Frustratingly, Mazrim had no clue what was going on. None of his spies had reported on the matter. If the Forsaken were involved, responsible, or if they knew anything about it, they hadn't bothered to inform him. It was possible that they were as clueless as he was, but Mazrim somehow doubted it. Moridin, especially, always appeared to know everything.
Mazrim stood in his new study, atop the tower of his palace, his favourite brooding spot, with its vantage point over most of the Black Tower. Like every other channeler in the world, he'd been studying with unfeigned curiosity the mesmerising beacon of Power that was lit up not so far from where he stood.
Every Soldier and Dedicated outside had been gaping in the same direction for hours. Mazrim had insisted that everyone should carry on with their chores and lessons as if it were a perfectly normal day, but he could tell they were distracted, constantly glancing over their shoulders and muttering to each other.
Mazrim was about to go outside to do some more scolding and threatening when the world seemed to freeze.
At least, his men froze. They abandoned whatever they were doing and collectively gasped, staring in the direction of the beacon – which winked out of existence as Mazrim turned his gaze to it.
Whatever had been going on appeared to be over. Mazrim hoped that the men would go back to their activities now, but he was disappointed. And more than a little confused when they exploded into frenzied cheering.
Several men embraced heartily, others ran to their wives and children and scooped them up in their arms. A handful sat down and cried, others laughed. An older Soldier improvised a little jig and was joined by several Dedicated.
Mazrim stared at them all in horror for a few minutes. Had they all gone mad at the same time? No, it was something else. They were clearly happy about something, but what?
As if his thoughts had summoned an answer, there was a frantic knock on the door. "Come in," Mazrim called out impatiently. He turned around to see a panting Mishraile. His golden hair was slick with sweat, his blue eyes wild.
"M'Hael," he saluted with a wheeze.
"Catch your breath, lad." Mazrim indicated the chair facing his carved mahogany desk. The boy nodded gratefully and half-fell in the seat.
Mazrim allowed him a minute to recuperate and poured them both some wine. He set one glass in front of the young Asha'man then sat in his own chair on the other side of the desk, waiting for the breaking news.
"The taint, M'Hael," Mishraile said when his breathing had settled. "It's gone."
It should have been obvious. There was no other reason for the men to cheer collectively, Mazrim realised now, short of news that the Dragon Reborn had destroyed the Dark One. The fact that Mishraile had felt the need to run to announce it to Mazrim was bothersome, to say the least.
Mazrim took a moment to compose himself. "Evidently," he said eventually, with the trace of a sneer.
Mishraile frowned slightly but said nothing. He grabbed his glass and gulped it down in one. He glanced at Mazrim as he set it back on the desk, clearly awaiting orders.
Right. Orders. Mazrim tried to focus on the matter at hand, while his mind did its best to consider every possible consequence of this latest development. Lately, he had more trouble than ever to control the stream of his thoughts. "Tell everyone to take the rest of the day off," he said eventually. That should buy him some time to gather his thoughts. He probably ought to make some sort of announcement, but that could wait until tomorrow. Perhaps he would know more of what had happened by then. "No excesses," he warned the Asha'man, implying that he'd hold Mishraile personally responsible should anything happen. "And have someone keep watch at the front gate at all times." He waved the boy away, dismissing him. He had much to think on. Mishraile stood and saluted, and walked to the door. Mazrim returned to his spot by the window.
He realised he hadn't heard Mishraile's departing footsteps just before the Asha'man spoke up. "M'Hael?" he said hesitantly.
Mazrim didn't turn around. "Yes?" His glass was empty, so he summoned the wine carafe over with a weave to pour himself another one.
He heard Mishraile clear his throat. "Will we be required to take an oath?"
Mazrim frowned at his own reflection in the window. "Whatever for?"
"When we follow you into the Last Battle, instead of the Dragon Reborn…" He didn't finish his thought. He didn't need to.
"Most of the other Asha'man are already Dreadlords, Mishraile," Mazrim said quietly. The Forsaken had pointed out their assets to Mazrim as they arrived at the Tower. Most of these Darkfriends seemed to belong to Moridin. Mazrim sometimes wondered if that was really his name, or if one of the more infamous Forsaken was posing as an impossibly pretty youth, for some reason. "But you need not become one. Not as long as you swear fealty to me, and that you will fight under my command in the Last Battle." It seemed pointless to demand an oath from those who didn't wish to take it, especially now. The only advantage that Mazrim ever could find in becoming a Darkfriend was that it protected a male channeler from the taint, and Mishraile was in fact the only one who hadn't been a Darkfriend to begin with or hadn't become one as he was allowed in Mazrim's private classes. The boy had been too promising to leave behind, and Mazrim felt that he had already earned Mishraile's loyalty, though he wasn't sure why.
"I'm your man, M'Hael. I'll follow you to the Pit of Doom, if you command it. I swear it under the–" He cut off abruptly, probably realising how inappropriate swearing under the Light would be.
"That will do," Mazrim murmured. "Dismissed, Asha'man."
He waited until he spotted Mishraile in the courtyard before throwing his glass across the room. It exploded against one the bookshelves in a cloud of glittering crystal and splashed several books with red wine. Mazrim cursed and embraced saidin. It felt as invigorating as ever, immaculate and compelling. He didn't sense any difference, of course. He'd been channeling unpolluted saidin for too long to remember what the taint felt like.
It was terrible, Mazrim reflected as the men outside celebrated. It was worse than anything he'd expected.
Turning people who were doomed to go mad and die was one thing. But these men now potentially had their whole lives ahead of them. They could raise their children and play with their grandchildren and never fear that they would bring about their deaths. They could live very long, full lives and be happy.
It had been bad enough before, but Mazrim had had an excuse, if a poor one - he'd convinced himself that he was doing them a favour, for they wouldn't be lucid enough to witness the death and destruction of the Last Battle. Should the Dark One triumph, they would not suffer, wouldn't grieve for their loved ones.
The crushing realisation of what he was about to do to them, just when things were finally looking up, felt oppressive enough to suffocate him.
The Choedan Kal, which Natael had never seen in action before – no one had – was more than impressive. It was frightening. He was almost relieved that the female key had been destroyed; in fact, he'd feel much safer if its male counterpart were to suffer the same fate. No one should have that much power, let alone a mere boy whose mind was crumbling.
Natael finished knotting the bandage around his arm. He had taken no wound in the fighting; al'Thor had not allowed him to take part in defending the area. Natael had been pushed into the background, as he ever was. Which didn't bother him in the least, of course.
The injury was self-inflicted, so to speak. Natael had slipped on a rock and badly grazed his elbow, thus staining his favourite purple silk shirt. Perhaps he should have worn something more practical to the event but, in his mind, he'd been dressing for his own funeral.
He looked around him. The Asha'man were still stunned; everyone else appeared dizzy. The sheer enormity of what had just occurred left Natael incredulous. He'd been following the Dragon for months now, and knew to expect the improbable from the young man, but to cleanse the taint from the male half of the Source… Natael had been adamant that al'Thor would destroy them all in the attempt. He'd tried to dissuade him, on multiple occasions, but the lad was stubborn. Mule-headed, as Neya would have put it.
But the whole enterprise had been a glorious success. Al'Thor and the al'Meara girl had survived, but more importantly: the taint was gone. Saidin was clean again, although Natael hadn't dared channel more than a trickle of the Power to revel in its renewed purity. Thankfully, the male channelers around him were too busy marvelling over the fact that they wouldn't go mad to pay Natael any attention.
He had recovered his full strength weeks ago. No one knew it, not even al'Thor – Natael was careful to never channel around him, or any of the Asha'man, and his ability to channel was masked at all times besides.
He felt no urge to do anything with his recovered strength, however. The Great Lord wouldn't take him back. The Chosen would kill him on sight. He was much safer here, certainly, with al'Thor convinced he could channel only a trickle of the Power. Perhaps he would act if an opportunity presented itself – and perhaps not. He had everything to lose if anything went amiss – his life, to begin with. He was quite fond of it.
Posing as the Lord Dragon's Court Bard, everyone overlooked him. Al'Thor himself sometimes seemed to forget that Natael even existed. He couldn't have faded in the background any better if he'd tried. He could do practically anything he wanted – these days, it consisted mainly in drinking, playing his harp and having an overall good time. That was more than enough for now. He would lay low until the Last Battle was played out and consider his options then. That seemed to be the safest course.
Thanks to the shield Mierin had forced upon him, Natael must have been the only person who knew that Lanfear had survived her fall through the ter'angreal, back in Cairhien. But al'Thor had been focused entirely on bringing down Rahvin, and even in the aftermath of the battle he had not mentioned Mierin, had not wondered whether Natael's shield was still in place. The lad was convinced that both women had perished on the spot, but apparently it had not occurred to him that Natael would be released from Lanfear's weave if she died.
Lanfear had survived quite some time in Sindhol, against Natael's expectations, but the Finn must have drained her eventually. Now that he was confident of her demise, Natael felt lighter than he had since he'd come out of the Bore. There was another Chosen whose name he could cross off the list. Not that they'd made any attempt to find him, not since Graendal. Perhaps Neya had frightened them away, but he doubted it. They must know Neya was no longer with him – in fact, they undoubtedly knew precisely where she was, unlike Natael.
She wasn't in Andor, according to rumour and gossip. She'd become more noteworthy than she probably realised, as co-leader of the infamous Black Tower. Tales of her disappearance had begun spreading about a month ago, but al'Thor hadn't investigated. He claimed the girl often vanished – only to find herself somewhere even more unlikely than before, in the most unexpected company. Natael was well aware of that, but still. He was worried about her, though he knew she could look after herself. He wished he didn't care, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to get Neya out of his head.
At least she was away from Taim. The man was dangerous, Natael could tell, even if he wasn't a Friend of the Dark – which was unlikely. A place where they trained male channelers and prepared them for battle? Of course the Chosen would want it, would want to control its leader. Taim might have been groomed for that very purpose, maybe even planted as a False Dragon to begin with – by Ishamael, most likely, since he'd been released earlier than the other Chosen. Provided that he'd been sealed in the Bore to begin with. Natael wasn't certain that he had.
Natael had encountered Taim thrice, though he doubted the M'Hael would remember him – he was just a bard, only there to provide background music, not worth a second glance. Taim was quite handsome, Natael hadn't failed to notice. He reminded him somewhat of Demandred, when he was younger, when he was still Barid Bel Medar. They had the same hooked nose, the same austere expression and they both radiated danger. Demandred's eyes were dark green, however, whereas Taim's were as black as obsidian. In any case, it was no wonder Neya had fallen for the M'Hael. She obviously had a preference for tall, good-looking men. Preferably with brooding tendencies.
He'd warned al'Thor about Taim, and even the girl, Min – it seemed she was the only one the Dragon listened to – but to no avail.
Min knew who Natael really was. She was one of the few people alive who did. She claimed she'd seen... interesting things about him, in her odd viewings. She said she didn't know what they meant, and Natael believed her. None of it made any bloody sense. A monkey? A building that, according to her descriptions, resembled the Collam Daan of yore? He had no idea what it could possibly mean.
Natael suspected that Cadsuane Melaidhrin knew who he was, as well, but she apparently didn't consider him as a threat, though she had him under constant watch. Perhaps Min had told her – willingly or reluctantly. There was little one could keep secret from the ancient Aes Sedai, it seemed. Was she older than Natael? He'd been just short of his three hundredth birthday when he'd been sealed in the Bore. Cadsuane certainly gave off an aura he associated with great age – not eerie wisdom, but unconcealed impatience and a general annoyance toward younger people.
As he considered the ravaged city around him, Natael wondered how his former associates would react to this newest development. He'd caught a glimpse of Demandred earlier, and skirmishes had broken out in various locations around Shadar Logoth. Plainly, the remaining Chosen had been ordered to put a stop to al'Thor's insane plan – and they had failed miserably. One of their puppets had died, a man named Dashiva, a deserter from the Black Tower. Natael idly wondered who his master or mistress was, who had sent him to his death. Of course, they had suffered casualties as well, though not as many as Natael might have expected, with so many of the Chosen attacking at once.
But none of it really mattered to him. He was glad to be rid of the taint – a few months of dealing with that abject feeling had been more than enough. He could only hope that it hadn't affected him in this brief period. He didn't feel mad, but would he know if he was? Al'Thor didn't seem to realise he was losing his mind.
Natael often wondered if al'Thor was ever going to reveal his identity, or if he intended to keep it secret forever – well, until he died, anyway, which would happen at the Last Battle, at the latest. Natael couldn't think of a way for al'Thor to survive, whatever the issue. His death had, after all, been prophesised long ago.
Well, that was al'Thor's problem. Natael was alive. That was all he truly cared about.
Moridin hadn't expected the Chosen to succeed in disrupting al'Thor's operation. With the Choedan Kal at his disposal, the boy had been virtually unstoppable. His subordinates would have been insane to even try; it would have been suicide. They must have realised it as soon as they Traveled to Shadar Logoth. After a few tentative jabs, they'd wisely decided that it would be better to suffer Moridin's wrath than to get themselves futilely killed.
In truth, Moridin had had no reason not to want the Dragon to succeed: after all, Taim and the Black Tower belonged to him. This accomplishment and its consequences therefore greatly favoured the Shadow. Al'Thor didn't realise it yet, but he'd just given over to the Great Lord a formidable supply of Dreadlords who would never go mad. Of course the Great Lord might be mildly displeased. He'd enjoyed instilling the taint in saidin, one of his nastiest manoeuvres, and the most destructive one by far. But the Great Lord would understand why Moridin had let it happen. There would be no punishment for this "failure".
In other words, everything had worked out according to Moridin's plan.
Well, except for Ishar Morrad's demise. But honestly, what had the man been thinking? Hadn't he realised that the defenders were linked and outmatched him? The man had always been a coward, but an overconfident one. He would have attacked only if he believed he had the upper hand. Moridin doubted that the Great Lord would bring him back a second time. Second chances were rare as it were, and He would likely draw the line there.
It was a shame, of course. Moridin had never liked Aginor, not in any of his incarnations, but he was a genius. A demented one, perhaps, but a genius still. His many skills would be missed. And with the Chosen already greatly reduced in numbers…
He considered Taim again. The man was an obvious choice, but Moridin felt that the timing wasn't right, not yet. Taim was still hung up on Neya; she was his lifeline, his last remaining link to the Light. Moridin was confident that Demandred would soon crush whatever hopes Taim might still harbour, however. Not by killing Neya – Barid Bel obviously had other plans for the girl – but by making certain she would never come back to the Westlands. Moridin had a vague suspicion that his old friend hoped to Turn the girl to the Shadow – the natural way. He'd always been good at that, at persuading people to see his point of view, to follow him. He inspired people. And he had a way with women, just like Lews Therin. Perhaps he would even succeed – Moridin doubted it, but it would certainly work to their advantage. If anyone could manage such a feat, it was Demandred.
Moridin couldn't help but wonder why al'Thor left Taim alone, with not even a few spies to report on M'Hael's activities, as far as Moridin could tell. Wasn't he in the least suspicious? Lews Therin had always been too trusting, but never stupid. Perhaps the boy simply had too much on his plate to deal with the Black Tower – he was currently trying to forge an alliance with the Seanchan, a vain task. Semirhage would see that it never came to fruition. Moridin had faith in her. Like Demandred, the Lady of Pain rarely disappointed.
And if Taim proved unworthy, or insufficient to bolster their ranks… There was always Nessosin. Moridin had kept the man alive for that very purpose. The Musician always allied with whoever had the upper hand, with the side that was less likely to get him killed. Right now, he believed his best chance lay with al'Thor. But that would change, as the Last Battle loomed inevitably closer. Nessosin would never return to the Light. He was only pretending to be subdued so that al'Thor would dismiss him, of that Moridin was certain.
Most of Moridin's subordinates had a low opinion of the Musician. He was a coward, he was treacherous, opportunistic. That was all true, but Nessosin had his moments. Besides, the Great Lord hadn't commanded Moridin to have him disposed of. Perhaps He had other plans for him. Nessosin may yet have a part to play.
But all in good time. The end was nigh, but there was no use precipitating things. Everything was falling gently into place, slowly but inevitably.