Chapter 9 – It Begins

Moiraine is feeling anxious and unprepared as she is led deeper into the Tower for her test to become an Aes Sedai. She contemplates the consequences of failing and being sent away from the Tower. She realizes that she can still pursue her goal of finding the boy from her book even if she fails. Moiraine enters a large chamber with a Turang Real, a device used to test her abilities with the One Power. She begins the test, following instructions given to her by the sisters. Moiraine must maintain composure and complete the weaves a hundred times. The other sisters focus their power on the Turang Real, while Moiraine undresses and waits for her turn. She is wary of Elida and determined not to let her break her. The Turang Real begins to rotate, signaling the start of Moiraine's test. CHAPTER NINE IT BEGINS Marie Anne barely allowed time for a quick hug from Swan before leading Moiraine away, and with every step the lump of ice in Moiraine's middle grew. She was not ready. In all of her practices she had managed to complete all of the weaves only twice, and never under anything approaching the pressure Elida had put on her. She was going to fail and be put out of the Tower. She was going to fail. Those words throbbed in her head, a drumbeat marking the walk to the headsman's axe. She was going to fail. As she followed Moiraine down a narrow staircase that spiralled deep into the bedrock beneath the Tower, a thought occurred to her. If she failed, she would still be able to channel, at least so long as she remained circumspect. The Tower frowned on ostentation in the women who were sent away, and when the Tower frowned on something, only fools failed to take heed. The sisters said those sent away all but gave up touching Cidar, for fear of overstepping the Tower's strictures inadvertently. But giving up that rapture was beyond her comprehension. She knew she never would, whatever happened. Another thought, seemingly unconnected. If she failed, she would still be Moiraine Domedred, scion of a powerful if disreputable house. Her estates would no doubt need years to recover from the ravages of the Aisle, but surely could still supply an adequate income. A third thought, and it all came together so obvious that clearly she had been thinking of it all along on some deeper level. She still had her book, with its hundreds of names, in her belt pouch. Even if she failed, she could take up the search for the boy. That carried dangers, of course. The Tower more than merely disliked outsiders meddling in its affairs. And she would be an outsider then. Rulers had learned bitter regret for interfering where the Tower planned. How much worse for a young exile, however powerful her house. No matter. What would be, would be. The wheel weaves as the wheel wills, she murmured, earning a sharp look from Moiraine. The ritual was far from complex, but it must be adhered to. That she had forgotten that once below ground she must be silent until addressed said little for her chances in the actual test. It was very odd. She wanted to be Aes Sedai more than she wanted life. Yet the knowledge that she could take up the search, whatever happened here, the knowledge that she would, quieted that drumbeat in her head. It even made the frozen lump dwindle, a little. One way or another, in a few days she would begin her own search. Light let it be as Aes Sedai. The lofty passages Moiraine led her along carved through the rock of the island, as wide as any in the Tower, were lit by lamps in iron brackets high on the pale walls, though many crossing corridors lay shrouded in darkness, or with only widely spaced lamps making small lonely pools of light. The smooth stone floor was free of any speck of dust. The way had been prepared for them. The air was cool and dry, and beyond the faint scuff of their slippers, silent. Except for storerooms on the highest levels, these basements were seldom used, and everything was plain and unadorned. Dark wooden doors lined the corridors, all shut, and as they went deeper, securely locked. Many things were kept down here, safe from prying eyes. What was done down here was never for outside eyes, either. On the very lowest level, Moiraine stopped before pared doors larger than any they had passed, as tall and wide as fortress gates, but polished to glistening and lacking iron straps. The eyes that I channeled and flows of air swung the doors open silently on well-oiled hinges. Taking a deep breath, Moiraine followed her into a large, round, domed chamber ringed by stand-lamps. Their light, reflected from the polished white stone walls, dazzled after the comparative dimness of the passages. Blinking, her eyes went immediately to the object centered beneath the dome, a great oval ring, narrow at top and bottom, its rounded rim little thicker than her arm. Well above a span in height, and perhaps a pace across at its widest, it glittered in the lamplight, now silver, now gold, or green, or blue, or swirls of all, never the same for more than a moment, and, a seeming impossibility, it stood unsupported. That was a Turang Real, a device made to use the One Power in the long-ago Age of Legends. Within it she would be tested. She would not fail. She would not. "'Attend,' Mirian said formally. The other eyes that I already in the chamber, one from each Aja, came to stand in a ring around them, fringed shawls draped on their shoulders. Mine was Elida,' and Moiraine's heart fluttered uneasily. "'You come in ignorance, Moiraine d'Amadred. How would you depart?' "'Light! Why had Elida been allowed to be part of this?' She wanted desperately to ask, but the words were prescribed. She was surprised to hear her voice come out steady. "'In knowledge of myself.' "'For what reason have you been summoned here?' Moiraine intoned. "'To be tried.' Calm was all-important, but though her voice sounded it, within was another matter. She could not shake Elida from her thoughts. "'For what reason should you be tried?' "'So that I may learn whether I am worthy.' All of the sisters would try to make her fail. That was the test, after all. But Elida might try the hardest. "'Oh, Light, what could she do?' "'For what would you be found worthy?' "'To wear the shawl.' And with that she began to disrobe. According to ancient custom, she must test clad in the light, symbolizing that she trusted to the light's protection alone. As she undid her belt, she suddenly remembered the small book in her pouch, if that were discovered. But to fault her now was to fail. She laid belt and pouch on the floor beside her feet and reached behind her back to work at her buttons. "'Therefore I will instruct you,' Moraine went on. "'You will see this sign upon the ground.' She channeled and her finger drew a six-pointed star in the air, two overlapping triangles written for an instant in fire. Moiraine felt one of the sisters behind her embrace Cidar, and a weave touched the back of her head. "'Remember what must be remembered,' the sister murmured. It was Anaya, the blue. But this was not part of what she had been taught. What did it mean?' She made her fingers march steadily along the buttons down her back. It had begun, and she must proceed in utter calm. "'When you see that sign you will go to it immediately, at a steady pace, neither hurrying nor hanging back, and only then may you embrace the power. The weaving required must begin immediately, and you may not leave that sign until it is completed.' "'Remember what must be remembered,' Anaya murmured. "'When the weave is complete,' Moiraine 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 you have been given, and in perfect composure.' "'Remember what must be remembered,' Anaya murmured for a final time, and Moiraine felt the weaving settle into her, much as healing did. All of the sisters, save Marie, moved away and formed a circle around the Turang Real. Sitting on the stone floor, each embraced Sidar. Surrounded by the light of the power they channeled, and the color-shifting of the oval ring increased in speed, until it flashed like a kaleidoscope attached to a mill-wheel. All of the five powers they wove, in a complexity nearly as great as anything required in the test, every sister concentrating on her task. No, not true, not completely. Anaya glanced away, and her gaze was stern and heated when it touched Moiraine. A red-hot oil fit to bore into her skull. She wanted to wet her lips, yet perfect composure meant exactly that. Protection of the light or no, removing her clothes in front of so many was not easy, but most of the sisters were concentrating on the Turang Real. Only Moiraine was watching her now, watching, for hesitation, for a break in her outward serenity. It was begun, and a break now brought failure. Yet it was just outward calm, a mask of smooth features that carried no deeper than her skin. Continuing to undress, she carefully folded each garment and placed it in a neat pile atop her belt and pouch. That should do. All of the sisters, save Moiraine, would be occupied until her test was done. At least she thought they would. And she doubted the mistress of novices would rummage through her clothing. In any case, there was nothing else to do now. Slipping off her great serpent ring, last of all, and laying the circlet of gold atop the rest, brought a pang. Since winning that, she had worn it even when bathing. Her heart was racing, thudding so hard she was certain Moiraine must be able to hear. Oh, Light, Elida! She would have to be very wary. The woman knew how to break her. She must watch and be ready. After that, she could only stand and wait. Her skin quickly pebbled with goose-flesh in the cool air, and she wanted to shift her bare feet on the stone floor, which was more than cool. Perfect composure. She stood still, back straight, hands at her sides, and breathed evenly. Perfect composure. Light, help her. She refused to fail just because of Elida. She refused. But that lump of ice in her belly spread its chill along her bones. She let none of it show. A perfect mask of composure. The air in the opening of the ring suddenly turned to a sheet of white. It seemed somehow whiter than the wool of her skirts, whiter than snow or the finest paper, yet rather than reflect the stand-lamps, it seemed to absorb some of their light, making the chamber grow dim. And then the tall oval ring began to revolve slowly on its base, without the slightest sound of stone grating against whatever it was made of. No one spoke. They did not need to. She knew what must be done. Unwavering, at least on the outside, she walked toward the turning ring at a steady pace, neither hurrying nor hanging back. She would pass whatever Elida did. She would. She stepped into the whiteness and through, and wondered where in the light she was and how she had come there. She was standing in a plain stone corridor lined with stand-lamps, and the only door at the far end stood open on sunlight, in fact the only way out. Here was a smooth wall, very strange. She was certain she had never seen this place before. And why was she there, unclothed? Only the certainty that she must display absolute calm kept her from covering herself with her hands. Anyone might walk in through that far door at any moment, after all. Suddenly she noticed a dress lying on a narrow table halfway down the hall. She was positive neither table nor dress had been there a moment earlier, but things did not suddenly appear from thin air. She thought she was certain of that. Fighting not to hurry, she walked to the table and found a full set of garments. The slippers were embroidered black velvet, the white shift and stockings of the finest silk, the dress of only slightly heavier material, in a dark shimmering green, well cut and meticulously sewn. Bars of red, green and white, each two inches tall, made a narrow line of color down the front of the dress from the high neck to below knee level. How could a dress with her own house colors be here? She could not recall the last time she had worn a dress in that style, which was very odd, for surely it had passed out of fashion no more than a year or two ago. Her memory seemed full of holes, chasms. Still, once she was closed again, looking over her shoulder to do up the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons by her reflection in the stand mirror, where had that come from? No, best not to worry over what seemed beyond explanation. The garments fit as though her own seamstress had measured her. Once she was dressed, she began to feel every inch the Lady Moiraine d'Amadred. Only having her hair arranged in elaborate coils on the sides of her head could have made it more so. When had she begun wearing her hair loose? No matter. Inside Kyrian, only a handful of people could order Moiraine d'Amadred. Most obeyed her commands. She had no doubt she could maintain whatever serenity was necessary. Not now. The door at the end of the hallway opened onto a large, circular courtyard surrounded by tall brick arches supporting a columned walk. Old spires and domes suggested a palace, yet there was no one in sight. All lay silent and still beneath a clear spring sky. Spring, or a cool summer day, perhaps. She could not even remember what time of year it was. But she remembered who she was. The Lady Moiraine, who had been raised in the Sun Palace, and that was sufficient. She paused only long enough to locate the six-pointed star made of polished brass set into the paving stones in the center of the courtyard and, gathering her skirts, stepped outside. She moved as one born in a palace, head high, unhurrying. At her second step, the dress vanished, leaving her in her shift. That was impossible. By force of will, she continued her regal walk, serene, confident. Two more steps and her shift melted away. By the time silk stockings and lace garters went, halfway, to the shiny brass star, they seemed a grievous loss. That made no sense, but at least they had been some covering. A steady pace, serene and confident. Three men strolled out from one of the brick arches, bulky, unshaven fellows in rough-woven coats, the sort who wasted their days drinking in taverns or the common rooms of inns. Probably not men who would be allowed to wander inside a palace. Color touched her cheeks, even before they noticed her, and began leering. Ogling her! Anger flashed in her and she suppressed it. Serenity. A steady movement, neither hurrying nor hanging back. It had to be so. She did not know why, only that it must be. One of the men raked his fingers through his greasy hair as though to straighten it, making a greater mess in the process. Another straightened his ragged coat. They began sauntering toward her, oily smirks twisting their faces. She had no fear of them, just the burning consciousness that these, these ruffians were seeing her without a stitch, without a single stitch. Yet she dared not channel until she reached the star. Utter calm and a steady pace. Buried anger twitched and strained, but she held it down. Her foot touched the brass star and she wanted to gasp with relief. Instead she turned to face the three louts, and embracing Sidar, channeled air in a required weave. A solid wall of air, three paces high, flashed into being around them and she tied it off. That was allowed. It rang with the sound of steel when one of them struck it. There was a six-pointed star gleaming in the brickwork at the top of the very arch the men had come out of. She was certain it had not been there earlier, yet it certainly was now. Walking at a steady pace became difficult, passing the wall of air, and she was glad she still held the power. By the curses and shouts she could hear from inside it, the men were attempting to climb out by scrambling atop one another's shoulders. Again she was not afraid of them. Most of them seeing her naked again. Colour stained her cheeks once more. It was very hard not to pick up her step, but she concentrated on that, on keeping her face smooth and unruffled, however red. Stepping through the arch, she turned, ready in case they... Light! Where was she? And why was she... Unclothed? Why was she holding Sidar? She released it uneasily as well as reluctantly. She knew she had completed the first weave of one hundred she must make out there in that empty courtyard. She knew that much and no more, except that she must go on. Luckily a set of garments lay on the floor just inside the arch. They were rough wool and thick, the stockings scratchy, yet they fit as though made for her. Even the heavy leather shoes. Ugly things, but she put them on. It was very strange, given that what had seemed a palace courtyard lay behind her, but the doorless corridor she walked along was rough-dressed stone, lit by lamps set in iron brackets high on the walls, more suited to a fortress than a palace. It was not entirely doorless, of course. It could not be. She had to go on, and that meant she had to go somewhere. Even odder than the corridor was what the lone doorway at the far end revealed. A tiny village lay before her, a dozen small thatch-roofed houses and ramshackle barns, apparently abandoned in a dire drought. Warped doors creaked on their hinges as the wind blew dust along the single dirt street beneath a pitiless noonday sun. The heat struck her like a hammer, drenching her in sweat before she had gone ten paces. She was suddenly glad for the stout shoes. The ground was rocky and might well have burned her in slippers. One stone well stood in the middle of what might once have been called the village green, a patch of dry dirt with scattered tufts of desiccated grass. On the cracked green tiles that made a rim around the well, where once men and women had stood to draw water, someone had painted a six-pointed star in red paint, now faded pale and chipped. As soon as she stepped onto that star, she began to channel. Air and fire, then earth. As far as she could see lay parched fields and twisted, bare-branched trees. Nothing moved in that landscape. How had she come here? However it had happened, she wanted to be away from this dead place. Suddenly she was ensnared in black-claw bushes, the dark, inch-long thorns driving through her woollens, pricking her cheeks, her scalp. She did not bother with thinking it was impossible, she just wanted out. Every piercing burned, and she could feel blood trickling from some. Calm. She must display complete calm. Unable to move her head, she tried to feel for a way to pull at least a few of the tangled brown branches away, and very nearly gasped as sharp points dug into her flesh. Fresh blood dribbled down her arms, calm. She could channel other weaves than what was required, but how to get rid of these cursed thorns? Fire was useless. The bushes looked dry as tinder, and burning them would envelop her in flames too. She continued weaving while she thought, of course. Spirit then air, spirit followed by earth and air together, air, then spirit and water. Something moved on one of the branches. A small dark shape on eight legs. A memory drifted up from somewhere and her breath caught in spite of herself. Keeping her face smooth strained her abilities to the utmost. The Death's Head Spider came from the Aiel Waste. How did she know that? Its name came from more than the gray marking on its back that resembled a human skull. One bite could sicken a strong man for days. Two could kill him. Still weaving the useless snarl of the Five Powers, why would she want to weave such a thing? But she must. Still weaving, she swiftly divided the flows and touched the spider with a tiny but very intricate weave of fire. The thing flashed to ash so quickly it did not so much as scorch the branch. It would not take much to set the bushes alight. Before she could feel relief, however, she spotted another spider crawling toward her, and killed it with that small weave, and then another, and another. Right. How many were there? Her eyes, the only part of her that could move, searched hurriedly, and almost everywhere they lit she found another Death's Head crawling toward her. Every one she saw she killed, but so many where her eyes could find them begged the question, how many were below her sight? Or behind her? Calm. Seeing spiders as rapidly as she could locate them, she began to weave faster at that great useless lump. In several places, thin tendrils of smoke rose from blackened spots on the branches. Holding her face in a smooth, frozen mask, she wove faster and faster. Dozens more spiders died, and more tendrils of smoke rose, some thicker. Once the first flame showed, it would spread like the wind. Faster, faster. The last threads fell into place in the worthless weave, and as soon as she stopped weaving, the black claw bushes vanished. They were simply gone. The thorn pricks were not, but they hardly concerned her, right, Ben? She very much wanted to scramble out of her clothes and shake them out thoroughly, using flows of air. The spiders on the bushes had disappeared with the bushes, but what about any that might have crawled onto her dress? Or inside it? Inside she searched for another six-pointed star and found it carved above the door of one of the thatch-roofed houses. Once inside, she could search her clothing, calmly. She stepped through into pitch blackness, and found herself wondering where she was and how she had gotten there. Why was she dressed in a farmer's woolens? And why was she bleeding as though she had rolled in a thorn bush? She knew that she had completed two of the one hundred weaves she must make, and nothing more. Not even where the first had been made. Nothing except that the way she must go lay through this house. She did not look back at the bleak landscape behind her. All she could see ahead was a faint patch of light across the room. Strange. She was sure the windows had been unshuttered. Perhaps that glow indicated some way out, a crack beside a door, perhaps. She could have made a light, but she must not embrace the power again yet. Darkness held no fears for her, but she walked carefully to avoid bumping into anything. Nothing impeded her, though. For nearly a quarter of an hour she walked, with the patch of light slowly growing larger, before realizing that what she saw was a doorway. A quarter of an hour? In a house she could have walked around twice in a quarter of that. A very peculiar place, this. A dream, she would have thought, had she not known it was not. It took almost as long again to reach the doorway, which opened onto a scene as strange as that long walk. A solid wall of massive stones, five paces high and thirty on a side, surrounded a stone-paved square. But she saw nothing beyond it. Not one building, not a tree. Nor were there any gates or doors. The one she had come out of was gone when she glanced back. A very casual glance, with her face holding its mask of calm as though it were carved. The air was moist and spring-like, the sky bright and clear, save for a few drifting white clouds, yet that failed to dent the ominous feel of the place. The six-pointed star, a span across, was carved into the center of the square, and she walked toward it as close to quickly as she dared. Just before she reached it, a massive form in spiked mail pulled itself up on the wall and dropped down inside. It was as tall as an ogier, but no amount of squinting could make it seem human, though the body was human in form. A wolf's jaws and twitching ears made a horror of a face otherwise that of a man. She had seen drawings of Trollocs, but never before one in the flesh. Shadow-spawn, born of the war that ended the Age of Legends, servants of the Dark One, Trollocs inhabited the shadow-corrupted blight along the borderlands. Could she be in the blight? Her blood chilled at the thought. Behind her she heard the thud of boots landing heavily, and of hooves. Not all Trollocs had human feet. The wolf-muzzled creature drew a huge, scythe-curved sword that had been hanging on its back and began to run at her. Light-dissing was fast. She heard more running feet, running hooves. More Trollocs dropped over the wall ahead of her, faces marred with eagles' beaks and boars' tusked snouts. One more step and she was on the star. Straight away she embraced Sydar and began to weave, the required weave first, but as soon as the first strands of air, earth and spirit were laid down, she divided her flows, making a second weave and a third of fire. There were a number of ways to produce balls of fire, and she chose the simplest. Throwing with both hands, she hurled them at the nearest Trollocs and spun, still weaving fire. She had to pause in the more important weave, but so long as she was quick enough, light, there were a dozen Trollocs in the square with her and more climbing over the walls. With both hands, she threw as fast as she could weave, aiming for those closest, and where her fireballs struck, they exploded, decapitating a creature with a ram's snout and horns, blowing a goat-horned Trolloc in two, ripping off legs. She felt no pity. Trollocs took human prisoners only for food. Completing her spin, she was just in time to catch the major weave on the point of collapse, just in time to hurl balls of fire that removed an eagle-beaked head only paces away, and half the torso of a wolf-muzzled Trolloc that staggered across the edge of the star before toppling in a lifeless sprawl. It was not going to work. There were too many Trollocs, with more crossing the walls all the while, and she could not neglect the important weave, even spinning as quickly as she could. There had to be a way. She would not fail. Now the thought of being killed and eaten by Trollocs never entered into it. She would not fail. That was the whole. Abruptly the way came to her, and she smiled and began to hum the quickest court dance that she knew. Perhaps the way. A chance, in any case. The rapid steps took her around the rim of the star, without ever requiring her to lose sight of the weave she had to complete above all else. After all, however quickly her feet moved, what could be more serene than a court dance with her face properly smooth, as though she were dancing in the Sun Palace? She wove the five powers as fast as she could, faster than she had ever woven before, she was certain. In some way the dancing helped, and the intricate weave began to take shape like the finest mardina lace. Dancing she wove, hurling fire with both hands, killing shadow-spawn with both hands. Sometimes they came so close that their blood spattered her face, sometimes so close that she had to dance out of the way as they fell, dance away from their down-curving swords. But she ignored the blood and danced. The final weave fell into place and she let the whole thing evaporate, but there were still Trollocs in the square. A quick step took her to the center of the star, where she danced in a tiny circle, back to back, with an imaginary partner. Having three separate weaves at once had left her exhausted, but she summoned the strengths to manage three again. Dancing, she hurled fire and called lightning from the sky, harrowing the square with explosions. At last nothing moved except for her, dancing. She circled three more times before she realized it and stopped, stopped humming. There was an archway in the wall now, a shadowed opening with the star carved above it. Her heart turned to ice. An archway that led out to where the Trollocs had come from, into the Blight. Only madmen entered the Blight willingly. Gathering her rough skirts, she made herself cross that charnel square toward the gate. It was the way she had to go.