355 500 произведений, 25 200 авторов.

Электронная библиотека книг » Robert Jordan » Towers of midnight » Текст книги (страница 23)
Towers of midnight
  • Текст добавлен: 15 октября 2016, 06:27

Текст книги "Towers of midnight"


Автор книги: Robert Jordan



сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 65 страниц)

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 earing 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 Guard."

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.

Tom 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.

CHAPTER 20

A Choice

"You must not speak," Rosil said to Nynaeve. The slender, longnecked 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—his 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.

Something bit at her neck. She slapped her hand at it, killing a blackfly. Well, no surprise that she'd find those in this dank swamp. She would be glad to another bite on her arm. She slapped at it. The very air started to buzz, flies zipping around her. Nynaeve gritted her teeth, continuing the weave. More and more bites prickled on her arms. She couldn't kill them all. Could she get rid of the flies with a weave? She began a weave of Air to create a breeze around her, but was interrupted as she heard screams.

It was faint over the buzzing of the flies, but it sounded like a child trapped in the bog! Nynaeve took a step toward the sounds and opened her mouth to call, but blackflies swarmed into her mouth, choking her. They got at her eyes, and she had to squeeze them shut.

That buzzing. The screams. The biting. Light, they were in her throat! In her lungs!

Finish the weave. You must finish the weave.

She continued, somehow, despite the pain. The sound of the insects was so loud that she could barely hear the whoosh of the fiery star as it blasted into the air. She quickly wove a weave to blow the flies away, and once she did, she looked about. She coughed and trembled. She could feel the flies sticking to the inside of her throat. She didn't see any child in danger. Had it been a trick of her ears?

She did see another six-pointed star, above a door carved into a tree. She walked toward it as the flies buzzed around her again. Calm. She had to be calm! Why? It made no sense! She did it anyway, walking with eyes closed as the flies swarmed her. She reached out, feeling for the door and pulling it open. She stepped through.

She pulled to a stop inside the building, wondering why she was coughing so much. Was she ill? She leaned against the wall, exhausted, angry. Her legs were covered in scrapes, and her arms itched with some kind of insect bites. She groaned, looking down at her garish clothing. What could possibly have possessed her to wear red, yellow and pink together?

She stood up with a sigh and continued down the rickety hallway. The planks that made up the floor rattled as she walked, and the plaster on the walls was broken and crumbling.

She reached a doorway and peeked in. The small chamber contained four small brass beds; the mattresses had straw peeking from the seams.

Each bed bore a young child clutching a ratty blanket. Two of them were coughing, and all four looked pale and sickly.

Nynaeve gasped, hurrying into the room. She knelt beside the first child, a boy of perhaps four years. She checked his eyes, then told him to cough as she listened at his chest. He had the creeping sickness.

"Who is caring for you?" Nynaeve demanded.

"Mistress Mala runs the orphanage," the child said in a weak voice. "We haven't seen her in a long time."

"Please," a young girl said from the next bed. She had bloodshot eyes, her skin so pale it was practically white. "Some water? Could I have some water?" She trembled.

The other two were crying. Pitiful, weak sounds. Light! There wasn't a single window in the room, and Nynaeve saw roaches scuttling under the beds. Who would leave children in such conditions?

"Hush," she said. "I'm here now. I'll care for you."

She'd need to channel to Heal them. Then…

No, she thought. I can't do that. I can't channel until I reach the star.

She would brew draughts, then. Where was her herb pouch? She looked around the room, searching for a source of water.

She froze; there was another room across the hallway. Had that been there before? A rug on its floor bore the symbol of the six-pointed star. She rose. The children whimpered.

"I'll return," Nynaeve said, stepping toward that room. Each step twisted her heart. She was abandoning them. But no, she was only walking into the next room. Wasn't she?

She reached the rug and began to weave. Just this one quick weaving, then she could help. She found herself crying as she worked.

I've been here before, she thought. Or a place like it. A situation such as this.

She found herself more and more angry. How could she channel with those children calling for her? They were dying.

She completed the weave, then watched it blow out jets of air, ruffling her dress. She reached for her braid and held it as a door appeared on the side of the room. A small glass window was set into the top, and it bore the six-pointed star.

She had to continue. She heard the weeping children. Tears in her eyes, heart breaking, she walked to the door.

It grew worse. She left people to be drowned, beheaded and buried alive. One of the worst was when she had to form a weave while villagers were consumed by enormous spiders with bright red fur and crystalline eyes. She hated spiders.

Sometimes she would appear naked. That stopped bothering her. Though she couldn't remember anything specific but the number of the weave she was on, she understood—somehow—that nudity was nothing compared to the terrors she'd seen.

She stumbled through a stone archway, memories of a house on fire fading from her mind. This was the eighty-first weave. She remembered that. That and her fury.

She wore a singed dress of sackcloth. How had she burned it? She stood up straight, holding her head, arms throbbing, back feeling whipped, legs and toes bearing cuts and scratches. She was in the Two Rivers. Except, it wasn't the Two Rivers. Not as she remembered it. Some of the buildings smoldered, still burning.

"They're coming again!" a voice yelled. Master al'Vere. Why was he holding a sword? People she knew, people dear to her—Perrin, Master al'Vere, Mistress al'Donel, Aerie Botteger—stood beside a low wall, all holding weapons. Some waved to her.

"Nynaeve!" Perrin called. "Shadowspawn! We need your help!"

Enormous shadows moved on the other side of the wall. Shadowspawn of terrible size—not Trollocs, but something far worse. She could hear roars.

She had to help! She moved toward Perrin, but froze as she saw—across the Green in the other direction—a six-pointed star painted on a hillside.

"Nynaeve!" Perrin sounded desperate. He began striking at something that reached over the wall, tentacles of midnight black. Perrin chopped at them with an axe as one snatched up Aerie and pulled him—screaming—into the darkness.

Nynaeve began to walk toward the star. Calm. Measured.

That was stupid. An Aes Sedai had to be calm. She knew that. But an Aes Sedai also needed to be able to act, to do what was needed to help those who needed it. It didn't matter what it cost her personally. These people needed her.

So she started to run.

Even that didn't feel like enough. She ran to get to the star, but still she left people she loved to fight alone. She knew she couldn't channel until she reached the six-pointed star. That made absolutely no sense. Shadowspawn were attacking. She had to channel!


    Ваша оценка произведения:

Популярные книги за неделю