Dyelin nodded, a touch impatiently. "Gitara was counselor to Queen Mordrellen," she said briskly, "but she spent more time with Tigraine and Luc, Tigraine’s brother, than with the Queen. After Luc rode north, never to return, whispers said Gitara had convinced him that his fame lay in the Blight, or his fate. Others said it was that he would find the Dragon Reborn there, or that the Last Battle depended on him going. That was about a year before Tigraine disappeared. Myself, I doubt Gitara had anything to do with it, or with Luc. She stayed the Queen’s counselor until Mordrellen died. From heartbreak over Tigraine on top of Luc, so it was said. Which began the Succession, of course." She glanced toward the others, who were shifting their feet and frowning with suspicion and impatience, but she could not resist adding one more thing. "You would have found a different Andor, without that. Tigraine queen, Morgase only High Seat of House Trakand, Elayne not born at all. Morgase married Taringail once she had the throne, you see. Who can say what else would be changed?"

Watching her join the others and go, he thought of one thing that would have changed. He would not be in Andor, for he would not have been born. Everything folded back into itself, in endless circles. Tigraine went to the Waste in secret, which made Laman Damodred cut down Avendoraldera, a gift of the Aiel, to make a throne, an act which brought the Aiel across the Spine of the World to kill him – that had been their only goal, though the nations called it the Aiel War – and with the Aiel came a Maiden named Shaiel, who died giving birth. So many lives changed, lives ended, so she could give birth to him at the proper time and place and die doing it. Kari al’Thor was the mother he remembered, if dimly, yet he wished he could have known Tigraine or Shaiel or whatever she wanted to call herself, even if only for a little while. Just to have seen her.

Useless dreaming. She was long dead. It was over and done. So why did it still nag at him?

The Wheel of Time and the wheel of a man’s life turn alike without pity or mercy, Lews Therin murmured.

Are you really there?Rand thought. If there’s more than a voice and a few old memories, answer me! Are you there?Silence. He could use Moiraine’s advice now, or somebody’s.

Abruptly he realized he was staring at the white marble wall of the Grand Hall, staring just north of west. Toward Alanna. She was away from Culain’s Hound. No! Burn her!He would not replace Moiraine with a woman who would ambush him that way. He could not trust any woman touched by the Tower. Except three. Elayne, Nynaeve and Egwene. He hoped he could trust them. If only just a little.

For some reason he looked up at the great vaulted ceiling, with its colored windows depicting battles and queens, alternating with the White Lion. Those more than life-size women seemed to stare at him, in disapproval, wondering what he was doing there. Imagination, of course, but why? Because he had learned about Tigraine? Imagination, or madness?

"Someone has come I think you should see," Bashere said at his elbow, and Rand jerked away from the women overhead. Had he really been glaring back at them? Bashere had one of his horsemen with him, a taller fellow – not hard to be, beside Bashere – with a dark beard and mustaches, his tilted eyes green.

"Not unless it’s Elayne," Rand said, more harshly than he meant, "or somebody with proof the Dark One is dead. I am going to Cairhien this morning." He had had no such intention until the words left his mouth. Egwene was there. And the queens overhead were not. "It’s been weeks since I was there last. If I don’t keep an eye on them, some lord or lady will claim the Sun Throne behind my back." Bashere looked at him strangely. He was explaining too much.

"As you say, but you will want to see this man first. He says he comes from Lord Brend, and I think he speaks truth." The Aiel were on their feet in the instant; they knew who used that name.

For Rand’s part, he stared at Bashere in surprise. The last thing he expected was an emissary from Sammael. "Bring him in."

"Hamad," Bashere said with a jerk of his head, and the younger Saldaean trotted away.

A few minutes later Hamad returned with a knot of Saldaeans warily guarding a fellow in their midst. At first glance nothing about the man accounted for their caution. With no weapon visible, he wore a long gray coat with a raised collar, and a curly beard but no mustache, both in the Illianer fashion. He had a stub of a nose and a wide, grinning mouth. As he came closer, though, Rand realized that grin never altered by a hair. The man’s whole face seemed frozen in that one mirthful expression. By contrast, his dark eyes stared out of that mask, swimming with fear.

At ten paces, Bashere raised his hand, and the guard halted. The Illianer, staring at Rand, did not seem to notice until Hamad presented a sword point to his chest, making him stop or be run through. He only glanced at the slightly serpentine blade, then returned to staring at Rand with those terrified eyes in that grinning face. His hands hung at his sides, twitching as much as his face was still.

Rand started to close the distance, but abruptly Sulin and Urien were there, not exactly blocking his way, yet positioned so that he would have to push between them.

"I wonder what has been done to him?" Sulin said, studying the fellow. A number of Maidens and Red Shields had come out from the columns, some even veiled. "If he is not Shadowspawn, he is touched by the Shadow."

"One like that might do things we cannot know," Urien said. He was one of those with a scarlet strip of cloth around his temples. "Kill with a touch, perhaps. A pretty message that would be to send an enemy."

Neither looked at Rand, not directly, but he nodded. Perhaps they were right. "How are you called?" he asked. Sulin and Urien moved a step to either side when they saw he would stay where he was.

"I do come from... from Sammael," the man said woodenly through that grin. "I do bring a message for... for the Dragon Reborn. For you."

Well, that was direct enough. Was he a Darkfriend, or just some poor soul Sammael had trapped in one of the nastier weavings Asmodean had talked about? "What message?" Rand said.

The Illianer’s mouth worked, struggled. What came out bore no relation to the voice he had used before. It was deeper, full of confidence, in a different accent. "We will stand on different sides, you and I, come the day of the Great Lord’s Return, but why should we kill each other now and leave Demandred and Graendal to contest for the world over our bones?" Rand knew that voice, in one of those scraps from Lews Therin that had settled in his mind. Sammael’s voice. Lews Therin snarled wordlessly. "Already you have much to digest," the Illianer went on – or Sammael did. "Why bite off more? And hard chewing, even if you don’t find Semirhage or Asmodean taking you from behind while you are busy with it. I propose a truce between us, a truce until the Day of Return. If you do not move against me, I will not against you. I will pledge not to move east beyond the Plains of Maredo, nor further north than Lugard in the east or Jehannah in the west. You see, I leave the greater share by far to you. I do not claim to speak for the rest of the Chosen, but at least you know you have nothing to fear from me, or out of the lands I hold. I will pledge not to aid them in anything they do against you, nor to help them defend against you. You have done well so far in removing the Chosen from the field. I have no doubt you will continue to do well, better than before, knowing your southern flank is safe and the others fight without my aid. I suspect that on the Day of Return, there will be only you and I, as it should be. As it was meant to be." The man’s teeth clicked shut, hidden behind that frozen grin. His eyes looked near madness.