Towers of Midnight (39 page)

“Whose side are you on?” Mat said.

“Everyone’s,” Thom said.

“That’s not a bloody side,” Mat said, then looked back to Elayne. “I put a lot of effort and thought into getting these plans out of Aludra. I’ve nothing against Andor, but I don’t trust anyone with these weapons who isn’t me.”

“And if the Band were part of Andor?” Elayne asked. She really
did
sound like a queen all of a sudden.

“The Band is beholden to nobody,” Mat said.

“That is admirable, Mat,” Elayne said, “but it makes you mercenaries. I think that the Band deserves something more, something better. With official backing, you would have access to resources and authority. We could give you a commission in Andor, with your own command structure.”

It was actually tempting. Just a little. But it did not matter. He did not think Elayne would be happy to have him in her realm once she knew of his relationship with the Seanchan. He meant to return to Tuon eventually, somehow. If only to work out what she really felt about him.

He had no intention of giving the Seanchan access to these dragons, but he did not fancy giving them to Andor, either. Unfortunately, he had to admit that there was no way he was going to have Andor build them without giving the weapons to the nation, too.

“I don’t want a commission for the Band,” Mat said. “We’re free men, and that’s how we like it.”

Elayne looked troubled.

“But I’d be willing to split the dragons with you,” Mat said. “Some for us, some for you.”

“What if,” Elayne said, “I built all of the dragons and owned all of them—but promised that only the Band could use them? No other forces would have access to them.”

“That would be kind of you,” Mat said. “Suspicious, though. No offense.”

“It would be better for me if the noble Houses didn’t have these, at least not at first. They will spread eventually. Weapons always do. I build them and promise to give them to the Band. No commission, just a contract, hiring you for a long term. You can go at any time. But if you do, you leave the dragons behind.”

Mat frowned. “Feels like you’re wrapping a chain around my neck, Elayne.”

“I’m only suggesting reasonable solutions.”

“The day you become reasonable is the day I eat my hat,” Mat said. “No offense.”

Elayne raised an eyebrow at him. Yes, she had become a queen. Just like that.

“I want the right to keep a few of these dragons,” Mat said, “if we leave. One-quarter to us, three-quarters to you. But we’ll take your contract, and while we’re in your employ, only we use them. As you said.”

Her frown deepened. Burn him, but she had grasped the power of those dragons quickly. He could not let her hesitate now. They
needed
the dragons to go into production immediately. And he was not about to let the chance of having them pass the Band by.

Sighing to himself, Mat reached up and undid the strap at the back of his neck, then pulled the familiar foxhead medallion out of his shirt. The second he removed it, he felt more naked than if he had stripped bare. He set it on the table.

Elayne glanced at it, and he could see a flash of desire in her eyes. “What is that for?”

“It’s a sweetener,” Mat said, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “You get it for one day if you agree to start production on a prototype dragon this evening. I don’t care what you do with the medallion—study it, write a bloody book about it, wear it about. But you return it tomorrow. Your word on it.”

Birgitte whistled slowly. Elayne had wanted to get her hands on that medallion the moment she discovered he had it. Of course, so had every other bloody Aes Sedai that Mat had met.

“I get the Band in at least a one-year contract,” Elayne said, “renewable. We’ll pay you whatever you were earning in Murandy.”

How did she know about that?

“You can cancel,” she continued, “as long as you provide a month’s warning—but I keep four dragons out of five. And any men who wish to join the Andoran military must be given the chance.”

“I want one out of four,” Mat said. “And a new serving man.”

“A
what
?” Elayne said.

“A serving man,” Mat said. “You know, to take care of my clothing. You’d do a better job of picking than I would.”

Elayne looked at his coat, then up at his hair. “That,” she said, “I’ll give you regardless of how the other negotiations go.”

“One out of four?” Mat said.

“I get the medallion for three days.”

He shivered. Three days, with the
gholam
in town. She would have him dead. It was already a gamble to give it to her for a day. But he could not think of anything else he could offer. “What do you even think you can do with the thing?” he asked.

“Copy it,” Elayne said absently, “if I’m lucky.”

“Really?”

“I won’t know until I study it.”

Mat suddenly had the horrifying image of every Aes Sedai in the world wearing one of those medallions. He shared a look with Thom, who seemed equally surprised to hear this.

But what did that matter? Mat could not channel. Before, he had worried that—if she studied it—Elayne might figure a way to touch him with the One Power when he was wearing it. But if she just wanted to copy it…well, he found himself relieved. And intrigued.

“There’s been something I’ve been meaning to mention, Elayne,” he said. “The
gholam
is here. In town. It’s been killing people.”

Elayne remained calm, but he could tell from the way she was even more formal when she spoke that the news worried her. “Then I will be certain to return the medallion to you on time.”

He grimaced. “All right,” he said. “Three days.”

“Very well,” she said. “I want the Band to start immediately. I’ll be Traveling to Cairhien soon, and I have a feeling they would be a better support force there than the Queen’s Guards.”

So
that
was what this was about! Elayne was moving on the Sun Throne. Well, that seemed a good use for the men, at least until Mat needed them. Better than letting them sit around getting lazy and picking fights with sell-swords.

“I agree to that,” Mat said, “but Elayne, the Band has to be free to fight in the Last Battle, however Rand wants. And Aludra has to supervise the dragons. I have a feeling that she’ll insist that she remain with you if the Band breaks off from Andor.”

“I have no issues with that,” Elayne said, smiling.

“I figured you wouldn’t. But, just so we’re clear, the Band has control of the dragons until we leave. You can’t sell the technology to others.”

“Someone will replicate it, Mat,” she said.

“Copies won’t be as good as Aludra’s,” Mat said. “I promise you that.”

Elayne studied him, blue eyes weighing him, judging him. “I’d still rather have the Band as a fully commissioned Andoran force.”

“Well, I wish I had a hat made all of gold, a tent that could fly and a horse that leaves droppings of diamonds. But we’ll both have to settle with what’s reasonable, won’t we?”

“It wouldn’t be unreasonable to—”

“We’d have to do what you said, Elayne,” Mat replied. “I won’t have it. Some battles aren’t worth fighting, and I’m going to decide when my men put themselves at risk. That’s that.”

“I don’t like having men who could leave me at any time.”

“You know I won’t hold them back merely to spite you,” Mat said. “I’ll do what’s right.”

“What you
see
as being right,” she corrected.

“Every man should have that option,” he replied.

“Few men use it wisely.”

“We want it anyway,” Mat said. “We demand it.”

She glanced—almost imperceptibly—toward the plans and the medallion on the table. “You have it,” she said.

“Deal,” he said, standing up, spitting in his hand, and holding it out.

She hesitated, stood and spat in her hand, then held it out to him. He smiled and shook it.

“Did you know that I might ask you to take arms against the Two Rivers?” she asked. “Is that why you demanded the right to leave if you want?”

Against the
Two Rivers
? Why under the Light would she want to do that? “You don’t need to fight them, Elayne.”

“We shall see what Perrin forces me to do,” she replied. “But let’s not discuss that right now.” She glanced at Thom, then reached under her table and pulled out a rolled piece of paper with a ribbon about it. “Please. I want to hear more of what happened during your trip out of Ebou Dar. Will you take dinner with me this evening?”

“We’d be delighted,” Thom said, standing. “Wouldn’t we, Mat?”

“I suppose,” Mat said. “If Talmanes can come. He’ll tear my throat out if I don’t at least let him meet you, Elayne. Taking dinner with you will have him dancing all the way back to the camp.”

Elayne chuckled. “As you wish. I’ll have servants show you to some rooms where you can rest until the time arrives.” She handed Thom the rolled-up paper. “This will be proclaimed tomorrow, if you will it.”

“What is it?” Thom asked, frowning.

“The court of Andor lacks a proper court-bard,” she said. “I thought you might be interested.”

Thom hesitated. “You honor me, but I can’t accept that. There are things I need to do in the next little while, and I can’t be tied to the court.”

“You needn’t be tied to the court,” Elayne said. “You’ll have freedom to leave and go where you wish. But when you are in Caemlyn, I’d have you be known for who you are.”

“I…” He took the roll of paper. “I’ll consider it, Elayne.”

“Excellent.” She grimaced. “I’m afraid I have an appointment with my midwife now, but I will see you at dinner. I haven’t yet asked what Matrim meant by calling himself a married man in his letter. I expect a full report! No expurgations!” She eyed Mat, smiling slyly. “Expurgation means ‘parts cut out,’ Mat. In case you weren’t bloody aware.”

He put his hat on. “I knew that.” What had that word been again? Expirations? Light, why had he mentioned his marriage in that letter? He had hoped it would make Elayne curious enough to see him.

Elayne laughed, gesturing them toward the exit. Thom spared a paternal kiss for her cheek before parting—good that it was paternal! Mat had heard some things about those two that he did not want to believe. With Thom old enough to be her grandfather, no less.

Mat pulled open the door, moving to leave.

“And Mat,” Elayne added. “If you need to borrow money to buy a new coat, the Crown can lend you some. Considering your station, you really should dress more nicely.”

“I’m no bloody nobleman!” he said, turning.

“Not yet,” she said. “You don’t have Perrin’s audacity in naming yourself to a title. I’ll see that you get one.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said.

“But—”

“See here,” he said as Thom joined him in the hallway. “I’m
proud
of who I am. And I like this coat. It’s comfortable.” He clenched his hands into fists, refusing to scratch at his collar.

“If you say so,” Elayne said. “I will see you at dinner. I’ll have to bring Dyelin. She’s very curious to meet you.”

With that, she had Birgitte close the door. Mat stared at it vengefully for a moment, then turned toward Thom. Talmanes and the soldiers waited a short distance down the hallway, out of hearing range. They were being given warm tea by some palace servants.

“That went well,” Mat decided, hands on hips. “I worried she wouldn’t bite, but I think I reeled her in pretty well.” Though the bloody dice were still rolling in his head.

Thom laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

“What?” Mat demanded.

Thom just chuckled, then glanced down at the scroll in his other hand. “And this was unexpected as well.”

“Well, Andor
doesn’t
have a court-bard,” Mat said.

“Yes,” Thom said, looking over the scroll. “But there’s a pardon written in here too, for any and all crimes—known and unknown—I may have committed in Andor or Cairhien. I wonder who told her….”

“Told her what?”

“Nothing, Mat. Nothing at all. We have a few hours until dinner with Elayne. What do you say we go buy you a new coat?”

“All right,” Mat said. “You think I could get one of those pardons, too, if I asked for it?”

“Do you need one?”

Mat shrugged, walking down the hallway with him. “Can’t hurt to be safe. What kind of coat are you going to buy me, anyway?”

“I didn’t say
I’d
pay.”

“Don’t be so stingy,” Mat said. “I’ll pay for dinner.” And bloody ashes, somehow, Mat knew, he would.

“You must not speak,” Rosil said to Nynaeve. The slender, long-necked woman wore an orange dress slashed with yellow. “At least, speak only when spoken to. You know the ceremony?”

Nynaeve nodded, her heart beating treacherously as they walked into the dungeonlike depths of the White Tower. Rosil was the new Mistress of Novices, and a member of the Yellow Ajah by coincidence.

“Excellent, excellent,” Rosil said. “Might I suggest you move the ring to the third finger of your left hand?”

“You may suggest it,” Nynaeve said, but did not move the ring. She
had
been named Aes Sedai. She would not give in on that point.

Rosil pursed her lips, but said nothing further. The woman had shown Nynaeve remarkable kindness during her short time in the White Tower—which had been a relief. Nynaeve had grown to expect that every Yellow sister would regard her with disdain, or at least indifference. Oh, they thought she was talented, and many insisted on being trained by her. But they did not think of her as one of them. Not yet.

This woman was different, and being a burr in her sandal was not a good repayment. “It is important to me, Rosil,” Nynaeve explained, “that I not give any indication of disrespect for the Amyrlin. She named me Aes Sedai. To act as if I were merely Accepted would be to undermine her words. This test is important—when the Amyrlin raised me, she never said that I need not be tested. But I
am
Aes Sedai.”

Rosil cocked her head, then nodded. “Yes. I see. You are correct.”

Nynaeve stopped in the dim corridor. “I want to thank you, and the others who have welcomed me these last days—Niere and Meramor. I had not assumed I would find acceptance here among you.”

“There are some who resist change, dear,” Rosil said. “It will ever be so. But your new weaves are impressive. More importantly, they’re effective. That earns you a warm welcome from me.”

Nynaeve smiled.

“Now,” Rosil said, raising a finger. “You
might
be Aes Sedai in the eyes of the Amyrlin and the Tower, but tradition still holds. No speaking for the rest of the ceremony, please.”

The lanky woman continued leading the way. Nynaeve followed, biting off a retort. She wouldn’t let her nerves rule her.

Deeper into the Tower they wound, and despite her determination to be calm, she found herself increasingly nervous. She
was
Aes Sedai, and she
would
pass this test. She’d mastered the hundred weaves. She didn’t need to worry.

Except, some women never returned from the test.

These cellars had a grand beauty to them. The smooth stone floor was leveled carefully. Lamps burned high on the walls; likely, those had required a sister or Accepted to light them with the One Power. Few people came down here, and most of the rooms were used for storage. It seemed a waste to her to put such care in a place rarely visited.

Eventually, they arrived at a pair of doors so large that Rosil had to use the One Power to open them.
It’s an indication,
Nynaeve thought, folding her arms.
The vaulted hallways, the enormous door. This is here to show Accepted the importance of what they are about to do.

The enormous, gatelike doors swung open, and Nynaeve forced herself to master her jitters. The Last Battle was looming. She
would
pass this test. She had important work to be about.

Head raised high, she entered the chamber. It was domed, with stand-lamps around the perimeter. A large
ter’angreal
dominated the center. It was an oval, narrowed at the top and bottom, that sat unsupported.

Many
ter’angreal
looked ordinary. That was not the case here: this oval was
obviously
something worked by the One Power. It was made of metal, but the light changed colors as it reflected off the silvery sides, making the thing seem to glow and shift.

“Attend,” Rosil said formally.

There were other Aes Sedai in the room. One from each Ajah, including—unfortunately—the Red. They were all Sitters, an oddity, perhaps because of Nynaeve’s notoriety in the Tower. Saerin from the Brown, Yukiri of the Gray, Barasine from the Red. Notably, Romanda from the Yellow was there; she had insisted on taking part. She had been hard with Nynaeve so far.

Egwene herself had come. One more than normal, and the Amyrlin as well. Nynaeve met the Amyrlin’s eyes, and Egwene nodded. Unlike the test to be raised to Accepted—which was made entirely by the
ter’angreal
—this test involved the sisters actively working to make Nynaeve prove herself. And Egwene would be among the most harsh. To show that she had been right in raising Nynaeve.

“You come in ignorance, Nynaeve al’Meara,” Rosil said. “How will you depart?”

“In knowledge of myself,” Nynaeve said.

“For what reason have you been summoned here?”

“To be tried.”

“For what reason should you be tried?”

“To show that I am worthy,” Nynaeve said.

Several of the women frowned, including Egwene. Those weren’t the right words—Nynaeve was supposed to say that she wanted to learn whether or not she was worthy. But she was already Aes Sedai, so by definition she was worthy. She just had to prove it to the others.

Rosil stumbled, but continued. “And…for what would you be found worthy?”

“To wear the shawl I have been given,” Nynaeve said. She didn’t say it to be arrogant. Once again, she simply stated the truth, as she saw it. Egwene had raised her. She wore the shawl already. Why pretend that she didn’t?

This test was administered clad in the Light. She began taking off her dress.

“I will instruct you,” Rosil said. “You will see this sign upon the ground.” She raised her fingers, forming weaves that made a glowing symbol in the air. A six-pointed star, two overlapping triangles.

Saerin embraced the source and wove a weave of Spirit. Nynaeve suppressed the urge to embrace the Source herself.

Only a little longer,
she thought.
And then nobody will be able to doubt me.

Saerin touched her with the weave of Spirit. “Remember what must be remembered,” she murmured.

That weave had something to do with memory. What was its purpose? The six-pointed star hovered in Nynaeve’s vision.

“When you see that sign, you will go to it immediately,” Rosil said. “Go at a steady pace, neither hurrying nor hanging back. Only when you reach it may you embrace the Source. The weaving required must begin immediately, and you may not leave that sign until it is completed.”

“Remember what must be remembered,” Saerin said again.

“When the weave is complete,” Rosil said, “you will see that sign again, marking the way you must go, again at a steady pace, without hesitation.”

“Remember what must be remembered.”

“One hundred times you will weave, in the order that you have been given and in perfect composure.”

“Remember what must be remembered,” Saerin said one final time.

Nynaeve felt the weaving of Spirit settle into her. It was rather like Healing. She removed her dress and shift as the other sisters knelt beside the
ter’angreal
, performing complex weaves of all Five Powers. They caused it to glow brightly, the colors on its surface shifting and changing. Rosil cleared her throat, and Nynaeve blushed, handing her the pile of garments, then took off her Great Serpent ring and placed it on top, followed by Lan’s ring—which she normally wore around her neck.

Rosil took the clothing. The other sisters were completely absorbed in their work. The
ter’angreal
began glowing a pure white in the center, then started to revolve slowly, grinding against the stone.

Nynaeve took a deep breath, striding forward. She paused before the
ter’angreal
, stepped through and…

…and where was she? Nynaeve frowned. This didn’t look like the Two Rivers. She stood in a village made of huts. Waves lapped against a sandy beach to her left, and the village ran up a slope toward a rocky shelf to her right. A distant mountain towered above.

An island of some sort. The air was humid, the breeze calm. People walked between huts, calling good-naturedly to one another. A few stopped to stare at her. She looked down at herself, realizing for the first time that she was naked. She blushed furiously. Who had taken her clothing? When she found the person responsible she’d switch them so soundly, they wouldn’t be able to sit for weeks!

A robe was hanging from a nearby clothesline. She forced herself to remain calm as she walked over and pulled it free. She would find its owner and pay them. She couldn’t very well walk about without a stitch. She threw the robe on over her head.

The ground shook, suddenly. The gentle waves grew louder, crashing against the beach. Nynaeve gasped, steadying herself against the clothesline pole. Above, the mountain began spurting smoke and ashes.

Nynaeve clutched the pole as the rocky shelf nearby began to break apart, boulders tumbling down the incline. People yelled. She had to do something! As she looked about, she saw a six-pointed star carved into the ground. She wanted to run for it, but she knew she needed to walk carefully.

Keeping calm was difficult. As she walked, her heart fluttered with terror. She was going to be crushed! She reached the star pattern just as a large shower of stones rumbled toward her, smashing huts. Despite her fear, Nynaeve quickly formed the correct weave—a weave of Air that formed a wall. She set it in front of herself, and the stones thudded against the air, forced back.

There were hurt people in the village. She turned from the star pattern to help, but as she did, she saw the same six-pointed star woven in reeds and hanging from the door of a nearby hut. She hesitated.

She
could not
fail. She walked to the hut and passed through the doorway.

Then she froze. What was she doing in this dark, cold cavern? And why was she wearing this robe of thick, scratchy fibers?

She had completed the first of the hundred weaves. She knew this, but nothing else. Frowning to herself, she walked through the cavern. Light shone through cracks in the ceiling, and she saw a greater pool of it ahead. The way out.

She walked from the cavern to find that she was in the Waste. She raised a hand to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight. There wasn’t a soul in sight. She walked forward, feet crunching on weeds and scalded by hot stones.

The heat was overwhelming. Soon each step was exhausting. Fortunately, some ruins lay ahead. Shade! She wanted to run for it, but she had to remain calm. She walked up to the stones, and her feet fell on rock shaded by a broken wall. It was so cool, she sighed in relief.

A pattern of bricks lay nearby in the ground, and they made a six-pointed star. Unfortunately, that star was back out in the sunlight. She reluctantly left the shade and walked toward the pattern.

Drums thumped in the distance. Nynaeve spun. Disgusting brown-furred creatures began to climb over a nearby hill, carrying axes that dripped with red blood. The Trollocs looked wrong to her. She’d seen Trollocs before, though she didn’t remember where. These were different. A new breed, perhaps? With thicker fur, eyes hidden in the recesses of their faces.

Nynaeve walked faster, but did not break into a run. It was important to keep her calm. That was completely
stupid
. Why would she need to—or want to—keep herself from running when there were Trollocs nearby? If she died because she wasn’t willing to hasten her step, it would be her own fault.

Keep composure. Don’t move too quickly.

She maintained her steady pace, reaching the six-pointed star as the Trollocs drew close. She began the weave she was required to make and split off a thread of Fire. She sent an enormous spray of heat away from her, burning the nearest of the beasts to cinders.

Jaw set against her fear, she crafted the rest of the required weave. She split her weaves a half-dozen times and finished the complicated thing in mere moments.

She set it in place, then nodded. There. Other Trollocs were coming, and she burned them away with a wave of her hand.

The six-pointed star was carved into the side of an archway of stone. She walked toward it, trying to keep from looking nervously over her shoulder. More Trollocs were coming. More than she could possibly kill.

She reached the archway and stepped through.

Nynaeve finished the forty-seventh weave, which caused the sounds of bells in the air. She was exhausted. She’d had to make this weave while standing on top of an impossibly narrow tower hundreds of feet in the air. Wind buffeted her, threatening to blow her free.

An archway appeared below, in the dark night air. It seemed to grow right out of the pillar’s side a dozen feet below her, parallel to the ground, its opening toward the sky. It held the six-pointed star.

Gritting her teeth, she leaped off the spire and fell through the archway.

She landed in a puddle. Her clothing was gone. What had happened to it? She stood up, growling to herself. She was
angry
. She didn’t know why, but someone had done…something to her.

She was so tired. That was their fault, whoever they were. As she focused on that thought, it became more clear to her. She couldn’t remember what they’d done, but they were definitely to blame. She had cuts across both of her arms. Had she been whipped? The cuts hurt something fierce.

Dripping wet, she looked around. She’d completed forty-seven of the hundred weaves. She knew that, but nothing else. Other than the fact that
somebody
very badly wanted her to fail.

She wasn’t going to let them win. She rose out of the puddle, determined to be calm, and found some clothing nearby. It was garishly colored, bright pink and yellow with a generous helping of red. It seemed an insult. She put it on anyway.

She walked down a path in the bog, stepping around sinkholes and pools of stagnant water, until she found a six-pointed star drawn in the mud. She began the next weave, which would make a burning blue star shoot into the air.