“It is the only way I know to destroy Darkhounds,” Nynaeve said. “It was needed.”

“You do not have the right to decide that,” Saerin said. “What you did destabilized the ter’angreal. You could have destroyed it, killing yourself and perhaps us. We want you to swear that you will never use that weave again.”

“I won’t do that,” Nynaeve said tiredly.

“And if it means the difference between gaining the shawl or losing it forever?”

“Giving an oath like that would be foolish,” Nynaeve said. “I could find myself in a situation where people would die if I didn’t use it. Light! I’ll be fighting in the Last Battle alongside Rand. What if I were to get to Shayol Ghul and discover that, without balefire, I could not help the Dragon stop the Dark One? Would you have me choose between a foolish oath and the fate of the world?”

“You think you’re going to Shayol Ghul?” Rubinde asked, incredulous.

“I’m going to be there,” Nynaeve said softly. “It is not a question. Rand has asked it of me, though I would have gone if he hadn’t.”

They shared a look, seeming troubled.

“If you’re going to raise me,” Nynaeve said, “then you’ll just have to trust my judgment on balefire. If you don’t trust me to know when to use a very dangerous weave and when not to, then I’d rather you not raise me.”

“I would be careful,” Egwene said to the women. “Refusing the shawl to the woman who helped cleanse the taint from saidin—the woman who defeated Moghedien herself in battle, the woman married to the King of Malkier—would set a very dangerous precedent.”

Saerin looked at the others. Three nods. Yukiri, Seaine and—surprisingly—Romanda. Three shakes of the head. Rubinde, Barasine, Lelaine. That left only Saerin. The deciding vote.

The Brown turned back to her. “Nynaeve al’Meara, I declare that you have passed this test. Narrowly.”

To the side, Egwene let out a soft—almost inaudible—sigh of relief. Nynaeve realized she’d been holding her own breath.

“It is done!” Rosil said, clapping her hands together. “Let no one ever speak of what has passed here. It is for us to share in silence with she who experienced it. It is done.”

The women nodded in agreement, even those who had voted against Nynaeve. Nobody would know that Nynaeve had nearly failed. They had probably confronted her about the balefire directly—rather than seeking formal punishment—because of the tradition of not speaking of what happened in the ter’angreal.

Rosil clapped again. “Nynaeve al’Meara, you will spend the night in prayer and contemplation of the burdens you will take up on the morrow, when you don the shawl of an Aes Sedai. It is done.” She clapped a third and final time.

“Thank you,” Nynaeve said. “But I already have my shawl and—”

She cut off as Egwene gave her a glare. A serene glare, but a glare nonetheless. Perhaps Nynaeve had pushed things far enough tonight already.

“—I will be happy to follow tradition,” Nynaeve continued, discarding her objection. “So long as I am allowed to do one very important thing first. Then I will return and fulfill tradition.”