Towers of Midnight

by Robert Jordan; Brandon Sanderson

  "Perhaps," Faile said. "But this is going to be a fine line to walk. So many armies in one place. If some side with Rand and others with the White Tower . . ."

  Nobody would win if they turned against one another. Well, Perrin would have to make sure that didn't happen.

  The soldiers were already gathered in lines, preparing to march. Perrin turned to them. "Rand sent us away to search for an enemy," he bellowed. "We return to him having found allies. Onward, to the Last Battle!"

  Only the ones at the front could hear him, but they cheered and passed the word back. Rand or Elayne would have given a far more inspiring speech. But Perrin wasn't them. He'd have to do things his way.

  "Aravine," Perrin called to the plump Amadician. "Go through and make sure that nobody fights over where to set up their camps."

  "Yes, Lord Goldeneyes."

  "Keep us away from the other armies for now," Perrin said, pointing. "Have Sulin and Gaul pick a good site. Pass the word to each of the armies as we set up. We're not to interact with, or look the wrong way at, any of those other forces. And don't let people go wandering off southward either! We're not in the wilderness anymore, and I don't want the local farmers complaining of mischief."

  "Yes, my Lord," she said.

  He'd never asked Aravine why she didn't join one of the groups that had been sent back to Amadicia. It was probably because of the Seanchan, though. She was obviously noble, but didn't say much of her past. He was glad to have her. As his camp steward, she was his liaison between the various factions that made up his army.

  The Wolf Guard had drawn first lot, so they led the way through the gateway. The large column began to move. Perrin went down the line, giving orders, mostly reinforcing that he didn't want trouble with the locals or the other armies. He stopped as he met Whitecloaks waiting their turn. Berelain was riding next to Galad again; they seemed very amenably lost in conversation. Light, but the woman had spent pretty much every waking hour with Galad these last few days.

  Perrin hadn't put the Whitecloaks and Mayeners together, yet they

  seemed to have somehow ended up that way. As they started moving, Galad's Whitecloaks rode in a perfect line, four across, their white tabards set with sunbursts. Perrin still had a gut reaction akin to panic whenever he saw them, but they'd made surprisingly little trouble since the trial.

  Mayene's Winged Guard rode along the other side, Gallenne just behind Berelain, their lances held high. Red streamers came from the lances, and breastplates and helms were shined to perfection. It seemed they were ready to parade. And maybe they were. If you were going to ride to the Last Battle, you did it with lance held high and armor polished.

  Perrin continued on. Alliandre's army came next, riding in a tight formation of heavy cavalry, eight men across, Arganda at their head. He called orders when he saw Perrin, and the serpentine column of soldiers turned and saluted.

  Perrin returned their salute. He'd asked Alliandre, and she'd indicated that was the appropriate response. She rode with Arganda, sidesaddle, in a slim maroon gown with gold trim. An impractical outfit for riding, but they wouldn't be in the saddle very long. Three hundred paces and as many leagues.

  He could see her satisfaction as he saluted her soldiers. She was pleased to see him stepping into his role as leader of the coalition. In fact, many in camp reacted the same way. Perhaps before, they'd been able to sense how much he resented leadership. How did people do that, without being able to smell emotions?

  "Lord Perrin," Alliandre said, riding past him. She gave a bowing sort of sway that was the equivalent of a horseback curtsy. "Should you not be riding?"

  "I like my feet," Perrin said.

  "It looks more authoritative when a commander rides."

  "I've decided to lead this bunch, Alliandre," Perrin said gruffly, "but I'll do it my way. That means walking when I want to." They were only going a few feet through the gateway. His feet would serve him well enough.

  "Of course, my Lord."

  "Once we're settled, I want you to send some men back to Jehannah. See if you can recruit anyone else, pick up whatever city guard you have. Bring them here. We're going to need everyone we can get, and I want to train them as much as possible before this war hits."

  "Very well, my Lord."

  "I've sent to Mayene already," Perrin said. "And Tarn's been gathering what extras he can from the Two Rivers." Light, but he wished he could let them stay behind, on their farms, to live in peace while the storm raged

  elsewhere. But this really was the end. He could feel it. Lose this fight and they lost everything. The world. The Pattern itself. Facing that, he'd field boys who could barely swing a sword and grandfathers who had trouble walking. It twisted his stomach to admit it, but it was the truth.

  He continued down the line and gave some orders to several other groups. As he was finishing up with the last, he noticed a handful of Two Rivers men passing by. One, Azi, held the wolfhead banner. Jori Congar hung back. He stopped, then waved the other three on before trotting up to Perrin. Was something wrong?

  "Lord Perrin." Jori drew himself up, long and lanky, like a bird standing on one leg. "I. . . ."

  "Well?" Perrin said. "Out with it."

  "I wanted to apologize," Jori said, words coming in a rush.

  "For what?"

  "For some things I said," Jori said, looking away. "I mean, some foolish words. It was after you were ill, you see, and you were taken to the First's tent and . . . well, I—"

  "Jt's all right, Jori," Perrin said. "I understand."

  Jori looked up, smiling. "It's a pleasure to be here with you, Lord Perrin. A real pleasure. We'll follow you anywhere, the others and I."

  With that, Jori saluted, then ran off. Perrin scratched at his beard, watching the man go. Jori was one of a good dozen Two Rivers men who had approached Perrin over the last few days to apologize. It seemed all of them felt guilty for spreading rumors about Perrin and Berelain, though none would say it straight out.

  Bless Faile for what she had done there.

  Everyone seen to, Perrin took a deep breath, then walked up the column and stepped through the gateway.

  Come quickly, Rand, he thought, colors blossoming in his vision. I can feel it starting.

  Mat stood with Thorn at his left and Noal at his right, looking up through the trees at the spire ahead. A trickling, musical stream gurgled behind them, a tributary of the nearby Arinelle. A grassy plain spread behind them, and beyond that, the grand river itself.

  Had he passed this way before? So much of his memory from that time was fragmented. And yet, this tower remained clear in his mind, viewed from a distance. Even the darkness of Shadar Logoth had not been able to excise it from his mind.

  The tower looked to be of pure metal, its solid steel gleaming in the overcast sunlight. Mat felt an iciness between his shoulder blades. Many travelers along the river thought it some relic from the Age of Legends. What else did you make of a column of steel rising out of the forest, seemingly uninhabited? It was as unnatural and out of place as the twisted red doorways were. Those warped the eyes to look at them.

  The forest felt too still here, quiet save for the footsteps of the three. Noal walked with a long staff, taller than he was. Where had he gotten it? It had that smooth, oiled look of wood that had spent more years as a walking staff than it originally had as a tree. Noal had also put on a dark blue—nearly black—pair of trousers and a shirt that was of an odd, unknown style. The shoulders were stiffer than the cuts Mat was familiar with, and the coat longer, going almost all the way down to Noal's knees. It buttoned to the waist, then split at the legs. Strange indeed. The old man never would answer questions about his past.

  Thom had opted for his gleeman's clothing. It was good to see him in that again, rather than the frilly court bard apparel. The patchwork cloak, the simple shirt that tied up the front, the tight breeches tucked into boots. When Mat had asked about the choice, Thom had shrugged, saying, "It feels like what I sho
uld wear if I'm going to see her."

  "Her" meant Moiraine. But what had the snakes and foxes done to her? It had been so long, but burn him if he was going to let another hour pass. He had chosen clothing of forest greens and earthy browns, along with a deep brown cloak. He carried his pack slung over one arm and his ashanda-rei in his hand. He had practiced with the new iron counterweight on the butt, and was pleased.

  The Eelfinn had given him the weapon. Well, if they dared stand between him and Moiraine, then they would see what he could do with their gift. Burn him, but they would.

  The three men stepped up to the tower. It did not appear to have a single opening anywhere on its two-hundred-foot-tall height. Not a window, not a seam, not a scratch. Mat looked up, feeling disoriented as he stared along its gleaming length toward the distant gray sky. Did the tower reflect too much light?

  He shuddered and turned to Thom. Mat gave a single nod.

  Hesitating only briefly, Thom slid a bronze knife from its sheath on his belt and stepped over to set the tip against the tower. He grimly slid the knife in the shape of a triangle, about a palm wide, point down. Metal scraped against metal, but left no trail. Thom finished by making a wavy line through the center, as one did at the start of any game of Snakes and Foxes.

  All stood silently. Mat glanced at Thorn. "Did you do it right?"

  "I think so," Thorn said. "But how do we know what 'right' is? That game has been passed down for—"

  He cut off as a line of light appeared on the tower front. Mat jumped back, leveling his spear. The glowing lines formed a triangle matching the one that Thorn had drawn, and then—quick as a single beat of a moth's wings—the steel in the center of the triangle vanished.

  Noal eyed the palm-sized hole. "That's a tad small to get through." He stepped up to it and looked through. "Nothing but darkness on the other side."

  Thorn looked down at the knife. "Guess that triangle is actually a doorway. That's what you're drawing when you start the game. Should I try a bigger one?"

  "Guess so," Mat said. "Unless the gholam taught you how to squeeze through holes the size of a fist."

  "No need to be unpleasant," Thorn said, using the knife to draw another triangle around the first, this one large enough to walk through. He finished with the wavy line.

  Mat counted. It took seven heartbeats for the lines of white to appear. The steel between them faded away, opening a triangular corridor leading into the tower. The inside looked to be solid steel.

  "Light burn me," Noal whispered. The corridor disappeared into darkness; the sunlight seemed hesitant to enter the opening, though it was probably just a trick of the light.

  "And so we begin the game that cannot be won," Thorn said, sliding the knife back into its sheath.

  "Courage to strengthen," Noal whispered, stepping forward, holding up a lantern with a flickering flame. "Fire to blind. Music to dazzle. Iron to bind."

  "And Matrim Cauthon," Mat added. "To bloody even the odds." He stepped through the doorway.

  Light flashed, brilliant white, blinding. He cursed, squeezing, his eyes shut and lowering his asbandarei in what he hoped was a threatening posture. He blinked and the whiteness faded. He was in the center of a wide room with a triangular opening behind him, freestanding, with the point down at the floor. It was pure black, made of twisting cords that in some places seemed metal and in other places seemed wood.

  The room was black as well, shaped like an off-kilter square. Rippling white steam poured up from holes at all four corners; that mist glowed with a white light. There were four hallways extending from the room, one in each direction.

  The chamber was not exactly square. Each side was a slightly different length than the others, making for an odd meeting of angles at the corners. And that steam! It gave off a sulphurous stench that made him want to breathe through his mouth. The onyx-colored walls were not stone, but were of some reflective material, like the scales of enormous fish. The steam collected at the ceiling, glowing faintly with a soft light.

  Burn him! This was not like the first place he had visited, with its twisting coils and circular doorways, but nor was it like the second one, with the star-shaped rooms and lines of yellow light! Where was he? What had he gotten himself into? He turned about, nervous.

  Thorn stumbled through the doorway, blinking, dazed. Mat dropped his pack and caught the gleeman by one arm. Noal came next. The bony man kept his footing, but was obviously blinded, his lantern held forward defensively.

  The two others blinked, tears streaming from Noal's eyes, but they eventually got their bearings and glanced about. The room, like the hallways extending in all four directions, was empty.

  "This doesn't look like what you described, Mat," Thorn said. His voice echoed faintly, though the sounds seemed eerily warped. Almost like whispers thrown back at them. It made the hair on Mat's neck rise.

  "I know," Mat said, pulling a torch from his pack. "This place doesn't makes sense. The stories agree about that, at least. Here, light this, Noal."

  Thorn got out a torch of his own and both lit from Noal's lantern. They had strikers from Aludra, but Mat wanted to save those. He had been half-afraid that in the tower, flames would go out once lit. But the lights burned steady and true. That heartened him somewhat.

  "So where are they?" Thorn asked, walking around the perimeter of the black room.

  "They're never here when you come through," Mat said, holding up his own torch and inspecting a wall. Was that writing, carved into the not-stone? The unfamiliar script was so fine and delicate he could barely see it. "But watch yourself. They can appear behind you, faster than an innkeeper who heard coins clink in your pouch."

  Noal inspected the triangular opening they had come through. "Do you suppose we can use this to get back?" It resembled the stone ter'angreal Mat had stepped through before. Just a different shape.

  "I hope so," Mat said."

  "Maybe we should try," Noal said.

  Mat nodded to him. He did not like being separated, but they did

  need to know if this was a way back or not. Noal looked determined and stepped through. He vanished.

  Mat held his breath for a long moment, but the aged man did not return. Was it a trick? Had this doorway been placed here to—

  Noal stumbled back into the room through the opening. Thorn set his torch on the floor and dashed over to help. Noal recovered more quickly this time, blinking away the blindness. "It sealed me out," he explained. "I had to draw another triangle to get back in."

  "At least we know we've got a means of escape," Thorn said.

  Assuming those bloody Aelfinn or Eelfinn don't move it, Mat thought, remembering his previous visit, the one that had ended with him being hanged. That time, the rooms and corridors had shifted mysteriously, in total defiance of what was right.

  "Will you look at that?" Thorn said.

  Mat lowered his spear and Noal had an iron shortsword in his hand in a moment. Thorn was pointing at his torch, which burned fitfully where he had set it on the floor beside one of the glowing steam vents.

  The white steam pushed away from the flames, like it was being blown by a breeze. Only, no breeze ever made steam move so unnaturally. It curved around the fire in a loop. Thorn stepped over and picked up the torch. He moved it toward the column of steam, and it bowed out of the way. Thorn rammed the torch directly into the steam's path, and the steam split, going around the flame and melding together into a single stream again above.

  Thorn glanced at the others.

  "Don't ask me," Mat said, scowling. "I said this place doesn't make sense. If that's the oddest thing we see here, I'll be a Murandian's mustache. Come on."

  Mat picked one of the hallways and began to walk down it. The other two hurried to catch up. The steam glowed on the ceiling, bathing the black hallway with its milky light. The floor was made of interlocking triangular tiles that, once again, looked discomfortingly like scales. The corridor was wide and long, the other end distant an
d dark.

  "To think," Noal said, holding up his lantern, "all of this hidden in that single tower."

  "I doubt we're in the tower anymore," Mat said. Up ahead, he could see a slice out of the side of the wall, a kind of window. It was set up a little too high up to feel natural.

  "Then where. . . ." Noal trailed off as they reached the window, which was an off-center square. Through it, they could look out at an unnatural

  landscape. They were up several floors in some kind of spire, but that certainly was not Andor outside.

  The window looked out over a canopy of dense vegetation that was too yellow. Mat recognized the wispy trees with a drooping umbrella of branches at the top, though before he had seen them from below. The fernlike trees with their spreading fans of leaves were familiar as well, though those had deep black fruits hanging from them now. The large fruits caused the leaves to droop.

  "Mercy of the Winnower," Noal whispered, a phrase Mat had never heard before.

  Noal had reason to be astonished; Mat remembered looking out at that forest for the first time, realizing that the twisted doorway had not brought him to another place, but another world entirely.

  Mat looked to the side. Could he see the three spires he had noted on his first visit? They did not seem to be about, though in this place, the very next window they passed could show a different scene. They could. . . .

  He paused, then glanced sharply through the window. He could make out a spire to the left. And then he knew. He was in one of the spires he had seen in the distance during his first visit.

  He stifled a shiver and turned away. At least he knew for certain he was in the same place. Did that mean that the worlds of the Aelfinn and the Eelfinn were the same? He hoped so. Moiraine had fallen through the second of the twisted red doorways, which meant she had most likely been taken by the Eelfinn, the foxes.