The great hunt - By Robert Jordan Page 0,178

stream of cool, clear water over Nynaeve’s head. “You are washed clean of what sin you may have done,” the Aes Sedai intoned, “and of those done against you. You are washed clean of what crime you may have committed, and of those committed against you. You come to us washed clean and pure, in heart and soul.”

Nynaeve shivered as the water ran down her body, dripping on the floor.

Sheriam took her arm with a relieved smile, but the Mistress of Novices’ voice gave no hint of past worry. “You do well so far. Coming back is doing well. Remember what your purpose is, and you will continue to be well.” The redhead began to lead her around the ter’angreal to another arch.

“It was so real,” Nynaeve said in a whisper. She could remember everything, remember channeling the One Power as easily as lifting her hand. She could remember Aginor, and the things the Forsaken wanted to do to her. She shivered again. “Was it real?”

“No one knows,” Sheriam replied. “It seems real in memory, and some have come out bearing the actual wounds of hurts taken inside. Others have been cut to the bone inside, and come back without a mark. It is all of it different every time for every woman who goes in. The ancients said there were many worlds. Perhaps this ter’angreal takes you to them. Yet if so, it does so under very stringent rules for something meant just to take you from one place to another. I believe it is not real. But remember, whether what happens is real or not, the danger is as real as a knife plunging into your heart.”

“I channeled the Power. It was so easy.”

Sheriam missed a step. “That isn’t supposed to be possible. You should not even remember being able to channel.” She studied Nynaeve. “And yet you are not harmed. I can still sense the ability in you, as strong as it ever was.”

“You sound as if it were dangerous,” Nynaeve said slowly, and Sheriam hesitated before answering.

“It isn’t thought necessary to give a warning, since you shouldn’t be able to remember it, but. . . . This ter’angreal was found during the Trolloc Wars. We have the records of its examination in the archives. The first sister to enter was warded as strongly as she could be, since no one knew what it would do. She kept her memories, and she channeled the One Power when she was threatened. And she came out with her abilities burned to nothing, unable to channel, unable even to sense the True Source. The second to go in was also warded, and she, too, was destroyed in the same way. The third went unprotected, remembered nothing once she was inside, and returned unharmed. That is one reason why we send you completely unprotected. Nynaeve, you must not channel inside the ter’angreal again. I know it is hard to remember anything, but try.”

Nynaeve swallowed. She could remember everything, could remember not remembering. “I won’t channel,” she said. If I can remember not to. She wanted to laugh hysterically.

They had reached the next arch. The glow still filled them all. Sheriam gave Nynaeve a last warning look, and left her standing alone.

“The second time is for what is. The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.”

Nynaeve stared at the shining silver arch. What is in there this time? The others were waiting, watching. She stepped firmly through into the light.

Nynaeve stared down at the plain brown dress she wore with surprise, then gave a start. Why was she staring at her own dress? The way back will come but once.

Looking around her, she smiled. She stood on the edge of the Green in Emond’s Field, with thatch-roofed houses all around, and the Winespring Inn right in front of her. The Winespring itself rose in a gush from the stone outcrop thrusting up through the grass of the Green, and the Wine-spring Water rushed off east under the willows beside the inn. The streets were empty, but most people would be at their chores this time of the morning.

Looking at the inn, her smile faded. There was more than an air of neglect about it, whitewash faded, a shutter hanging loose, the rotted end of a rafter showing at a gap in the roof tiles. What’s gotten into Bran? Is he spending so much time being Mayor he’s forgetting to take care of his inn?

The inn door swung open, and Cenn Buie