Towers of midnight wot-13

by Robert Jordan

  "We shall see, Matrim," she said, then glanced at Thom, who stood holding the packets of tea. Mat half thought he would try to boil water in his own hands, if only to get some warm tea for Moiraine. Thom looked at her, and she held out her hand again.

  "Dearest Thom," she said. "I would have you for a husband, if you'll have me for a wife."

  "What?" Mat said, standing up. He raised a hand to his forehead, nearly knocking his hat free. "What did you say?"

  "Hush, Mat," Thom said. He did not take Moiraine's offered hand. "You know I've never much liked women who can channel the One Power, Moiraine. You know it held me back in the past."

  "I don't have much of the Power now, dearest Thom. Without this angreal, I wouldn't be strong enough to be raised Accepted in the White Tower. I will throw it away, if you wish it of me." She lifted out her other hand, barely staying modest. She pulled off the angreal.

  "I don't think so, Moiraine," Thom said, kneeling down, taking her hands. "No, I won't rob you of anything."

  "But with it I'll be very strong, stronger in the Power than before I was taken."

  "So be it, then," he said. He put the bracelet back on her wrist. "I'll marry you now, if you wish it."

  She smiled deeply.

  Mat stood, stunned. "And who's going to bloody marry you?" he blurted out. "It sure as thunder isn't going to be me, I'll tell you that."

  The two glanced at him, Thom with a flat stare, Moiraine with a hint of a smile. "I can see why the Seanchan woman had to have you, Mat," she noted. "You certainly have a mind for romance."

  "I just…" He pulled off his hat, holding it awkwardly, looking back and forth between them. "I just—burn me! How did I miss this? I was with the two of you most the time you were together! When did you become affectionate?"

  "You weren't watching very closely," Thom said. He turned back to Moiraine. "I assume you'll want me as a Warder, too."

  She smiled. "My previous Gaidin has been appropriated by another by now, I hope."

  "I'll take the job," Thom said, "though you'll have to explain to Elayne why her court-bard is someone's Warder." He hesitated. "You think they can make one of those color-changing cloaks with some patches on it?"

  "Well, you two have gone bloody insane, I see," Mat said. "Thom, didn't you once tell me once that the two most painful places for you to be were Tar Valon and Caemlyn? Now you're running headlong down the hillside that will end with you living in one or the other!"

  Thom shrugged. "Times change."

  "I never have spent much of my time in Tar Valon," Moiraine said. "I think we shall enjoy traveling together, Thom Merrilin. Should we survive the months to come." She looked at Mat. "You should not spurn the Warder bond so easily, Mat. The blessings it provides will be of great use to men in these days."

  Mat pulled his hat back on. "That may be true, but you'll never see me bloody trapped by one. No offense, Moiraine. I like you well enough. But to be bonded to a woman? Isn't going to happen to Matrim Cauthon."

  "Is that so?" Thom asked, amused. "Didn't we determine that your Tuon would be capable of channeling, should she decide to learn?"

  Mat froze. Bloody ashes. Thom was right. But channeling would make her marath'damane. She would not do such a thing. He did not have to worry.

  Did he?

  He must have made a face at the thought, for Thom chuckled and Moiraine smiled again. The two of them soon lost interest in sporting with Mat, however, and turned to a soft discussion. That affection in their eyes was true. They did love each other. Light! How had Mat missed it? He felt like a man who had brought a hog to a horse race.

  He decided to make himself scarce, leaving the two of them alone. He went to scout the area where their gateway was supposed to appear. It had better. They had no supplies, and Mat did not fancy flagging down a ship and riding the long way back to Caemlyn.

  It was a short hike across the meadow to the banks of the Arinelle. Once there, he made a small cairn for Noal, then tipped his hat to it and sat down to wait and think.

  Moiraine was safe. Mat had survived, though that bloody socket throbbed like nothing else. He still was not certain if the Aeifinn and Eelfinn had strings around him or not, but he had gone into their den and come out unscathed. Mostly, anyway.

  One eye lost. What would that do to his ability to fight? That worried him more than anything. He had put on a brave front, but inside he trembled. What would Tuon think of a husband missing an eye? A husband who might not be able to defend himself?

  He pulled out a knife, flipping it. Then, on a whim, he tossed it behind him without looking. He heard a soft screech, then turned to see a rabbit slump to the ground, speared by the idly thrown knife.

  He smiled, then turned back to the river. There, he noticed something caught between two large river stones along the shore. It was an overturned cooking pot, with a copper bottom, barely used, only dinged on the sides a couple of times. It must have been dropped by a traveler walking up the river.

  Yes, he might not be able to judge distance, and he might not be able to see as well. But luck worked better when you were not looking anyway.

  He smiled wider, then fetched the rabbit—he would skin that for supper—and plucked the pot out of the river.

  Moiraine would get her tea after all.

  EPILOGUE

  And after Graendal hurriedly gathered what she needed from her new palace. From her desk, she took a small angreal Mesaana had traded her in exchange for information. It was in the shape of a small, carved ivory knife; she'd lost her gold ring in al'Thor's attack.

  Graendal tossed it in her pack, then snatched a sheaf of papers from her bed. Names of contacts, eyes-and-ears—everything she'd managed to remember from what had been destroyed at Natrin's Barrow.

  Waves surged against the rocks outside. It was still dark. Only moments had passed since her last tool had failed her, Aybara surviving the battlefield. That was supposed to have worked!

  She was in her elegant manor house a few leagues from Ebou Dar. Now that Semirhage was gone, Graendal had begun placing some strings around their new, childlike Empress. She'd have to abandon those schemes now.

  Perrin Aybara had escaped. She felt stunned. Plan after perfect plan had fallen in place. And then… he'd escaped. How? The prophecy… it had said…

  That fool ham, Graendal thought, stuffing the papers in her pack. And that idiot Whitecloak! She was sweating. She shouldn't be sweating.

  She tossed a few ter'angreal from her desk into the pack, then rifled her closet for changes of clothing. He could find her anywhere in the world.

  But perhaps one of the mirror realms of the Portal Stones. Yes. There, his connections were not— She turned, arms full of silk, and froze. A figure stood in the room. Tall, like a pillar dressed in black robes. Eyeless. Smiling lips the color of death.

  Graendal dropped to her knees, throwing aside the clothing. Sweat ran down her temple onto her cheek.

  "Graendal," said the tall Myrddraal. His voice was terrible, like the last whispers of a dying man. "You have failed, Graendal."

  Shaidar Haran. Very bad. "I…" she said, licking her dry lips. How to twist this to a victory? "It is according to plan. It is merely a—"

  "I know your heart, Graendal. I can taste your terror."

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  "Mesaana has fallen," Shaidar Haran whispered. "Three Chosen, destroyed by your actions. The design builds, a lattice of failure, a framework of incompetence."

  "I had nothing to do with Mesaana's fall!"

  "Nothing? Graendal, the dreamspike was there. Those who fought with Mesaana said that they tried to move, to draw the Aes Sedai to a location where their trap could be sprung. They were not meant to fight in the White Tower. They could not leave. Because of you."

  "Isam—"

  "A tool given you. The failure is yours, Graendal."

  She licked her lips again. Her entire mouth had gone dry. There had to be a way out. "I have a better plan, more
bold. You will be impressed. Al'Thor thinks I am dead, and so I can—"

  "No." Such a quiet voice, but so horrible. Graendal found she could not speak. Something had taken her voice. "No," Shaidar Haran continued. "This opportunity has been given to another. But Graendal, you shall not be forgotten."

  She looked up, feeling a surge of hope. Those dead lips were smiling widely, that eyeless gaze fixed on her. She felt a horrible sinking feeling.

  "No," Shaidar Haran said, "I shall not forget you, and you shall not forget that which comes next."

  She opened her eyes wide, then howled as he reached for her.

  The sky rumbled; the grass around Perrin shivered. That grass was spotted black, just as in the real world. Even the wolf dream was dying.

  The air was full of scents that did not belong. A fire burning. Blood drying. The dead flesh of a beast he didn't recognize. Eggs rotting.

  No, he thought. No it will not be.

  He gathered his will. Those scents would vanish. They did, replaced with the scents of summer. Grass, hedgehogs, beetles, moss, mice, blue-winged doves, purple finches. They appeared, bursting to life in a circle around him.

  He gritted his teeth. The reality spread from him like a wave, blackness fading from the plants. Above him, the clouds undulated, then parted. Sunlight streamed down. The thunder calmed.

  And Hopper lives, Perrin thought. He does! I can smell his coat, hear him loping in the grass.

  A wolf appeared before him, forming as if from mist. Silvery gray, grizzled from years of life. Perrin thrilled in his power. It was real.

  And then he saw the wolf's eyes. Lifeless.

  The scent turned stale and wrong.

  Perrin was sweating from the strain of concentrating so hard. Something within him became disjointed. He was coming into the wolf dream too strongly; to try to control this place absolutely was like trying to contain a wolf in a box.

  He cried out, falling to his knees. The misty not-Hopper vanished in a puff and the clouds crashed back into place. Lightning exploded above him and the black spots flooded the grass. The wrong scents returned.

  Perrin knelt, sweat dripping from his brow, one hand on the prickly brown and black grass. Too stiff.

  Perrin thought of Faile in their tent back in the Field of Merrilor. She was his home. There was much to do. Rand had come, as promised. Tomorrow, he would face Egwene. Thought of the real world grounded Perrin, keeping him from entering the wolf dream too strongly.

  Perrin stood. He could do many things in this place, but there were limits. There were always limits.

  Seek Boundless. He will explain.

  Hopper's last sending to him. What did it mean? Hopper had said that Perrin had found the answer. And yet, Boundless would explain that answer? The sending had been awash with pain, loss, satisfaction at seeing Perrin accept the wolf within him. One final image of a wolf leaping proudly into the darkness, coat shining, scent determined.

  Perrin sent himself to the Jehannah Road. Boundless was often there, with the remnants of the pack. Perrin reached out and found him: a youthful male with brown fur and a lean build. Boundless teased him sending the image of Perrin as a bull trampling a stag. The others had left that image alone, but Boundless continued to remember.

  Boundless, Perrin sent. Hopper told me I needed you.

  The wolf vanished.

  Perrin started, then jumped to the place the wolf had been—a cliff top several leagues from the road. He caught the faintest scent of the wolf's destination, and then went there. An open field with a distant barn, looking rotted.

  Boundless? Perrin sent. The wolf crouched in a pile of brush nearby.

  No. No. Boundless sent fright and anger.

  What did I do?

  The wolf streaked away, leaving a blur. Perrin growled, and went down on all fours, becoming a wolf. Young Bull followed, wind roaring in his ears. He forced it to part before him, increasing his speed further.

  Boundless tried to vanish, but Young Bull followed, appearing in the middle of the ocean. He hit the waves, water firm beneath his paws, and continued after Boundless without breaking stride.

  Boundless's sendings flashed with images. Forests. Cities. Fields. An image of Perrin, looking down at him, standing outside a cage.

  Perrin froze, becoming human again. He stood upon the surging waves, rising slowly into the air. What? That sending had been of a younger Perrin. And Moiraine had been with him. How could Boundless have…

  And suddenly, Perrin knew. Boundless was always found in Ghealdan in the wolf dream.

  Noam, he sent to the wolf, now distant.

  There was a start of surprise, and then the mind vanished. Perrin moved to where Boundless had been, and there smelled a small village. A barn. A cage.

  Perrin appeared there. Boundless lay on the ground between two houses, looking up at Perrin. Boundless was indistinguishable from the other wolves, for all that Perrin now suspected the truth. This was not a wolf. He was a man.

  "Boundless," Perrin said, kneeling down on one knee to look the wolf in the eyes. "Noam. Do you remember me?"

  Of course. You are Young Bull.

  "I mean, do you remember me from before, when we met in the waking world? You sent an image of it."

  Noam opened his jaws, and a bone appeared in them. A large femur with some meat still on it. He lay on his side, chewing the bone. You are Young Bull, he sent, stubborn.

  "Do you remember the cage, Noam?" Perrin asked softly, sending the image. The image of a man, his filthy clothing half ripped off, locked in a makeshift wooden cell by his family.

  Noam froze, and his image wavered momentarily, becoming that of a man. The wolf image retuned immediately, and he growled a low, dangerous growl.

  "I do not bring up bad times to make you angry, Noam," Perrin said. "I… Well, I'm like you."

  I am a wolf.

  "Yes," Perrin said. "But not always."

  Always.

  "No," Perrin said firmly. "Once you were like me. Thinking it differently doesn't make it so."

  Here it does, Young Bull, Noam sent. Here it does.

  That was true. Why was Perrin pressing this issue? Hopper had sent him here, though. Why should Boundless have the answer? Seeing him, knowing who he was, brought back all of Perrin's fears. He'd made peace with himself, yet here was a man who had lost himself completely to the wolf.

  This was what Perrin had been terrified of. This was what had driven the wedge between him and the wolves. Now that he'd overcome that, why would Hopper send him here? Boundless scented his confusion. The bone vanished and Boundless set his head on his paws, looking up at Perrin.

  Noam—his mind almost gone—had thought only of breaking free and of killing; he'd been a danger to everyone around him. There was none of that now. Boundless seemed at peace. When they'd freed Noam, Perrin had worried that the man would die quickly, but he seemed alive and well. Alive, at least—Perrin couldn't judge much about his wellness from how the man looked in the wolf dream.

  Still, Boundless's mind was far better now. Perrin frowned to himself. Moiraine had said there was nothing left of the man Noam in the mind of the creature.

  "Boundless," Perrin said. "What do you think of the world of men?"

  Perrin was immediately hit with a rapid succession of images. Pain. Sadness. Dying crops. Pain. A large, stout man, half-drunk, beating a pretty woman. Pain. A fire. Fear, sorrow. Vain.

  Perrin stumbled back. Boundless kept sending the images. One after another. A grave. A smaller grave beside it, as if for a child. The fire getting larger. A man—Noam's brother, Perrin recognized him, though the man had not seemed dangerous at the time—enraged.

  It was a flood, too much. Perrin howled. A lament for the life that Noam had led, a dirge of sorrow and pain. No wonder this man preferred the life of a wolf.

  The images stopped, and Boundless turned his head away. Perrin found himself gasping for breath.

  A gift, Boundless sent.

  "By th
e Light," Perrin whispered. "This was a choice, wasn't it? You picked the wolf intentionally."

  Boundless closed his eyes.

  "I always thought it would take me, if I weren't careful," Perrin said.

  The wolf is peace, Boundless sent.

  "Yes," Perrin said, laying a hand on the wolf's head. "I understand."

  This was the balance for Boundless. Different from the balance for Elyas. And different from what Perrin had found. He understood. This did not mean that the way he let himself lose control was not a danger. But it was the final piece he needed to understand. The final piece of himself.

  Thank you, Perrin sent. The image of Young Bull the wolf and Perrin the man standing beside one another, atop a hill, their scents the same. He sent that image outward, as powerfully as he could. To Boundless, to the wolves nearby. To any who would listen.

  Thank you.

  "Dovie'andi se tovya sagain," Olver said, throwing the dice. They rolled across the canvas floor of the tent. Olver smiled as they came up. All black dots, no wavy lines or triangles. A lucky roll indeed.

  Olver moved his piece along the cloth board of the Snakes and Foxes game his father had made for him. Seeing that board made Olver hurt every time. It reminded him of his father. But he kept his lip stiff and did not let anyone know. Warriors did not cry. And besides, someday he would find that Shaido who had killed his father. Then Olver would get his vengeance.

  That was the sort of thing a man did, when he was a warrior. He figured Mat would help, once he was done with all of this business at the Last Battle. He would owe Olver by then, and not just for all the time Olver had spent being Mat's personal messenger. For the information he had given him about the snakes and the foxes.

  Talmanes sat in a chair beside Olver. The stoic man was reading a book, only paying mild attention to the game. He was not nearly as good to play with as Noal or Thom. But then, Talmanes had not been sent to play with Olver so much as watch over him.

  Mat did not want Olver to know that he had gone to the Tower of Ghenjei, leaving Olver behind. Well, Olver was not a fool, and he knew what was going on. He was not mad, not really. Noal was a good one to take, and if Mat could only take three, well… Noal could fight better than Olver. So it made sense for him to go.