The Downfall Matrix: Patterns of Chaos, #3

By Rhondi Ann and Charles Ingrid

Interstellar war struck like lightning. The tezar Palaton knows it may well strike again The desperate choice made by Palaton and Rand to bond the tezar's psychic powers to cleanse them of burnout was meant to be temporary. Faster than light starship drives create a chaos only a tezar can navigate—and now that very ability may be threatening Palaton's very life. Those who helped initiate the experimental treatment are destroyed by an alien attack and political forces tear the pair apart.

Palaton must deceive all those who depend upon him, as enemies draw close. Chosen unwillingly as the Emperor's heir, he must journey where Rand cannot follow. The young human falls prey to forces of civil unrest, as the Bringer of Change whose presence signals a new age or complete descent into the final Chaos of war among classes between those who have power and those who do not.

Meanwhile, enemies in the Compact look eagerly to grasp whatever advantages and victories they can.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rhondi Ann
• Release date: Dec 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781950300501

Book preview

Chapter One

The humankind was easy to spot amid the flow of Choyan. His smaller, clumsy body walked sticklike in the parade of flesh. His hair had a singular forelock instead of a lush mane intertwined upon a proud crown of horns. Even had he been on his home planet, the young man could never have achieved the agility of a Choyan. Wrought as he was, he had not the structure for it. The priest watched him keenly from the moment Rand caught his eye. Though, Chirek reflected, even if he had not caught sight of the humankind, he could hardly have missed Palaton striding along beside Rand. The tezarian arrogance that set him apart from the other Choyan came naturally, fueled by his skills as a pilot and his flawlessly melded strength and grace.

Tezars were the pride of the Choyan people. Without them, the stars could not be crossed safely, and the fabric of the race’s existence would be woven far differently. They might all even be little more than meat scraps in some stew brewed by the always voracious Abdreliks. The great purplish amphibians traveled the stars hunting for fodder as much as for enlightenment. And then there were the quill-cloaked Ronin, much stealthier, no less predatory. Chirek signed himself in blessing against such enemies.

Without the tezars, the Choyan would live at the mercy of others. So the outlaw priest forgave Palaton if he moved in an aura of arrogance and ability. Without such as he, Cho could not exist in the firmament of stars and worlds as it did. With them, they were not fodder, but leaders, pilots for all space goers, and even the Abdreliks and Ronin reluctantly gave way.

Yes, the sheer presence of the emperor’s heir would have attracted Chirek’s gaze, and then, his strange, alien shadow would have been noticed as well.

The other watcher stirred at Chirek’s second elbow. Do you see him? Chirek queried.

I have him. It will be difficult to get to him.

Your operatives must, the priest said, his dual voices vibrating with intensity. His own horn crown ached abominably with worry. Palaton and his alien companion had not been so open and unguarded since the abrupt beginning and end of the Two Day War. We might not have this opportunity for a long time. The Choyan at his side, a thickly bodied, yet short and scrawny-homed commons, one of the God-blind who had no talent of the sort the stately Palaton possessed, made a sound deep in his throat and then spat, wetly, upon the street.

The priest looked heatedly at his accomplice. Why do you wait? We lose all opportunity if you hesitate—or doubt.

Sullenly, Miska answered, No one wants to touch him. He’s off-world.

The priest swore, words that nearly singed the air in their secret observation post. He brings the Change, not the plague. Do you think he would be allowed to walk about freely if he carried disease?

Miska glared back with narrowed eyes. "It is your hope, priest, not ours. Change was never prophesied from such as that. We were always catechized that it would come from within Cho. Not from an alien. With a drop of one shoulder, he put his mouth to the broadcaster and thumbed open a com line. Move in." Bowing his brittle-horned head slightly to Chirek, the commons retreated and went to follow his operatives.

Chirek watched him evaporate smoothly into the crowds thronging the streets below. Even if he had wished to, it would have been nearly impossible to follow Miska’s passage. The Choya was nothing if not competent at his art.

Although it should have, that thought did not engender the outlaw priest’s confidence. Miska belonged to Qativar, and Qativar he did not trust. Qativar ranked high in Cho’s only permitted religion, undersecretary to the aged and esteemed Rindalan. Yet he risked all to participate in Chirek’s underground sect. He professed belief in the Bringer of Change and was fluent in what his fellow churchmen would have called heresy.

There was more about Qativar’s duality which worried Chirek. The Choya had risen through the rankings far quicker than any could have predicted, to stand at Rindalan’s right hand. Rindalan’s near fatal beating at the hands of rioters seemed more than accidental to Chirek. What was the elder doing among rioters with no escort other than Qativar, and why had Qativar failed to protect him? Had he been led into a trap? And if so, what were Qativar’s motives? Such an act surely had not been done to further Chirek’s movement

Chirek had no proof, no foundation for his suspicions, and Qativar was one of the mainstays of Chirek’s movement, but an uneasy one. It was part of Qativar’s value that he held a high post and could move almost at will, and that Rindalan had given him an extremely long leash, as well as much authority. But Chirek knew that Qativar hadn’t been on a long leash that riotous night; he had been at Rindalan’s elbow, and the elder one had fallen to an ignominious fate. He still lay in a coma, almost as if dead and in state, fighting for his life with every breath.

Chirek blinked. He found shadows in every comer, he thought to himself, and moved restlessly within his own post of concealment. But those with little or no bahdur talent in the world of Cho found themselves treated as second-class citizens by the ruling Houses and their Householdings, and though his own fervent religious beliefs kept Chirek looking forward to a day when bahdur would flame among them all, he had learned to be circumspect. Only the Bringer could metamorphose the Choyan he served. He was not the first underground priest among the commons, and chances were that he would not be the last. But if he were, oh, if only he were. That he would give his life for.

In that regard, the high House-born Rindalan and the lowly street Chirek were not so different. Each had faith engraved deeply in his bones. Rindalan, unlike many High Priests of the various Houses, had always served the people. Perhaps there was the answer to Chirek’s unasked question as to why Rindalan had walked among the rioters, trying to heal a rift which would ultimately bring their enemies down upon them. For that commonality, instead of their differences, Chirek mourned Rindalan’s approaching death.

A shout arose. The parade below moved with its own deliberation, a victory march toward the war memorial constructed especially to commemorate the deadly quick Two Day War. Still smarting from the riots, Choyan had been ready to strike at Choyan, and the Abdreliks had dared to attack, risking the very fiber of the space" which contained them all. The war had been so quick that most of them scarcely knew it had happened, coming on the heels of the weeks of civil unrest and rioting. Yet once the smoke had cleared, all on Cho knew how close they had come to the brink.

Hoping finally to conquer their enemy, the Abdreliks had broken—no—shattered, the Compact which held all the worlds to an uneasy truce. They had found renegade pilots willing to bring in their warships, and they had come ready to strike at the very heart of the Choyan empire, their single planet, Cho. Yet the Compact had failed to punish the aggressors while they returned to a shaky balance.

From the ashes of rebellion, Palaton had risen to drive the Abdreliks back. He had struck when they were most vulnerable, decelerating out of Chaos, still unsure of their bearings, and if he had not turned them back then, the Abdreliks would have been unstoppable. The massive, rapacious amphibians must have been drooling down their tusks, contemplating war on Cho. Chirek shuddered at the idea.

His people had thought themselves inviolate. Only the Choyan tezars could efficiently pilot through Chaos, and surely none of their own would bring warships in. Yet a handful had, because of conflicting loyalties, and that brought to mind other troubling problems. How had they known? How had the Abdreliks known that at that very moment Cho had threatened—and still seemed all too likely—to come apart at its seams?

The priest watched the serpentine march draw close to the memorial. If Rand were to be approached with impunity at all, now was the time. He searched the crowds for Miska and his operatives, gave up looking for them, and searched instead for his own. His trust in Qativar being incomplete, he had made other provisions. The girl was not hard to spot, her luxurious sable mane done up in ribbons of celebration. She wore a blue which fairly vibrated with intensity. She would be unmistakable, once viewed.

Which is why Dorea wore what she did. Having interacted with Rand, she had the ability to become as invisible, as dull and drab as any of the commons, disappearing into anonymity. Shed the ribbons, the robes, and she blended into the very dirt washed up along the curbs.

Chirek found himself leaning on the railing of the observation post, his muscles tightening into cords with tension. He made himself take a step back, reaching for sighting glasses. He forced a deep breath downward. It would happen, or not. It was ridiculous to hope for a metamorphosis which his brotherhood had waited centuries for, to hope it would happen here and now. And even if it did not happen, that would not mean that Rand was not the Being of Change which his religion had prophesied centuries ago. It meant only that the circumstances had been altered. It meant that whatever way the catalyst performed had not yet been found, stabilized, or understood. Perhaps it took more than a mere touch.

Chirek knew that it would be difficult to preach what hummed upon his lips, what fairly burst to come out of him, without the proof he sought to obtain that day. Even that proof would not be enough. He would have to find a way to draw Rand out himself, to coax him from behind Palaton’s awesome and protective shadow, and show him what the humankind had no idea he could do. He would have to persuade Rand to move among them and work his miracles. And even then, there would be many who would not, could not, believe. The humankind was an alien, after all. Who could have imagined that an alien would fulfill the prophecies?

Yet there was a fervency upon the priest he could not contain. He needed no further proof for himself. Rand could do what Chirek suspected. He, himself, had been transformed by the presence and touch of the humankind.

It would be foolish for him to reveal himself now, but there were times when the newly found bahdur sang its way through his veins so loudly that he felt others must know as well. Chirek veiled himself for the moment, hoping that the time when he could give hope as well as succor and nurturing were near. Miska did not know, nor did Qativar. No one, not even Malahki, who did carry a faint thrilling of bahdur himself, knew or suspected what had happened within Chirek.

A bolt of blue drew near the knot in the procession. Then, like lightning, it struck.

Rand felt his muscles tighten as he attempted to keep up with Palaton. His braces off, bones newly regenerated, sinews rehabilitated through exercise, he still felt awkward as a toddler unused to walking.

Palaton slowed and turned, looking down at him. I am too quick, the Choya said, his voices rumbling with amusement.

And I’m too slow. Rand could feel the breath in his chest, raw, as though he’d been running. He pushed his dark hair off his forehead. He needed a haircut, but had not found a barber who would do what he wished. The Choyan prized their luxurious manes. Men had lower foreheads and he preferred to be able to see out of his eyes.

Almost unconsciously, he scanned the crowd, feeling the electricity of their excitement as Palaton moved among them. His stolen bahdur rippled inside him. He shrugged away from it guiltily, the power which by rights had belonged to Palaton and would one day again be the pilot’s, if only they could find a way to restore it. Rand had no right to it and scarcely knew how to use it, but it ran deep in him, like a river of unknown strength and wealth, and there were times when he could not ignore the tides of its movement.

Now was such a time. It made him achingly aware of the throngs which swelled forward to see them. He could feel the heat of their emotions, and underneath it, a peaking of hatred as well. That enmity was directed at him, alien, ugly, a plague-carrier, a weakling who depended upon their powers to trespass here, a stranger who did not belong here. The xenophobia branded his perceptions. Rand turned as if he could see it. He stumbled on a bit of uneven pavement. Palaton swept out an arm to catch him, steadying Rand. As he did so, the bahdur answered to him as well, thrilling into him, for Rand felt it go, like a flash flood into a dry riverbed, whose soil sucked it up eagerly even as it was threatened with destruction by a flow which it could not longer conduit.

Palaton gasped audibly as he felt the flood. He looked down, large amber eyes brilliant with the touch of his forbidden power. The touch lasted but a split second, and in that moment, Rand felt all that was courageous and bereft in his friend. His throat shut with the swell of passion and longing from the pilot for the heritage which had been stripped from him.

Rand’s lips parted in involuntary apology, but the words never came. There was a shout. Then a scream. Footsteps pounded on the street. Choyan bodies swung in movement, and then Rand could feel the bahdur leaping in him, a flood tide. Trouble. He wrapped his hands around Palaton’s arm, pulling him away from the rush of danger. A wall of three Choyan surged at them. He could not see if they carried weapons. There was no time to get Palaton clear.

Palaton had been alerted as well, his homed crown tilting toward the source of trouble, much as an elk stag would move to a challenge, but Rand’s weight threw him off-balance. Rand could feel the other’s body shift with his, abruptly. His mind swirled. All he could think of was to push free. The Choyan charging them stumbled to an abrupt halt, as if hitting a wall, and then rebounded, sprawling to the street. The three found themselves with Jorana and her security guards at their throats. The Choya’i snarled as she called for them to halt.

Rand staggered back into the hands of another Choya’i, her brilliant cerulean robes swirling about both of them, while Palaton fought to regain his balance.

They’re unarmed, Palaton snapped, annoyed at Rand’s reaction and collecting himself. He shrugged away.

Bahdur still in flood tide, Rand found himself alone with the Choya’i. There was a bridging between him and her for a second, sparking through them. It shocked through him, leaping. Rand fought to retain his senses. As he gasped, the bahdur guttered away. His mind darkened for a moment as he lost it. And the Choya’i, barely as tall as he was, leaned forward, smiling, hazel eyes with more than just a tint of mellow green in their depths, murmuring her own apology for bumping him. She turned and left with a swirl of blue more vibrant than the Choyan sky, leaving Rand to stare after her.

Jorana stood over the prisoners. Palaton looked between her and Rand, seemed to realize that he had left Rand standing alone, and reached out for him. His nostrils flared. Rand knew instinctively that the pilot could smell the after-burn of the bahdur he’d just expended.

I’m sorry, he began, but Palaton shut him off with a flick of his hand.

Later. Are you all right?

Yes. He looked down at the prisoners who were being efficiently trussed by a handful of Jorana’s guards. No one shot.

No, the tezar answered briefly, "they are God- blind. They haven’t the bahdur to know where to strike most effectively."

Rand flexed his neck in an attempt to ease tight muscles. Vital organs were vital organs, he thought. He ought to explain that to Palaton some day. The most skilled assassins in the galaxies, the Ronin, did not rely on bahdur to tell them where to strike. These three did not have to, either.

Jorana snapped orders about where to take the detainees and counted off four of the guards to do so. Then she pivoted around, her eyes searching out both of them.

Everyone still standing? she asked. Her voices showed strain despite their lightness of tone.

We’re fine. Palaton waved his hand, dismissing the problem.

Her expression opened slightly with relief. We’re almost there, she said.

Palaton nodded. Rand could feel the connection between the two of them, the sense that ran much more deeply than the few words they shared, and acute loneliness nibbled at him. There was no one like him on all of Cho, nor was there likely to be. The only Choyan who collaborated outside their race did so in space, or on Compact worlds such as Sorrow. The Choyan who did not travel off-world were a narrow-minded xenophobic race.

Rand tried not to think of the implications of spending his life alone, bound to Palaton, unable to ever leave him. After a few more moments of confusion, the procession began again.

Miska and his operatives had failed, but Chirek could not contain himself, for he’d seen the Choya’i move in swiftly, using the failure of the first three for an opening. Rand had literally stumbled into her arms. The contact between the two of them could not have been more powerful, under the circumstances. The priest’s heart felt as though it drummed in his throat.

After the procession moved by, he climbed down awkwardly from the post, heading to the rendezvous he and the Choya’i had previously chosen. Head down, crown throbbing now with joy instead of apprehension, he hurried to the bistro. Success was within his grasp, hope within all their grasps, change on the very eve of being.

He took his seat and ordered a pale, daffodil-colored wine, the best the house had to offer, and two glasses, and sat. The table and chairs overlooked the debris of the parade route. A breeze stirred the afternoon.

The dewy chill of the wine carafe had long evaporated when Chirek finally stood. He looked out over the streets as they began to fill again, the memorial rites finishing, Choyan going back to their daily routines. He did not know what to think. She either was not coming, or could not come.

The Choya’i had disappeared.

Chapter Two

Qativar watched the three Choyan being marched off. Wrapped in the robes of the office of High Prelate for the ceremonies, there was little he could do but wonder at their motives. He thought he had seen Miska among the throng before the attack, and the sighting was enough to pique his curiosity. He would give the invocation, then murmur that he ought to return to the infirm elder’s side and leave. He knew Jorana would question the three as soon as she returned to the palace—and he knew that she would not return until the ceremonies had finished and her charges were safely on palace grounds again. If he hurried, he’d have time.

There was a glint off the war memorial he found disturbing. He squinted against the glare, then smoothed the lines on his face. Never must he appear bored or unhappy. Never must he broadcast his real intentions or feelings toward the throne. Never must he give any impression that he was other than he appeared to be, some religious hide-bound fool, determined to live and die in the harness of servitude to the God-in-all.

He lifted his chin to watch the humankind being helped awkwardly onto the podium, his stride something more than a child's, but the step still a little tall for him. There was nothing in his stare, he knew, that would reveal the extreme distaste he felt upon looking at the creature. And, indeed, he told himself, he might find a use for the alien yet. Already it had had some effect on the love the commons had for the tezar Palaton.

The innate xenophobia of the planet-bound Choyan might be manipulated to an even greater advantage. Wheels within wheels, he thought, and turned to take his place as the ceremonies commenced. Returning to his earlier strategy, he made a graceful departure as soon as he could.

Once within the palace, he shed his robes in the temporary rooms assigned to him. Qativar did not take the time to sit and check his monitors. He did a quick- screen analysis and then went to the hidden inner corridors of the palace, corridors only the priests knew, though there were undoubtedly corridors only the emperor himself knew about and could use.

Smiling to himself, Qativar stepped into the narrow, dusty confines. Wouldn’t Panshinea and the heir be confounded to find out that their own keep was not as safe and impenetrable as they hoped? To discover that their own priesthood had, through the centuries, worm- holed its way throughout the stone walls. These secret ways could not be used without bahdur to screen the user, but what was a priest without bahdur? A real priest, not one of the sniffling conveyors of pap like Chirek and his brethren.

He found the corridor he needed, leading to the old subterranean holding cells. Once upon a time, the priesthood, to rein in the emperors, must have found it necessary to make this way downward. It was more than convenient to have it now. The stone moved reluctantly to let him into the cell area. Qativar looked up quickly, saw that he was beyond the monitoring system, and allowed himself a smile. He put a hand in his vest, found a vial there, and palmed it.

The three prisoners looked up as he entered, wary, commons, eyes wide and nostrils slightly flared as if they could see and smell the bahdur which fueled him. They withdrew behind the prison barrier, sullen, uncooperative.

- Qativar let a pleasant expression flow over his face. I’m here to help, he said. Father Chirek sent me.

The one closest to him relaxed, dropped his hand, and approached, saying, When are you getting us out of here?

Soon. He rolled the vial in his fingers. How much to use? How much would free their tongues—and how much would kill them? He was still working on that. Qativar made a decision. It mattered little one way or the other. "They have bahdur, he said. You won’t be able to stand against it. You know it."

They looked at him apprehensively. He flashed the vial in their faces. I have something which will protect you. They will not be able to force you into betrayal.

The three looked among themselves, and then shrugged. We’ll take that chance.

And destroy everything you’ve worked for? No. Don’t let it come to that. Push the water canister here. Split it amongst you, three ways. Qativar waggled fingers at the carafe.

They seemed hesitant, until the youngest said, "I’ll try it. I don’t want them with their fingers in my brains." He wore a scarf defiantly woven in amongst the scallops of his horns. He toed the canister through the barrier.

It set off no alarms. Qativar emptied the vial into it, swished it around, and pushed it back. They drank, deeply, and he waited. The first two dropped, even as the third finished his portion. He stood, scared, as they toppled.

What the—

Pay no attention. It’s temporary. Look at me. Listen to me. Qativar approached the barrier, pressing its matrix as close as he dared without interrupting the beams. Who hired you? And why?

I— Confusion supplanted the defiant expression. The Choya put his hand up, childlike, entangling his fingers in his colorful scarf. What did you say?

Qativar fought to keep the impatience out of his voices. He was running out of time. Jorana, ever efficient Jorana, would be here soon. Who hired you?

I ... can’t tell you. It wouldn’t be His thin

voices trailed off. He looked at the floor, at his cellmates. What’s wrong with them? He began to breathe roughly. What’s wrong with them!

They’re dead, and so will you be unless you answer me.

The Choya looked at him, brown eyes the color of newly turned earth wide and frightened. I can’t— He choked. I look for the Bringer of Change— His knees buckled. He began to topple like an old felled tree, instead of the green young sapling he was, and writhed to death on the floor of the cell, still mouthing prophecies of the underground sect.

Qativar made a tsking noise through his teeth. He turned away and found the passageway, squeezing into its narrow tunnel once more. He thought he heard the grind of machinery as the lift brought someone down to the level, and the emergence of boot steps upon the flooring as he disappeared.

Unsettled, Palaton could not relax. Without his natural powers, he’d felt naked under attack. More than naked, and it did not help that he’d felt Rand react in their defense.

What happened out there? He roamed the study, the room small and secured, encased within the massive Choyan palace which had become their stronghold.

Rand felt drained. He could not stand, but he did not want to sit and look up at the much taller alien, so he leaned a hip on a marble sculpture in the comer. Its coolness insinuated itself through the fabric of his clothes. Rand shook his head. I don’t know.

Palaton swung toward him, anger washing over his features. How could you not know? I felt it, and he thumped his chest, and I feel nothing anymore, I’m like stone in here.

It’s like adrenaline, Rand told him. You were threatened, I reacted.

"And spilled bahdur like water, the pilot threw back at him, his dual voices rich with accusation. Anyone out there might have felt it."

It was not that the Choyan were not used to feeling bahdur in its many paranormal forms, for they were gifted with it, they valued it—but Rand knew what Palaton feared was that they would realize it had come from Rand, and not from himself. If his fellows knew that he was barren of the powers which had made him not only a tezar, but a great one, and the heir to the throne, he would be stripped of everything at a time when Cho could little afford to be without leadership. He kept Rand with him, because the young man could not help but project the aura of the bahdur and anyone who knew Palaton knew the flavor of his abilities. The assumption that it came from the pilot would naturally follow.

Rand spread his hands. It uses me. I had no way of channeling the flow—you felt the strength of it. For a moment there, I thought you were taking it back, that we’d accomplished a transfer.

The Choya looked at him levelly. So did I, he said. He cleared his throat. But we didn’t, and so what remains for me is to find a way to train you to use what you have. I can’t afford any more incidents. Palaton leaned on a chair back, his strong fingers gripping the carved wood.

Gathon rapped on the doors and leaned in. Your private appointment is here.

Palaton drew himself up. Ah. Send her in. Gathon hesitated, looking at Rand, but the pilot added, He can stay.

The minister nodded gravely and bowed out. He moved with the stiff grace of the aged. His presence had scarcely left the doorway when Vihtirne of Sky swept in, her handsome young aide close behind. Both were typical of Skies, flashy, dark hair, luxurious manes which hung nearly to their waists, although Asten had his topknot shaved, to give him a stand-up fringe of thick, bushy hair. She had black eyes, his smoldered dark brown, and both wore deep, rich blue clothes which accentuated their coloring. Rand could not judge Choyan age. He knew they lived nearly a hundred and eighty years, but he did guess that Vihtirne, although still in her prime, had edged into middle age. She did not have Jorana’s sharp edged prettiness.

She shot Rand a look of keen disapproval. I was led to believe this was private business, she said, taking the chair Asten held out to her. He took up a stance behind her, frowning slightly. She spoke Trade out of a desire to humiliate Rand, he thought.

It is. Palaton answered smoothly in Trade, and now the conversation would be continued in that, but it wasn’t necessary. With bahdur, Rand understood Choyan although he couldn’t read much of it.

You sent for me, Vihtirne said, her tone implying that she came because she wanted to, not because he exerted any undue force.

It’s been brought to the attention of the throne that your House has been quietly going through the courts, attempting to take back your water recycling patent. The House developed it. We have a right to earnings from the procedure. It was stolen from an incompetent old fool—

It was given over to public domain. Palaton twisted slightly to pick up a paper from his desk. There isn’t a county that doesn’t depend on your system. Although the courts have been unable to stop your petitioning, the throne can. I’ve been instructed to tell you, Vihtirne, that the patent will not be recovered by your House. It stays as it is, for the common good.

Her delicate, translucent skin, accented by the implanted jewelry many Choyan favored, flushed heavily. You have no right.

Emperor Panshinea has every right. I’m merely enacting his wishes. As for your other petition, and Palaton looked down at the paper in his hand. Colonization is rejected out of hand.

Vihtirne kicked herself out of her chair. You won’t be in the seat of the heir long, Palaton. You or Panshinea.

I take it the spirit of conciliation offered from the House of Sky after the Two Day War was either false or has worn thin.

You can take it that as soon as Nedar returns, you will have a rival for the throne.

That clearly took Palaton aback, as it did Rand. Vihtirne could not help but notice it. Oh, yes, she gloated. He didn’t die on Arizar. He returned to Cho, to me, to heal. 1 know that colonization can succeed off-world, and I know that our Houses need those opportunities. So deny them now if you wish. There will come a future when you can’t. Nedar is in the ascendant. And when he has the evidence he needs of your treachery on Arizar, there won’t be any Choyan, not even the Godless, who support you. With that, she wheeled in a flourish of blue silk and left, Asten following in her wake.

Palaton’s face closed as though he attempted to settle himself.

Rand said, "If she knows about Arizar, Nedar must still be alive."

He has to be. But where is he now? Who hides him? If Vihtirne still had him, she’d have brought him here herself. Palaton looked at him. "I should rejoice that a fellow tezar returns, but I can’t find it in me."

"If there was ever bad bahdur, he has it."

The power is pure. It’s the user,