Mazrim met several people in the years that followed, people who had come seeking glory – or, often as not, death – in the Blight. Some of them fled when they realised he could channel, expectedly, but those were surprisingly few. The others simply gathered around him and, together, they formed a small band.
It disconcerted him at first that these people would follow him anywhere, let alone put him in charge of their little group, but he quickly discovered that he had a natural capacity for leadership. The men regarded him with respect, despite his ability to channel.
After some time, he finally learned to identify the ability to channel in other men. Most of them, upon learning that they were indeed able to wield saidin, or learn to, had simply deserted the band. He didn't blame them. Let them succeed where he had failed. Then Brazir agreed to be taught, and that changed everything.
Yerekhan Brazir was a gangly youth of eighteen when he first joined their little clique. The younger son of a wealthy noble, with seven older brothers, it was clear that there would be no place of honour for him in the family. So he set out to find his own path, to make a new name for himself in the Blight. To hear him talk, you would have thought he was Artur Hawkwing reborn. When Mazrim announced that he had the spark, expecting the boy to run back to his father, the boy had instead looked fervently excited and demanded that Mazrim mentor him.
Over the next two years, as their band grew in numbers, he taught the boy everything he'd figured out so far and, when that knowledge ran out, they began experimenting with new weaves. Brazir was strong, but even when he reached his maximal strength, he was no match for Mazrim. It was then that Mazrim truly realised exactly how powerful he himself was. Shortly afterward, the boy had gone insane.
There were warning signs, of course. Brazir had been subject to mood swings for months and Mazrim had become increasingly certain that the man wouldn't last much longer. No matter how prepared he was, it had still come as a shock, to witness the ultimate transformation. He woke up to find Brazir crouching over him, a dagger in his hand and a gleeful smile on his youthful, pimply face. Mazrim hadn't hesitated. The boy was securely bound before anyone was even aware of the incident. It had taken Brazir a few hours to calm down, though Mazrim suspected he'd only stopped his constant ranting and mad laughter because fatigue had taken over. A few leaves of asping rot had done the trick; a quick, peaceful death. A mercy. The boy he'd known had already been long gone in any case.
Brazir was the first person Mazrim had ever killed. He still remembered it as clearly as if it was yesterday, with painful accuracy. The ones who came later all left a stain on his soul, but it was Brazir who haunted his dreams, even years later.
It was also in those days that news of Logain, the False Dragon from Ghealdan, reached them. Mazrim had never considered it and probably wouldn't have if no one had mentioned it, but the men were adamant: this Logain fellow couldn't possibly be the Dragon Reborn. If the Creator had any sense, he would appoint a Borderlander as his champion for the Last Battle, not some soft southlander. Besides, Mazrim was powerful; they had witnessed the devastation his channeling could bring, sometimes destroying scores of Trollocs by himself. If anyone was the Dragon Reborn, it had to be him.
And, eventually, Mazrim had seen the sense in their words. The fact that he hadn't been born on Dragonmount was really just a detail, something the history books would easily work around. All in all, it didn't take very long to convince him. Maybe he had known all along and hadn't dared admit it to himself, but that time was over. He would accept his fate. No more weakness, no more cowardice. He was the Dragon Reborn, and he had a battle to fight.
He set out to gather an army, which turned out to be much easier than he had anticipated. Soon, Mazrim had scores of men at his back, each one ready to follow him into the Pit of Doom, should he require it of them. They marched across Saldaea, and when people refused to acknowledge him for who he truly was, his loyal followers brought them down on their knees and made them bow to him. The Queen sent troops against them, but they were invincible. They had the Light itself on their side. It was simple, really: all Mazrim had to do was accomplish one, only one, of the Prophecies. He would seize the Stone of Tear and the world would know who he was, and tremble at the sight of him.
But of course the witches had to take part, didn't they? Soon the Red Ajah was on their tracks, hounding them down. Battles were fought, every last one of which he won, easily. Until that cursed apparition took over the sky in Irinjavar and he was thrown off his horse. The Creator had indeed chosen a champion, but it wasn't Mazrim after all. He surrendered placidly, urging his followers to do the same. There was no need for more people to die for no reason. Many of his soldiers fled or hid; the witches had captured their prize and wouldn't bother with the rest of them.
And then one night, as he was trying his best not to contemplate what would happen once they reached Tar Valon, someone materialised in Mazrim's tent. The man simply stepped out from an opening in the air. A tall man, fair-skinned and powerful-looking, with a hooked nose and dark hair. Mazrim supposed he would be considered rather handsome.
For a long moment, as Mazrim gaped at him quite stupidly, the other man had studied him with intense dark eyes. "Mazrim Taim," he said in a deep, soft voice, "do you remember your oath?" Of course he did. He had not, however, given it much thought since Ishamael had appeared to him, all these years ago. How easy it was to forget such things when no one was there to remind you of them. Mazrim nodded reluctantly. "You are to be released from the care of those so-called Aes Sedai and assigned a mission," the man went on matter-of-factly. "You will be given further instructions after your escape. Do not expect me to help you fight your way out of this place, however. I will remove the guards, but the rest is up to you."
"That's all well and good but–" Mazrim cut off when he realised the man was already gone. An instant later, he felt the shield that held him off from saidin being removed, like a string snapping. Without a thought, he seized the Source. He was so relieved he let out a small, near-hysterical guffaw before coming to his senses. He had to leave. It didn't matter that he had no intention of obeying the man; he had to escape while he could.
It had been surprisingly easy. To think that, if he hadn't been thrown off his horse, he would have made mincemeat of them all, those witches who thought they could cage him. He stole a horse, rode as far as he could, until the horse could go no further, then he ran some more on his own two legs. He hid for a long time, knowing that, by now, all of Saldaea – and, likely, every other Borderlander nation – was probably on the lookout for him, not to mention the Red Ajah, and possibly the whole White Tower.
Another man found him weeks later, appearing seemingly out of thin air. Mazrim was hiding in a tiny hamlet in Murandy, posing as a refugee from the very uprising he had initiated in Saldaea. This man was as tall as Ishamael, but much younger-looking. He was handsome, or would have been, if not for a pronounced cleft in his chin.
Mazrim scrambled to his feet and then did his best to look cool and collected and very much in control of the situation. "What–" he started to say before the man could speak, but suddenly he couldn't talk. He raised a hand to his throat and realised the man must have used a weave of Air to prevent him from talking. But why couldn't he see the weave? A second later, he realised with horror that he was cut off from the Source.
"You will not talk, Taim, you will listen. I want you to find the Dragon Reborn and gain his trust. You will follow him and report to me. Only me," he emphasised imperiously, his piercing blue eyes intent. "Not to Demandred, or Graendal, or any of them. You are to give him this when you find him," he went on flatly, handing Mazrim a small object. It was black and white, in the shape of the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai of old. It seemed to be made of cuendillar, except that the material would never be so brittle. "One of the seven seals to the Great Lord's prison," the man added matter-of-factly.
Mazrim stared at him incredulously for a long time. He shook his head and tried to speak, but the weave was still in place. How was he supposed to find the Dragon Reborn, let alone approach him? And what was he supposed to do when he did? He had many questions, but the man, whoever he was, refused to let him speak. "You will do as I say, Taim, and you will do it soon. Further instructions will be given once you have made contact. Remember your oath. Do not fail." On that last threat, the man vanished as abruptly as he'd appeared, leaving Mazrim alone with the seal – a seal, he thought almost hysterically, to the Dark One's blasted prison!
As it turned out, locating Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn, had been simple enough. The man didn't exactly go unnoticed. But how was Mazrim supposed to approach him without raising suspicion? The answer came soon afterward, when he heard about the amnesty. Al'Thor couldn't have made it easier for him. Mazrim didn't even need to convince the boy – he had been shocked to see how young the supposed saviour of the world was. Instead, al'Thor had offered him the perfect opportunity on a silver platter.
The only problem was the girl.
Neya, he scolded himself. If you're going to betray her and break her heart, at least have the decency to use her name, he thought bitterly. He felt her move against him, but she didn't wake up. She was the only one he couldn't quite manage to push away. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how he treated her, she always came back determinedly.
Moridin – as he learned later the seemingly youthful Forsaken was called – came back several times after Mazrim's arrival at the Black Tower. He appeared satisfied with his work so far. His only order was to start recruiting likely candidates for the position of Dreadlord. 'The Last Battle is coming soon,' Moridin had warned him. 'Be ready.'
Demandred, the Forsaken who had done for the witches who held Mazrim's shield during his brief captivity, had also come to take his reports, apparently unaware of Moridin's visits or orders. Despite Moridin's earlier command, Mazrim had given Demandred the same account of his activities at the Black Tower. What was he supposed to do, deny one of the Forsaken? Surely Moridin would understand if he ever found out – not that Mazrim had any intention of letting that happen.
He came close to being exposed on one occasion, when Neya came barging into his study without knocking in the middle of the night. That had been about three weeks ago, when Ronon Dent, a newly raised Dedicated, had gone mad and tried to set fire to the barn, as well as multiple other random targets. Demandred had barely had time to turn himself invisible to her. Mazrim had left the man where he was; he couldn't ignore the matter at hand, and never mind if it angered the Forsaken. When he'd returned to his study, Demandred was gone. That had been his last visit, although Moridin had been there only the day before, of course. It was him who had ordered Mazrim to gather his men and leave forthwith for Dumai's Wells. Thankfully, Neya hadn't found it strange that Mazrim was sitting by himself at the table in the middle of the night. She knew that he slept only occasionally. It scared him a little, all the things she had been able to pick up about him since they'd met. Of course, it was only going to get worse, now.
This time, she seemed to be awakening. He felt her stretch carefully, probably to avoid waking him, and heard her sigh contentedly. "Morning," he murmured in her ear. She shivered slightly and turned to face him.
"Morning," she replied with a grin. It faded a moment later and turned into a frown. "Did you get any sleep?"
"I couldn't, you snored all night," he said wryly, lips twitching.
Her grin was back in a flash. "Yes, apparently I do that." Slowly, she raised a finger to his face, tracing the laugh line on the right corner of his mouth. "These must have come from somewhere," she whispered almost to herself. Mazrim had been a very smiling young man, until the day he'd realised what he was. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled properly, let alone laughed. He shrugged lightly. What could he say? She didn't seem to expect an answer, however. A moment later, she pushed him on his back and sat astride him. Before he could do anything, however, someone called out his name from outside the tent. Al'Thor. Burn the man! Rolling his eyes, Mazrim tried to make Neya move, but she simply bent down closer to him. "Shush," she said in a low voice. "Maybe he'll go away."
"Or maybe he'll just walk in without waiting for a response," he told her with a grimace.
Again, Mazrim moved to push her away gently, but Neya turned her head toward the entrance of the tent. "Rand! I'm naked, don't come in!" she shouted before facing him once more, a devilish grin lighting up her face. He scowled at her, although he felt more amused than truly annoyed. She gave him an innocent look. "Well, I am naked," she said, "and so are you," she told him teasingly. She kissed him deeply before finally pushing herself to her feet. Burn her, did she have to do that now? She was already fully clothed when he finally stood up. She eyed him ruefully as he gathered his breeches, chuckling. "I'll come back later," she promised before leaving the tent.
Al'Thor walked in a moment later, so impassive he would have made even a statue look lively. Sighing imperceptibly, Mazrim braced himself to face the Dragon Reborn.