Towers of Midnight

by Robert Jordan; Brandon Sanderson

  "Well . . . you could tell us now," Perrin said.

  "Not the right time. Anyway, it doesn't matter. See, I'm leaving soon."

  Thorn smelled excited.

  "Perrin, you will lend us a gateway, won't you?" Mat asked. "Hate to leave the Band. They'll be inconsolable without me. At least they have those dragons to blow things up."

  "But where are you going?" Perrin asked.

  "Suppose I should explain it," Mat said. "That was the reason for meeting with you, aside from the amiable discourse and all." He leaned in. "Perrin, Moiraine is alive."

  "What?"

  "Its true," Mat said. "Or, well, we think it is. She sent Thorn a letter, claiming she'd foreseen the battle with Lanfear, and knew that she would . . . Well, anyway, there's this tower west of here on the River Ari-nelle. It's made all of metal. It—"

  "The Tower of Ghenjei," Perrin said softly. "Yes, I know of it."

  Mat blinked. "You do? Burn me. When did you get to be a scholar?"

  "I've merely heard some things. Mat, that place is evil."

  "Well, Moiraine is inside," Mat said. "Captured. I mean to get her back. I have to beat the snakes and the foxes. Bloody cheats."

  "Snakes and foxes?" Perrin said.

  Thorn nodded. "The children's game is named after the things that live in the tower. So we think."

  "I've seen them," Mat said. "And . . . well, there's really not time for that now."

  "If you're going to rescue her," Perrin said, "perhaps I could come. Or at least send one of the Asha'man."

  "I'll take a gateway gladly," Mat said. "But you can't come, Perrin.

  Moraine explained it in her letter. Only three can come, and I know al-ready who they have to be." He hesitated. "Olver is going to bloody kill me for not taking him, you know."

  "Mat," Perrin said, shakmg his head. "You're not makmg any sense. Mat s.ghed. "Let me tell you the whole story, then. He eyed the pitcher of ale. "Were going to need more of that, and you'd better tell Grady you'll be some time yet . . ."

  CHAPTER

  48

  Near Avendesora

  Aviendha took one final step and was out of the forest of glass pillars. She took a deep breath, then glanced back at the path she had taken.

  The central plaza of Rhuidean was an awe-inspiring sight. Smooth white flagstones carpeted the entire square save for the absolute center. There stood an enormous tree, branches spread wide like arms reaching to embrace the sun. The massive tree had a perfection she could not explain. It had a natural symmetry—no missing branches, no gaping holes in its leafy upper reaches. It was particularly impressive since, when she'd last seen it, it had been blackened and burned.

  In a world where other plants were dying without explanation, this one healed and flourished faster than ever should have been possible. Its leaves rustled soothingly in the wind, and its gnarled roots poked through the ground like the aged fingers of a wise elder. The tree made her want to sit and bask in the simple peace of the moment.

  It was as if this tree were the ideal, the one after which all other trees were patterned. In legend it was called Avendesora. The Tree of Life.

  To the side sat the glass columns. There were dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, forming concentric rings. Spindly and thin, they reached high into the sky. As purely—even superlatively—natural as Avendesora was, these columns were equally natural. They were so thin and tall, logic

  said that the first gust of wind should have toppled them. It wasn't that they were aberrant, merely artificial.

  "When she had first entered days before, there had been gai'shain in white carefully picking up fallen leaves and twigs. They had retreated as soon as they had seen her. Was she the first to go through the glass pillars since Rhuidean's transformation? Her own clan had sent no one, and she was certain she would have heard of it if the others had.

  That left only the Shaido, but they had rejected Rand's claims about the Aiel oast. Aviendha suspected that if any Shaido had come, they would not have been able to bear what was shown here. They would have passed into the center of the glass columns and never returned.

  That had not been the case for Aviendha. She had survived. Indeed, everything she'd seen had been expected. Almost disappointingly so.

  She sighed, walking over to Avendesords trunk, then looking up through its web of branches.

  Once, this plaza had been cluttered with other ter'angreal; this was where Rand had first discovered the access keys he had used to cleanse saidin. That wealth of ter'angreal was gone now; Moiraine had claimed many pieces for the White Tower, and the Aiel who lived here must have taken the others away. That left only the tree, the columns and the three rings that women went through on their first trip here, the trip that made them apprentice Wise Ones.

  She remembered some of her trip through those rings, which had showed her life—her many possible lives—to her. Really, only bits and pieces remained in her memory. Her knowledge that she would love Rand, that she would have sister-wives. Included in that knowledge was the impression that she'd return here, to Rhuidean. She had known, though only stepping into this courtyard again had sparked some of those memories to life in her mind.

  She sat down cross-legged between two of the great tree's roots. The soft wind was soothing, the air dry and familiar, the dusty scent of the Three-fold Land reminding her of her childhood.

  Her trip through the columns had certainly been immersive. She had expected to see the origins of the Aiel, perhaps witness the day when they had—-as a people—decided to take up the spears and fight. She'd anticipated a noble decision, where honor overcame the inferior lifestyle dictated by the Way of the Leaf.

  She had been surprised to see how mundane—almost accidental—the true event had been. No grand decision; only a man who had been unwilling

  to let his family be murdered. There was honor in wanting to defend others, but he had not approached his decision with honor.

  She rested her head back against the trunk of the tree. The Aiel did. deserve their punishment in the Three-fold Land, and they did have toh—as a people—to the Aes Sedai. She had seen everything she had expected. But many of the things she had been hoping to learn had been absent. Aiel would continue to visit this place for centuries, as they had for centuries. And each of them would learn something that was now common knowledge.

  That bothered her deeply.

  She looked upward, watching branches quiver in the breeze, several leaves falling and drifting down toward her. One passed her face, brushing her cheek before alighting on her shawl.

  Passing through the glass columns was no longer a challenge. Originally, this ter'angreal had provided a test. Could the potential leader face and accept the Aiel's darkest secret? As a Maiden, Aviendha had been tested in body and strength. Becoming a Wise One tested a person emotionally and mentally. Rhuidean was to be the capstone of that process, the final test of mental endurance. But that test was gone now.

  More and more, she was coming to believe that tradition for the sake of tradition was foolishness. Good traditions—strong, Aiel traditions—taught the ways of ji'e'toh, methods of survival.

  Aviendha sighed, standing. The forest of columns looked like the strange lines of frozen water she had seen during winter in the wetlands. Icicles, Elayne had called them. These grew up from the ground, pointing toward the sky, things of beauty and Power. It was sad to witness their lapse into irrelevance.

  Something occurred to her. Before she had left Caemlyn, she and Elayne had made a remarkable discovery. Aviendha had manifested a Talent in the One Power: the ability to identify ter'angreal. Could she determine, exactly, what the glass pillars did? They couldn't have been created specifically for the Aiel, could they? Most things of great Power like this hailed from very ancient days. The pillars would have been created during the Age of Legends, then adapted to the purpose of showing the Aiel their true past.

  There was so much they didn't know about ter'angreal. Had the ancient Ae
s Sedai really understood them, the same way Aviendha understood exactly how a bow or spear worked? Or had they themselves been mystified by the things they created? The One Power was so wondrous, so mysterious, that even working practiced weaves often made Aviendha feel like a child.

  She stepped up to the nearest glass pillar, careful not to pass inside the ring. If she touched one of the rods, perhaps her Talent would let her read something about them. It was dangerous to experiment with ter'angreal, but she had already passed their challenge and was unscathed.

  Hesitantly, she reached out and laid fingers on the slick, glassy surface. It was about a foot thick. She closed her eyes, trying to read the pillar's function.

  She sensed the powerful aura of the pillar. It was far more potent than any of the ter'angreal she had handled with Elayne. Indeed, the pillars seemed . . alive, somehow. It was almost as if she could sense an awareness from them.

  That gave her a chill. Was she touching the pillar, or was it touching

  her?

  She tried to read ter'angreal as she had done before, but this one was vast. Incomprehensible, like the One Power itself. She inhaled sharply, disoriented by the weight of what she felt. It was as if she had suddenly fallen into a deep, dark pit.

  She snapped her eyes open, pulling her hand away, palm quivering. This was beyond her. She was an insect, trying to grasp the size and mass of a mountain. She took a breath to steady herself, then shook her head. There was nothing more to be done here.

  She turned from the glass pillars and took a step.

  She was Malidra, eighteen but scrawny enough to appear much younger. She crawled in the darkness. Careful. Quiet. It was dangerous to get this close to the Lightmakers. Hunger drove her forward. It always did.

  The night was cold, the landscape barren. Malidra had heard stories of a place beyond the distant mountains, where the land was green and food grew everywhere. She didn't believe those lies. The mountains were just lines in the sky, jagged teeth. Who could climb something so tall?

  Maybe the Lightmakers could. They did come from that direction, usually. Their camp was ahead of her, glowing in the darkness. That glow was too steady to be fire. It came from the balls they carried with them. She inched closer, crouching, bare ket and hands dusty. There were a few men and women of the Folk with her. Grimy faces, stringy hair. Ragged beards on the men.

  A mishmash of clothing. Tattered trousers, garments that might once have been shirts. Anything to keep the sun off during the day, because the sun could kill. And did. Malidra was the last of four sisters, two dead by the sun and hunger, one dead from the bite of a snake.

  But Malidra survived. Anxiously, she survived. The best way was to follow the Lightmakers. It was dangerous, but her mind barely noticed danger anymore. That was what happened when virtually anything could kill you.

  Malidra passed a bush, watching the Lightmaker guards. Two sentries, carrying their long, rodlike weapons. Malidra had found one on a dead man once, but she hadn't been able to make it do anything. The Lightmak-ers had magics, the same magics that created their food and their lights Magics that kept them warm in the bitter cold at night.

  The two men wore strange clothing. Trousers that fit too well, coats covered with pockets and glistening bits of metal. Both had hats, though one wore his back, held around his neck by a thin leather strap The men chatted. They didn't have beards like the Folk did. Their hair was darker.

  One of the other Folk got too close, and Malidra hissed at her. The woman shot back a glare, but moved away. Malidra stayed at the edge of the light. The Lightmakers wouldn't see her. Their strange glowing orbs ruined their night vision.

  She rounded their massive wagon. There were no horses. Only the wagon, large enough to house a dozen people. It moved magically during the daylight, rolling on wheels nearly as wide as Malidra was tall. She had heard—in the hushed, broken communication of Folk—that in the east, the Lightmakers were creating a massive roadway. It would pass directly through the Waste. It was made by laying down strange pieces of metal. They were too big to pry up, though Jorshem had shown her a large nail he had found. He used it to scrape meat off bones.

  It had been quite a while since she had eaten well—not since they'd managed to kill that merchant in his sleep two years ago. She could still remember that feast, digging into his stores, eating until her stomach ached. Such an odd feeling. Wondrous and painful.

  Most Lightmakers were too careful for her to kill them in their sleep. She didn't dare face them when they were awake. They could make one such as her vanish with a stare.

  Nervously, trailed by a couple of other Folk, she rounded the wagon and approached it from the back. Sure enough, here the Lightmakers had tossed some of the leavings from their earlier meal. She scuttled forward and began to dig through the trash. There were some cuttings of meat, strips of fat. She snatched these up eagerly—holding them close before the others could see—and stuffed them into her mouth. She felt dirt grind against her teeth, but meat was food. She hurriedly picked through the waste some more.

  A bright light shone on her. She froze, hand halfway to her mouth. The other two Folk screamed, scrambling away. She tried to do likewise but tripped. There was a hiss of sound—one of the Lightmaker weapons—and something popped against her back. It felt like she'd been hit with a small rock.

  She collapsed, the pain sudden and sharp. The light faded slightly. She blinked, eyes adjusting even as she felt her life seeping out and around her hands.

  "I told you," a voice said. Two shadows moved in front of the light. She had to run! She tried to rise, but only managed to thrash weakly.

  "Blood and char, Flern," a second voice said. A silhouette knelt beside her. "Poor thing. Almost a child. She wasn't doing any harm."

  Flern snorted. "No harm? I've seen these creatures try to slit a sleeping man's throat. All for his trash. Bloody pests."

  The other shadow looked at her, and she caught sight of a grim face. Twinkling eyes. Like stars. The man sighed, rising. "Next time we bury the trash." He retreated back toward the light.

  The second man, Flern, stood watching her. Was that her blood? All over her hands, warm, like water that had been sitting in the sun for too long?

  Death did not surprise her. In a way, she'd been expecting it for most of her eighteen years.

  "Bloody Aiel," Flern said as her sight faded.

  Aviendha's foot hit the flagstone in Rhuidean's square, and she blinked in shock. The sun had changed in the sky above. Hours had passed.

  What had happened? The vision had been so real, like her viewings of the early days of her people. But she could make no sense of it. Had she gone even farther back into history? That seemed like the Age of Legends. The strange machines, clothing, and weapons. But that bad been the Waste.

  She could remember distinctly being Malidra. She could remember years of hunger, of scavenging, of hatred—and fear—of the Lightmakers. She remembered her death. The terror, trapped and bleeding. That warm blood on her hands. . . .

  She raised a hand to her head, sick and unsettled. Not by the death. Everyone woke from the dream, and while she did not welcome it, she would not fear it. No, the horrible thing about the vision had been the complete lack of honor she'd seen. Killing men in the night for their food?

  Scavenging for half-chewed meat in the dirt? Wearing scraps? She'd been more an animal than a person!

  Better to die. Surely the Aiel couldn't have come from roots like those, long ago. The Aiel in the Age of Legends had been peaceful servants re-spected. How could they have started as scavengers?

  Perhaps this was merely one tiny group of Aiel. Or maybe the man had been mistaken. There was little way to tell from this single vision. Why had she been shown it?

  She took a hesitant step away from the glass columns, and nothing happened. No further visions. Disturbed, she began to walk from the plaza.

  Then she slowed.

  Hesitantly she turned back. The columns stood in the
dimming light, quiet and alone, seeming to buzz with an unseen energy.

  Was there more?

  That one vision seemed so disconnected from the others she'd seen. If she passed into the columns' midst again, would she repeat what she'd been given before? Or . . . had she, perhaps, changed something with her Talent?

  In the centuries since Rhuidean's founding, those columns had shown the Aiel what they needed to know about themselves. The Aes Sedai had set that up, hadn't they? Or had they simply placed the ter'angreal and allowed it to do what it pleased, knowing it would grant wisdom?

  Aviendha listened to the tree's leaves rustle. Those pillars were a challenge, as sure as an enemy warrior with his spear in hand. If she passed into their midst again, she might never come out; nobody visited this ter'angreal a second time. It was forbidden. One trip through the rings, one through the columns.

  But she had come seeking knowledge. She would not leave without it. She turned and—taking a deep breath—walked up to the pillars.

  Then took a step.

  She was Norlesh. She held her youngest child close to her bosom. A dry wind tugged at her shawl. Her baby, Garlvan, started to whimper, but she quieted him as her husband spoke with the outlanders.

  An outlander village stood in the near distance, built of shacks against the foothills of the mountains. They wore dyed clothing and strangely cut trousers with buttoning shirts. They had come for the ore. How could rocks be so valuable that they would live on this side of the mountains,

  away from their fabled land of water and food? Away from their buildings where light shone without candles and their carts that moved without

  horses?

  Her shawl slipped and she pulled it up. She needed a new one; this one was ragged, and she didn't have any more thread left for patching. Garlvan whimpered in her arms, and her only other living child—Meise—held to her skirts. Meise hadn't spoken for monrhs, now. Not since her older brother had died from exposure.