Towers of Midnight (The Wheel of Time #13)

Towers of Midnight (The Wheel of Time #13) Page 106

Egwene seemed troubled. “Don’t voice those ideas too much, at least not today. They’re already frustrated enough with you. But this testing was brutal, Nynaeve. I’m sorry. I couldn’t be seen favoring you, but perhaps I should have put a stop to it. You did what you weren’t supposed to, and that drove the others to be increasingly severe. They saw that sick children hurt you, so they put more and more of them into the test. Many seemed to consider your victories a personal affront, a contest of wills. That drove them to be harsh. Cruel, even.”

“I survived,” Nynaeve said, eyes closed. “And I learned a great deal. About me. And about us.”

She wanted to be Aes Sedai, fully and truly embraced. She wanted it badly. But in the end, if these people chose to refuse her their approval, she knew she could continue on and do what she needed to do anyway.

Eventually, the Sitters—trailed by Rosil—walked up. Nynaeve hauled herself to her feet to be respectful.

“We must discuss the forbidden weave you used,” Saerin said, stern.

“It is the only way I know to destroy Darkhounds,” Nynaeve said. “It was needed.”

“You do not have the right to decide that,” Saerin said. “What you did destabilized the ter’angreal. You could have destroyed it, killing yourself and perhaps us. We want you to swear that you will never use that weave again.”

“I won’t do that,” Nynaeve said tiredly.

“And if it means the difference between gaining the shawl or losing it forever?”

“Giving an oath like that would be foolish,” Nynaeve said. “I could find myself in a situation where people would die if I didn’t use it. Light! I’ll be fighting in the Last Battle alongside Rand. What if I were to get to Shayol Ghul and discover that, without balefire, I could not help the Dragon stop the Dark One? Would you have me choose between a foolish oath and the fate of the world?”

“You think you’re going to Shayol Ghul?” Rubinde asked, incredulous.

“I’m going to be there,” Nynaeve said softly. “It is not a question. Rand has asked it of me, though I would have gone if he hadn’t.”

They shared a look, seeming troubled.

“If you’re going to raise me,” Nynaeve said, “then you’ll just have to trust my judgment on balefire. If you don’t trust me to know when to use a very dangerous weave and when not to, then I’d rather you not raise me.”

“I would be careful,” Egwene said to the women. “Refusing the shawl to the woman who helped cleanse the taint from saidin—the woman who defeated Moghedien herself in battle, the woman married to the King of Malkier—would set a very dangerous precedent.”

Saerin looked at the others. Three nods. Yukiri, Seaine and—surprisingly—Romanda. Three shakes of the head. Rubinde, Barasine, Lelaine. That left only Saerin. The deciding vote.

The Brown turned back to her. “Nynaeve al’Meara, I declare that you have passed this test. Narrowly.”

To the side, Egwene let out a soft—almost inaudible—sigh of relief. Nynaeve realized she’d been holding her own breath.

“It is done!” Rosil said, clapping her hands together. “Let no one ever speak of what has passed here. It is for us to share in silence with she who experienced it. It is done.”

The women nodded in agreement, even those who had voted against Nynaeve. Nobody would know that Nynaeve had nearly failed. They had probably confronted her about the balefire directly—rather than seeking formal punishment—because of the tradition of not speaking of what happened in the ter’angreal.

Rosil clapped again. “Nynaeve al’Meara, you will spend the night in prayer and contemplation of the burdens you will take up on the morrow, when you don the shawl of an Aes Sedai. It is done.” She clapped a third and final time.

“Thank you,” Nynaeve said. “But I already have my shawl and—”

She cut off as Egwene gave her a glare. A serene glare, but a glare nonetheless. Perhaps Nynaeve had pushed things far enough tonight already.

“—I will be happy to follow tradition,” Nynaeve continued, discarding her objection. “So long as I am allowed to do one very important thing first. Then I will return and fulfill tradition.”

Nynaeve needed a gateway to get where she was going. She hadn’t specifically told the others she’d be leaving the Tower to see to her task. But she hadn’t said she wouldn’t, either.

She hustled through the dark camp of tents which sat just outside a partially built wall. The night sky was dim, with those clouds covering it, and fires burned at the perimeter of the camp. Perhaps too many fires. Those here were being extremely cautious. Fortunately, the guards had allowed her into the camp without comment; the Great Serpent ring worked wonders, when applied in the right locations. They’d even told her where to find the woman she sought.

In truth, Nynaeve had been surprised to find these tents outside, rather than inside, the walls of the Black Tower. These women had been sent to bond Asha’man, as Rand had offered. But according to the guards, Egwene’s envoy had been made to wait. The Asha’man had said that “others had the first choice,” whatever that meant. Egwene probably knew more; she’d sent messengers back and forth with the women here, particularly to warn them about Black sisters who might be among them. Those they’d known of had vanished before the first messengers arrived.

Nynaeve hadn’t the mind to ask more details at the moment. She had another task. She stepped up to the proper tent, feeling so tired from the testing that she felt she would soon tumble to the ground in a flurry of yellow cloth. A few Warders passed through the camp nearby, watching her with calm expressions.

The tent before her was a simple gray thing. It was lit with a faint glow, and shadows moved inside. “Myrelle,” Nynaeve said loudly. “I would speak with you.” She was surprised at how strong her voice sounded. She didn’t feel that she had much strength remaining.

The shadows paused, and then moved again. The tent flaps rustled, and a confused face peered out. Myrelle wore a blue nightgown that was almost translucent, and one of her Warders—a bear of a man with a thick black beard after the Illianer fashion—sat shirtless on the tent floor inside.

“Child?” Myrelle said, sounding surprised. “What are you doing here?” She was an olive-skinned beauty, with long black hair and rounded curves. Nynaeve had to stop herself from reaching for her braid. It was too short now to tug. That was going to take