She stared at him, at the dagger, as if they were both poisonous serpents. “No! Rand, I will not. I cannot! How could you ask such a thing?”
Slowly his hand crept back toward the dagger. His fingers came short again. He strained, moaning, brushed it with a fingertip. Before he could try again, she kicked it away from him. He collapsed with a sob.
“Tell me why,” she demanded. “Why would you ask me to — to murder you? I will Heal you, I will do anything to get you out of there, but I cannot kill you. Why?”
“They can turn me, Egwene.” His breathing was so tortured, she wished she could weep. “If they take me — the Myrddraal — the Dreadlords — they can turn me to the Shadow. If madness has me, I cannot fight them. I won't know what they are doing till it is too late. If there is even a spark of life left when they find me, they can still do it. Please, Egwene. For the love of the Light. Kill me.”
“I — I can't, Rand. Light help me, I cannot!”
The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.
She looked over her shoulder, and a silver arch filled with white light took up most of the open space among the rubble.
“Egwene, help me.”
Be steadfast.
She stood and took a step toward the arch. It was right there in front of her. One more step, and...
“Please, Egwene. Help me. I can't reach it. For the love of the Light, Egwene, help me!”
“I cannot kill you,” she whispered. “I can't. Forgive me.” She stepped forward.
“HELP ME, EGWENE!”
Light burned her to ash.
Staggering, she stepped out of the arch, neither noticing her nakedness nor caring. A shudder ran through her, and she covered her mouth with both hands. “I couldn't, Rand,” she whispered. “I couldn't. Please forgive me.” Light help him. Please, Light help Rand.
Cold water poured over her head.
“You are washed clean of false pride,” Elaida intoned. “You are washed clean of false ambition. You come to us washed clean, in heart and soul.”
As the Red sister turned away, Sheriam gently took Egwene's shoulders and guided her toward the last arch. “One more, child. One more, and it is done.”
“He said they could turn him to the Shadow,” Egwene mumbled. “He said the Myrddraal and the Dreadlords could force him.”
Sheriam missed a step, and looked around quickly. Elaida was almost back to the table. The Aes Sedai surrounding the ter'angreal stared at it, seeming lost to anything else. “An unpleasant thing to talk of, child,” Sheriam said finally, and softly. “Come. One more.”
“Can they?” Egwene insisted.
“Custom,” Sheriam said, “is not to speak of what happens within the ter'angreal. A woman's fears are her own.”
“Can they?”
Sheriam sighed, glanced at the other Aes Sedai again, then dropped her voice to a whisper and spoke swiftly. “This is something known only to a few, child, even in the Tower. You should not learn it now, if ever, but I will tell you. There is — a weakness in being able to channel. That we learn to open ourselves to the True Source means that we can be opened to other things.” Egwene shuddered. “Calm yourself, child. It is not so easily done. It is a thing not done, so far as I know — Light send it has not been done! — since the Trolloc Wars. It took thirteen Dreadlords — Darkfriends who could channel — weaving the flows through thirteen Myrddraal. You see? Not easily done. There are no Dreadlords today. This is a secret of the Tower, child. If others knew, we could never convince them they were safe. Only one who can channel can be turned in this way. The weakness of our strength. Everyone else is as safe as a fortress; only their own deeds and will can turn them to the Shadow.”
“Thirteen,” Egwene said in a tiny voice. “The same number who left the Tower. Liandrin, and twelve more.”
Sheriam's face hardened. “That is nothing for you to dwell on. You will forget it.” Her voice climbed to a normal volume. “The third time is for what will be. The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.”
Egwene stared at the glowing arch, stared at some far distance beyond it. Liandrin and twelve others. Thirteen Darkfriends who can channel. Light help us all. She stepped into the light. It filled her. It shone through her. It burned her to the bone, seared her to the soul. She flashed incandescent in the light. Light help me! There was nothing but the light. And the pain.
Egwene stared into the standing mirror, and was not sure whether she was more surprised by the ageless smoothness of her face or the striped stole that hung around her neck. The stole of the Amyrlin Seat.
The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.
Thirteen.