Saerin embraced the source and wove a weave of Spirit. Nynaeve suppressed the urge to embrace the Source herself.
Only a little longer, she thought. And then nobody will be able to doubt me.
Saerin touched her with the weave of Spirit. “Remember what must be remembered,” she murmured.
That weave had something to do with memory. What was its purpose? The six-pointed star hovered in Nynaeve’s vision.
“When you see that sign, you will go to it immediately,” Rosil said. “Go at a steady pace, neither hurrying nor hanging back. Only when you reach it may you embrace the Source. The weaving required must begin immediately, and you may not leave that sign until it is completed.”
“Remember what must be remembered,” Saerin said again.
“When the weave is complete,” Rosil said, “you will see that sign again, marking the way you must go, again at a steady pace, without hesitation.”
“Remember what must be remembered.”
“One hundred times you will weave, in the order that you have been given and in perfect composure.”
“Remember what must be remembered,” Saerin said one final time.
Nynaeve felt the weaving of Spirit settle into her. It was rather like Healing. She removed her dress and shift as the other sisters knelt beside the ter’angreal, performing complex weaves of all Five Powers. They caused it to glow brightly, the colors on its surface shifting and changing. Rosil cleared her throat, and Nynaeve blushed, handing her the pile of garments, then took off her Great Serpent ring and placed it on top, followed by Lan’s ring—which she normally wore around her neck.
Rosil took the clothing. The other sisters were completely absorbed in their work. The ter’angreal began glowing a pure white in the center, then started to revolve slowly, grinding against the stone.
Nynaeve took a deep breath, striding forward. She paused before the ter’angreal, stepped through and…
…and where was she? Nynaeve frowned. This didn’t look like the Two Rivers. She stood in a village made of huts. Waves lapped against a sandy beach to her left, and the village ran up a slope toward a rocky shelf to her right. A distant mountain towered above.
An island of some sort. The air was humid, the breeze calm. People walked between huts, calling good-naturedly to one another. A few stopped to stare at her. She looked down at herself, realizing for the first time that she was nak*d. She blushed furiously. Who had taken her clothing? When she found the person responsible she’d switch them so soundly, they wouldn’t be able to sit for weeks!
A robe was hanging from a nearby clothesline. She forced herself to remain calm as she walked over and pulled it free. She would find its owner and pay them. She couldn’t very well walk about without a stitch. She threw the robe on over her head.
The ground shook, suddenly. The gentle waves grew louder, crashing against the beach. Nynaeve gasped, steadying herself against the clothesline pole. Above, the mountain began spurting smoke and ashes.
Nynaeve clutched the pole as the rocky shelf nearby began to break apart, boulders tumbling down the incline. People yelled. She had to do something! As she looked about, she saw a six-pointed star carved into the ground. She wanted to run for it, but she knew she needed to walk carefully.
Keeping calm was difficult. As she walked, her heart fluttered with terror. She was going to be crushed! She reached the star pattern just as a large shower of stones rumbled toward her, smashing huts. Despite her fear, Nynaeve quickly formed the correct weave—a weave of Air that formed a wall. She set it in front of herself, and the stones thudded against the air, forced back.
There were hurt people in the village. She turned from the star pattern to help, but as she did, she saw the same six-pointed star woven in reeds and hanging from the door of a nearby hut. She hesitated.
She could not fail. She walked to the hut and passed through the doorway.
Then she froze. What was she doing in this dark, cold cavern? And why was she wearing this robe of thick, scratchy fibers?
She had completed the first of the hundred weaves. She knew this, but nothing else. Frowning to herself, she walked through the cavern. Light shone through cracks in the ceiling, and she saw a greater pool of it ahead. The way out.
She walked from the cavern to find that she was in the Waste. She raised a hand to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight. There wasn’t a soul in sight. She walked forward, feet crunching on weeds and scalded by hot stones.
The heat was overwhelming. Soon each step was exhausting. Fortunately, some ruins lay ahead. Shade! She wanted to run for it, but she had to remain calm. She walked up to the stones, and her feet fell on rock shaded by a broken wall. It was so cool, she sighed in relief.
A pattern of bricks lay nearby in the ground, and they made a six-pointed star. Unfortunately, that star was back out in the sunlight. She reluctantly left the shade and walked toward the pattern.
Drums thumped in the distance. Nynaeve spun. Disgusting brown-furred creatures began to climb over a nearby hill, carrying axes that dripped with red blood. The Trollocs looked wrong to her. She’d seen Trollocs before, though she didn’t remember where. These were different. A new breed, perhaps? With thicker fur, eyes hidden in the recesses of their faces.
Nynaeve walked faster, but did not break into a run. It was important to keep her calm. That was completely stupid. Why would she need to—or want to—keep herself from running when there were Trollocs nearby? If she died because she wasn’t willing to hasten her step, it would be her own fault.
Keep composure. Don’t move too quickly.
She maintained her steady pace, reaching the six-pointed star as the Trollocs drew close. She began the weave she was required to make and split off a thread of Fire. She sent an enormous spray of heat away from her, burning the nearest of the beasts to cinders.
Jaw set against her fear, she crafted the rest of the required weave. She split her weaves a half-dozen times and finished the complicated thing in mere moments.
She set it in place, then nodded. There. Other Trollocs were coming, and she burned them away with a wave of her hand.
The six-pointed star was carved into the side of an archway of stone. She walked toward it, trying to keep from looking nervously over her shoulder. More Trollocs were coming. More than she could possibly kill.
She reached the archway and stepped through.
Nynaeve finished the forty-seventh weave, which caused the sounds of bells in the air. She was exhausted. She’d had to make this weave while standing on top of an impossibly narrow tower hundreds of feet in the air. Wind buffeted her, threatening to blow her free.
An archway appeared below, in the dark night air. It seemed to grow right out of the pillar’s side a dozen feet below her, parallel to the ground, its opening toward the sky. It held the six-pointed star.
Gritting her teeth, she leaped off the spire and fell through the archway.
She landed in a puddle. Her clothing was gone. What had happened to it? She stood up, growling to herself. She was angry. She didn’t know why, but someone had done…something to her.
She was so tired. That was their fault, whoever they were. As she focused on that thought, it became more clear to her. She couldn’t remember what they’d done, but they were definitely to blame. She had cuts across both of her arms. Had she been whipped? The cuts hurt something fierce.
Dripping wet, she looked around. She’d completed forty-seven of the hundred weaves. She knew that, but nothing else. Other than the fact that somebody very badly wanted her to fail.
She wasn’t going to let them win. She rose out of the puddle, determined to be calm, and found some clothing nearby. It was garishly colored, bright pink and yellow with a generous helping of red. It seemed an insult. She put it on anyway.
She walked down a path in the bog, stepping around sinkholes and pools of stagnant water, until she found a six-pointed star drawn in the mud. She began the next weave, which would make a burning blue star shoot into the air.
Something bit at her neck. She slapped her hand at it, killing a black-fly. Well, no surprise that she’d find those in this dank swamp. She would be glad to—
Another bite on her arm. She slapped at it. The very air started to buzz, flies zipping around her. Nynaeve gritted her teeth, continuing the weave. More and more bites prickled on her arms. She couldn’t kill them all. Could she get rid of the flies with a weave? She began a weave of Air to create a breeze around her, but was interrupted as she heard screams.
It was faint over the buzzing of the flies, but it sounded like a child trapped in the bog! Nynaeve took a step toward the sounds and opened her mouth to call, but blackflies swarmed into her mouth, choking her. They got at her eyes, and she had to squeeze them shut.
That buzzing. The screams. The biting. Light, they were in her throat! In her lungs!
Finish the weave. You must finish the weave.
She continued, somehow, despite the pain. The sound of the insects was so loud that she could barely hear the whoosh of the fiery star as it blasted into the air. She quickly wove a weave to blow the flies away, and once she did, she looked about. She coughed and trembled. She could feel the flies sticking to the inside of her throat. She didn’t see any child in danger. Had it been a trick of her ears?
She did see another six-pointed star, above a door carved into a tree. She walked toward it as the flies buzzed around her again. Calm. She had to be calm! Why? It made no sense! She did it anyway, walking with eyes closed as the flies swarmed her. She reached out, feeling for the door and pulling it open. She stepped through.
She pulled to a stop inside the building, wondering why she was coughing so much. Was she ill? She leaned against the wall, exhausted, angry. Her legs were covered in scrapes, and her arms itched with some kind of insect bites. She groaned, looking down at her garish clothing. What could possibly have possessed her to wear red, yellow and pink together?
She stood up with a sigh and continued down the rickety hallway. The planks that made up the floor rattled as she walked, and the plaster on the walls was broken and crumbling.
She reached a doorway and peeked in. The small chamber contained four small brass beds; the mattresses had straw peeking from the seams. Each bed bore a young child clutching a ratty blanket. Two of them were coughing, and all four looked pale and sickly.
Nynaeve gasped, hurrying into the room. She knelt beside the first child, a boy of perhaps four years. She checked his eyes, then told him to cough as she listened at his chest. He had the creeping sickness.
“Who is caring for you?” Nynaeve demanded.
“Mistress Mala runs the orphanage,” the child said in a weak voice. “We haven’t seen her in a long time.”
“Please,” a young girl said from the next bed. She had bloodshot eyes, her skin so pale it was practically white. “Some water? Could I have some water?” She trembled.
The other two were crying. Pitiful, weak sounds. Light! There wasn’t a single window in the room, and Nynaeve saw roaches scuttling under the beds. Who would leave children in such conditions?
“Hush,” she said. “I’m here now. I’ll care for you.”
She’d need to channel to Heal them. Then…