“She’s awake!”
“She cannot be! Not yet!”
“Shield her! Quickly! Quickly! Cut her off from the Source!”
“It’s too late! She is too strong!”
“Seize her! Hurry!”
Hands reached for her arms and legs. Pasty pale hands like slugs under rocks, ordered by minds behind pale, eyeless faces. If those hands touched her flesh, she knew she would go mad. The Power filled her.
Flames burst from Myrddraal skin, ripping through black cloth as if they were solid daggers of fire. Shrieking Halfmen crisped and burned like oiled paper. Fist-sized chunks of stone tore themselves free of the walls and whizzed across the room, producing shrieks and grunts as they thudded into flesh. The air stirred, shifted, howled into a whirlwind.
Slowly, painfully, Egwene pushed herself off the table. The wind whipped her hair and made her stagger, but she continued to drive it as she stumbled toward the door. An Aes Sedai loomed in front of her, a woman bruised and bleeding, surrounded by the glow of the Power. A woman with death in her dark eyes.
Egwene’s mind put a name to the face. Gyldan. Elaida’s closest confidante, always whispering together in corners, closeting themselves in the night. Egwene’s mouth tightened. Disdaining stones and wind, she balled up her fist and punched Gyldan between the eyes as hard as she could. The Red sister—the Black sister—crumpled as if her bones had melted.
Rubbing her knuckles, Egwene staggered out into the hall. Thank you, Perrin, she thought, for showing me how to do that. But you didn’t tell me how much it hurts when you do.
Shoving the door shut against the wind, she channeled. Stones around the doorway shivered, cracked, settled against the wood. It would not hold them for long, but anything that slowed pursuit for even a minute was worth doing. Minutes might mean life. Gathering her strength, she forced herself to break into a run. It wobbled, but at least it was a run.
She must find some clothes, she decided. A woman clothed had more authority than the same woman naked, and she was going to need every bit of authority. They would look for her first in her rooms, but she had a spare dress and shoes in her study—and another stole—and that lay not far off.
It was unnerving, trotting through empty hallways. The White Tower no longer held the numbers it once had, but there was usually someone about. The loudest sound was the slap of her bare soles on the tiles.
She hurried through the antechamber of her study to the inner room, and at last she found someone. Beldeine was sitting on the floor, head in her hands, weeping.
Egwene stopped warily, as Beldeine raised reddened eyes to meet hers. No glow of saidar surrounded the Keeper, but Egwene was still cautious. And confident. She could not see her own glow, of course, but the power—the Power—surging through her was enough. Especially when added to her secret.
Beldeine scrubbed a hand across tearstained cheeks. “I had to. You must understand. I had to. They. . . . They. . . .” She took a deep, shuddering breath; it all came out in a rush. “Three nights ago they took me while I slept and stilled me.” Her voice rose to a near shriek. “They stilled me! I cannot channel any longer!”
“Light,” Egwene breathed. The rush of saidar cushioned her against the shock. “The Light help and comfort you, my daughter. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have. . . .” She let it trail away, knowing there was nothing she could do.
“What would you have done? What? Nothing! There’s nothing you can do. But they said they could give it back to me, with the power of . . . the power of the Dark One.” Her eyes squeezed shut, leaking tears. “They hurt me, Mother, and they made me. . . . Oh, Light, they hurt me! Elaida told me they would make me whole again, make me able to channel again, if I obeyed. That’s why I. . . . I had to!”
“So Elaida is Black Ajah,” Egwene said grimly. A narrow wardrobe stood against the wall, and in it hung a green silk dress, kept for when she had no time to return to her rooms. A striped stole hung beside the dress. She began to dress herself, quickly. “What have they done with Rand? Where have they taken him? Answer me, Beldeine! Where is Rand al’Thor?”
Beldeine huddled, lips trembling, eyes turned bleakly inward, but finally she roused herself enough to say, “The Traitor’s Court, Mother. They took him to the Traitor’s Court.”
Shivers assaulted Egwene. Shivers of fear. Shivers of rage. Elaida had not waited, not even an hour. The Traitor’s Court was used for only three purposes: executions, the stilling of an Aes Sedai, or the gentling of a man who could channel. But all of the three took an order from the Amyrlin Seat. So who wears the stole out there? Elaida, she was sure. But how could she make them accept her so quickly, with me not tried, not sentenced? There cannot be another Amyrlin until I’ve been stripped of stole and staff. And they’ll not find that easy to do. Light! Rand! She started for the door.
“What can you do, Mother?” Beldeine cried. “What can you do?” It was not clear whether she meant for Rand or for herself.
“More than anyone suspects,” Egwene said. “I never held the Oath Rod, Beldeine.” Beldeine’s gasp followed her from the room.
Egwene’s memory still played hide-and-seek with her. She knew no woman could achieve the shawl and the ring without pledging the Three Oaths with the Oath Rod firmly in hand, the ter’angreal sealing her to keep those oaths as if they had been engraved on her bones at birth. No woman became Aes Sedai without being bound to them. Yet she knew that somehow, in some fashion she could not begin to dredge up, she had done just that.
Her shoes clicked swiftly as she ran. At least she knew now why the halls were empty. Every Aes Sedai, except perhaps those she had left in the storeroom, every Accepted, every novice, even all the servants, would be gathered in the Traitor’s Court, according to custom, to watch the will of Tar Valon made fact.
And the Warders would be ringing the courtyard against the possibility that someone might try to free the man to be gentled. The remnants of Guaire Amalasan’s armies had attempted it, at the end of what some called the War of the Second Dragon, just before Artur Hawkwing’s rise had given Tar Valon other things to worry it, and so had Raolin Darksbane’s followers, long years earlier. Whether Rand had any followers or not, she could not remember, but Warders remembered such things, and guarded against them.
If Elaida, or another, truly did wear the stole of the Amyrlin, the Warders might well not admit her to the Traitor’s Court. She knew she could force a way in. It would need to be done quickly; there was no point if Rand was gentled while she was still wrapping Warders in Air. Even Warders would break if she loosed the lightnings on them, and balefire, and broke the ground under their feet. Balefire? she wondered. But it would also do no good if she broke Tar Valon’s power to save Rand. She had to save both.
Well short of the ways that led to the Traitor’s Court, she turned aside and climbed, up stairs and ramps that grew narrower and tighter the higher she went, until she thrust open a trapdoor and climbed out onto a sloping tower top, a roof of nearly white tiles. From there, she could see across other roofs, past other towers, into the broad open well of the Traitor’s Court.
The court was crowded except for a cleared space in the middle. People filled the windows overlooking it, crowded the balconies and even the rooftops, but she could make out the lone man, small at that distance, swaying in his chains in the center of the cleared space. Rand. Twelve Aes Sedai surrounded him, and another—who Egwene knew had to be wearing a seven-striped stole, even though she could not distinguish it—stood before Rand. Elaida. The words she must be saying crept into Egwene’s head.
This man, abandoned of the Light, has touched saidin, the male half of the True Source. Thus do we hold him. Most abominably has this man channeled the One Power, knowing that saidin is tainted by the Dark One, tainted for men’s pride, tainted for men’s sin. Thus do we chain him.
Forcefully, Egwene pushed the rest of it out of her thoughts. Thirteen Aes Sedai. Twelve sisters and the Amyrlin, the traditional number f
or gentling. The same number as for. . . . She rid herself of that, too. She had no time for anything but what she was there to do. If she could only manage to reason out how.
At that distance, she thought she could manage to lift him with Air. Pick him right out of the circle of Aes Sedai and float him straight to her. Maybe. Even if she could find the strength, even if she did not drop him to his death halfway, it would be a slow process, with him a helpless target for archers, and the glow of saidar pointing out her own position for any Aes Sedai who looked. Any Myrddraal, for that matter.
“Light,” she muttered, “there’s no other way short of starting a war inside the White Tower. And I may do that anyway.” She gathered the Power, separated skeins, directed flows.
The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.
It had been so long since she last heard those words that she gave a start, slipped on the smooth tiles, barely caught herself short of the edge. The ground lay a hundred paces down. She looked over her shoulder.
There on the tower top, tilted to sit flat against the sloping tiles, was a silver arch filled with a glowing light. The arch flickered and wavered; streaks of angry red and yellow darted through the white light.
The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.
The archway thinned to transparency, grew solid again.
Frantic, Egwene gazed toward the Traitor’s Court. There had to be time. There had to be. All she needed was a few minutes, perhaps ten, and luck.
Voices bored into her head, not the disembodied, unknowable voice that warned her to be steadfast, but women’s voices she almost believed she knew.
—can’t hold much longer. If she does not come out now—
Hold! Hold, burn you, or I’ll gut you all like sturgeons!
—going wild, Mother! We can’t—
The voices faded to a drone, the drone to silence, but the unknowable spoke again.
The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.
There is a price to be Aes Sedai.
The Black Ajah waits.
With a scream of rage, of loss, Egwene threw herself at the arch as it shimmered like a heat haze. She almost wished she would miss and plunge to her death.
Light plucked her apart fiber by fiber, sliced the fibers to hairs, split the hairs to wisps of nothing. All drifted apart on the light. Forever.
CHAPTER
23
Sealed
Light pulled her apart fiber by fiber, sliced the fibers to hairs that drifted apart, burning. Drifting and burning, forever. Forever.
Egwene stepped out of the silver arch cold and stiff with anger. She wanted the iciness of anger to counter the searing of memory. Her body remembered burning, but other memories scored and scorched more deeply. Anger cold as death.
“Is that all there is for me?” she demanded. “To abandon him again and again. To betray him, fail him, again and again? Is that what there is for me?”
Suddenly she realized that all was not as it should be. The Amyrlin was there now, as Egwene had been taught she would be, and a shawled sister from each Ajah, but they all stared at her worriedly. Two Aes Sedai now sat at each place around the ter’angreal, sweat running down their faces. The ter’angreal hummed, almost vibrated, and violent streaks of color tore the white light inside the arches.
The glow of saidar briefly enveloped Sheriam as she put a hand on Egwene’s head, sending a new chill through her. “She is well.” The Mistress of Novices sounded relieved. “She is unharmed.” As if she had not expected it.
Tension seemed to go out of the other Aes Sedai facing Egwene. Elaida let out a long breath, then hurried away for the last chalice. Only the Aes Sedai around the ter’angreal did not relax. The hum had lessened, and the light began the flickering that signaled the ter’angreal was settling toward quiescence, but those Aes Sedai looked as if they were fighting it every inch of the way.
“What . . . ? What happened?” Egwene asked.
“Be silent,” Sheriam said, but gently. “For now, be silent. You are well—that is the main thing—and we must complete the ceremony.” Elaida came, close to running, and handed the final silver chalice to the Amyrlin.
Egwene hesitated only a moment before kneeling. What happened?
The Amyrlin emptied the chalice slowly over Egwene’s head. “You are washed clean of Egwene al’Vere from Emond’s Field. You are washed clean of all ties that bind you to the world. You come to us washed clean, in heart and soul. You are Egwene al’Vere, Accepted of the White Tower.” The last drop splashed onto Egwene’s hair. “You are sealed to us, now.”
The last words seemed to have a special meaning, just between Egwene and the Amyrlin. The Amyrlin thrust the chalice at one of the other Aes Sedai and produced a gold ring in the shape of a serpent biting its own tail. Despite herself, Egwene trembled as she raised her left hand, trembled again as the Amyrlin slipped the Great Serpent ring onto the third finger. When she became Aes Sedai, she could wear the ring on the finger she chose, or not at all if it was necessary to hide who she was, but the Accepted wore it there.
Unsmiling, the Amyrlin pulled her to her feet. “Welcome, Daughter,” she said, kissing her cheek. Egwene was surprised to feel a thrill. Not child, but daughter. Always before she had been child. The Amyrlin kissed her other cheek. “Welcome.”
Stepping back, the Amyrlin regarded her critically, but spoke to Sheriam. “Get her dry and into some clothes, then be certain she is well. Certain, you understand.”
“I am certain, Mother.” Sheriam sounded surprised. “You saw me delve her.”
The Amyrlin grunted, and her eyes shifted to the ter’angreal. “I mean to know what went wrong tonight.” She strode away in the direction of her glare, skirts swaying purposefully. Most of the other Aes Sedai joined her around the ter’angreal, now only a silver structure of arches on a ring.
“The Mother is worried about you,” Sheriam said as she drew Egwene to one side, to where there was a thick towel for her hair, and another for the rest of her.
“How much reason did she have?” Egwene asked. The Amyrlin wants nothing to happen to her hound till the deer is pulled down.
Sheriam did not answer. She merely frowned slightly, then waited until Egwene was dry before handing her a white dress banded at the bottom with seven rings.
She slipped into that dress with a flash of disappointment. She was one of the Accepted, with the ring on her finger and the bands on her dress. Why don’t I feel any different?
Elaida came over, her arms filled with Egwene’s novice dress and shoes, her belt and pouch. And the papers Verin had given her. In Elaida’s hands.
Egwene made herself wait for the Aes Sedai to hand the bundle to her rather than snatch them away. “Thank you, Aes Sedai.” She tried to eye the papers surreptitiously; she could not tell if they had been disturbed. The string was still tied. How would I know if she’s read all of them? Squeezing her pouch under cover of the novice dress, she felt the peculiar ring, the ter’angreal, inside. At least that’s still here. Light, she could have taken that, and I don’t know that I would have minded. Yes, I would. I think I would.
Elaida’s face was as cold as her voice. “I did not want you to be brought forward tonight. Not because I feared what happened; no one could foresee that. But because of what you are. A wilder.” Egwene tried to protest, but Elaida kept on, as implacable as a mountain glacier. “Oh, I know you learned to channel under Aes Sedai teaching, but you are still a wilder. A wilder in spirit, a wilder in ways. You have vast potential, else you would never have survived in there tonight, but potential changes nothing. I do not believe you will ever be part of the White Tower, not in the way the rest of us are, no matter on which finger you wear your ring. It would have been better for you had you settled for learning enough to stay alive, and gone back to your sleepy village. Far better.” Turning on her heel, she stalked away, out of the chamber.
If she isn’t Black Ajah, Egwene thought sourly, she’s the next
thing to it. Aloud, she muttered to Sheriam, “You could have said something. You could have helped me.”
“I would have helped a novice, child,” Sheriam replied calmly, and Egwene winced. She was back to “child” again. “I try to protect novices where they need it, since they cannot protect themselves. You are Accepted, now. It is time for you to learn to protect yourself.”
Egwene studied Sheriam’s eyes, wondering if she had imagined an emphasis on that last sentence. Sheriam had had as much opportunity as Elaida to read the list of names, to decide that Egwene was mixed in with the Black Ajah. Light, you’re becoming suspicious of everybody. Better that than dead, or captured by thirteen of them and. . . . Hastily, she stopped that line of thought; she did not want it in her head. “Sheriam, what did happen tonight?” she asked. “And don’t put me off.” Sheriam’s eyebrows rose almost to her scalp, it seemed, and she hastily amended her question. “Sheriam Sedai, I mean. Forgive me, Sheriam Sedai.”
“Remember you aren’t Aes Sedai yet, child.” Despite the steel in her voice, a smile touched Sheriam’s lips, yet it vanished as she went on. “I do not know what happened. Except that I very much fear you almost died.”
“Who knows what happens to those who do not come out of a ter’angreal?” Alanna said as she joined them. The Green sister was known for her temper and her sense of humor, and some said she could flash from one to the other and back again before you could blink, but the look she gave Egwene was almost diffident. “Child, I should have stopped this when I had the chance, when I first noticed that—reverberation. It came back. That is what happened. It came back a thousandfold. Ten thousand. The ter’angreal almost seemed to be trying to shut off the flow from saidar—or melt itself through the floor. You have my apologies, though words are not enough. Not for what almost happened to you. I say this, and by the First Oath you know it is true. To show my feelings, I will ask the Mother to let me share your time in the kitchens. And, yes, your visit to Sheriam, too. Had I done as I should, you would not have been in danger of your life, and I will atone for it.”
The Wheel of Time Page 233