-"

Mintel shook his head, and Shendla grimaced. "Lews Therin," she repeated harshly, as if it were a curse.

"Far from it," Mintel said. "Ever since he learned that he was the Wyld, and what it meant, Bao has vowed to us many times that he would slay the Dragon, if it was the last thing he did. He seemed to think that it was all that was expected of him, until Shendla made him understand that he had to look out for his people, as well. That was his primary goal, she reminded him, as the saviour of the Sharan people. And for the first time since we'd met him, Bao was troubled. As if he was considering, at last, the bigger picture that has been woven into the Tapestry."

"Tapestry?" Taim asked.

"I assume it's another name for the Pattern," Natael whispered. He was fascinated by what he was hearing. He could hardly believe it, and for good reason: Demandred had not showed any sign that he'd changed, especially not for the better. To Mintel, he said: "Even if he genuinely cares for your people – and at the risk of repeating myself, I find it highly unlikely – but even if he does, how does that help us, or you, for that matter, if he's still intent on murdering the Dragon? Whatever your prophecies say, ours are quite clear: the Dragon will either save mankind or break the world, or perhaps a bit of both," – saying that their prophecies were clear was a bit of an overstatement – "but either way, he's the Chosen One. There's no mention of some foreign hero coming to take his place."

"Yes, well, to tell you the truth, the Dragon is not mentioned in our prophecies, either," Mintel said, somewhat abashedly. "Except in the name of the Wyld, that is. It is quite…befuddling."

"I wish people would rely more on common sense than on cryptic words written ages ago," Taim muttered. "Why do we even need a 'Chosen One'? What do al'Thor and Demandred have that we don't? We're nearly as powerful as they are and, unlike them, we're not bloody insane."

Natael was staring at him. "Are you…proposing to take on the Dark One yourself?"

"If it comes to it. We've discussed it before, haven't we?"

Natael had never imagined that it would come to this. Besides, Logain was supposed to-

Shendla cleared her throat loudly and, when she was certain that she had their attention, she spoke a single word: "Rod."

Natael frowned. Mintel had mentioned a rod, earlier. Come to think of it… What in the Pit of Doom was D'jedt? He was reminded of a certain artefact of the Age of Legends, and he was suddenly very, very wary. "What is Bao trying to do, exactly? That rod he found… And the second part of the relic… When they're put together, does it form a sort of…sceptre?"

Mintel nodded. "You know of it, then."

Taim must have guessed the same thing. "What is it?"

"Sakarnen. A sa'angreal," Natael murmured. "More powerful even than Callandor. The pieces were hidden away during the War of Power, but he must have uncovered their location… That's why he's in Shara. Blood and ashes, if Demandred gets his hands on it… We're all doomed." Granted, they likely already were, but still. They didn't need to be more doomed.

"No," Shendla said sharply. "Rod." She extracted something from her sleeve: a thin, white rod.

A Binding Rod! "Where… How did you…?" Natael stammered.

"We, um, borrowed it after Bao left for the Hearttomb," Mintel admitted. "It was in his tent. Which brings us to the real reason for our presence on this day: we must work together to convince Bao to forsake the Shadow. The rod is a token of our good faith."

"Convincing Demandred to return to the Light?" Natael sniggered. "Oh, sure. How hard could it be?"

"How are we supposed to do that?" Taim asked. He sounded serious, as if he were genuinely curious to know how it could be achieved. As if it were actually possible. "Demandred despises us. He can't wait to kill us, in fact. Why would he listen to us?"

Shendla was shaking her head again. "Dragon."

"The task of changing Bao's mind falls to us," Mintel said. "So is the will of Kongsidi." Kongsi-what? Natael didn't have time to enquire. "It is already well underway, we believe. What you need to do is convince the Dragon that Bao is worth forgiving. The two must get along, because that is how Shendla and I have come to interpret the fact that neither of our prophecies mentions the other saviour: they must act together, as one, to defeat Heartsbane and save their people."

Demandred and Lews Therin, working hand in hand? This was probably the most ridiculous notion that had ever been uttered in Natael's presence – followed closely by the one that had been uttered just a minute past. He tried not to laugh when he spoke, so as not to offend the people who were willing to give them a Binding Rod. "The two of them operated on the same side, once… It didn't pan out so well."

"Bao has changed," Mintel insisted. "Not enough, not yet, but he has expressed the will to defeat Heartsbane…after he has dealt with the Dragon." He sighed. "He is very stubborn about that."

"Demandred wants to defy the Dark One?" Taim said. "He actually told you that?"

"Manipulation," Natael said before Mintel could reply. "He knows they're unto him, so he's adapting. He's making false promises so that they won't cast him out, especially now that he's so close to obtaining the Sceptre and becoming their legitimate ruler." He looked at Shendla. "You have to stop him while you still can. If he trusts you, even a little, then you might actually manage to kill him before he realises something's wrong. You might take him by surprise and succeed where everyone else has failed. But you have to act now, before he reunites the two pieces of the sa'angreal."

Shendla waved away his sage advice like it was an irksome fly. "No."

"Do you have any idea of the damage he will wreak on the battlefield with that thing?" Natael pressed her. "He could balefire an entire legion in the blink of an eye! Thousands of innocent people will die, just because they stand in Demandred's way, because they stand between him and Lews Therin. And when he's done with the Dragon, there will be no one to protect us from the Dark One, and we'll all die. Including bloody Demandred, who's too obsessed with Lews Therin to see that this is the endgame. Will he be satisfied then, I wonder? Will he die happily, knowing that he's accomplished the one thing, the only thing he lived for?" he added bitterly.

"I understand your concern," Mintel said, "and share it, but I'm afraid it is too late. Bao has entered the Hearttomb alone, and he will return with D'jedt whole, soon. We cannot stop him now. We can only help him see the error of his way, and hope that he will do what is right when the time comes."

"You people are delusional," Taim muttered.

Natael couldn't agree more, but he discreetly kicked Taim in the shin regardless. When Taim glared at him, Natael mouthed two words: Binding Rod. Whatever the Sharans intended to do about Demandred, they couldn't let them depart with the ter'angreal. They needed it.

"Oh, fear not, the rod is yours," Mintel said. "We have no use for it, and I doubt that Bao will notice its absence. But please, will you talk to the Dragon and explain the situation?"

They couldn't even explain their situation to al'Thor! They would have to warn Logain, somehow. "We will tell him what you told us," Natael promised. It wasn't a lie, exactly; they were definitely going to let al'Thor know that Demandred was in Shara, and that he had a sa'angreal and an army of loyal, delusional fools at his back.

"Thank you," Mintel said. He turned to Shendla and added something in isleh. She handed the rod over to Natael. It was all he could do not to tear it off of her hand and Travel out of the room to keep it safe.

"Gorman will see you out," Taim said.

The Sharans exited the room in the same order as before. Natael stood on the balcony until they disappeared out of sight. "Well, that was…unexpected. Do you think… I mean, it sounds insane, ridiculous even, but is there any chance at all that Demandred-"

"Can we discuss this later?" Taim said, somewhat harshly.

Natael turned to frown at him. "Is something wrong?"

"The rod, Nate!"

"Oh, right. Sorry. Let's see if this works, then." He had no idea if the oath Taim had taken on his first day at the Black Tower could be reversed, because he'd never seen it done, but he couldn't think of a reason why it wouldn't work.

And indeed it did.

"Free at last," Taim murmured. "Praise the Light. I feel like I've lost twenty pounds."

Twenty pounds of emotional turmoil, so to speak. "Ought we recall Logain, do you think? We have to warn him anyway-"

"No need. I'm here."

Natael looked behind him and found Logain slumped in Taim's chair. "You… When… How long have you been here?"

"About five minutes. Don't worry, I would have said something if you'd started kissing." His lips hinted at a smile, but there were dark shadows under his eyes, and his hair was too long and uncombed. He had not shaved in a long time - or bathed, for that matter.

"Why didn't you say something anyway?" Natael grumbled. "You're being a creep, just like Demandred, spying on us from the shadows."

Logain sat up straight. "Hey, don't compare me to the bloody Forsaken!" He stood, putting his right hand forward. "And give me that flaming rod."

Two minutes later, it was official: there was no longer a Darkfriend in the room.

"All's well that ends well," Natael said contentedly as he poured everyone a glass of wine to celebrate.

"I wouldn't say that," Logain muttered, gloomier than ever.

Taim groaned. "Peace, what now?"

"We cannot count on al'Thor to come to our aid. In fact, we cannot count on him to do anything, let alone defeat the Dark One. He's mad."

"We already knew that," Natael noted. "But-"

"It's even worse than before. He tried to burn himself out – on purpose, Nate. I saw it, I was there. I stopped him. I had to stop him from doing it, do you understand? He's insane and suicidal and utterly unpredictable."

"But-"

"That was two weeks ago," Logain spoke right over him. "We were attacked, and al'Thor utterly annihilated the enemy, practically by himself, but then he kept drawing on saidin… I fear he was considering turning into a mountain again. I left soon afterwards and encountered the Aes Sedai you sent my way, which gave me an idea."

He paused long enough that Natael felt the need to prompt him: "Yes?"

"I've started to gather my own army. Well, our army."

Taim scoffed. "We have hundreds of male channelers loyal to us, Logain. We don't need-"

"We need female channelers. And regular soldiers. We need a proper, diversified army, because we're going to need it, when the Last Battle is upon us. Days from now, I suspect."

Peace, days? Natael had hoped for several more weeks, at least.

"We need to be able to form circles of channelers," Logain went on, "and that means Aes Sedai. Androl and Pevara will see to it. They've gone to the White Tower to negotiate an alliance. There are rumours that the witches are no longer divided… Anyway. Al'Thor cannot be trusted to lead anyone into battle. At best he'll kill himself, but one can easily imagine the worst-case scenario: he could lay waste to the armies of the Light, in his madness. I think…" He hesitated, but only briefly. "I think he should be removed," he said in a low voice. "Someone ought to take over from him."

"You want to…replace the Dragon Reborn?" Taim asked incredulously, though he had mentioned it himself barely half an hour ago. "Days before the Last Battle?"

Light, and what about Demandred? If al'Thor was out of the picture, they would have to deal with the Forsaken themselves, before Tarmon Gai'don began. That left them mere hours to prepare an assault in a land about which they knew nothing at all.

It was impossible. They couldn't contend with Demandred and his Sharan army and fill in for al'Thor. Not to mention whatever the other Forsaken were up to: Lanfear, Graendal, Moridin… And whoever was still alive or had been resuscitated.

"There has to be… I mean, it can't be that bad," Natael said reasonably. "Surely the lad is still capable of-"

Suddenly, he felt a light tingling on his skin, and his forearms broke into goosebumps. An all too familiar sensation: there was a woman channelling nearby. The others had felt it, too, for they immediately seized saidin and searched the room. The three of them were alone, but then there was a knock on the door. Had Shendla and her colourful friends returned, perhaps?

After making sure that everyone was ready, Taim opened the door.

Behind it was the ugliest woman Natael had ever seen. She had a knife at Gorman's throat, and was accompanied by thirteen Myrddraal and thirteen women clad in dark clothes.

The hag smiled cruelly, which accentuated her hideousness and caused Natael to break in a cold sweat. "There will be no chance escape this time, Nessosin," she rasped ominously.