Towers of Midnight

by Robert Jordan; Brandon Sanderson

  servants' large, open dining hall. Four separate hearths crackled here in defiance of the dreary night, and off-duty servants and Guards laughed and chatted. Some said you could judge a monarch by the way he treated those who served him. If that were the case, then the Andoran palace had been designed in a way to encourage the best in its queens.

  Birgitte reluctantly passed by the inviting scents of food and instead pushing her way out into the cold summer storm. The chill wasn't biting. Just uncomfortable. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and crossed the slick paving down to the Plum Gate. The gatehouse was alight with an orange glow, and the Guardsmen on watch stood outside in wet cloaks, halberds held to the side.

  Birgitte marched up to the gatehouse, water dripping from the lip of her hood, then pounded on the thick oak door. It opened, revealing the bald-headed, mustached face of Renald Macer, sergeant on duty. A stout man, he had wide hands and a calm temperament. She always thought he should be in a shop somewhere making shoes, but the Guard took all types, and dependability was often more important than skill with the sword.

  "Captain-General!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

  "Getting rained on," she snapped.

  "Oh, my!" He stepped back, making way for her to enter the gatehouse. It had a single crowded room. The soldiers were on storm shift— meaning twice as many men would work the gate as usual, but they would only have to stand outside an hour before rotating with the men warming inside the gatehouse.

  Three Guardsmen sat at a table, throwing dice into a dicing box while

  an open-fronted iron stove consumed logs and warmed tea. Dicing with the

  tour soldiers was a wiry man with a black scarf wrapped around the bottom

  of his face. His clothing was scruffy, his head topped by a mop of wet brown

  hair kicking out in all directions. Brown eyes glanced at Birgitte over the

  top of the scarf, and the man sank down a little in his seat.

  Birgitte took off her cloak and shook it free of rainwater. "This is your intruder, I assume?"

  "Why, yes," the sergeant said. "How did you hear about that?"

  She eyed the intruder. "He tried to sneak onto the palace grounds, and now you re dicing with him?"

  The sergeant and the other men looked sheepish. "Well, my Lady-"

  "I'm no lady." Not this time at least. "I work for a living."

  "Er, yes," Macer continued. "Well, he gave up his sword readily, and he doesn't seem that dangerous. Just another beggar wanting scraps from the kitchens. Right nice fellow. Thought we'd get him warm before sending him out into that weather again."

  "A beggar," she said. "With a sword?"

  Sergeant Macer scratched his head. "I guess that is kind of odd."

  "You could charm the helmet off a general on a battlefield, couldn't you, Mat?" she said.

  "Mat?" the man asked in a familiar voice. "I don't know what you mean, my good woman. My name is Garard, a simple beggar who has a quite interesting past, if you care to listen to it—"

  She eyed him with a firm gaze.

  "Oh, bloody ashes, Birgitte," he complained, taking off the scarf "I only wanted to get warm for a spell."

  "And win the coin off my men."

  "A friendly game never hurt a man," Mat said.

  "Unless it was against you. Look, why are you sneaking into the palace?"

  "It took too much bloody work to get in last time," Mat said, sitting back in his chair. "Thought I might pass that up this time."

  Sergeant Macer glanced at Birgitte. "You know this man?"

  "Unfortunately," she said. "You can release him to my custody, Sergeant. I'll see that Master Cauthon is properly taken care of."

  "Master Cauthon?" one of the men said. "You mean the Raven Prince?"

  "Oh, for bloody . . ." Mat said, as he stood and picked up his walking staff. "Thanks," he said dryly to Birgitte, throwing on his coat.

  She put her cloak back on, then pushed open the door as one of the Guards handed Mat his sword, belt still attached. Since when had Mat carried a shorts word? Probably a decoy away from the quarterstaff.

  The two stepped out into the rain as Mat tied on the belt. "Raven Prince?" she asked.

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm getting too bloody famous for my own good, that's why.

  "Wait until it tracks you across generations," she said, glancing up at the sky, blinking as a raindrop hit her square in the eye.

  "Come on, let's go grab a drink," Mat said, walking toward the gate.

  "Wait," she said. "Don't you want to go see Elayne?"

  "Elayne?" Mat said. "Blood and ashes, Birgitte, I'm here to talk to you. Why do you think I let those Guards catch me? You want a drink or not?"

  She hesitated, then shrugged. By putting Kaila on duty in her place, Birgitte had officially gone on break. She knew a fairly decent tavern only two streets from the Palace.

  "All right," she said, waving to the Guards and leading Mat onto the rainy street. "But I'll need to have milk or tea instead of ale. We aren't sure if her Warder drinking would be bad for the babies or not." She smiled, thinking of a drunk Elayne trying to talk to her allies after the play. "Though if I make her tipsy, it might be good revenge for some of the things she's done to me."

  "I don't know why you let her bond you in the first place," Mat said. The street was nearly empty around them, though the tavern up ahead looked inviting, its yellow light spilling into the street.

  "I didn't have a say in the matter," she said. "But I don't regret it. Did you really sneak into the palace to meet with me?"

  Mat shrugged. "I have some questions."

  "About what?"

  He replaced that ridiculous scarf, which she noticed had a rip in the middle. "You know," he said. "Things."

  Mat was one of the few who knew who she really was. He couldn't mean. . . . "No," she said, turning, "I don't want to talk about it."

  "Bloody ashes, Birgitte! I need your information. Come on, for an old friend."

  "We agreed to keep each other's secrets."

  "And I'm not out blabbing yours," Mat said quickly. "But, see, there's this issue."

  "What issue?" "The Tower of Ghenjei."

  That's not an issue," she said. "You stay away from it." "I can't."

  Of course you can. It's a flaming building, Mat. It can't exactly chase you down."

  Very amusing. Look, will you at least hear me out, over a mug? Of, er, milk. I'll buy."

  She stopped for a moment. Then she sighed. "Bloody right, you'll buy,"

  she muttered, waving him onward. They entered the inn, known as The

  Grand Hike, which was crowded beyond usual because of the rain. The

  innkeeper was a friend of Birgitte's, however, and he had the bouncer toss out a drunkard sleeping in one of the booths to make room for her.

  She tossed him a coin in thanks, and he nodded his ugly head to her—he was missing several teeth, one eye, and most of his hair. Best-

  looking man in the place. Birgitte held up two fingers to order drinks - he

  knew that she took milk these days—and she waved Mat to the booth.

  "1 don't rightly think I've ever seen an uglier man than that innkeeper," Mat said as they sat.

  "You haven't been alive long enough," she said, leaning back against the wall and putting her booted feet up on the table. There was just room enough for her to do so, sitting on the bench of the booth lengthwise. "If Old Snert were a few years younger, and if someone thought to break his nose in a few places, I might consider him. He's got a fine chest, nice and full of curly hair to get your fingers in."

  Mat grinned. "Have I ever mentioned how odd it is to go drinking with a woman who talks about men like that?"

  She shrugged. "Ghenjei. Why in the name of Normad s Ears are you wanting to go there?"

  "Whose ears?" Mat asked.

  "Answer me."

  Mat sighed, then absently
accepted his mug as the serving girl delivered it. Uncharacteristically, he didn't slap her backside, though he did give her a good leer as she walked away. "The bloody snakes and foxes have a friend of mine," he said, lowering his scarf and taking a pull on his drink.

  "Leave him. You can't save him, Mat. If he was foolish enough to go into their realm, he deserves what he got."

  "It's a woman," Mat said.

  Ah. Birgitte thought. Bloody fool. Heroic, but still a fool.

  "I can't leave her," Mat continued. "I owe her. Besides, a good friend of mine is going in whether I want him to or not. I have to help."

  "Then they'll have all three of you," Birgitte said. "Look, if you go in through the portals, then you're locked into the treaties. They protect you to an extent, but they also restrict you. You'll never get anywhere useful after entering by one of the archways."

  "And if you go in the other way?" Mat asked. "You told Olver how to open the Tower."

  "Because I was telling him a bedtime story! Light, I never thought one of you sap-for-brains would actually try to get in!"

  "But if we go in that way, can we find her?"

  "Mayaybe," Birgitte said, "but you won't. The treaties won't be in effect, so the Aelnnn and Eelfinn can draw blood. Normally, you only have to worry about tricks with pits or ropes, since they can't. . . ." She trailed off, glancing at him. "How did you get hanged, anyway?"

  He flushed, looking down into his drink. "They should post a flaming explanation on those archways. 'Step through here and they can bloody hang you-.And they will. Idiot.'"

  Birgitte snorted. They'd talked about the memories he had. She should have put it together. "If you go in the other way, they'll probably try that as well. Shedding blood in their kingdom can have strange effects. They'll try to break your bones with a fall or drug you to sleep. And they will win, Mat. It's their world."

  "And if we cheat?" Mat asked. "Iron, music, fire."

  "That's not cheating. That's being smart. Everyone with half a wit who enters through the tower carries those things. But only one out of a thousand makes it back out, Mat."

  He hesitated, then fished a small handful of coins out of his pocket. "What do you think the odds are that if I toss these into the air, they will all come up heads? One in a thousand?"

  "Mat . . ."

  He tossed them above the table. They came down in a spray, hitting the tabletop. Not a single one of them bounced or rolled from the table onto the floor.

  Mat didn't look down at the coins. He met her eyes as they all rolled and vibrated to a stop. She glanced at them. Two dozen coins. Each had landed face up.

  "One in a thousand is good odds," he said. "For me."

  "Bloody ashes. You're as bad as Elayne! Don't you see? All it takes is one wrong throw. Even you miss once in a while."

  "I'll take the chance. Burn me, Birgitte, I know it's stupid, but I'm do-ing it. How do you know so much about the Tower anyway? You've been into it, haven't you?"

  "I have," she admitted.

  Mat looked smug. "Well you got back out! How'd you manage it?"

  She hesitated, then finally took up her mug of milk. "That legend didn't survive, I'm assuming?" "I don't know it," Mat said. "I went in to ask them to save the life of my love," she said. "It came after the battle of Lahpoint Hills, where we led the Buchaner rebellion.

  Gaidal was wounded horribly; a blow to the head that made him unable to think straight. He forgot who I was, some of the time. It tore my heart, so I took him to the Tower to be Healed."

  "And how'd you get out?" Mat asked. "How'd you fool them?"

  "I didn't," Birgitte said softly. Mat froze. "The Eelfinn never Healed him," she continued. "They killed us both I didn't survive, Mat. That is the end of that particular legend."

  He fell silent. "Oh," he finally said. "Well, that's kind of a sad story, then."

  "They can't all end in victory. Gaidal and I don't deal well with happy endings anyway. Better for us to burn out in glory." She grimaced, remembering one incarnation when she and he had been forced to grow old together, peacefully. Most boring life she'd ever known, though at the time—ignorant of her grander part in the Pattern—she'd been happy with it.

  "Well I'm still going," Mat said. She sighed. "I can't go with you, Mat. Not and leave Elayne. She has a death wish the size of your pride, and I mean to see she survives."

  "I don't expect you to go," Mat said quickly. "Burn me, that's not what I'm asking. And . . ." He frowned. "A death what the size of my what!"

  "Never mind," she said, drinking her milk. She had a soft spot for milk, though she didn't tell people of it. Of course, she'd be happy when she could drink again; she missed Old Snert's yeasty drinks. She liked ugly beer as much as she liked ugly men. "I came to you because I need help," Mat said. "What more is there to say? You're taking iron, fire, and music. Iron will hurt them, ward them, and hold them. Fire will scare them and kill them. Music will entrance them. But you'll find that both fire and music grow less and less effective the longer you use them.

  "The tower isn't a place, it's a portal. A kind of gate to the crossroads between their realms. You'll find both of them there, Aelfinn snakes and Eelfinn foxes. Assuming they're working together currently. They have a strange relationship."

  "But what do they want?" Mat asked. "From us, I mean. Why do they care?"

  "Emotion," Birgitte said. "That's why they built portals into our world, that's why they entice us in. They feed off what we feel. They like Aes Se-dai in particular, for some reason. Perhaps those with the One Power taste like a strong ale."

  Mat shivered visibly.

  "The inside will be confusing," Birgitte said. "Getting anywhere specific in there is difficult. Going in through the tower instead of the archways put me in danger, but I knew that if I could reach that grand hall, I'd be able to make a deal. You don't get anything free if you go in the tower, by the way. They'll ask for something, something dear to you.

  "Anyway, I figured out a method to find the grand hall. Iron dust, left behind me in the intersections where I'd passed so that I knew which ways I'd gone before. They couldn't touch it, you see, and ... are you sure you've never heard this story?"

  Mat shook his head. "It used to be popular around these parts," she said, frowning. "A hundred years ago or so."

  "You sound offended."

  "It was a good story," she said.

  "If I survive, I'll have Thorn compose a bloody ballad about it, Birgitte. Tell me about the dust. Did your plan work?" She shook her head. "I still got lost. I don't know if they blew away the dust somehow, or if the place is so huge that I never repeated myself. I ended up cornered, my fire going out, my lyre broken, my bowstring snapped, Gaidal unconscious behind me. He could walk some of the days in there, but was too dizzy on others, so I pulled him on the litter I'd brought."

  "Some of the days?" Mat said. "How long were you in there?"

  "I had provisions for two months," Birgitte said, grimacing. "Don't know how long we lasted after those ran out."

  "Bloody ashes!" Mat said, then took a long swig of his ale.

  "I told you not to go in," Birgitte said. "Assuming you do reach your friend, you'll never get back out. You can wander for weeks in that place and never turn right or left, keep going straight, passing hallway after hallway. All the same. The grand hall could be minutes away, if you knew which direction to take. But you'll keep missing it."

  Mat stared into his mug, perhaps wishing he'd ordered something more potent.

  "You reconsidering?" she asked. ''No," he said. "But when we get out, Moiraine better bloody appreciate this! Two months?" He frowned. "Wait. If you both died in there, how did the story get out?"

  She shrugged. "Never did find out. Perhaps one of the Aes Sedai used their questions to ask. Everyone knew I'd gone in. I was called Jethari Moondancer then. You're sure you've never heard the story?" He shook his head again. She sighed, settling back. Well, not every one of the tales about her could live on fore
ver, but she'd thought that one would stand for a few more generations. She raised her mug to drink the last of her milk. The mug never got there. She froze when she felt a jolt of emotion from Elayne. Anger, fury, pain.

  Birgitte slammed the mug down on the table, then threw coins down and stood up, cursing.

  "What?" Mat said, on his feet in an eyeblink. "Elayne. In trouble. Again. She's hurt."

  "Bloody ashes," Mat snapped, grabbing his coat and staff as they ran for the exit.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Foxheads

  Elayne turned the strange medallion around in her fingers, tracing the fox's head worked into the front. As with many ter'angreal, it was difficult to tell exactly what kind of metal had been used to create it originally. She suspected silver, with the senses of her Talent. However, the medallion was no longer silver. It was something else, something new.

  The songmistress of the Lucky Man's Theater Troop continued her song. It was beautiful, pure and high. Elayne sat on a cushioned chair on the right side of the hall, which had been repurposed with a raised area at the front for the players. A pair of Birgitte's Guards stood behind her.

  The room was dim, lit only by a line of small flickering lamps set behind blue glass in alcoves on the walls. The blue light was overwhelmed by the burning yellow lanterns set around the front of the platform.

  Elayne was barely paying attention. She had often listened to "The Death of Princess Walishen" as a ballad, and didn't really see the point of adding words to it and different players, instead of just having one bard do the entire thing. But it was Ellorien's favorite ballad, and the favorable news out of Cairhien about these players—which nobles there had recently discovered—had many of the nobles in Andor buzzing. Hence this evening. Ellorien had come at Elayne's invitation; likely she was intrigued. Why had Elayne been so audacious as to invite her? Soon, Eayne would take advantage of having Ellorien here. But not quite yet. Let the wornan enjoy the production first. She'd be expecting a political ambush.

  She'd wait for Elayne to walk over and sit in one the seats near her, or per-haps send a servant with an offer.Elayne did neither, instead sitting and regarding the foxhead ter'angreal, It was a complex work of art, despite being only a single, solid piece of metal. She could feel the weaves that had been used to create it. Its intri-cacy was far beyond the simplicity of the twisted dream rings. She was doing something wrong in trying to reproduce the medallion. She carried in her pouch one of her failed attempts. She'd had copies cast for her, as precise in detail as her silversmiths could create, though she sus-pected the form was not important. The amount of silver seemed to be, for some reason, but not the shape that silver took.