Towers of Midnight

by Robert Jordan; Brandon Sanderson

  He knew this nightmare was not real. And yet, how could one not feel the horror of it? To the west, Dragonmount was erupting, plumes of angry smoke billowing into the sky. The entire mountain seemed aflame, rivers of red surging down its sides. Perrin could feel it shaking, dying. Buildings cracked, trembled, melted, shattered. People died, crushed by stones or burned to death.

  No. He would not be drawn in. The ground around him changed from broken cobbles to neat tiles; the servants' entrance to the White Tower. Perrin forced himself to his feet, creating a staff to use in limping.

  He didn't destroy the nightmare; he had to find Slayer. In this terrible place, Perrin might be able to gain an advantage. Slayer was very practiced in Tel'aran'rhiod, but perhaps—if Perrin had luck on his side—the man was skilled enough to have avoided nightmares in the past. Perhaps he would be startled by this one, taken in.

  Reluctantly, Perrin weakened his resolve, letting himself be drawn into the nightmare. Slayer would be close. Perrin stumbled across the street, staying far from the building with the lava boiling from its windows. If was hard to keep himself from giving in to the screams of horror and pain. The calls for help.

  There, Perrin thought, reaching an alley. Slayer stood inside, head bowed, a hand up against one wall. The ground beside the man ended in a rift, boiling magma at the bottom. People clung to the edge of the gap,, screaming. Slayer ignored them. Where his hand touched the wall, it started to change from whitewashed brick to the gray stone of the White Tower's interior.

  The ter'angreal still hung at Slayer's waist. Perrin had to move quickly-

  The wall is melting from the heat, Perrin thought, focusing on the wall beside Slayer. It was easier, here, to change things like that—it was playing into the world the nightmare created.

  Slayer cursed, pulling his hand back as the wall grew red-hot. The ground beneath him rumbled, and his eyes opened wide in alarm. He spun as a rift opened beside him, projected there by Perrin. In that moment, Perrin saw that Slayer believed—for just a fraction of a section—that the nightmare was real. Slayer stepped away from the rift, raising a hand against its heat, believing it real.

  Slayer vanished in the blink of an eye, appearing beside those hanging above the rift. The nightmare incorporated him, sucking him into its whims, making him play a role in its terrors. It nearly took Perrin, too. He felt himself waver, nearly responding to the heat. But no. Hopper was dying. He would not fail!

  Perrin imagined himself as someone else. Azi al'Thone, one of the Two Rivers men. Perrin put himself in clothing like that he'd seen on the street, a vest and a white shirt, finer trousers than any man would wear while working in Emond's Field. This step was almost too much for him. His heart beat faster, and he stumbled as the ground rumbled. If he let himself be caught up completely in the nightmare, he'd end up like Slayer.

  No, Perrin thought, forcing himself to hold to his memory of Faile in his heart. His home. His face might change, the world might shake, but that was still home.

  He ran to the edge of the rift, above the heat, acting as if he were just another part of the nightmare. He screamed in terror, reaching down to help those who were falling. Though he reached for someone else, Slayer cursed and grabbed his arm, using it to heave himself upward.

  And as he passed, Perrin grabbed the ter'angreal. Slayer crawled over him, reaching the relative safety of the alley. Covertly, Perrin made a knife in his other hand.

  'Burn me," Slayer growled. "I hate these things." The area around them suddenly changed to tiles.

  Perrin stood up, holding a staff to steady himself and trying to appear terrified—it wasn't hard. He began to stumble past Slayer. In that mo-ment, the hard-faced man looked down and saw the ter'angreal in Perrin's Angers.

  His eyes opened wide. Perrin rammed his hand forward, plunging the knife into Slayer's stomach. The man screamed, lurching backward, hand to his belly. Blood soaked his fingers.

  Slayer clenched his teeth. The nightmare bent around him. It would

  burst soon. Slayer righted himself, lowering his bloodied hand, eyes alight with anger.

  Perrin felt unsteady on his feet, even with the staff. He'd been wounded so badly. The ground trembled. A rift opened in the ground next to him, steaming with heat and lava, like . . .

  Perrin started. Like Dragonmount. He looked down at the ter'angreal in his fingers. The fear-dreams of people are strong. Hopper's voice whispered in Perrin's mind. So very strong. . . .

  As Slayer advanced on him, Perrin gritted his teeth and hurled the ter'angreal into the river of lava.

  "No!" Slayer screamed, reality returning around him. The nightmare burst, its last vestiges vanishing. Perrin was left kneeling on the cold tiled floor of a small hallway.

  A short distance to his right, a melted lump of metal lay on the ground. Perrin smiled.

  Like Slayer, the ter'angreal was here from the real world. And like a person, it could be broken and destroyed here. Above them, the violet dome had vanished.

  Slayer growled, then stepped forward and kicked Perrin in the stomach. His chest wound flared. Another kick followed. Perrin was growing dizzy.

  Go, Young Bull, Hopper sent, his voice so weak. Flee.

  I can't leave you!

  And yet. . . I must leave you.

  No!

  You have found your answer. Seek Boundless. He will. . . explain . . . that answer.

  Perrin blinked through tears as another kick landed. He screamed, raggedly, as Hopper's sending—so comforting, so familiar—faded from his mind.

  Gone.

  Perrin screamed in anguish. Voice ragged, eyes stained with tears, Perrin willed himself out of the wolf dream and away. Fleeing like an utter coward.

  Egwene awoke with a sigh. Eyes still closed, she breathed in. The battle with Mesaana had left her mind feeling strained—indeed, she had a splitting headache. She had quite nearly been defeated there. Her plans had worked, but the weight of what had happened left her feeling contemplative, even a little overwhelmed.

  Still, it had been a great victory. She would have to do a search of the White Tower and find the woman who, when awakened, now had the mind of a child. She knew, somehow, that this was not something Mesaana would recover from. She'd known it even before Bair had spoken her words.

  Egwene opened her eyes to a comfortably dark room, making plans to

  gather the Hall and explain why Shevan and Carlinya would never awaken.

  She spared a moment to mourn for them as she sat up. She'd explained to

  them the dangers, but still she felt as if she'd failed them. And Nicola, always

  trying to go faster than she should. She shouldn't have been there. It—

  Egwene hesitated. What was that smell? Hadn't she left a lamp burning? It must have gone out. Egwene embraced the Source and wove a ball of light to hang above her hand. She was stunned by the scene it revealed.

  The translucent curtains of her bed had been sprayed red with blood, and five bodies littered the floor. Three were in black. One was an unfamiliar young man in the tabard of the Tower Guard. The last wore a fine white and red coat and trousers.

  Gawyn!

  Egwene threw herself from the bed and knelt beside him, ignoring the pain of her headache. He was breathing shallowly, and had a gaping wound in his side. She wove Earth, Spirit and Air into a Healing, but she was far from talented in this area. She worked on, in a panic. Some of his color returned and the wounds began to close, but she couldn't do nearly enough.

  "Help!" she yelled. "The Amyrlin needs help!"

  Gawyn stirred. "Egwene," he whispered, his eyes fluttering open.

  "Hush, Gawyn. You're going to be fine. Aid! To the Amyrlin!"

  "You . . . didn't leave enough lights on," he whispered.

  "What?"

  "The message I sent ..."

  "We never got a message," she said. "Be still. Help!"

  "Nobody is near. I yelled. The lamps ... it is good . . . you didn't. . ." He smiled d
azedly. "I love you."

  "Lie still," she said. Light! She was crying.

  The assassins weren't your Forsaken, though," he said, words slurring. "I was right."

  And he had been; what were those unfamiliar black uniforms? Sean-chan?

  I should be dead, she realized. If Gawyn hadn't stopped these assassins, she'd have been murdered in her sleep and would have vanished from Tel'aran'rhiod. She'd never have killed Mesaana.

  Suddenly, she felt a fool, any sense of victory completely evaporating.

  "I'm sorry," Gawyn said closing his eyes, "for disobeying you." He was slipping.

  "It's all right, Gawyn," she said, blinking away tears. "I'm going to bond you now. It's the only way."

  His grip on her arm became slightly more firm. "No. Not unless... you want. . ."

  "Fool," she said, preparing the weaves. "Of course I want you as my Warder. I always have."

  "Swear it."

  "I swear it. I swear that I want you as my Warder, and as my husband" She rested her hand on his forehead and laid the weave on him. "I love you."

  He gasped. Suddenly, she could feel his emotions, and his pain, as if they were her own. And, in return, she knew that he could feel the truth of her words.

  Perrin opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He was crying. Did people cry in their sleep when they dreamed normal dreams?

  "Light be praised," Faile said. He opened his eyes and found that she knelt next to him, as did someone else. Masuri?

  The Aes Sedai grabbed Perrin's head in her hands, and Perrin felt the icy cold of a Healing wash across him. The wounds in his leg and across his chest closed.

  "We tried to Heal you while you slept," Faile said, cradling Perrin's head in her lap. "But Edarra stopped us."

  "It is not to be done. Wouldn't work anyway." That was the Wise One's voice. Perrin could hear her in the tent somewhere. He blinked his eyes. He lay on his pallet. It was dim outside.

  "It's been longer than an hour," he said. "You should have left by now.'

  "Hush," Faile said. "Gateways are working again, and almost everyone is through. Only a few thousand soldiers remain—Aiel and Two Rivers men, mostly. You think they'd leave, you think I'd leave, without you?

  He sat up, wiping his brow. It was damp with sweat. He tried to make it vanish, as he had in the wolf dream. He failed, of course. Edarra stood by the far wall, behind him. She watched him with a measuring gaze.

  He turned to Faile. "We have to get away," he said, voice ragged. "Slayer will not be working alone. There will be a trap, probably an army. Someone with an army. They might try to strike at any moment."

  "Can you stand?" Faile asked.

  "Yes." He felt weak, but he managed, with Faile's help. The flap rustled and Chiad entered with a waterskin. Perrin took it gratefully, drinking. It slaked his thirst, but pain still burned inside of him.

  Hoopper. . . He lowered the waterskin. In the wolf dream, death was final. Where would Hopper's soul go?

  I must keep going, Perrin thought. See my people to safety. He walked to the tent flaps. His legs were already more steady.

  "I see your sorrow, my husband," Faile said, walking beside him, hand on his arm. "What happened?"

  "I lost a friend," Perrin said softly. "For the second time."

  "Hopper?" She smelled fearful.

  "Yes."

  "Oh, Perrin, I'm sorry." Her voice was tender as they stepped out of the tent. It stood, alone, on the meadow that had once held his forces. The brown and yellow grass still bore the impressions of tents, paths worn down to the mud in a large crisscross pattern. It looked like a layout for a town, sections stamped down for buildings, lines cut to become roadways. But it was nearly empty of people now.

  The rumbling sky was dark. Chiad held a lantern up to illuminate the grass in front of them. Several groups of soldiers waited. Maidens raised their spears high when they saw him, then banged them on their shields. A sign of approval.

  The Two Rivers men were there as well, gathering around as word spread. How much could they guess of what he'd done tonight? Two Rivers men cheered, and Perrin nodded to them, though he felt on edge. The wrongness was still there, in the air. He'd assumed that the dreamspike was causing it, but he had apparently been wrong. The air smelled like the Blight.

  The Asha'man stood where the center of the camp had once stood. They turned when Perrin approached, saluting, hands to chests. They looked to be in good shape, despite just having moved almost the entire camp.

  Get us out of here, men," Perrin said to them. "I don't want to spend another minute in this place."

  "Yes, my Lord," Grady said, sounding eager. He got a look of concen-tration on his face, and a small gateway opened beside him.

  Ihrough," Perrin said, waving to the Two Rivers men. They crossed with a quick step. The Maidens and Gaul waited with Perrin, as did Elyas.

  Light, Perrin thought, scanning the field where they'd camped. I feel like a mouse being eyed by a hawk.

  "I don't suppose you could give us some light," Perrin said to Neald, standing beside the gateway.

  The Asha'man cocked his head, and a group of glowing globes ap-peared around him. They zipped up into the air around the meadow.

  They illuminated nothing. Just the abandoned campsite. The last of the troops finally filed through. Perrin and Faile crossed, Gaul, Elyas and the Maidens going after him. Finally, the channelers passed through, walking in a cluster.

  The air on the other side of the gateway was cool, and smelled refreshingly clean. Perrin hadn't realized how much the evil smell had been bothering him. He inhaled deeply. They were on a rise, some distance from a splash of lights beside the river that was probably Whitebridge.

  His troops cheered as he stepped through. The great camp was already mostly set up, guard posts in place. The gateway had been opened into a large area, marked off with posts, near the back.

  They'd escaped. The cost had been great, but they'd escaped.

  Graendal sat back in her chair. The leather cushions were stuffed with the down of the fledgling kallir, which during this Age lived only in Shara. She barely noticed the luxury.

  The servant—one Moridin had loaned her—was on one knee before her. His eyes were tempestuous, and only half-lowered. This one was under control, but barely. He knew he was unique.

  He also seemed to know that his failure would fall upon her shoulders. Graendal did not sweat. She was too controlled for that. The shutters on the window in the wide, red-tiled room burst open suddenly, a cold sea wind blowing through the chamber and putting out several of the lamps. Tendrils of smoke wove up from their wicks.

  She would not fail.

  "Prepare to spring the trap anyway," she commanded.

  "But—" the servant said.

  "Do it, and do not speak back to one of the Chosen, dog."

  The servant lowered his eyes, though there was still a rebellious spark to them.

  Never mind. She still had one tool left to her, one she had positioned so very carefully. One she had prepared for a moment such as this.

  It had to be done carefully. Aybara was ta'veren, and so strongly one as to be frightening. Arrows fired from afar would miss, and in a time of peacful contemplation, he would be alerted and escape.

  She needed a tempest with him at the center of it. And then, the blade would fall. This is not done yet, Fallen Blacksmith. Not by an inch or by a league.

  CHAPTER

  39

  In the Three-fold Land

  Aviendha felt right again. There was a calming perfection to the Three-fold Land. Wet-landers thought the landscape's uniform colors drab, but Aviendha found them beautiful. Simple browns and tans. They were familiar and dependable, not like the wetlands, where both the landscape and the weather were different every time you turned around.

  Aviendha ran forward in the darkening night, each foot falling on dusty ground. For the first time in many months, she felt alone. In the wetlands, she always felt as if she was bei
ng watched by some enemy she could not see or attack.

  Not that the Three-fold Land was safer. Far from it. That shadowed patch beneath the nadra-scruh was the den of a lethal snake. If one brushed the spindly branches, the snake would strike; she had seen five men die from those bites. The den was merely one of the many hazards she passed during her run to Rhuidean. But those dangers were understandable. She could see them, measure them and avoid them. If she died from the snakes bite or fell to the land's heat, the fault would be her own.

  It was always preferable to face the enemy or the danger you could see than to fear the one that hid behind the faces of lying wetlanders.

  She continued running, despite the dimming light. It was good to sweat again. People didn't sweat enough in the wetlands; perhaps that was what made them so unusual. Instead of letting the sun warm them, they sought refreshment. Instead of going to a proper sweat tent to get clean, they submersed themselves in water. That couldn't be healthy.

  She would not lie to herself. Aviendha herself had partaken of those

  luxuries, and she had come to enjoy those baths and the fine dresses

  Elayne forced upon her. One had to acknowledge one's weaknesses before

  one could defeat them. Now, as she ran across the gently sloping earth of

  the Three-fold Land, Aviendha's perspective was restored.

  Finally, she slowed. As tempting as it was to travel in the dark and sleep through the day's heat, it was not wise. A misstep in the dark could end your life. She quickly collected some dead taŁ-brush and some ina'ta bark, then made herself a camp at the side of a tremendous stone.

  Soon she had a fire burning, the orange light reflecting off the rock that towered over her. She'd slain a small shellback earlier, and she unwrapped it, skinned it, then set it up on a spit. Not the most delicate of meals, but satisfactory.

  Aviendha settled down, watching the fire crackle, smelling the meat. Yes, she was glad she hadn't Traveled directly to Rhuidean, instead taking the time—precious though that time was—to run in the Three-fold Land. It helped her see what she had been, and what she had become. Aviendha the Maiden was gone. She had embraced her path as a Wise One, and that brought her honor back. She had purpose again. As a Wise One, she could help lead her people through their most trying time.