The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,384

she had watched each and every woman in the camp prove that she wasn’t a Darkfriend. They’d captured three more Black sisters who hadn’t been on Verin’s list. Only three. What accuracy! Verin had proven herself once again.

Egwene set aside the report. Knowledge of those who had escaped still chewed at her. She had known the names of sixty Darkfriends, and they had escaped her grasp. That number reached to eighty if she included those who had escaped from the rebel camp.

I will find you, Alviarin, Egwene thought, tapping the sheet with her finger. I will find you all. You were a rot within the Tower itself. The worst kind of rot. I will not let you spread it.

She set the sheet aside and picked up another. This one bore only a few names. A list of all the women in the Tower who had not been on Verin’s list and who had either been taken by the Seanchan, or had disappeared following the attack.

Verin had believed that one of the Forsaken, Mesaana, was hiding in the Tower. Sheriam’s confession corroborated this. Egwene’s task of reswearing every Aes Sedai on the Rod had revealed no Darkfriends of great power. Hopefully, the reswearing itself would ease the tension between the Ajahs. They could stop worrying if there were Blacks in their midst. Of course, it could very well weaken the Aes Sedai by giving proof that the Black Ajah had indeed existed in the first place.

Either way, Egwene had a problem. She looked over the sheet before her. Each woman in the White Tower had proven that she was not a Darkfriend. Each woman on Verin’s list was accounted for. She’d been executed, she’d been captured, she’d fled the White Tower the day of Egwene’s ascension, she’d been taken by the Seanchan or she was out of the Tower at the moment—and had been for some time. The sisters had instructions to watch for those.

Perhaps they’d been lucky, and the Forsaken was one of those women who had been taken by the Seanchan. But Egwene didn’t believe in that kind of luck. One of the Forsaken would not be captured so easily. She’d probably known about the attack in the first place.

That left the three names on the list in front of Egwene. Nalasia Merhan, a Brown; Teramina, a Green; and Jamilila Norsish, a Red. All were very weak in the Power. And the women on this list had all been in the Tower for years. It seemed implausible that Mesaana had been impersonating one of them and doing it so well that her subterfuge hadn’t been noticed.

Egwene had a feeling. A premonition, perhaps. At the very least, a fear. These three names were the only ones who could have been the Forsaken. But none of them fit, not at all. That gave her a chill. Was Mesaana still hiding in the Tower?

If so, she somehow knew how to defeat the Oath Rod.

A soft knock came at her door. It cracked a moment later. “Mother?” Silviana asked.

Egwene looked up, raising her eyebrows.

“I thought you might want to see this,” Silviana said, entering, her hair back in its tidy black bun, the red Keeper’s stole around her shoulders.

“What is it?”

“You should come and see.”

Curious, Egwene rose. There was no tension to Silviana’s voice, so it couldn’t be anything too dire. The two of them left the study behind, walking around the outside of the building to the Hall of the Tower. When they reached it, Egwene raised an eyebrow. Silviana gestured for her to enter.

The Hall wasn’t in session, and the chairs sat empty. A scattering of mason’s tools lay on white sheets in the corner, and a group of workers in thick brown overalls and white shirts—sleeves rolled up—were collected in front of the gap in the wall that the Seanchan had left. Egwene had ordered a rose window fitted into the opening instead of having it sealed up completely, a remembrance for the time the White Tower had been attacked. A warning to prevent its happening again. Before the window could be installed, however, stonemasons were busy shoring up the sides and creating the fitting.

Egwene and Silviana glided into the room, walking down the short ramp to the floor, which had again been properly painted with the colors of all seven Ajahs. The stonemasons saw them, then backed away respectfully, one man pulling off his cap and clutching it to his chest. Reaching the edge of the room, just before