She stood in a great vaulted chamber forested with thick columns of polished redstone. The Heart of the Stone, in the Stone of Tear. Gilded lamps hung from chains overhead. Unlit, but there was of course light, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Amys and Bair were already there, looking no different than they had that morning, except that all their necklaces and bracelets sparkled a bit more than even gold really should have. They were talking quietly, and looking irritated. Egwene caught only a word here and there, but two of them were “Rand al’Thor.”

Abruptly she realized she was wearing an Accepted’s white dress with the banded hem. As soon as she did, it became a copy of the Wise Ones’ garb, without jewelry. She did not think the other two women had noticed, or would know what the dress meant if they did. There were times when surrender lost less ji and earned less toh than the alternatives, but no Aiel would ever consider it without even trying to fight.

“They are late again,” Amys said wryly, walking out into the open space beneath the chamber’s great dome. Driven into the floorstones there was what appeared to be a sword made of crystal, Callandor of prophecy, a male sa’angreal and one of the most powerful ever made. Rand had put it there to remind the Tairens of him, as if there was any chance of them forgetting, but Amys barely glanced at it. To others The Sword That Is Not a Sword might be a symbol of the Dragon Reborn; to her, it was a wetlander concern. “At least we can hope they will not try to pretend they know everything and we nothing. They were much better, last time.”

Bair’s snort would have made Sorilea blink. “They will never be better. The least they can do is be where they said they would be when they said they—” She cut off as seven women appeared suddenly on the other side of Callandor.

Egwene recognized them, including the young woman with the determined blue eyes she had seen before in Tel’aran’rhiod. Who was she? Amys and Bair had mentioned the others—usually in acid tones—but never another. She wore a blue-fringed shawl; they all wore their shawls. Their dresses changed color and cut from moment to moment, but the shawls never flickered.

The Aes Sedai’s eyes focused immediately on Egwene. The Wise Ones might as well not have existed.

“Egwene al’Vere,” Sheriam said formally, “you are summoned before the Hall of the Tower.” Her tilted green eyes shone with some suppressed emotion. Egwene’s stomach sank; they knew she had been masquerading as a full sister.