Towers of Midnight

by Robert Jordan; Brandon Sanderson

  Androl eventually finished with the straps. He walked over and snipped the string holding the oval piece of leather in place. It retained its shape, and he held it up to the sunlight, inspecting the stitching. The leather was stiff without being brittle. He fit it onto his forearm. Yes, the molding was good.

  He nodded to himself. One of the tricks to life was paying attention to the small details. Focus, make the small things right. If each stitch was secure on an armguard, then it wouldn't fray or snap. That could mean the difference between an archer lasting through a barrage or having to put away his bow.

  One archer wouldn't make a battle. But the small things piled up, one atop another, until they became large things. He finished the armguard by affixing a few permanent ties to its back, so one could bind it in place on

  the arm.

  He took his black coat off the back of his chair. The silver sword pin on the high collar glimmered in the window's sunlight as he did up the buttons. He glanced at himself in the glass's reflection, making certain the coat was straight. Small things were important. Seconds were small things, and if you heaped enough of those on top of one another, they became a man's life.

  He put the armguard on his arm, then pushed open the door to his small workshop and entered the outskirts of the Black Tower's village. Here, clusters of two-storied buildings were arranged much like any small town in Andor. Peaked roofs, thatched, with straight wooden walls, some stone and brick as well. A double line of them ran down the center of the village. Looking only at those, one might have thought he was strolling through New Braem or Grafendale.

  Of course, that required ignoring the men in black coats. They were everywhere, running errands for the M'Hael, going to practice, working on the foundations of the Black Tower structure itself. This place was still a work in progress. A group of soldiers—bearing neither the sword pin nor the red-and-gold Dragon—used the Power to blast a long trough in the ground beside the road. It had been decided that the village needed a canal.

  Androl could see the weaves—mostly Earth—spinning around the soldiers. In the Black Tower, you did as much with the Power as you could. Always training, like men lifting stones to build their strength. Light, how Logain and Taim pushed those lads.

  Androl moved out onto the newly graveled roadway. Much of that gravel bore melted edges from where it had been blasted. They had brought in boulders—through gateways, on weaves of Air—then shattered them

  with explosive weaves. It had been like a war zone, rocks shattering, spray-ing chips. With Power—and training—like that, the Asha'man would be able to reduce city walls to rubble.

  Androl continued on his way. The Black Tower was a place of strange sights, and melted gravel wasn't nearly the strangest of them. Neither were the soldiers tearing up ground, following Androl s own careful surveying. Lately, the strangest sight to him was the children. They ran and played, jumping into the trough left behind by the working soldiers, sliding down its earthen sides, then scrambling back up.

  Children. Playing in the holes created by saidin blasts. The world was changing. Androl's own gramma—so ancient she'd lost every tooth in her mouth—had used stories of men channeling to frighten him into bed on nights when he tried to slip outside and count the stars. The darkness outside hadn't frightened him, nor had stories of Trollocs and Fades. But men who could channel . . . that had terrified him.

  Now he found himself here, grown into his middle years, suddenly afraid of the dark but completely at peace with men who could channel. He walked down the road, gravel crunching beneath his boots. The children came scrambling up out of the ditch and flocked around him. He idly brought out a handful of candies, purchased on the last scouting mission.

  "Two each," he said sternly as dirty hands reached for the candies. "And no shoving, mind you." Hands went to mouths, and the children gave him bobbed heads in thanks, calling him "Master Genhald," before racing away. They didn't go back to the trench, but invented a new game, running off toward the fields to the east.

  Androl brushed off his hands, smiling. Children were so adaptable. Before them, centuries of tradition, terror and superstition could melt away like butter left too long in the sun. But it was good that they'd chosen to leave the trench. The One Power could be unpredictable.

  No. That wasn't right. Saidin was very predictable. The men who wielded it, however . . . well, they were a different story.

  The soldiers halted their work and turned to meet him. He wasn't a full Asha'man, and didn't merit a salute, but they showed him respect. Too much. He wasn't sure why they deferred to him. He was no great man, particularly not here, in the Black Tower.

  Still, they nodded to him as he passed. Most of these were among the men who had been recruited from the Two Rivers. Sturdy lads and men, eager, though many were on the young side. Half of them didn't need to shave but once a week. Androl walked up to them, then inspected their work, eyeing the line of string he'd tied to small stakes. He nodded in ap-proval. "Angle is good, lads," he said. "But keep the sides steeper, if you can."

  "Yes, Master Genhald," said the one leading the team. Jaim Torfinn was his name, a spindly young man with dusty brown hair. He still held he Power. That raging river of strength was so enticing. Rare was the man who could release it without a sense of loss.

  The M'Hael encouraged them to keep hold of it, said that holding it taught them to control it. But Androl had known seductive sensations somewhat like saidin before—the exhilaration of battle, the intoxication of rare drinks from the Isles of the Sea Folk, the heady feeling of victory. A man could be swept up in those feelings and lose control of himself, forgetting who he was. And saidin was more seductive than anything else he'd experienced.

  He said nothing to Taim about his reservations. He had no business lecturing the M'Hael.

  "Here," Androl said, "let me show you what I mean by straight." He took a deep breath, then emptied himself of feeling. He used the old soldier's trick to do that—he'd been taught it by his first instructor in the sword, old one-armed Garfin, whose heavy rural Illianer accent had been virtually incomprehensible. Of course, Androl himself had a faint Tarabo-ner accent, he was told. It had faded over the years since he'd last been home.

  Within the nothing—the void—Androl could feel the raging force that was saidin. He grabbed it as a man grabbed the neck of a horse running wild, hoping to steer in some small way but mostly just trying to hold on.

  Saidin was wonderful. Yes, it was more powerful than any intoxicant. It made the world more beautiful, more lush. Holding that terrible Power, Androl felt as if he'd come to life, leaving the dry husk of his former self behind. It threatened to carry him away in its swift currents.

  He worked quickly, weaving a tiny trickle of Earth—the best he could manage, for Earth was where he was weakest—and carefully shaved the sides of the canal. "If you leave too much jutting out," he explained as he worked, "then the canal flow will stay muddy as it washes away the earth on the sides. The straighter and more firm the sides, the better. You see?"

  The soldiers nodded. Sweat had beaded on their brows, flakes of dirt sticking to their foreheads and cheeks. But their black coats were clean, particularly the sleeves. You could judge a man's respect for his uniform by whether or not he used the sleeve to wipe his brow on a day like this. The Two Rivers lads used handkerchiefs.

  The more senior Asha'man, of course, rarely sweated at all. It would take these lads more practice to get that down while concentrating so much

  "Good men," Androl said, standing up and glancing over them An-drol laid a hand on Jaim's shoulder. "You lads are doing a fine job here The Two Rivers, it grows men right."

  The lads beamed. It was good to have them, particularly compared to the quality of men Taim had been recruiting lately. The M'Hael's scouts claimed they took whoever they could find, yet why was it that most they brought back had such angry, unsettling dispositions?

  "Master Genhald?" asked one of the soldiers.


  "Yes, Trost?" Androl asked.

  "Have you . . . Have you heard anything of Master Logain?"

  The others looked hopeful.

  Androl shook his head. "He hasn't returned from his scouting mission. I'm sure he'll be back soon."

  The lads nodded, though he could see that they were beginning to worry. They had a right to. Androl had been worrying for weeks now. Ever since Logain had left in the night. Where had he gone? Why had he taken Donalo, Mezar and Welyn—three of the most powerful Dedicated loyal to him—along?

  And now there were those Aes Sedai camped outside, supposedly sent with authority from the Dragon to bond Asha'man. Taim had given one of his half-smiles at that, the kind that never reached his eyes, and told them the group from the White Tower had first pick, since they'd come first. The others waited, impatiently.

  "The M'Hael," one of the Two Rivers men said, expression growing dark. "He—"

  "Keep your heads on your shoulders," Androl interrupted, "and don't make waves. Not yet. We wait for Logain."

  The men sighed, but nodded. Distracted by the conversation, Androl almost didn't notice when the shadows nearby began creeping toward him. Shadows of men, lengthening in the sunlight. Shadows within the trough. Shadows of rocks and clefts in the earth. Slowly, deviously, they turned toward Androl. Androl steeled himself, but couldn't dispel the panic. This one terror he could feel despite the void.

  They came whenever he held saidin for too long. He released it immediately, and the shadows reluctantly crept back to their places.

  The Two Rivers lads watched him, discomfort in their faces. Could they see the wild cast to Androl's eyes? Nobody spoke of the . . . irregulateries that afflicted men of the Black Tower. It just wasn't done. Like whispering dirty family secrets.

  The taint was cleansed. These lads would never have to feel the things

  that Androl did. Eventually, he and the others who had been in the Tower before the cleansing would become rarities. Light, but he couldn't under-

  stand why anyone would listen to him. Weak in the Power and insane to boot?

  And the worst part was, he knew—deeply, down to his very center—that those shadows were real. Not just some madness concocted by his mind. They were real, and they would destroy him if they reached him.

  They were real. They had to be.

  Oh, Light, he thought, gritting his teeth. Either option is terrifying. Either I'm insane or the darkness itself wants to destroy me.

  That was why he could no longer sleep at nights without huddling in fear. Sometimes he could go hours holding the Source without seeing the shadows. Sometimes only minutes. He took a deep breath.

  "All right," he said, satisfied that his voice—at least—sounded in control. "You best get back to work. Keep that slope moving the right direction, mind you. We'll have a mess and a half to deal with if the water overflows and floods this area."

  As they obeyed, Androl left them, cutting back through the village. Near the center stood the barracks, five large, thick-stoned buildings for the soldiers, a dozen smaller buildings for the Dedicated. Right now, this little village was the Black Tower. That would change. A tower proper was being built nearby, the foundation already dug.

  He could visualize what the place might someday look like. He'd once worked with a master architect—one of a dozen different apprenticeships he'd held in a life that sometimes seemed to have lasted too long. Yes, he could see it in his mind's eye. A domineering black stone tower, Power-built. Strong, sturdy. At its base would be blockish square structures with crenelated tops.

  This village would grow to become a town, then a large city, as vast as Tar Valon. The streets had been built to allow the passing of several wagons at a time. New sections were surveyed and laid. It bespoke vision and planning. The streets themselves whispered of the Black Tower's destiny.

  Androl followed a worn pathway through the scrub grass. Distant booms and snaps echoed across the plains like the sounds of a whip being cracked. Each man had his own reasons for coming. Revenge, curiosity, desperation, lust for power. Which was Androl's reason? All four, perhaps?

  He left the village, and eventually rounded a line of trees and came to the practice range—a small canyon between two hills. A line of men stood channeling Fire and Earth. The hills needed to be leveled to make land for farming. An opportunity to practice.

  These men were mostly Dedicated. Weaves spun in the air, much more skillful and powerful than those the Two Rivers lads had used. These were streamlined, like hissing vipers or striking arrows. Rocks exploded and bursts of dirt sprayed into the air. The blasting was done in an unpredict-able pattern to confuse and disorient foes. Androl could imagine a group of cavalry thundering down that slope, only to be surprised by exploding Earth. A single Dedicated could wipe out dozens of riders in moments.

  Androl noted with dissatisfaction that the working men stood in two groups. The Tower was beginning to split and divide, those loyal to Logain shunned and ostracized. On the right, Canler, Emarin and Nalaam worked with focus and dedication, joined by Jonneth Dowtry—the most skilled soldier among the Two Rivers lads. On the left, a group of Taim's cronies were laughing among themselves. Their weaves were more wild, but also much more destructive. Coteren lounged at the back, leaning against a leafy hardgum tree and overseeing the work.

  The workers took a break and called for a village boy to bring water. Androl walked up, and Arlen Nalaam saw him first, waving with a broad smile. The Domani man wore a thin mustache. He was just shy of his thirtieth year, though he sometimes acted much younger. Androl was still smarting from the time Nalaam had put tree sap in his boots.

  "Androl!" Nalaam called. "Come tell these uncultured louts what a Retashen Dazer is!"

  "A Retashen Dazer?" Androl said. "It's a drink. Mix of mead and ewe's milk. Foul stuff"

  Nalaam looked at the others proudly. He had no pins on his coat. He was only a soldier, but he should have been advanced by now.

  "You bragging about your travels again, Nalaam?" Androl asked, unlacing the leather armguard.

  "We Domani get around," Nalaam said. "You know, the kind of work my father does, spying for the Crown. . . ."

  "Last week you said your father was a merchant," Canler said. The sturdy man was the oldest of the group, his hair graying, his square face worn from many years in the sun.

  "He is," Nalaam said. "That's his front for being a spy!"

  "Aren't women the merchants in Arad Doman?" Jonneth asked, rubbing his chin. He was a large, quiet man with a round face. His entire

  family-his siblings, his parents, and his grandfather Buel—had relocated to the village rather than letting him come alone.

  "Well, they're the best," Nalaam said, "and my mother is no exception. We men know a thing or two, though. Besides, since my mother was busy infiltrating the Tuatha'an, my father had to take over the business."

  "Oh, now that's just ridiculous," Canler said with a scowl. "Who would ever want to infiltrate a bunch of Tinkers?"

  "To learn their secret recipes," Nalaam said. "It's said that a Tinker can cook a pot of stew so fine that it will make you leave house and home to travel with them. It's true, I've tasted it myself, and I had to be tied in a shed for three days before the effect wore off."

  Canler sniffed. However, after a moment, the farmer added, "So . . . did she find the recipe or not?"

  Nalaam launched into another story, Canler and Jonneth listening intently. Emarin stood to the side, looking on with amusement—he was the other soldier in the group, bearing no pins. He was an older man, with thin hair and wrinkles at his eyes. His short white beard was trimmed to a point.

  The distinguished man was something of an enigma; he'd arrived with Logain one day, and had said nothing of his past. He had a poised bearing and a delicate way of speaking. He was a nobleman, that was certain. But unlike most other noblemen in the Black Tower, Emarin made no attempt at asserting his presumed authority. Many noblemen took weeks to learn that once
you joined the Black Tower, your outside rank was meaningless. That made them sullen and snappish, but Emarin had taken to life in the Tower immediately.

  It took a nobleman with true dignity to follow the orders of a commoner half his age without complaint. Emarin took a sip of water from the serving boy, thanking the lad, then stepped up to Androl. He nodded toward Nalaam, who was still talking to the others. "That one has the heart of a gleeman."

  Androl grunted. "Maybe he can use it to earn some extra coin. He still owes me a new pair of socks."

  "And you, my friend, have the soul of a scribe!" Emarin laughed. "You never forget a thing, do you?"

  Androl shrugged.

  "How did you know what a Retashen Dazer was? I consider myself quite educated in these matters, yet I'd heard not a word of it."

  "I had one once," Androl said. "Drank it on a bet."

  "Yes, but where?"

  "Retash, of course."

  "But that's leagues off shore, in a cluster of islands not even the Sea Folk often visit!"

  Androl shrugged again. He glanced over at Taim's lackeys. A village boy had brought them a basket of food from Taim, though the M'HaeI claimed not to play favorites. If Androl asked, he'd find that a boy was sup-posed to have been sent with food for the others, too. But that lad would have become lost, or had forgotten, or made some other innocent mistake. Taim would have someone whipped, and nothing would change.

  "This division is troubling, my friend," Emarin said softly. "How can we fight for the Lord Dragon if we cannot make peace among ourselves?"

  Androl shook his head.

  Emarin continued. "They say that no man favored of Logain has had the Dragon pin in weeks. There are many, like Nalaam there, who should have had the sword pin long ago—but are denied repeatedly by the M'Hael. A House whose members squabble for authority will never present a threat to other Houses."