Towers of Midnight

by Robert Jordan; Brandon Sanderson

  This test was administered clad in the Light. She began taking off her dress.

  "I will instruct you," Rosil said. "You will see this sign upon the ground." She raised her fingers, forming weaves that made a glowing symbol in the air. A six-pointed star, two overlapping triangles.

  Saerin embraced the source and wove a weave of Spirit. Nynaeve suppressed the urge to embrace the Source herself.

  Only a little longer, she thought. And then nobody will be able to doubt me.

  Saerin touched her with the weave of Spirit. "Remember what must be remembered," she murmured.

  That weave had something to do with memory. What was its purpose? The six-pointed star hovered in Nynaeve's vision.

  "When you see that sign, you will go to it immediately," Rosil said, "Go at a steady pace, neither hurrying nor hanging back. Only when you

  reach it may you embrace the Source. The weaving required must begin immediately, and you may not leave that sign until it is completed."

  "Remember what must be remembered," Saerin said again.

  "When the weave is complete," Rosil said, "you will see that sign again, marking the way you must go, again at a steady pace, without hesitation."

  "Remember what must be remembered."

  "One hundred times you will weave, in the order that you have been given and in perfect composure."

  "Remember what must be remembered," Saerin said one final time.

  Nynaeve felt the weaving of Spirit settle into her. It was rather like Healing. She removed her dress and shift as the other sisters knelt beside the ter'angreal, performing complex weaves of all Five Powers. They caused it to glow brightly, the colors on its surface shifting and changing. Rosil cleared her throat, and Nynaeve blushed, handing her the pile of garments, then took off her Great Serpent ring and placed it on top, followed by Lan's ring—which she normally wore around her neck.

  Rosil took the clothing. The other sisters were completely absorbed in their work. The ter'angreal began glowing a pure white in the center, then started to revolve slowly, grinding against the stone.

  Nynaeve took a deep breath, striding forward. She paused before the ter'angreal, stepped through and . . .

  . . . and where was she? Nynaeve frowned. This didn't look like the Two Rivers. She stood in a village made of huts. Waves lapped against a sandy beach to her left, and the village ran up a slope toward a rocky shelf to her right. A distant mountain towered above.

  An island of some sort. The air was humid, the breeze calm. People walked between huts, calling good-naturedly to one another. A few stopped to stare at her. She looked down at herself, realizing for the first time that she was naked. She blushed furiously. Who had taken her clothing? When she found the person responsible she'd switch them so soundly, they wouldn't be able to sit for weeks!

  A robe was hanging from a nearby clothesline. She forced herself to remain calm as she walked over and pulled it free. She would find its owner and pay them. She couldn't very well walk about without a stitch. She threw the robe on over her head.

  The ground shook, suddenly. The gentle waves grew louder, crashing against the beach. Nynaeve gasped, steadying herself against the clothesline pole. Above, the mountain began spurting smoke and ashes.

  Nynaeve clutched the pole as the rocky shelf nearby began to break

  apart, boulders tumbling down the incline. People yelled. She had to do

  something! As she looked about, she saw a six-pointed star carved into the

  ground. She wanted to run for it, but she knew she needed to walk carefully.

  Keeping calm was difficult. As she walked, her heart fluttered with rror. She was going to be crushed! She reached the star pattern just as a large shower of stones rumbled toward her, smashing huts. Despite her fear Nynaeve quickly formed the correct weave—a weave of Air that formed a wall. She set it in front of herself, and the stones thudded against the air, forced back.

  There were hurt people in the village. She turned from the star pattern to help, but as she did, she saw the same six-pointed star woven in reeds and hanging from the door of a nearby hut. She hesitated.

  She could not fail. She walked to the hut and passed through the doorway.

  Then she froze. What was she doing in this dark, cold cavern? And why was she wearing this robe of thick, scratchy fibers?

  She had completed the first of the hundred weaves. She knew this, but nothing else. Frowning to herself, she walked through the cavern. Light shone through cracks in the ceiling, and she saw a greater pool of it ahead. The way out.

  She walked from the cavern to find that she was in the Waste. She raised a hand to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight. There wasn't a soul in sight. She walked forward, feet crunching on weeds and scalded by hot stones.

  The heat was overwhelming. Soon each step was exhausting. Fortunately, some ruins lay ahead. Shade! She wanted to run for it, but she had to remain calm. She walked up to the stones, and her feet fell on rock shaded by a broken wall. It was so cool, she sighed in relief.

  A pattern of bricks lay nearby in the ground, and they made a six-pointed star. Unfortunately, that star was back out in the sunlight. She reluctantly left the shade and walked toward the pattern.

  Drums thumped in the distance. Nynaeve spun. Disgusting brown-furred creatures began to climb over a nearby hill, carrying axes that dripped with red blood. The Trollocs looked wrong to her. She'd seen Trollocs before, though she didn't remember where. These were different. A new breed, perhaps? With thicker fur, eyes hidden in the recesses of their faces.

  Nynaeve walked faster, but did not break into a run. It was important to keep her calm. That was completely stupid. Why would she need to—or want to—keep herself from running when there were Trollocs nearby? If she died because she wasn't willing to hasten her step, it would be her own fault.

  Keep composure. Don't move too quickly.

  She maintained her steady pace, reaching the six-pointed star as the Trollocs drew close. She began the weave she was required to make and split off a thread of Fire. She sent an enormous spray of heat away from her, burning the nearest of the beasts to cinders.

  Jaw set against her fear, she crafted the rest of the required weave. She split her weaves a half-dozen times and finished the complicated thing in mere moments.

  She set it in place, then nodded. There. Other Trollocs were coming and she burned them away with a wave of her hand.

  The six-pointed star was carved into the side of an archway of stone. She walked toward it, trying to keep from looking nervously over her shoulder. More Trollocs were coming. More than she could possibly kill.

  She reached the archway and stepped through.

  Nynaeve finished the forty-seventh weave, which caused the sounds of bells in the air. She was exhausted. She'd had to make this weave while standing on top of an impossibly narrow tower hundreds of feet in the air. Wind buffeted her, threatening to blow her free.

  An archway appeared below, in the dark night air. It seemed to grow right out of the pillar's side a dozen feet below her, parallel to the ground, its opening toward the sky. It held the six-pointed star.

  Gritting her teeth, she leaped off the spire and fell through the archway.

  She landed in a puddle. Her clothing was gone. What had happened to it? She stood up, growling to herself. She was angry. She didn't know why, but someone had done . . . something to her.

  She was so tired. That was their fault, whoever they were. As she focused on that thought, it became more clear to her. She couldn't remember what they'd done, but they were definitely to blame. She had cuts across both of her arms. Had she been whipped? The cuts hurt something fierce.

  Dripping wet, she looked around. She'd completed forty-seven of the hundred weaves. She knew that, but nothing else. Other than the fact that somebody very badly wanted her to fail.

  She wasn't going to let them win. She rose out of the puddle, determined to be calm, and found some clothing nearby. It was garishly co
lored, bright pink and yellow with a generous helping of red. It seemed an insult. She put it on anyway.

  She walked down a path in the bog, stepping around sinkholes and pools of stagnant water, until she found a six-pointed star drawn in the mud. She began the next weave, which would make a burning blue star shoot into the air.

  Something bit at her neck. She slapped her hand at it, killing a black-fly. Well, no surprise that she'd find those in this dank swamp. She would

  be glad to—

  Another bite on her arm. She slapped at it. The very air started to buzz, flies zipping around her. Nynaeve gritted her teeth, continuing the weave. More and more bites prickled on her arms. She couldn't kill them all. Could she get rid of the flies with a weave? She began a weave of Air to create a breeze around her, but was interrupted as she heard screams.

  It was faint over the buzzing of the flies, but it sounded like a child trapped in the bog! Nynaeve took a step toward the sounds and opened her mouth to call, but blackflies swarmed into her mouth, choking her. They got at her eyes, and she had to squeeze them shut.

  That buzzing. The screams. The biting. Light, they were in her throat! In her lungs!

  Finish the weave. You must finish the weave.

  She continued, somehow, despite the pain. The sound of the insects was so loud that she could barely hear the whoosh of the fiery star as it blasted into the air. She quickly wove a weave to blow the flies away, and once she did, she looked about. She coughed and trembled. She could feel the flies sticking to the inside of her throat. She didn't see any child in danger. Had it been a trick of her ears?

  She did see another six-pointed star, above a door carved into a tree. She walked toward it as the flies buzzed around her again. Calm. She had to be calm! Why? It made no sense! She did it anyway, walking with eyes closed as the flies swarmed her. She reached out, feeling for the door and pulling it open. She stepped through.

  She pulled to a stop inside the building, wondering why she was coughing so much. Was she ill? She leaned against the wall, exhausted, angry. Her iegs were covered in scrapes, and her arms itched with some kind of insect bites. She groaned, looking down at her garish clothing. What could possibly have possessed her to wear red, yellow and pink together?

  She stood up with a sigh and continued down the rickety hallway. The planks that made up the floor rattled as she walked, and the plaster on the walls was broken and crumbling.

  She reached a doorway and peeked in. The small chamber contained four small brass beds; the mattresses had straw peeking from the seams.

  Each bed bore a young child clutching a ratty blanket. Two of them were coughing, and all four looked pale and sickly.

  Nynaeve gasped, hurrying into the room. She knelt beside the first child, a boy of perhaps four years. She checked his eyes, then told him to cough as she listened at his chest. He had the creeping sickness.

  "Who is caring for you?" Nynaeve demanded.

  "Mistress Mala runs the orphanage," the child said in a weak voice. "We haven't seen her in a long time."

  "Please," a young girl said from the next bed. She had bloodshot eyes, her skin so pale it was practically white. "Some water? Could I have some water?" She trembled.

  The other two were crying. Pitiful, weak sounds. Light! There wasn't a single window in the room, and Nynaeve saw roaches scuttling under the beds. Who would leave children in such conditions?

  "Hush," she said. "I'm here now. I'll care for you."

  She'd need to channel to Heal them. Then . . .

  No, she thought. / can't do that. I can't channel until I reach the star.

  She would brew draughts, then. Where was her herb pouch? She looked around the room, searching for a source of water.

  She froze; there was another room across the hallway. Had that been there before? A rug on its floor bore the symbol of the six-pointed star. She rose. The children whimpered.

  "I'll return," Nynaeve said, stepping toward that room. Each step twisted her heart. She was abandoning them. But no, she was only walking into the next room. Wasn't she?

  She reached the rug and began to weave. Just this one quick weaving, then she could help. She found herself crying as she worked.

  I've been here before, she thought. Or a place like it. A situation such as this.

  She found herself more and more angry. How could she channel with those children calling for her? They were dying.

  She completed the weave, then watched it blow out jets of air, ruffling her dress. She reached for her braid and held it as a door appeared on the side of the room. A small glass window was set into the top, and it bore the six-pointed star.

  She had to continue. She heard the weeping children. Tears in her eyes, heart breaking, she walked to the door.

  It grew worse. She left people to be drowned, beheaded and buried alive-One of the worst was when she had to form a weave while villagers were consumed by enormous spiders with bright red fur and crystalline eyes. She hated spiders.

  Sometimes she would appear naked. That stopped bothering her. Though she couldn't remember anything specific but the number of the weave she was on, she understood—somehow—that nudity was nothing comparedd to the terrors she'd seen.

  She stumbled through a stone archway, memories of a house on fire fading from her mind. This was the eighty-first weave. She remembered that. That and her fury.

  She wore a singed dress of sackcloth. How had she burned it? She stood up straight, holding her head, arms throbbing, back feeling whipped, legs and toes bearing cuts and scratches. She was in the Two Rivers. Except, it wasn't the Two Rivers. Not as she remembered it. Some of the buildings smoldered, still burning.

  "They're coming again!" a voice yelled. Master al'Vere. Why was he holding a sword? People she knew, people dear to her—Perrin, Master al'Vere, Mistress al'Donel, Aerie Botteger—stood beside a low wall, all holding weapons. Some waved to her.

  "Nynaeve!" Perrin called. "Shadowspawn! We need your help!"

  Enormous shadows moved on the other side of the wall. Shadowspawn of terrible size—not Trollocs, but something far worse. She could hear roars.

  She had to help! She moved toward Perrin, but froze as she saw— across the Green in the other direction—a six-pointed star painted on a hillside.

  "Nynaeve!" Perrin sounded desperate. He began striking at something that reached over the wall, tentacles of midnight black. Perrin chopped at them with an axe as one snatched up Aerie and pulled him—screaming— into the darkness.

  Nynaeve began to walk toward the star. Calm. Measured.

  That was stupid. An Aes Sedai had to be calm. She knew that. But an Aes Sedai also needed to be able to act, to do what was needed to help those who needed it. It didn't matter what it cost her personally. These people needed her.

  So she started to run.

  Even that didn't feel like enough. She ran to get to the star, but still she left people she loved to fight alone. She knew she couldn't channel until she reached the six-pointed star. That made absolutely no sense. Shadowspawn were attacking. She had to channel!

  She embraced the Source, and something seemed to try to stop her. Something like a shield. She pushed it aside with difficulty and Power

  flooded her. She began flinging fire at the monster, burning off a tentacle as it grabbed for Perrin.

  Nynaeve continued throwing fire until she reached the six-pointed star. There, she wove the eighty-first weave, which created three rings of Fire in the air.

  She worked furiously, attacking at the same time. She didn't know the point of creating this weave, but she knew she had to finish it. So she in-creased the strength of the weave, making the burning rings extremely large. Then she began hurling them at the creatures. Massive halos of) flame crashed into the dark things, killing them.

  There was a six-pointed star on the roof of Master al 'Veres inn. Had it been burned there? Nynaeve ignored it, venting her anger at the things with tentacles.

  No. This is important. Mo
re important than the Two Rivers. I must go on.

  Feeling like an utter coward—but knowing it was the right thing to do—she ran to the inn, passing through the doorway.

  Nynaeve lay weeping on the ground beside a broken archway. She was on the last of the hundred weaves.

  She could barely move. Her face was streaked with tears. She had hollow memories of fleeing battles, of leaving children to die. Of never being able to do enough.

  Her shoulder bled. A wolf's bite. Her legs were flayed, as if she'd walked through a long patch of thorns. All across her body were burns and blisters. She was naked.

  She rose to her knees, which were scraped and bleeding. Her braid ended in a smoldering stump about a handspan below her shoulders. She retched to the side, shivering.

  So sick, so weak. How could she continue?

  No. They will not beat me.

  She slowly raised herself to her feet. She was in a small room, harsh sunlight leaking through cracks between the wallboards. A bundle of white cloth lay on the ground. She picked it up, unfolding it. It was a white dress with the colors of the Ajahs banded at the bottom. The clothing of an Accepted in the White Tower.

  She dropped it. "I am Aes Sedai," she said, stepping over the robe and pushing open the door. Better to go naked than to give in to that lie.

  Outside the door, she found another dress, this time yellow. That was more proper. She allowed herself the time to put it on, though she couldn't

  stop trembling, and her fingers were so tired she could barely make them

  work. Her blood stained the cloth.

  Dress on, she inspected her surroundings. She was on a hillside in the Blight, the ground covered in weeds that bore the distinctive dark marks. Why was there a shack in the Blight, and why had she been inside of it?

  She felt so tired. She wanted to go back into the shack and sleep.

  No. She would continue. She trudged up the hill. At its top, she looked down on a land covered in broken rubble and pockets of darkness. Lakes, if they could be called that. The liquid looked thick and oily. Dark shapes moved within them. Malkier, she thought, stunned that she recognized the place. The Seven Towers, only rubble now. The Thousand Lakes corrupted. The place of Lan's heritage.