Towers of Midnight

by Robert Jordan

  “This is all going to end in a few days, Faile,” he said. “Once we have gateways again, I’ll send these people to their proper places. I’m not gathering an army. I’m helping some refugees to get home.” The last thing he needed was more people calling him “my Lord” and bowing and scraping.

  “We shall see,” she said.

  “Faile.” He sighed and lowered his voice. “A man’s got to see a thing for what it is. No sense in calling a buckle a hinge or calling a nail a horseshoe. I’ve told you; I’m not a good leader. I proved that.”

  “That’s not how I see it.”

  He gripped the blacksmith’s puzzle in his pocket. They’d discussed this during the weeks since Malden, but she refused to see sense. “The camp was a mess while you were gone, Faile! I’ve told you how Arganda and the Maidens nearly killed one another. And Aram—Masema corrupted him right under my nose. The Aes Sedai played at games I can’t guess, and the Two Rivers men…you see how they look at me with shame in their eyes.”

  Faile’s scent spiked with anger when he said that, and she turned sharply toward Berelain.

  “It’s not her fault,” Perrin said. “If I’d been able to think of it, I’d have stopped the rumors dead. But I didn’t. Now I’ve got to sleep in the bed I made for myself. Light! What is a man if his own neighbors don’t think well of him? I’m no lord, Faile, and that’s that. I’ve proven it soundly.”

  “Odd,” she said. “But I’ve been speaking to the others, and they tell a different story. They say that you kept Arganda contained and put out flare-ups in camp. Then there’s the alliance with the Seanchan; the more I learn of that, the more impressed I am. You acted decisively in a time of great uncertainty, you focused everyone’s efforts, and you accomplished the impossible in taking Malden. Those are the actions of a leader.”

  “Faile…” he said, suppressing a growl. Why wouldn’t she listen? When she’d been a captive, nothing had mattered to him but recovering her. Nothing. It didn’t matter who had needed his help, or what orders he’d been given. Tarmon Gai’don itself could have started, and he’d have ignored it in order to find Faile.

  He realized now how dangerous his actions had been. Trouble was, he’d take those same actions again. He didn’t regret what he’d done, not for a moment. A leader couldn’t be like that.

  He never should have let them raise that wolfhead banner in the first place. Now that he’d completed his tasks, now that Faile was back, it was time to put all of that foolishness behind him. Perrin was a blacksmith. It didn’t matter what Faile dressed him in, or what titles people gave him. You couldn’t make a drawknife into a horseshoe by painting it, or by calling it something different.

  He turned to the side, where Jori Congar rode before the column, that blasted red wolfhead banner flapping proudly from a pole taller than a cavalryman’s lance. Perrin opened his mouth to shout for him to take it down, but Faile spoke suddenly.

  “Yes, indeed,” she said, musingly. “I’ve been thinking on this for the last few weeks, and—odd though it seems—I believe my captivity may have been precisely what we needed. Both of us.”

  What? Perrin turned to her, smelling her thoughtfulness. She believed what she’d said.

  “Now,” Faile said, “we need to speak of—”

  “Scouts returning,” he said, perhaps more abruptly than he intended. “Aiel up ahead.”

  Faile glanced as he pointed, but of course she couldn’t see anything yet. She knew of his eyes, though. She was one of the few who did.

  The call went up as others noticed the three figures in cadin’sor approaching alongside the road, the ones Perrin had sent to scout. Two Maidens hurried for the Wise Ones and one loped up to Perrin.

  “There is something beside the road, Perrin Aybara,” the woman said. She smelled concerned. That was a dangerous sign. “It is something that you will wish to see.”

  Galad woke to the sound of a tent flap rustling. Sharp pains burned at his side where he had been repeatedly kicked; they matched the duller aches on his shoulder, left arm, and thigh where he’d been wounded by Valda. His pounding headache was almost strong enough to drown out all else.

  He groaned, rolling onto his back. All was dark around him, but pinprick lights shone in the sky. Stars? It had been overcast for so long.

  No…something was wrong about them. His head pulsed with pain, and he blinked tears from the corner of his eyes. Those stars looked so faint, so distant. They made no familiar patterns. Where could Asunawa have taken him that the very stars were different?

  As his mind cleared, he began to make out his surroundings. This was a heavy sleeping tent, constructed to be dark during the daylight hours. The lights above weren’t stars at all, but sunlight through the occasional pinholes of wear in the canvas.

  He was still naked, and with tentative fingers he determined that there was dried blood on his face. It had come from a long gash in his forehead. If he didn’t wash it soon, infection was likely. He lay on his back, breathing in and out with care. If he took in too much air at once, his side screamed.

  Galad did not fear death or pain. He had made the right choices. It was unfortunate that he’d needed to leave the Questioners in charge; they were controlled by the Seanchan. However, there had been no other option, not after he’d walked into Asunawa’s hands.

  Galad felt no anger at the scouts who had betrayed him. The Questioners were a valid source of authority in the Children, and their lies had no doubt been convincing. No, the one he was angry at was Asunawa, who took what was true and muddied it. There were many who did that in the world, but the Children should be different.

  Soon the Questioners would come for him, and then the true price for saving his men would be exacted with their hooks and knives. He had been aware of that price when he’d made his decision. In a way, he had won, for he had manipulated the situation best.

  The other way to ensure his victory was to hold to the truth under their questioning. To deny being a Darkfriend with his final breath. It would be difficult, but it would be right.

  He forced himself to sit up, expecting—and weathering—the dizziness and nausea. He felt around. His legs were chained together, and that chain was locked to a spike that had been driven deep into the earth, piercing the rough canvas tent bottom.

  He tried yanking it free, just in case. He pulled so hard that his muscles failed him and he nearly passed out. Once he had recovered, he crawled to the side of the tent. His chains gave him enough room to reach the flaps. He took one of the cloth ties—used to hold the flaps up when they were opened—and spat on it. Then, methodically, he wiped the grime and blood from his face.

  The cleaning gave him a goal, kept him moving and stopped him from thinking about the pain. He carefully scrubbed the crusted blood from his cheek and nose. It was difficult; his mouth was dry. He bit down on his tongue to get saliva. The strips were not canvas, but a lighter material. They smelled of dust.

  He spat on a fresh section, then worked the spittle into the cloth. The wound to his head, the dirt on his face…these things were marks of victory for the Questioners. He would not leave them. He would go into their tortures with a clean face.

  He heard shouts outside. Men preparing to break down the camp. Would that delay their questioning? He doubted it. Striking camp could take hours. Galad continued cleaning, soiling the lengths of both straps, using the work as a kind of ritual, a rhythmic pattern to give him a focus for meditation. His headache withdrew, the pains of his body becoming less significant.

  He would not run. Even if he could escape, fleeing would invalidate his bargain with Asunawa. But he would face his enemies with self-respect.

  As he finished, he heard voices outside the tent. They were coming for him. He scrabbled quietly back to the stake in the ground. Taking a deep breath despite the pain, he rolled onto his knees. Then he took the top of the iron spike in his left hand and pushed, heaving himself to his feet.

  He wobbled, then steadied hi
mself, standing up all the way. His pains were nothing, now. He had felt insect bites that were worse. He put his feet wide in a warrior’s stance, his hands held before himself with his wrists crossed. He opened his eyes, back straight, staring at the tent flaps. It wasn’t the cloak, the uniform, the heraldry, or the sword that made a man. It was the way he held himself.

  The flaps rustled, then drew open. The outside light was brilliant to Galad’s eyes, but he did not blink. He did not flinch.

  Silhouettes moved against an overcast sky. They hesitated, backlit. He could tell they were surprised to see him standing there.

  “Light!” one exclaimed. “Damodred, how is it that you’re awake?” Unexpectedly, the voice was familiar.

  “Trom?” Galad asked, his voice ragged.

  Men spilled into the room. As his eyes adjusted, Galad made out stocky Trom, along with Bornhald and Byar. Trom fumbled with a set of keys.

  “Stop!” Galad said. “I gave orders to you three. Bornhald, there is blood on your cloak! I commanded you not to try to free me!”

  “Your men obeyed your orders, Damodred,” a new voice said. Galad looked up to see three men entering the room: Berab Golever, tall and bearded; Alaabar Harnesh, his bald, shadowed head missing its left ear; Brandel Vordarian, a blond hulk of a man from Galad’s native Andor. All three were Lords Captain, all three had stood with Asunawa.

  “What is this?” Galad asked them.

  Harnesh opened a sack and dumped something bulbous to the ground in front of Galad. A head.

  Asunawa’s.

  All three men drew swords and knelt before him, the points of their weapons stabbing the canvas. Trom unlocked the manacles at Galad’s feet.

  “I see,” Galad said. “You have turned your swords on fellow Children.”

  “What would you have had us do?” Brandel asked, looking up from his kneeling position.

  Galad shook his head. “I do not know. Perhaps you are right; I should not chide you on this choice. It may have been the only one you could have made. But why did you change your minds?”

  “We have lost two Lords Captain Commander in under half a year,” Harnesh said in a gruff voice. “The Fortress of the Light has become a playground for the Seanchan. The world is in chaos.”

  “And yet,” Golever said, “Asunawa marched us all the way out here to have us battle our fellow Children. It was not right, Damodred. We all saw how you presented yourself, we all saw how you stopped us from killing one another. Faced with that, and with the High Inquisitor naming as Darkfriend a man we all know to be honorable…Well, how could we not turn against him?”

  Galad nodded. “You accept me as Lord Captain Commander?”

  The three men bowed their heads. “All the Lords Captain are for you,” Golever said. “We were forced to kill a third of those who wore the red shepherd’s crook of the Hand of the Light. Some others united with us; some tried to flee. The Amadicians did not interfere, and many have said they’d rather join with us than return to the Seanchan. We have the other Amadicians—and the Questioners who tried to run—held at swordpoint.”

  “Let free those who wish to leave,” Galad said. “They may return to their families and their masters. By the time they reach the Seanchan, we will be beyond their grasp.”

  The men nodded.

  “I accept your allegiance,” Galad said. “Gather the other Lords Captain and fetch me supply reports. Strike camp. We march for Andor.”

  None of them asked whether he needed rest, though Trom did look worried. Galad accepted the white robe a Child brought to him, and then sat in a hastily supplied chair as another—Child Candeiar, a man expert in wounds—entered to inspect his injuries.

  Galad didn’t feel wise or strong enough to bear the title he did. But the Children had made their decision.

  The Light would protect them for it.

  Chapter 3

  The Amyrlin’s Anger

  Egwene floated in blackness. She was without form, lacking shape or body. The thoughts, imaginings, worries, hopes, and ideas of all the world extended into eternity around her.

  This was the place between dreams and the waking world, a blackness pinpricked with thousands upon thousands of distinct lights, each more focused and intense than the stars of the skies. They were dreams, and she could look in on them, but did not. The ones she wanted to see were warded, and most of the others were mysteries to her.

  There was one dream she longed to slip into. She restrained herself. Though her feelings for Gawyn were still strong, her opinion of him was muddled recently. Getting lost in his dreams would not help.

  She turned about, looking through the expanse. Recently, she’d started coming here to float and think. The dreams of all the people here—some from her world, some from shadows of it—reminded her why she fought. She must never forget that there was an entire world outside the White Tower’s walls. The purpose of Aes Sedai was to serve that world.

  Time passed as she lay bathed in the light of dreams. Eventually, she willed herself to move, and located a dream she recognized—though she wasn’t certain how she did it. The dream swept up toward her, filling her vision.

  She pressed her will against the dream and sent a thought into it. Nynaeve. It is time to stop avoiding me. There is work to be done, and I have news for you. Meet me in two nights in the Hall of the Tower. If you do not come, I will be forced to take measures. Your dalliance threatens us all.

  The dream seemed to shudder, and Egwene pulled back as it vanished. She’d already spoken to Elayne. Those two were loose threads; they needed to be truly raised to the shawl, with the oaths administered.

  Beyond that, Egwene needed information from Nynaeve. Hopefully, the threat mixed with a promise of news would bring her. And that news was important. The White Tower finally unified, the Amyrlin Seat secure, Elaida captured by the Seanchan.

  Pinprick dreams streaked around Egwene. She considered trying to contact the Wise Ones, but decided against it. How should she deal with them? The first thing was to keep them from thinking they were being “dealt with.” Her plan for them was not yet firm.

  She let herself slip back into her body, content to spend the rest of the night with her own dreams. Here, she couldn’t keep thoughts of Gawyn from visiting her, nor did she want to. She stepped into her dream, and into his embrace. They stood in a small stone-walled room shaped like her study in the Tower, yet decorated like the common room of her father’s inn. Gawyn was dressed in sturdy Two Rivers woolens and did not wear his sword. A more simple life. It could not be hers, but she could dream…

  Everything shook. The room of past and present seemed to shatter, shredding into swirling smoke. Egwene stepped back, gasping, as Gawyn ripped apart as if made of sand. All was dust around her, and thirteen black towers rose in the distance beneath a tarlike sky.

  One fell, and then another, crashing to the ground. As they did, the ones that remained grew taller and taller. The ground shook as several more towers fell. Another tower shook and cracked, collapsing most of the way to the ground—but then, it recovered and grew tallest of all.

  At the end of the quake, six towers remained, looming above her. Egwene had fallen to the ground, which had become soft earth covered in withered leaves. The vision changed. She was looking down at a nest. In it, a group of fledgling eagles screeched toward the sky for their mother. One of the eaglets uncoiled, and it wasn’t an eagle at all, but a serpent. It began to strike at the fledglings one at a time, swallowing them whole. The eaglets simply continued to stare into the sky, pretending that the serpent was their sibling as it devoured them.

  The vision changed. She saw an enormous sphere made of the finest crystal. It sparkled in the light of twenty-three enormous stars, shining down on it where it sat on a dark hilltop. There were cracks in it, and it was being held together by ropes.

  There was Rand, walking up the hillside, holding a woodsman’s axe. He reached the top and hefted the axe, then swung at the ropes one at a time, c
hopping them free. The last one parted, and the sphere began to break apart, the beautiful globe falling in pieces. Rand shook his head.

  Egwene gasped, came awake, and sat upright. She was in her rooms in the White Tower. The bedchamber was nearly empty—she’d had Elaida’s things removed, but hadn’t completely furnished it again. She had only a washstand, a rug of thick-woven brown fibers, and a bed with posts and drapes. The window shutters were closed; morning sunlight peeked through.

  She breathed in and out. Rarely did dreams unsettle her as much as this one had.

  Calming herself, she reached down to the side of her bed, picking up the leather-bound book she kept there to record her dreams. The middle of the three this night was the clearest to her. She felt the meaning of it, interpreting it as she sometimes could. The serpent was one of the Forsaken, hidden in the White Tower, pretending to be Aes Sedai. Egwene had suspected this was the case—Verin had said she believed it so.

  Mesaana was still in the White Tower. But how did she imitate an Aes Sedai? Every sister had resworn the oaths. Apparently Mesaana could defeat the Oath Rod. As Egwene carefully recorded the dreams, she thought about the towers, looming, threatening to destroy her, and she knew some of the meaning there too.

  If Egwene did not find Mesaana and stop her, something terrible would happen. It could mean the fall of the White Tower, perhaps the victory of the Dark One. Dreams were not Foretellings—they didn’t show what would happen, but what could.

  Light, she thought, finishing her record. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.

  Egwene rose to call her maids, but a knock at the door interrupted her. Curious, she walked across the thick rug—wearing only her nightgown—and opened the door enough to see Silviana standing in the antechamber. Square-featured and dressed in red, she had her hair up in its typical bun, and her red Keeper’s stole over her shoulders.