She came through the arch on her knees, sobbing, and the first words out of her mouth were not a prayer or a plea but a declaration of war. "I hate you. I hate all Aes Sedai."
Sheriam pulled her to her feet without argument. She turned Nynaeve's palms upward, two thorns, one through each palm, placed with impossible precision. Not the random wreckage of a blackthorn bush — something deliberate, something that had chosen exactly where to leave its mark. Sheriam drew them out carefully, healed the wounds, and frowned at the small scars that remained where there should have been none.
The Amyrlin was waiting. The last chalice tipped slowly over her head, and the words that followed were not a comfort. "You are washed clean of Nynaeve al’Maera from Emond’s Field. You are washed clean of all ties that bind you to the world. You come to us washed clean, in heart and soul. You are Nynaeve al’Maera, Accepted of the White Tower."