Slender hands, trembling in all their pallor, gripped the vellum envelope. The address. Myrth slipped the letter from its immurements, casting a sidelong glance out into the hall. Her brother, stone-faced and grim, stalked from her chambers. He spoke not a word, cast not a smile, gave her not a glimpse. He regarded her not as his sister; he regarded her not at all.

The letter.

Curiosity welled in Myrth’s chest as she began to unfold it, but held herself to a stop. No. No, what could make Rilain act in such a manner? What could make her brother, the strongest man she knew in the whole of the world, stare so blankly like that? And he was gone. He did not want to be with her when she opened it. It was decided, then. She would not open it.

And despite this thought’s resolution, Myrth found herself unfurling the vellum. She had to know. Her eyes had read not more than the first sentence, the first half thereof, before the letter fell from her limp hand, fluttering softly to the floor. She cried. Myrth screamed her pain, wept for all the Light left within her, wept the pain of the world and beyond. She fell to the floor, never ceasing, and did not cease for hours still, when sleep stole her away from this reality of hers. Into that endless, dreaming abyss Myrth fell, and there she saw their faces. Cold, unforgiving faces. Faces, belong to those she had killed. She had killed.

Salven ran his lips across her neck, and Myrth could not hold back her laughter. They were alone, fortunately; still, it was a hallway, and as any, the risk of anyone–Gaidin, novice, anyone–wandering in on them ran strong. In the past couple of weeks, she had gotten to know the servant more . . . personally . . . than she’d ever cared to know anyone before. After the letter she’d received the previous day, these rendezvous in passing were surely what she needed. They solved nothing, and yet they were a distraction. One most welcome. She could leave reality in her wake with Salven, and that was how she preferred it. There were plenty of others with whom she could discuss remorse–Madeline or Aiyaela would certainly lend and ear, and Thorhild was definitely there, not to forget Rilain–but, in all truthfulness, she didn’t yet feel comfortable to subject Salven to her psyche. Instead, she merely entwined her finger around his curly locks, letting him kiss her until he pulled back, however hesitantly.

“I have to go,” he whispered into her ear, and Myrth flushed. “Laras wants the servants tending to the Amyrlin’s dinner tonight . . . some bloody lord and lady coming from Caemlyn.” Oh, Light. She didn’t want him to go! The times she spent with Salven always made her feel like this: giddy as though she were some child again. She peered into his eyes, hazel and gleaming in the torchlight. He was half Cairhienin, and there was some comfort in that, something she couldn’t completely understand. She could withstand the daily stresses of Tar Valon, pulling down upon her with such gravity . . . but she didn’t have to with him. She could throw her pressure into the wind with Salven. It was like being home again. She liked it.

Myrth conceded her loss in his, kissing him swiftly on the cheek. He grinned, a flash of teeth that made her stomach leap into a mangled pirouette. “I’ll have time tonight, I think, to come down and see you. If you’re not busy?” He let his silence play the part of an answer, grinning again and turning. Myrth watched his entire retreat down the hallway, right until he vanished round the corner. He was almost as pleasing to the eyes from behind as from the front.

Already, she could feel her heart deflate the slightest in his absence–no, that was not right, she amended. It was not the absence of Salven that had her emotions so downtrodden, but the absence of the feeling in his presence. Was it callous to admit she really didn’t want much more with him? Salven was nice, but she hadn’t known him for very long. She thought to Durreen al’Lynnen, who had only recently gained ranks of Aes Sedai. Durreen played men about like a fiddle, something of an unusualness for a Red. Still, she did not care much for what they felt, leading them along as she did like they were puppies! Myrth was not Durreen al’Lynnen! Accepted training was difficult, not to mention the letter she could only try to forget . . . and was it her fault all she wanted was some release from the strain? Oh, the servant was a release indeed.

“I haven’t promised anything to Salven,” she whispered to herself. It was the truth. Why, then, do you feel so bad?

Thinking on what was on her schedule for later on, Myrth wandered back to the Accepted wells, finding her way to her room. Still, as soon as she closed the door behind her it opened again. Rilain burst into the room, appearing frantic. Myrth’s mind tarried onto the letter, but it was clear he had no intention of discussing it. Not when he looked so rushed and frantic; his green sash had nearly slid down his shoulder. That his angular features looked distressed went without saying. Myrth and Rilain had more differences than similarities–physically, too. She was short and pale, Cairhienin to her bone save for her almond-shaped eyes. She thanked a Saldaean grandmother for those. Dark brown locks swept down to the ground, as though they’d been not but given a light trim in so many years. It was true. Though Rilain was almost as short as she, his bold features mimicked a Saldaeans. Genetics were confusing, though she spared not a care. He was her brother, but now, he was distressed.

“Light, Myrth!” Rilain cried. “I think . . . I think today’s the day! Your raising!”

Myrth’s eyes were wide at once. “What? Rilain, that doesn’t make sense. How did you–”

“The Ca–just . . . the head of the Greens just said I’m going to have to sit in on your raising!” Rilain exclaimed. Rilain, enthusiastic as he usually was, never bothered to keep a head of troubling matters. “Light, Myrth, she wants me in the testing chamber soon enough to work the ter’angreal, and I’ll offer a shawl to you tomorrow if you choose the Green Ajah–and yes, I know, you won’t! Still! It could happen any time today!”

“You’re not supposed to tell me this! You know how much trouble you could get into?” Truthfully, this was not all too much of a shock–after all,

“Yeah, but Myrth . . . listen, I just need to settle some matters straight. I don’t want a repeat of what happened with your Three Arches.”

It might have been a shock to learn that Rilain still remembered, but Myrth knew very well she would never forget. Seven years. It had been seven years ago when Myrth had spilled from the Three Arches, shaken so heavily; she had believed Rilain dead, for that had been her final Arch, to see her brother die in his own testing for Accepted. What had come next had been the lowest part to Myrth’s life. Her dark eyes flared unexpectedly at Rilain. Did he think she wanted that?

Rilain ushered Myrth over to her bed and she went, if hesitantly. She wasn’t sure what to say. She had thought about her Arches, however briefly, for nigh-short of every day of her life. “Myrth, I’m . . . I’m not sure how to say this, so I might as well be blunt.” Rilain excelled at being blunt. “When you were raised to Aes Sedai, and it came to your final Arch . . . you said you saw me?”

A pause. “You’re afraid that’ll happen again?” Myrth said absently.

“Burn me! Of course I’m afraid! Light, Myrth, you can’t let any bloody Aes Sedai exploit a weakness like that!” Rilain seemed awfully fired up now. She thought it was slightly odd that Rilain, a new Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah, would be spouting curses at his fellow brothers and sisters. “Myrth, I want you to promise me something. During your test . . . just promise me that if I do show up . . . you’ll kill me.” Myrth gave a sudden cry of shock, but Rilain ploughed on as though she hadn’t. “It won’t be me in there! It’ll just be an illusion of me! Just understand that. Promise me that you’ll do away with whatever illusion of me the Aes Sedai concoct, so you can come back and see the real me.”

Myrth truly was not in the mood for talking. She peered at her shoes, saying, “I promise.”

It was as if the whole of the tension in the room suddenly changed. Rilain grinned, and grabbed Myrth tightly by the shoulders. “You’ll do incredibly! Myrth, this was made for you! I mean, I memorized the hundred weaves, and it shouldn’t be a problem for you! I promise you that no matter what gets thrown at you in your testing, you’ll do fine.” He sounded very much like a colonel giving his troops an oration to boost spirits. She felt doubtful, but he seemed to recognize that. “This is yours, Myrth, and you’re sooner a Darkfriend than a loser. Oh, and just incase you get thrown with this . . . sixteen years ago, when our house burnt down, and you were taken to the White Tower . . . well, it wasn’t any Asha’man that torched the place. That was me. I was a wilder, and all I needed was a way to get out of going to work the next day.”

Her stomach clenched, eyes wide with shock. “So you–”

“Yeah,” Rilain said, grinning sheepishly. Despite the shock in this, Myrth could not help but smile back. Aes Sedai or not, her brother was still such a fool. Amicable as he may be, Rilain was a fool through and through. “I’ll be seeing you. I don’t want Maddy finding me . . . good luck, and I’ll see you at the test later, alright?” And he was gone.

“Myrth Vendedd. You are summoned to be tested for the shawl of an Aes Sedai. The Light keep you whole and see you safe.”

There wasn’t preparation enough in the whole of the world. Rilain could have prepped her for weeks, and that icy clench of her bowels would still have been the same. Myrth merely tried to hide her shock behind some sort of shred of serenity–oh, Light, she hoped it worked. With the blink of her eyes and a nod of her head, Myrth followed the woman, closing her door behind her.

She kept her eyes downcast as she followed Madeline through the Tower. She tried to remember how it had gone the last time she followed Madeline prior to her raising, but remembered that it had been the Amyrlin in lieu of the Green back then. Her lips trembled, but she smiled nevertheless, a quiet, meagre grin she shared with the floor tiles. Myrth had been in a novice then, one in a complete and utter state of panic.


And I had not even known then what sort of atrocities I might face, she conceded.

No. She would not dwell on that.

The letter. . . .

No! She would not dwell on that, either!

Pushing memory after bad memory from her in her wake, Myrth peered straight ahead, staring at the world for what it was. She followed Madeline, and the two women descended the steps down into the Tower. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight pouring through the windows was left behind as they went deeper below the earth, until it was only the lamps that proffered the light. It was not the same route as it had been so long ago, thank the Light.

Myrth’s attention was focused solely on Madeline as they entered the chamber, for her stomach might not be able to handle the sight of so many Aes Sedai. The sense of the One Power was as strong in this room as it ever had been in the entire Tower. Oh, but it was hard to stay focused. The shimmering oval ring . . . it was beautiful.

“Attend,” the Mistress of Novices intoned. “You come in ignorance. How will you depart?”

She forced the trill out of her voice. “In knowledge of myself.” Knowledge that I might actually be capable of doing something other than getting myself killed!

“For what reason do you come?”

“To be tried.” And may this trial be better than the last! She would not dwell on that.

“For what reason would you be tried?”

“So that I may learn whether I am worthy.” I have to be, else Madeline wouldn’t brother bringing me down here. Right?

“For what would you be found worthy?”

“To wear the shawl.” I will wear the shawl.

And so she doffed her shoes and stockings, placing them awkwardly upon the shiny floor. Her dress and shift soon followed, neatly folded. Myrth wanted to tell them to wait for her, but that . . . well, that would have been silly. She was to be Aes Sedai. Childish fancies might as well be left behind with her clothes. The Great Serpent ring was the last to be doffed, her sole piece of jewellery. She tucked it into her shoe. Her hands . . . oh, they trembled. She would not let them.

Myrth found her attention ebbing as she peered, so very transfixed, into the depths of the shimmering ter’angreal. The sisters spoke on, and Myrth was startled out of her rapture when Madeline spoke again.

“You will know danger in this Testing. If you fail, you will not survive. Use what you have learned, and you will return to us.”

Countless weaves flashed through her head, weaves of magnificent scope, weaves of startling intricacy, and she nodded. The sisters worked the ter’angreal, yet Myrth spied more faces than just those in the lot. She spied Rilain, peering intently at invisible flows . . . and either it was his concentration that caused the flinch of his eye, or it was a wink. Smiling to herself, Myrth knew which one she preferred. Adriel, clad in his brown sash, stood abreast him. Adriel. Oh, Light, her heart panged for him. She would not dwell on this, either.

Smiling her last smile, Myrth donned her mask of serenity, promising herself not to let it wane until the test was over. Cool determination suffused her veins, and Myrth peered forth at the oval ring. It dared her to enter.

Stepping forth, Myrth accepted the challenge. 

It was not quite a tempest wind that buffeted the bone-white shaft of the White Tower, a wind gusting just as one other had in history. That had been autumn, and this was most certainly not. That part tickled at Myrth’s memory, for one particular draught was an oddity to remember.

Framed by that golden sunset, the Tower’s shade over Tarlomen’s Gate was coolness across her skin. Skirts shifting upon the coiling breezes, Myrth strode forth through dawning shadows at a steady pace. Not hurrying. Not hanging back. All she knew was that she mustn’t fail. Why she was where she was, however, was a question for anyone. No, it certainly did not make sense, to find herself standing with the Tower in clear view. Folded at her feet, however, was a pile of clothing, a discreet stack of white linens. Peering at them calmly, she doffed them in no great haste. Still no star in sight, but she would search every inch of the Tower until there was.

Her paces became quicker as she passed through the threshold into the Tower, though she remedied that. Indeed, it was unsettling, hearing her steps echo out in the Tower’s Entrance Hall. It was marble and lustre that first caught the attention of those entering, as if the hundreds of ageless women and men milling about seemed to fail that pursuit. Now, however, those men and women left not even shadows in their absence, and the only sounds about the grand chamber were the crepitations of the flames.

Myrth would not sigh at the task before her. Searching every surface of the Tower would take weeks, and surely the crackling fires would drive her past madness before then. She embraced, dividing herself from the glee of the sweetness of the One Power. She would embody serenity if it set her blood aboil. Weaving threads of Water, she divided her flows three ways, encircling them around the stand lamps. Half, at least, to ensure her concentration. In the emptiness of the hall, everything, crepitations included, seemed a thousand times louder.

Sixteen years ago, she thought, nodding meagrely to herself, I’d have burnt myself out trying that. And it was the truth.

Dimness suffused the room, drowning the gilt and glamour in bleakness. Shining as a beacon would through the darkness, it reflected the light of the nearest stand lamp. The six-pointed star, embossed in gold atop the marble floor, situated in he Entrance Hall’s very centre . Stifling a grin, Myrth hitched up her skirts and walked to the emblem, shining from the Great Hall’s marble floor. “Air, Spirit and Water,” she whispered, naming her first elements from memory. Memory indeed, for she had practised until it would be easier to forget her own name than forget one of her weaves. Emptying her lungs, Myrth wove the first yellow thread, hardly even visible in the dim lighting. She looped it into its place, weaving from memory, before her breath caught. She was not alone.

“I see her,” a female’s voice whispered, barely audible. In fact, without saidar, Myrth doubted she’d even have–

Glaring lights broke through the darkness, outlining a figure approaching and two others holding back. They held saidar. Myrth wove on, ignoring the distraction . . . but tied it off, knowing she would regret inaction. Instead, Myrth wove Fire, Air and Spirit together into a blocky shield, a hallmark from a novice lesson seeming an Age ago. Her instinct proved correct: careening from seeming naught was a fireball, though its travel was short-lived. It exploded in a thousand glowing embers upon contact. She forced herself not to scream.

She was in abrupt combat with a woman she could not see besides a glowing aura, with threads no more luminous than her fingers themselves. Myrth did not grunt, did not groan, did not whimper–she nodded, drawing in every mite of the One Power she could. She divided her efforts between Air to attack and Spirit to split the woman’s weaves. She was not Rilain! She could not do this!

Suddenly, however, as Myrth shot Air streaking forwards, two threads of Earth came streaking past, missing Myrth’s flows. She pressed her advantage with a calm assertiveness; weaving them into pulses, she fired them at her opponent. A crunch and a curse pervaded the darkness.

“Light!” her opponent grunted, through what sounded like a broken nose. “Too dark! I need more light!”

The beacons marking the women behind her grew, and spheres of light rose from Air and Fire. They grew until they were great chandeliers, soaring above and illumining the room. Myrth’s eyes felt as if they could explode from her skull.

Black Ajah. They were hooded, their faces masked behind their billowing black garbs. Myrth stepped back, clutching serenity by the ends of her fingertips. They could be no one but Black Ajah. Their silky laughter was toxin to her ears. Hatred swelled; she would kill them! She knew of the Black Ajah, knew very well of Darkfriends . . . they would die at her hands! She would strangle the life from them! For what they had done to her!

“No,” Myrth said, pushing herself backwards. Her thoughts raced wildly, but she would not let them show! They advanced on her slowly. They faceless stares conveyed death without effort in the least. Peering around the room, Myrth’s eyes passed from the glowing mass of light overhead to the staircases and doorways lining the gilt and marble of the chamber. They would kill her if given the slightest opening. That would not happen.

Spirit. She spun out pearly skeins of the element, weaving them sharply overhead. They cut ruggedly through the Aes Sedai’s net of Air and Fire, rendering the Entrance Hall dim once more. Only the pale light of those few remaining stand lamps tendered any contrast. Myrth dropped her hold on saidar . . . there’d be no golden halo with which they could see her now. She strode off, skirts raised and shoes lightly feathering the hard floor. She’d tread this path a hundred times before. Myrth raised her foot and let it fall blindly on the first step. From there, Myrth ascended the staircase, her heart hammering against its bone prison.

An Aes Sedai must have sound judgment and steadfast determination, and must able to free herself from the grip of calamity with cool ingenuity.

The quote sprang up from memory, though she hadn’t a clue from where she might have heard it. Judgement. Determination. Ingenuity. May she have them.

Embracing, Myrth wove again. Whatever resonance the six-pointed star had given off was no good now, and as Myrth spun her flows of Air and Water into Cloud Dancing, she kept her face smooth, silencing the panic. She wove the threads overhead, spanning the distance of the Great Hall she could barely see. Weaving without light was impossible, and weaving with little light was difficult. Only difficult. She had learned to Cloud Dance only recently, under some very strict. The fruit of her labours would remain to be seen.

From silence came the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops, plummeting gracefully through the air to shatter on the ground. They grew in number and grew in size, until what gentleness there had been was soon null and void. The raindrops slammed against the marble. They could sense Myrth channeling, see the glow of saidar encompass her form through the bleakness, but they could not get to her. Blindly Myrth heard their shrieks as they slid uncontrollably against the slickness of the floor. Thunder exploded in the enclosed chamber; the shock nearly stole the One Power from her clutches. A gale rose and lightning flashed. The calamity of the elements–the elements of nature, not those of saidar to which she was accustomed–waged the battle for her. Thunder boomed again, a million times louder, and the wind whipped against her drenched form.

Each sudden electric flash was a window to down below: the sisters were struggling against the brewing tempest, flailing as the gales blew them hither and thither, sliding across the slickness of the floor, soaked thoroughly to their shifts. Their screams were buried beneath the vicious roar.

Myrth pushed herself down the steps, breaking into the heart of the storm. She shielded her face, but her long, dark tresses, whipped wildly about nevertheless. Serenity. She pushed past the howling wind. The six-pointed star. She squinted. Yes, she definitely had found it. She fell down against the embossment. The first weave, thin flows of Air. The formation of this first had been branded into her skull, its intricacies as known to her as her brother’s own face. It made Jaerecruz lace seem like the work of a child. Elsewhere, it was near useless, yet here . . . here, it made all the difference of the world. Mass chaos around her, and she wove, looping the elements together. The star.

A hand gripped her shoulder, slipping off after the slightest moment. She wove on. Something hooked her leg–a flow of Air, a woman stepping astray? Myrth crouched lower against the ground, holding herself tight to the marble. She wove on. Beneath her chest, a light shone through the maelstrom. The star. Smiling to herself, Myrth watched as her Cloud Dancing gave way and the storm disintegrated. Looping the final flow into place to a near-silent poof! of the weave, the final shouts of the Black sisters sounded off from behind her, but the dread had already dissolved: she had won. She had completed the weave.

“Get her!”

Though it was too late for them. Perhaps they could not see the doorway, seeming somewhat out of place in the middle of the Entrance Hall, yet a tempest was entirely out of place in the White Tower. Snowflakes danced just beyond it, and Myrth pulled herself through. 

Upon a gentle tendril of wind, the flecks of snow spun about in complex spirals, rising up from the white-dusted streets. The tendril forked and the snow gusted off. The flakes blew round and round–and one, its luminescence framed in the midnight air, diverged from the rest to settle upon Myrth’s lashes. She blinked it to water, staring calm serenity into the night air. She badly longed to break composure and shiverr; underlying the winter air, or composing it, rather, was a heavy chill. Myrth was freezing! Her dress, for whatever the reason, was soaked through to the shift! The icy breeze gusted against the billows of her thin garbs. Saidar only magnified her numb fingers, yet a part of her hardly was paying attention. The looming buildings, the lamplights shining impossibly bright, it seemed, for some reason . . . the smiling folk who strode by, their pleasant smiles in passing . . . the lovers’ embrace. Cairhien. The Feast of Lights.

Home.

Laughter echoed out into the crisp air; the Cairhienin accents adorning ever murmur of conversation she heard as she passed tugged on her heartstrings. It nearly wrenched them clean from her chest. The people gave her smiles as she passed, smiles she returned with a nod: this was Cairhien, and this was the Feast of Lights. The new year was upon them as the old one had passed, and the folks dotting the street at this hour was homage to the holiday’s affect on the people of Cairhien. They were always seen as such restrained people, so rigid, and so the Feast of Lights was the Cairhienin’s rebuttal. The daily parties, so incredibly raucous in nature, down the streets during the grand festival that would remain unseen in the city–nay, the country–otherwise. The night proffered relative calmness, for an otherwise empty street now had folks milling about from one place of merriment to another. The atmosphere was insatiable, and Myrth found herself hungering for it when the Feast of Lights came to Tar Valon. The Tower knew many things as a whole, but putting on a true festival was simply not one of them.

Myrth found her steps down the snow-strewn streets blending into fanciful traipsing, and she remedied that. She looked up, peering at the tumbles of white falling from those starry heavens. Her breath misted before her; she cut through the silvery plumes with her fingers. It was as though childhood was returning to Myrth, those innocent days before . . . before she met the world. This was all the world she cared to know.

Myrth waved at folks in passing as she went further down the street. One woman, seeming frail and elderly, even approached Myrth, handing over her own woolen ascot. “Now we can’t have anyone as pretty as you freezing out in only a dress, now,” she said quietly. The woman’s husband offered Myrth his coat, which she took gratefully. She couldn’t help but hug such people. The atmosphere was addictive. A few folks, waving in passing, named her as the “Vendedd girl.”

She was indeed the Vendedd girl. Now, where were the Vendedds?

Skirts in hand, Myrth continued up the cobblestone streets, tufts of snow bursting in her passing. She neither hurried nor hung back, but longed to hasten the night away. That main street of Cairhien, Ogier-wrought and lined by buildings like taverns and glaziers and the like, forked every so often; many of those offshoots seemed little more than alleyways in their narrowness. The path was familiar. Myrth remembered her near-daily visits to the main street to find her father, a merchant, and deliver him some reminder from mother or a swaddled lunch.

Funny, thought Myrth, it seems like I haven’t been to see father in ages. She tried to remember why that might be though it would not come. It felt like an Age since her last visit with father. She tried to recall what had happened, but she might as well have tried to predict what was yet to occur. It was impossible.

The shops and buildings of the same liking ended abruptly as Myrth turned up the little side-street, whirling and twirling up the serpentine path for home. Cairhien’s suburbs were a pleasant lot of modest homes, or at least those of this particular cluster were. All were thatched, without the modern trimmings that many of the grander estates had enjoyed their tiled roofing. The job hadn’t been perfect, no, but imperfection was what made this neighbourhood her home. It, oddly enough, was what made this place perfect. Perfection.

And there, nestled somewhat uncomfortably between two similar housings . . . tears erupted in her vision. She dabbed them away with the woman’s ascot, but they only wore on. Her stomach panged for this; she longed for it; it was the home she hadn’t seen in so long. All too long.

She pushed herself through the icy night hair, long hair gusting wildly behind her. Coat or not, her ankles had no relief, and her stockings were soaked right in. From the outside, the house was dark. She nodded despite the sheen of tears now lathered over her cheeks. Oh, they wouldn’t like being woken up at this hour. She would, of course, have to. Rilain, bleary-eyed, would call her dramatic, but only ever in jest . . . and her parents. . . .

The lamps were in their usual places, and the fireplace was where it always had been. She embraced, and they lit upon a thread of Fire. The house was crackling merrily with that warm glow, and the hearth was alight and warming Myrth’s feet in moments. She looked hither and yon for her family. Their beds were empty. Apprehension crumpled Myrth’s face for the slightest moment before remembering that it was, in fact, the Feast of Lights. Serenity! she impressed upon herself. Surely her family was out enjoying late-night festivities somewhere in the city. In fact, they were probably out with the neighbours enjoying some conversation with withered Hable al’Gardin, that kind old Andoran woman. That certainly was the only explanation–

Myrth cut her altercation short. In the corner of the lamplit kitchen, just beside her father’s dust-ridden cello was the six-pointed star, carved of lacquered rosewood. Myrth knew what came next. Weaving Fire, Myrth spun together the skeins into the intricate weave, the complex lace. Perhaps, however, that was not the best way to put it. The weave was not so much intricate as it was large. The scope of the weave was grand and impractical, and the slightest slip would surely douse the room in flames. No . . . she was too weak in that particular one of the Five Powers, though could weave it enough for this, surely . . . but she certainly didn’t have the strength for an explosion of Fire if she screwed up . . . did she? Her studies took her away from combat, and while a Green, Blue or Red might be practising offensive weaves of Fire on a periodic basis. . . . It was funny how this information came flooding back suddenly. If she did have the strength for a fiery eruption, it certainly would be anticlimactic, for without any kindle on which the pyre could leech . . . and in the cold of winter, this house surely wouldn’t ignite. Too much snow. Too much moisture.

Myrth diverted her eyes to support beams, noticing something she hadn’t before. Just like the untuned cello, the wooden beams were layered thickly in dust. The walls, the cushions, the copper sink, the table . . . it all had the untouched mark of a house emptied for several years . . . but why . . . ?

Suddenly, in thought, Myrth felt the flow shift. It lowered in place atop where two others intercrossed, and the weave grew alight.

It exploded.

Myrth threw herself backwards to the great whoosh of the weave as it was set off. A dazzling glare of reds and oranges shone even through her eyelids as she fell to the floor. The dust, the cobwebs . . . they came alight as surely as gunpowder. The fire crept along the walls, spread across the floor, engulfed the air, enshrouded with smoke, rose from all sides, threatened to enclose, threatened to kill her. . . .

Saidar was gone. The fires snaked its way across the floor, the smoke billowing . . . it was all happening again . . . a third time . . . her house, the fire. . . .

Composure forgotten, Myrth clawed at the One Power, seized for it, groped for it. She threw herself at the True Source, trying to find it. The block. Oh, there it was again, her block against channeling . . . and the fire! The images of the fire, risen again from weaving Fire, were back! Her past weaknesses, vanquished and put behind her, were crawling up back at her . . . she wanted to scream, but forced it down. She would explode!

She fell flat to the floor. Her breaths were haggard; her dress felt afire against her skin; she itched in the heat, and her head swam. She calmed her breaths. She was the bank, through which the river flowed. She was the flower, and the sunlight graced her petals. The beaded sweat was liquid flame to her skin. She coughed feebly. It was not working. It was happening again. It all . . . again . . . her head swayed, she felt sapped so thoroughly of energy.

She had lost. She would never be Aes Sedai. Myrth, without the faintest scratch of a doubt . . . Myrth was pathetic.

But you’re not.

Memory stirred her. She moaned. The heat was killing her.

Myrth, this was made for you! Rilain’s voice, sounding in her head . . . yes, Rilain would say that . . . it was so like him . . . he wasn’t always the smartest, Rilain. But what else had he said? This is yours, Myrth, and you’re sooner a Darkfriend than a loser!

Oh, Rilain . . .

Myrth pushed herself upon all fours, all stonelike determination. The fire snaked around her, blazing on, but she could see the star. She retched over it. Just ignore that. She embraced, relinquishing herself to saidar, and it came. She swallowed. Fire. Myrth wove in composure and threaded the flows together. Her personal demons had been slain long ago, and they would never rise again. She knew that much. Myrth channeled the threads together again and completed it. She completed it. The weave held resolute before her.

The room blazed brighter, impossibly brighter, and she could see the wild sands blow about just outside the window. For a moment, she supposed they might be ashes, but it was unquestionably sand. Water put the flames at bay as she pulled herself atop the counter. The smoke was thick up here, burning her eyes and drenching her senses in syrup. She unhooked the window’s latch, and Myrth climbed through.

She wouldn’t get to say good-bye to them.

All she had wanted was closure.

When did it suddenly get so hot? Oh, the sun made this a right furnace, but surely it couldn’t make her skin feel aflame! She shielded her eyes. Though the sun might not be so incredibly hot, it certainly was bright. No question about that. She assumed serenity.

The heat of the sands scorched through the soles of her shoes, and even through her stockings: with the woolen dress on, the air was impossibly hot. She doffed her clothes right down to her skin. How did she even get to be in the desert, and why was she wearing such an ill-suited dress for it?

It’s too hot here to think, she thought decidedly.

And so Myrth moved forth. Not long passed before her unrobed body was slick with foul-smelling perspiration. She knew she had to find that star, but tens of thousands of miles of sand stretched out before her, if not anything more. It would all go so much more swiftly if she were allowed to run, but she drove that option out of her mind. It was not an option.

Peculiar rock formations jutted up over the horizon in the distance, seeming little more than black splotches so very far off. Could the star be there? Was it buried under all this sand? The Aiel Waste–surely that was where she was, for where else was there a desert to this effect?–was akin to the Sea of Storms in its size, and to swim through the whole of that in search of the star . . . though surely she’d take it over the Waste, now, if only for relief from that sweltering sun. What dampness there’d been before was gone. She spirted herself off with Water, weaving Air and Fire into a shield against the sun. Myrth would not go all this way only to lose her serenity because of a sunburn.

How long had passed, she didn’t know, but she pondered the thought to her own rugged breaths. The air had grown so thick that it was a pain to inhale, and her hair was slickly sweaty and trailing over the ground. Her foot fell to the sand and landed against something hard, something smooth. The star was beneath her feet, carved of rugged slate.

She squinted through the glare. Dark shapes ghosted over the ground in the distance, speeding through the dunes of sand, casting up great tufts of them in their wake. She stared at the approaching shapes, distant yet growing at a surprising rate. There was a weave to be woven, but . . . they would have water for her. She couldn’t think of anything besides water . . . relief . . . Light, it was delivering itself to her! She was saved!

Too soon, however, she realized her mistake.

They were Aiel, and veiled Aiel at that.

Saidar was with her before she even thought to embrace. She held out her hand, and from it she wove a series of rapid pulses, the flows of Air looping together in an assault. The Aiel were in good view now. Indeed, both were men with their thick, muscled arms and their veils pressed to their lips sinisterly. Clasped within their sinewy hands were two polearms, two spears sharpened lethally at the edges. They blinded her in the sunlight.

Her pulses landed just at the men’s feet as they came thumping on; they rose their spears higher, and Myrth caught disjointed war cries and battle shouts. Terror enclosed her.

Heaving with her might a final pulse of air, Myrth watched it tangle with the feet Aielman on her right, and he tumbled in an upset of sand. Suddenly, with a terse grunt, the other veiled man, the shorter and stockier of the two, thrust his blade forth. Myrth threw herself to the ground, falling flatly against the sand. It was a narrow miss. She shot another pulse of saidar, eyeing her target squarely. A perfect shot. Between the Aielman’s legs. He ululated his pain effectively.

Myrth forced herself to her feet as the Aielman went down, and from behind the falling man’s body came again the first, running straightly at her with his spear slashing through the air menacingly. She wove rapidly, spinning Air and even a few strained skeins of Earth into a barricade; the spear came down and thumped it, ringing like metal on metal through the air. Her shield was weak, and it flexed plastically under the impact. Suddenly, his weapon came twirling up vertically. It was the haft this time coming from beneath, from below and behind her shield, and it struck her in the chin. Her head snapped back and she was thrown down.

Fire blazed in her mouth. Her teeth had come down heavily on her tongue, snapping over it. Spitting coppery-tasting blood to the groudn, Myrth tried to spin Air into an assault . . . tried to channel Cloud Dancing . . . she tried to lace them into a Healing weave . . . maybe that would stun them. . . .

The taller Aielman was standing before her. A breeze from nowhere came, and his veil shifted.

The haft swished deftly through the air. It was aimed directly for her skull. Myrth prepared a scream of protest . . .

. . . and woke, head aching and thoughts swimming languidly, peering bleary-eyed around her.

The Aiel Waste had suddenly given way to a tent, a nondescript brown an unadorned in its entirety. Her eyes were out of focus, and her skull ached . . . but she knew the prices of breaking composure. How she knew was a mystery, but she knew nevertheless. She didn’t have to think on it to know what happened.

“So you’ve woken.”

It was a woman now standing before her, smirking devilishly. An Aiel woman, surely, clad in a rather plain shawl. Her eyes were steely blue, and her sunny hair came down only to her shoulders. What . . . ? Myrth’s face grew very warm, pushed to the precipice of madness against the temptation to thrash in her restraints. Coils of saidar bound her more surely than shackles ever could. She needed to cut the flows! She surrendered herself to saidar, reaching for the True Source, but fell back against an invisible wall. She threw herself again and again at it, wailing inside her head. It had happened to her before, at the hands of the Black Ajah! She would not be captured! Never again! She . . . would . . . not . . . be . . . captured!

And there was the six-pointed star, carved of the same dark stone. This tent had been pitched right when Myrth had been attacked, then.

The Aiel woman laughed. Her pallid yellow tresses were cropped short, framed around a bronzed face that seemed entirely too youthful to be true. “It seems trespassers into our Waste don’t fear to reap the consequences, and squirm like snakes when it seems they must. Gundhuid and Sauld said you hadn’t put up much of a fight.”

Myrth’s breaths were silent, and her voice dangerously quiet. “You call me a trespasser? Do you know of my lineage? I . . . I am Cairhienin.” She spat the word as surely as she spat blood at the woman’s feet. Her tongue felt raw and swollen, but she spoke on anyway, but keeping the quiver of rage out of it was difficult. “You are Aiel. And you think that after everything you did to my homeland . . . the murders, the pillaging. You think that you can call me a trespasser?” Underlying her words, underlying everything she had said, was hatred in its rawest form. This woman was Aiel, and so she loathed her.

However, the woman merely laughed, staring with crossed arms at Myrth’s helpless position. The glow of saidar around her sharpened those wicked features, that cruel mouth, those unforgiving eyes. “You truly are negligent about your own people’s history, wetlander.”

“Negligent? I’ve studied under the Grey Ajah in the White Tower, hearing and learning of the accounts of the Aiel War. I might well be a Grey, for what you can see. Don’t think I do not know.” By everything Hinonen Sedai had told her of Aiel, they were frightened to their bones by Aes Sedai. She would be granted manumission.

“Aes Sedai?” The woman’s smugness grew impossibly. “A lie. You are naked to you skin, speaking foolish words like a child. Aes Sedai wear better dignity than that. You won’t ever be Aes Sedai.” Until that very moment, Myrth had not noticed she was still unrobed. “Any cretin with the slightest knowledge of saidar could have done what you did, Gundhuid claimed. Besides, that is no reason for you to merit escape from punishment.” The Aiel woman shifted her standing, merely inches from the slate star. Comprehension dawned on her, and she realized this tent must have been pitched right where she’d fought the Aielmen.

Myrth grimaced. “I know people whom you killed. I knew . . . when I was younger. People from Cairhien, sometimes friends of my parents. You killed them. For what? You pillaged the city . . . you raped it.” She would be placid. She would! “You didn’t care whom you killed. None of you did.”

The woman suddenly took advance. She stepped close to Myrth, bound as she was. The woman’s blue eyes bored into Myrth’s own brown ones. “Do you know who I am?” A pause. Her breathed hitched at the sudden welling tension. “I am Dovra, Wise One of the Jenda sept of the Tomanelle Aiel. Generations before me, a woman, the great-great-grandmother to my great–great-grandmother’s grandmother, wandered the Waste after the Breaking of the World. We recall these times well. She travelled west, with others of our kind. It was not until they reached the wetlands that they received aid: they were offered water. Relief. And five generations ago, the debt was finally paid back. Avendoraldera was given. Our debt paid off, our act of gratitude displayed. And less than those five generations later . . . it was cut down. Laman, the ruler of the land you call Cairhien, destroyed the humanity, the hallmark of our thankfulness. The one you call the Aiel War? It stole my sister’s life.”

Myrth’s breaths had calmed now. Oh, she had learned about this, though Hinonen Sedai had never quite given it this sort of impact. Through his lectures and accounts, the entire ordeal . . . it had never sounded quite as it did right here with this woman standing before her, Dovra, with her shining eyes. But a touch of humanity did not counted what had happened. “And so you killed them?” Myrth whispered.

Dovra held her head high. “A breeze can set off the most unexpected of sandstorms. As our crossing the Dragonwall led to our entering to your city, and as that set off those many years of war . . . the breeze for this sandstorm was King Laman’s action, not ours. The action of greed that began hatred. A sin to parallel another.”

Myrth’s vision blurred. And she knew, if she were to see through Dovra’s eyes . . . she would see the same. They were not so different. Those they knew, those they loved, had been lost to the greed of a king, the spite of a people.

“I’m sorry.”

Myrth thrust herself forward–not from the shackles, but in her mind. She thrust herself forward, through the Spirit wall and past its shattered remnants. The One Power filled her with life. Eyes shining, Myrth wove the weave before her, eyes downcast. The star. She spun Earth, Fire and Spirit together rapidly, progressing in swiftness to Air and Water, looping all the skeins into their positions. Dovra merely watched.

“I really am.”

The shackles were cut upon a flow of Spirit, and Myrth walked past Dovra. She did not stop her. Myrth walked past the Wise One to the billowing tent flap, into the endless oblivion. 

Ninety-seven behind her, with only two ahead. The impression of each trial was a weight to her, a weight bound and tied beneath her skin. It pulled away at her, dragging her further from her destination, further to the ground. Something to be endured, Sirestes would say, but Sirestes could hold weight stronger than she. What truly was the price of a success?

So this was the Shadow Coast. She’d never been and heard very little–suffice to say, it had no reputation to live up to. Iron waters lashed up against the rocks, shattering against the rigid peaks and spires miles below the cliff before receding again back into the Aryth Ocean. The wind was cold, and whatever sun there was surely had to be hidden behind a cloudy grey mass. Myrth pulled her woolen dress closer to her skin, rippled with gooseflesh as it was: oh, Light, if the star was hidden in those grey waters. . . .

The wind picked up, gaining strength. She peered over the cliff tentatively, watching the white-capped waves clap against the stone. The great expanse behind Myrth, the cliff-top that seemed to go on for miles and miles without procuring any sight, anything that might point to the star. It has to be in the water. Perhaps on one of the shores down below . . . oh, Light, she was growing too exhausted for this. Surely the water couldn’t be so impossibly terrible, just as long as it brought relief in the end, a close to this.

It will be less of a shock if you don’t think about what you’re–

But Myrth had already broken through the choppy surface, and the chill bit through her limbs. Whatever cries of protest she might’ve given were swallowed in a cascade of bubbles. Tangled in her skirts, tangled in the very locks of her own hair, Myrth breathed glorious relief as she finally made it to the surface. She tore the tresses away from her eyes. She inhaled at level breaths, calm breaths, but her body wanted her to gasp, wanted her to draw it all in for herself.

Without thinking, Myrth grasped her nose with her hand and thrust herself beneath the surface, her petite form getting tossed about beneath the waves. She opened her eyes to a sharp stinging; the water was not only cold, but it was filthy.

The wind against her wet face was ice to her skin. She floundered against the waves, treading water to the sound of her own laboured breaths. Where was the star? Where, under the Light?

Flailing against the water pulling her under, Myrth only just saw through the gloom that hung just above the waves . . . a boat. A boat. Off in the distance, the big, brown hull of a Sea Folk raker cut sharply through the water. And she knew without looking at it, knew without nearing, knew that when the boat arrived . . . there would be the star. She grinned, lips trembling in the cold, despite the situation. The smiled suddenly gave way to terror as an steely wave, looming giant over here, crashed down against the water, taking Myrth beneath with it.

There was no cognition. Up might well be down, left might well be up, for all she could see in the entanglement of hair and dress was darkness. The surface, the bottom–it all became one, and Myrth was caught in limbo. Further she was being thrust; her eyes opened and burned with pain, but she did not care. Her hair was wrapping around her neck, tightening the immurements. Her lungs wailed for air. Her thoughts were growing languid, and her protest was weakening . . . she was growing all too tired. . . .

A sudden force grabbed hold of Myrth, and her eyes opened as she was jerked upwards, from the tumbling depths of the Aryth Ocean to the glorious air. A figure had grabbed hold of her, she realized, too tired to resist. Grunting, the figure held tightly onto Myrth’s arm and pulled her to the shore. What had happened?

Hard shale jutted into Myrth’s back, but she was simply too exhausted to care. Her eyes opened, and she smiled. The face peering down before her, against all fear, brought immediate safety. He was safety. “Rilain,” she murmured. She truly was safe.

Rilain grinned down at her, and suddenly the gloominess of the clouds above seemed slightly less so, and she was sure a sliver of white light penetrated the dark haze. “A bit of an odd choice for a swim, I guess, but whatever floats your boat.”

Myrth leapt force and wrapped her arms in a hug around her brother, though her concentration was divided. “Rilain,” she whispered, “that boat, the one approaching from off over the horizon. I have to get on it.”

She rose onto shaky feet, pieces of dark slate breaking under her feet, but Rilain grabbed hold of her hand. He peered at her, his eyes wide. No, something was not right at all. “Myrth, you don’t understand! That raker! Blood and ashes, don’t go on it! Whatever you do, Myrth you can’t go on the ship!” He appeared nigh short of crying. He was crouched upon his knees, hands clasped around her own.

Myrth disbelieved everything her ears told her to, and yet as she did, her mind laughed at her. Logic itself reared its head and laughed, knowing her foolishness. Why was he doing this? She peered again toward the raker; it was coasting still past the iron waves. She quelled the anxiety. “Rilain, you don’t understand. If I don’t get on that ship, then I can promise you that bad things will happen. I have to, Rilain.” The boat was nearing and time growing short, but her brother held resolute.

His eyes glistened softly. “For me? Please?”

They simply stood like that, unmoving, as the wind rippled through her brother’s dark, red-flecked hair. Their eyes were locked. She would not cry. Oh, Light, she wouldn’t. Not like Rilain was–because of her. There was only silence save for the rumble of wind, the crashing of waves, the shrieking of gulls overhead. The ship was slowing down.

Myrth turned her head rapidly; the great ship was absolutely enormous, almost impossibly so. Its sails billowed in the gusts of wind tossed about. From hands she could not see, from invisible bodies overhead, a plank was tossed from the deck. It connected the boat with a perfect bridge to the shore. She had to do this. The star was above. She could just hardly see it, but it was there.

“No, Rilain.” She turned from her brother, blocking out his pleas and rising protests. Her stomach felt twisted; she felt twisted. The shale crunched beneath her shoes. A gull shrieked its admonition over the waters.

She had put no more than a foot on the plank when Rilain grabbed hold of her. His eyes held desperation. He was sobbing, tears in full force down his cheeks, begging for her, praying for her. “Don’t leave me, Myrth. I need you.” His voice was barely audible over the wind. “I’ll die without you. Don’t let me die, Myrth. Don’t make me die.”

“Rilain,” she whispered, “I cannot say no to you.”

His angular cheeks held a hopefully smile. “You don’t have to, Myrth. Stay with me.”

“I can’t. I can’t do either.”

The One Power. Myrth lashed out with Air and Spirit, weaving it sharply. These were no paltry pulses. She wove sharply: a dagger, an attack.

The noise around her fell to silence for the whole of the moment her brother’s lifeless body slipped to the ground. It, and it alone, thumped against the shale.

May the Creator strike me down as I walk.

Myrth stepped up again to the wooden plank; she fell to her legs. She crawled. She slid her body up the ramp, thoughts sluggish. Her mind numbed. The water beneath her gave a splash as vomit fell from her lips into its dark bowels. Leaden arms pulled her onto the deck, Myrth sliding her sopping figure across the rot-ridden planks. The star tempted her, and she felt the temptation, the temptation to do horrible, terrible, unspeakable things, things she promised herself long ago she’d never do again. She wanted to kill, and none but herself was in sight. She wanted to kill herself.

The cries from the gulls circling overhead–like vultures, they were!–fell to deadness as Myrth collapsed against the star. It was, as she’d known, carved into the wood, a rough series of scratches into the raker’s deck. Her lips shook.

Why had she done this?

She knew. She knew why she’d killed her brother, why she’d done what she’d done that made her now want to take her own life. It was this star. There was one reason, and she went through with it.

Myrth wove.

How long did it take her? The flows were slick; they trembled, nearly flickering out of existence. They did not want to be woven. They did not want to be woven, but she would weave them.

Completion. Spirit laced with Spirit, the flows giving a final whisper into her ears as they settled into their spots. They vanished. Throughout the numbness, throughout the haze, Myrth could not help but think one solitary thought, adrift amongst an ocean. An Ocean of Apathy. Oh, the Aryth was rivalled.

Ninety-nine.

The Wavemistress’s cabin? The door was ajar, rapping against the frame with every sigh and sniff of the wind. She crawled to it; a sliver of golden light shone from the opening, drawing her. The final star, the final trial. But what could she face that would kill her further than her brother’s death, the death at her hands? Myrth noted the dress she was clad in: black, with a white ribbon for stark contrast. It felt heavy. She wiped the blood against the rotten wood, crawling closer to her destiny. 

“Sunset will fall upon us soon, Myrth.”

“Sunset, and yet you’ve not chosen.”

Sunset indeed. Orange became yellow and yellow threaded back to orange, the two-toned tapestry reaching from one horizon to the next. Clouds were nonexistent tonight, though the sun would retreat leaving blue in its wake, stars all strewn across. The grasses stretched on for eternity, for on any side of her, Myrth could do naught to obstruct her sight in the distance. The beauty in this scene went without saying. A dulcet wind swept across the grasses, rippling Myrth’s sodden skirts, rippling the out-of-place ribbon of mourning. She unpinned it, letting it fall to the ground. The air was warm, even pleasant. No bitemes tonight. In fact, the only things obstructing this unadulterated beauty were the sharp shadows, long as the sun continued its descent, stretching over the green field. There was her own, of course, and two others. The speakers’ shadows. They gazed at her placidly, showing no sign of the impatience at which their voices had hinted. Oh, she knew them well. Her heart whined the truth in this.

Adriel al’Tanthe stood on the left, tall and pale, though with black hair cropped much shorter than the typical Arafellin fashion. He hadn’t the patience for braids and bells, and so he went without. His eyes were a pallid blue, pale and twinkling even in the oncoming of darkness. His face was round and his cheeks smooth and pale, even agelessly so. He peered at her silently, with the grace and serenity expected from all Aes Sedai. He was garbed in a black tunic, his sash sliding down from one shoulder across his narrow chest. Brown Ajah. For how long had she seen that face, committed to these feelings without knowing? The feelings went without saying, but their history was almost too much. How many times, again and again, had Adriel pushed her away? How many times, following in subsequent order, had Myrth pushed back? Indeed she had. There was beauty to his face trailing far deeper than skin, she knew, and yet for the beauty he held . . . there was ugliness.

Salven Imerad stood abreast Adriel, face equally tranquil. The soft current of wind rippled chestnut locks, shaggy and unkempt as any servant’s hair was not meant to be. A pointed nose centred his face, flanked by glistering hazel eyes. He was garbed in the white livery of a Tower servant, with the Flame of Tar Valon embroidered onto his shoulders. No, he was not so tall as Adriel; he had Cairhienin blood in him to offset Ghealdanin, and that was their binding tie. She could look upon him and see herself, almost. She liked how she saw herself in him, himself in her. Her face heated, realizing the way she had been gazing into him. His eyes never once faltered. Handsome face, handsome soul. No, it was far from a proverb, far from some rule by which Myrth lived her life. It was true in Salven, though. A few hidden rendezvous, a few kisses between classes . . . were they enough? Certainly she liked him, but she did not know him, not like she knew her brother, not like she knew her friends . . .

. . . not like she knew Adriel.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. Their gazes were still as placid, and a shiver ran down her back. The wind was growing cooler, and she was dripping on the grasses. Myrth held her eyes downcast, and suddenly was met with shock: burned into the grass, leaving only a fiery imprint, was the six-pointed star, just beneath her feet. The unpinned ribbon sat silently atop it. She had no sooner started her quest than it was finished. Myrth embraced, filling herself with saidar.

Adriel peered at his wrist, running his fingers along the gooseflesh and hairs held erect. “She’s embracing. She’s trying to leave.”

“Leave,” Salven said, trailing his fingers up his own arm to his shoulder. Salven had the ability to channel, however minute it was, and could feel saidar just the same. “She’s running from her problems. She’s trying to escape reality.”

This is not reality, she told herself. No, Myrth was trying to escape to reality, to leave the world of lies this place was and return home. She wove a thread of Water.

Adriel shook his head slowly. “You may question our motives, Myrth, question the purpose of being here, but there is no test of self in leaving. The true test is to discard the One Power, and to face us, Myrth.”

“To face yourself,” Salven added.

“See inside, and see the answer to your choice.”

“The choice before you.”

“As simply done as speaking one word.”

“Speak your choice, the choice between the two of us, and depart.”

“Sunset has fallen upon us, Myrth.”

“Sunset, and yet you’ve not chosen.”

Sunset. Yellows and golds ebbed under the approaching bleakness, and the sun was falling down the sky’s gentle slope. A cloud materialized from nothingness, as it seemed, falling in front of the sun. When the cloud moved at last, the sky was empty. The stars grew brighter. Sunset had ended, and the sky was beginning to gleam night. Moonbeams cast shadows over the men’s faces. They did not notice.

Myrth’s stomach twinged, and saidar left her. It was not as simple as leaving, with Adriel and Salven staring at her so . . . and yet, they were not Adriel and Salven. Adriel would never appear so lifeless, and Salven never so sombre. The situation was evident: Adriel and Salven would not plead their cases, not plead a love for her. The love was implied. And she loved them both, didn’t she? Rilain had discovered her feelings for Adriel sometime ago. Adriel had returned from Tremalking and she had pushed him away, but Rilain knew. Salven . . . Salven, she had known for a month or more, maybe two? Perhaps she did not love Salven, perhaps not yet, but there was a fondness in him that Adriel could not hold. Salven and Myrth did not hold such a detailed history, a history trailing back some sixteen years. Maybe Myrth understood her feelings better than she’d thought.

She loved Adriel, yet could not like him. She liked Salven, and yet there was no love.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know that I love you, Adriel.”

A pause. Adriel did not smile and Salven showed no hallmark of defeat. Adriel stepped up, his face close to Myrth’s. She expected him to kiss her, and her breath baited accordingly, but instead he spoke. “The question was not whom you love, Myrth. Whom do you choose?”

She was thrown entirely off-guard. Myrth stepped back and Adriel did likewise, standing back abreast Salven, just as he had before. Her mind worked at this, and cognition dawned over her slowly. She had to choose between them–not whom she loved, but whom she wanted. A fine difference. She loved Adriel, but surely nothing between them could work if she did not like the man. After a bitter history, liking him was an impossibility. Salven . . . Salven, on the other hand . . . there were blossoming feelings, surely, and she was fond for him, but she did not love him. She did not love him yet. In his eyes, there was new promise ahead. Love between the two would dawn in due time, time that would melt away soon enough. Oh, the hours she spent with Salven lasted so briefly, it seemed, gone before they could even start. There was a future to be had with Salven.

“My choice,” she said, “and the choice I’ve thought over well, and the choice I well know, now. My choice, between the two of you, is. . . .”

She could not say it. Salven’s name lingered on the tip of her tongue, but her eyes met with Adriel’s. The Brown was just as beautiful to her as the servant. The two seemed to understand her conflict, even if their countenances spoke nothing of that. Myrth folded her skirts and sat in the grasses, right atop the six-pointed star. She wanted this to end.

“You won’t have until the end of forever to choose, Myrth,” Adriel said.

Salven nodded. “We depart by dawn. By dawn, your opportunity lapses, and you will get neither.”

“Dawn will fall upon us soon, Myrth.”

“Dawn, and yet you have not chosen.”

Were the hours whittling away as she sat there? One choice had to be made, certainly, else both would forsake her, and she would sooner die than want that. Adriel al’Tanthe. Salven Imerad. The two men gazed peacefully at her. They wanted her verdict–she wanted her verdict–but wanting was not enough. For times, she pondered over blurting out one of their names, making a thoughtless choice of one over the other. If they were the same to her and one was no better than the other, then would it matter if she had but one, either one, of the two?

But they aren’t the same, she thought. They weren’t. They were opposites, love and like contesting against each other. They were different, but no verdict was to be had. When she thought of picking one over the other randomly . . . she thought about a life without that other. Myrth could not bring herself to do it.

The sky was lightening, she knew. The sun was peeking up over the horizon; oh, Myrth was bone-weak, mind-weak. Dawn would bring the end of this, like a true aubade. A twisted aubade.

“Minutes remain, child!” Adriel said, shocking her–placidity was gone, and his eyes flared with impatience.

“Can’t you choose? Can’t you, woman?” cried out Salven, stepping up to her.

Myrth rose to her feet. “Please, Salven. Adriel. I cannot. I’ve thought over this, and I can’t, I just want to–”

“To leave?”

“To give up?”

“You’re shameful!”

“You’re pathetic!”

Myrth was sobbing now, sobbing inwardly, yet it was sobbing nevertheless. It was as if the ground was shaking, and bells sounded in her head. She was running out of time! She needed more time! Leave me be! she screamed in thought, cloaked in the facade of serenity. It was always the facades with her. Leave me be! I want neither of you! I don’t want either!

Adriel stepped forth, gripping Myrth’s elbow with all his strength, glaring viciously down at her. “I risked my very life to go to the World of Dreams to save your brother! I taught Rilain balefire so he could save you in the Blight! Did I not guide you as a novice? Did I not save Sirestes’s life? Choose me, Myrth! Choose me!”

Salven snarled, pulling her away from Adriel. “I rescued you from getting thrown from the Tower! I risked punishment so that you might be safe therefrom! Did I not take this heedlessly and offer more than my friendship? Did I not give you your first kiss, and your second, and your third, and more even still? Choose me, Myrth! Choose me!”

Myrth pulled away, turning from both of them. She embraced. Their voices, their yells, tolled on, begging for her verdict, demanding it! The earth shook beneath her; Myrth again fell to the ground, to her knees. The bells! The sun was almost above the horizon now, all save for a minute sliver. Myrth wove as she had never before, her mind torn a thousand ways by distractions, weaving and weaving. Water. She wove her tears into this, wove her soul, wove Water so deeply, so purely, so fluidly . . . she channeled it together. The final blue lace fell into place. It stopped.

Adriel stopped.

Salven stopped.

The earth stopped.

She stopped.

Time stopped.

Myrth turned. The sun, a perfect circle, shone its morning promise over the great plain. Two figures stalked away in the distance. Adriel, to the left. Salven, to the right. Their backs were turned and they strode away as the trial came to the close, as the test came to a close. The white ribbon drifted up upon a tendril of wind, and she snatched it out of the air, crushing it in her palm. She retreated into the wall of light, shining brighter than the world. It blinded her, not deafened her. Myrth heard their dying voices speak.

“Dawn has fallen upon us, Myrth.”

“Dawn. Will you ever choose?” 

Spilling out onto the shining floor, Myrth did not retch. She only held her eyes closed, severing the sights of the testing chamber for blackness. She had fallen to the ground and was curling herself into a ball, shivering. She was in pain. Bruises lined her body, cuts and scrapes and all the like, and her tongue still burned. Memory washed ashore like so much driftwood, so much unwanted refuse. How many had broken limbs in their testings, she wondered. How many could not be Healed? How many had seen what she’d seen? None. No testing of any other could compare to what she’d seen, what she’d done. . . .

Be strong, Myrth, she told herself gently. There was truth in what she had said: she had done it. Myrth had passed through the testing, passed through the trials . . . the memories weighed heavily upon her. The Aiel. The pedophile. The mirrored reflection. Her family. Her brother. Her decision–or lack thereof. She had worried herself over what she had seen, and it had been as horrible as she’d ever thought it could be. Nevertheless, there was comfort in that it was done.

I won’t let what I did after the Three Arches dictate what I do now.

Myrth pulled herself to her feet, wobbling. Her muscles ached, longing for relief, longing for rest. She’d get it yet. She dried her eyes. She could sob, she could pity herself, she could grow cold and despondent, severing the world around her from herself . . . but she would not. I am no novice girl. Myrth was a woman.

She watched the queue of Aes Sedai–Myrth caught Rilain’s eye, and both of them grinned; she forced herself not to look one to the left to spy Adriel, who indeed would be forcing not to look at her–and Madeline stepped up. The shock of white hair amidst all the auburn made her look all the more dignified, even regal. “It is done.” Indeed it was. Madeline clapped, the sound reverberating out for anyone’s ears. “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.” Madeline clapped her hands again, and Myrth found herself nodding in agreement. It was done, never to be experienced again, only to be milled over time after time in memory until senility or death took her, whichever first. A century from now, Myrth would walking the halls of the White Tower, remembering that time when she’d fallen from the oval ring, recalling when Madeline Sedai had said, “Myrth, you will spend tonight in prayer and contemplation of the burdens you will take up on the morrow, when you don the shawl of Aes Sedai. It is done.”

Healing was offered to Myrth by the Yellow of the lot, and Myrth hastened to accept it: briefly she thought about keeping these battle wounds until they healed naturally, keeping the pain as a reminder, and letting the scars serve as lessons . . . and yet in all essence, that was silly. She smiled wearily. Memories would serve her well in that, and besides, Myrth did not doubt she’d regret that decision come tomorrow when the weariness had passed. She would do everything right the first time. She would have no regrets in this. She would do it right the first time.

She was almost too exhausted to make the ascent from the testing chamber, climbing from the Tower’s bowels up into its main levels. Her stomach ached. Myrth strode, climbing back into the Tower. She was back in her Accepted garbs; she smiled tiredly, noticing how small they suddenly seemed on her. Still an Accepted, yes, but . . . it was peculiar. They still fit, she supposed, but carried the sense that they would soon need replacing. It was dusk, and she saw no faces outside darting around the Accepted’s well. A couple ran up to her, shaking her hand enthusiastically. She felt old, suddenly, looking at those faces . . . she was thirty-five. She was old.

The silent darkness of her room welcomed Myrth, and she welcomed it. There was a plate of food for her, steaming warm–she ate it, hardly remembering that she was allowed to doff the mask of tranquillity. Once she was done, and done all of it, she flopped down on her bed for the final time.

Contemplation. Surely the Aes Sedai could wait until she was more awake to contemplate? She would be Aes Sedai tomorrow, and had a hundred things to contemplate. Thoughts of Ajahs and parents and brothers and lovers all swirled about . . . how would this happen? Were there enough hours in the day to sieve through these thoughts, and . . . ?

As it had only that morning, the door burst open. Rilain came through and had his arms around her in seconds, squeezing her with a hug that would kill her if it lasted much longer. Despite this, Myrth embraced her brother back.

“You did it, Myrth!” he exclaimed. “You’re . . . well, you will be Aes Sedai come tomorrow. Incredible! Can’t wait to tell Alisse about you, I can’t!”

“Alisse?” Myrth asked, embracing. She wove the lamp alight and sat down upon her bed, right beside her brother.

“Oh, right! A serving girl from a tavern in the city, the . . . well, it’s called the Bawdy Thrush, but don’t judge it too harshly by name. I think she’s taken a liking to me, actually. She’s just plump enough, I’d say, with a bosom until next Choren, too–”

“Why are you here?” Myrth asked, cutting Rilain short, giggling. “I mean, you could get in trouble, even if you’re still Aes Sedai, couldn’t you?”

Rilain laughed exuberantly. “Well, maybe, but I thought it’d be worth it to see you! I thought you’d fancy a bit of a talk, after what I saw in your trials. I thought maybe you’d been driven insane when you smiled earlier in the chamber! After everything you went through, well, blood and–”

“What?” Myrth blurted out, staring wide-eyed. “Everything I went through? You mean you saw–”

“Well, of course I did,” he replied, staring awkwardly. “What do you think Maddy meant by ‘share in silence with she who experienced it?’ Those of us who operated the ter’angreal saw your trials and different ones of us chose your trials.”

She knew this, didn’t she? Some of it made sense . . . she’d been taught since her novice days by some of those Aes Sedai, and they would know her greatest fears and weaknesses–of Aiel, of civil embarrassment. Some, still, could not have been them. “Which were yours?”

Rilain reddened noticeably. “Well, Balan was muttering to himself about a couple of mine–he was creative enough to choose bitemes! He thought I was going to go easy on you, but. . . .” He reddened further. “I know I should have gone easy on you, Myrth, but I sort of had my own plans . . . it’s just . . . I chose the one with our parents.” He swallowed uncomfortably, seeming especially guilty. “Remember Hable al’Gardin from home? Her granddaughter from Cairhien, who’s twice my age, sent a letter to the Tower, and it came along with the one sent by the lord. She just was pretty blunt with how it happened. It talked about they’re growing age and stuff . . . but I didn’t want someone you hardly knew talking about the details to their deaths! I gave you the letter from the lord and kept the other for myself. I used the oval ring to show you. I hope . . . I just thought you might prefer it . . . burn me, I’m sorry.”

Myrth shook her head, thrusting herself forward into a tight embrace around her brother. “Thank-you,” she said, her words muffled by his shoulder. “This way is much better.” A pause. “And what about the testing where I had to . . . well, where you were there, and I had to . . . that was probably Durreen al’Lynnen.” The Red, younger considerably than Myrth, would be that cruel.

“Myrth, that was me.” Myrth was taken aback by this–it made sense that Rilain would show her parents, but him? “You know . . . well, it’s just that I’m not going to be here forever, Myrth. Don’t look like that; I don’t plan on keeling over tomorrow! But when I might have to leave, even just on some long mission somewhere . . . my Ajah won’t give me much room for indecision. If I need to go on some two-year expedition to fight Seanchan, I will.”

She nodded slowly, face heating. No, she did not want to talk about this. She scrubbed at her eyes before they could so much as think of tearing up. “And Adriel? What did he choose for my trials?” She knew it was a silly question, and Rilain stared.

“He was heading off to the servants’ quarters as you left, Myrth, but I know how he feels. Light, the man’s damn guilty about it, Myrth, but . . . you know what he feels for you, too! You guys should be together, and I just can’t understand–”

Myrth placed her finger over Rilain’s mouth. She kissed him once on the cheek, smiling. Oh, she was tired. “I’ll be able to contemplate this out for myself, I think. I should be able to. Listen, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, after the ceremony . . . good night, Rilain.”

He smirked. “Night, Myrth.”

And so he left, leaving Myrth alone once more. She snuffed the lamps with saidar, sighing. Night of contemplation indeed. She leaned back into her bed. Adriel’s and Salven’s faces loomed as she retreated into sleep . . . they were begging for her choice, screaming at her, cursing her through and through. Myrth rolled over. This was much too difficult to contemplate.

Myrth hastened about her room the following morning, fretting over the impending ceremony. Oh, how could she be so foolish as to fall asleep before contemplating her Ajah? She had fallen asleep! She hadn’t the time now; she wasn’t ready!

She ran a comb through the hair, long as it was to touch the floor. Giving up, Myrth finally wove threads of Air into it, tying it into intricate braids that looped overhead like great bunny-ears. She tied the flows together and inverted them carefully; she could hardly invert anything but Air! Had they been right in raising her?

A knock sounded suddenly at the door and Myrth eased it open a crack, ready to curse out the guard for disturbing her. Adriel appeared in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Adriel, but I really can’t talk,” she went on, easing the door shut. He grabbed it by the knob, suddenly, and forced it open, revealing the six other Aes Sedai, Rilain included, waiting for her. She knew what was coming. She flushed furiously for trying to refuse it.

As Myrth followed the sisters and brothers through the corridors, Myrth passed a familiar face. Salven, a bundle of towels in his hands, was striding through the corridor. The servant winked at her, and she grinned. What did he know? Rilain had said Adriel had gone to the servants’ quarters . . . what had Adriel told him?

And as they made the descent into the bowels of the White Tower, Myrth caught Adriel’s eye. He had told Salven. She knew it! Oh, Light, she could not think about men right now . . . they were foolish and boar-headed, and she would not lower herself to their like to distract herself with them! Not when she’d been foolish enough not even consider her Ajah! She’d spent sixteen years fighting over this decision, and only minutes remained! Despite this thread of panic, she strode serenely onto the landing. Madeline was waiting for her.

“Who comes here?” inquired the Mistress of Novices. Myrth exhaled rigidly, but did not, would not, let it stop her from knowing what to say.

“Myrth Vendedd.”

“For what reason do you come?”

“To swear the Three Oaths and thereby claim the shawl of an Aes Sedai.” Her voice was smooth and level. Wasn’t it? Maybe it trilled a little bit. Maybe. Just a little bit.

“By right of having made the passage, submitting myself to the will of the White Tower.” She found herself crying, suddenly. Nothing else in the world, nothing, mattered save for this moment. She was to be Aes Sedai. No, not in sixteen years–in minutes. Seconds.

“Then enter, if you dare,” Madeline intoned, “and bind yourself to the White Tower.”

And so she did. The grand doors opened up into the testing chamber, sliding back to reveal the oval ring perched upon its dais lifelessly. Men and women alike waited for her wordlessly, waiting for her; all of them were. Dozens of eyes peered at her, but Myrth strode forth serenely. She passed through the oval ring, as custom dictated, returning to stand before the Amyrlin and Keeper. Evelyn Sedai and Avaiya Sedai, flanking the pristine white of the Oath Rod, gazed at her. The Sitters for the Hall of the White Tower gazed at her. Madeline and Aiyaela, from behind, gazed at her. Rilain and Adriel fell into place with the other five brothers and sisters, clutching coloured shawls. They, too, gazed at her.

Vision blurred by tears, Myrth knelt to the Amyrlin Seat of the White Tower. The Amyrlin Seat embraced the One Power; the sense of saidar filling the women pervaded her mind, and the awe and eminence threading through Myrth’s entirety made her want to retch. Oh, she would be strong. She was strong.

And as Myrth clutched the Oath Rod in pale, slender fingers, a single thread of Spirit touched the cylinder. She bid farewell to Acceptance, to childhood, to everything that was and had been, and spoke. These words, she knew, were strong.

“Under the Light and by my hope of rebirth and salvation,” Myrth intoned, “I vow to speak no word that is not true.” Her skinned tightened and Myrth’s heart seemed to miss a beat. The oath settled in uncomfortably. She very nearly laughed. She would be Aes Sedai in seconds, and she was still learning! She would learn and learn until her bones grew dry, until the final torch of her funeral pyre had been lit. She wet her lips, and spoke on.

“Under the Light by my hope of rebirth and salvation, I vow to make no weapon for one man to kill another.” Her skin tightened across; Myrth gave a shaky laugh this time, nearly silent. She had spoken the First Oath and the Second Oath, and one remained. She was little more than fifty words away from Aes Sedai. Raising her head, peering confidently upwards, Myrth spoke the Third Oath:

“Under the Light and by my hope of rebirth and salvation, I vow that I will never use the One Power as a weapon except against Shadowspawn, or in the last extreme defending of my life or that of my Warder or another Aes Sedai.”

Her eyes flickered.

Myrth was Aes Sedai.

“It is half done, and the White Tower is graven on your bones. Rise now, Aes Sedai, and choose your Ajah, and all will be done that may be done under the Light.”

Myrth rose, trepidation almost choking the life away from her. Myrth walked over to the Aes Sedai, the seven of them, and peered at each in turn. Her thoughts lingered on dread, on self-deprecation, as she watched. Thorhild for the Blue, Durreen for the Red, Balan for the White, Rilain for the Green . . . no, she had not considered these four much past Acceptance. They were irrelevancies.

Adriel for the Brown, Hinonen for the Grey, and for the Yellow . . .

The Yellow.

Serenity fell apart at the seams as Myrth strode, finding herself almost running to the Yellow Aes Sedai, grinning as widely as she ever had in her life, and crying as thoroughly, too. There had never been a hint of question. Not once. There couldn’t have been. She was Yellow Ajah as certainly as she was Myrth Vendedd. And she was Myrth Vendedd.

Under the Light and by my hope of rebirth and salvation, she thought, I vow to uphold the name of the Yellow Ajah. That, she knew, she could do.

The Yellow peered down at Myrth serenely, but Myrth saw the faintest hint of a smile underlying the calm veneer. Myrth’s hands shook as the shawl was placed most carefully into her clutches. “Welcome home, sister. We have waited long for you.”

And Myrth wept. Myrth Vendedd, Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah, wept. Oh, she was Aes Sedai, and she was home. She would never, not in the entirety of her life, know another home like the White Tower.