Free Towers of Midnight by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson

hands made idle minds. Some work would keep them from thinking about what was to come.
    There was no helping that for him. He leaned down on the fence, feeling the rough grooves of the unsanded planks under his arms. That wind tugged at the tails of his shirt again; Adrinne had always forced him to tuck it in, but now that she was gone, he…well, he never had liked wearing it that way.
    He tucked the shirt in anyway.
    The air smelled wrong somehow. Stale, like the air inside a city. Flies were starting to buzz around the shriveled bits that had once been apples.
    Almen had lived a long time. He’d never kept count; Adrinne had done that for him. It wasn’t important. He knew he’d seen a lot of years, and that was that.
    He’d seen insects attack a crop; he’d seen plants lost to flood, to drought, or to negligence. But in all his years, he’d never seen anything like this. This was something evil. The village was already starving. They didn’t talk about it, not when the children or youths were around. The adults quietly gave what they had to the young and to women who were nursing. But the cows were going dry, the stores spoiling, the crops dying.
    The letter in his pocket said his own farm had been set upon by passing mercenaries. They hadn’t harmed anyone, but they’d taken every scrap of food. His sons survived only by digging half-grown potatoes from the crop and boiling them. They found nineteen out of every twenty rotting in the ground, inexplicably full of worms despite green growth above.
    Dozens of nearby villages were suffering the same way. No food to be had. Tar Valon itself was having trouble feeding its people.
    Staring down those neat, perfect rows of useless apple trees, Almen felt the crushing weight of it. Of trying to remain positive. Of seeing all his sister had worked for fail and rot. These apples…they were supposed to have saved the village, and his sons.
    His stomach rumbled. It did that a lot lately.
    This is it then, isn’t it? he thought, eyes toward the too-yellow grass below. The fight just ended.
    Almen slumped down, feeling a weight on his shoulders. Adrinne, he thought. There had been a time when he’d been quick to laugh, quick to talk. Now he felt worn, like a post that had been sanded and sanded and sanded until only a sliver was left. Maybe it was time to let go.
    He felt something on his neck. Warmth.
    He hesitated, then turned weary eyes toward the sky. Sunlight bathed his face. He gaped; it seemed so long since he’d seen pure sunlight. It shone down through a large break in the clouds, comforting, like the warmth of an oven baking a loaf of Adrinne’s thick sourdough bread.
    Almen stood, raising a hand to shade his eyes. He took a deep, long breath, and smelled…apple blossoms? He spun with a start.
    The apple trees were flowering.
    That was plain ridiculous. He rubbed his eyes, but that didn’t dispel the image. They were blooming, all of them, white flowers breaking out between the leaves. The flies buzzed into the air and zipped away on the wind. The dark bits of apple on the ground melted away, like wax before a flame. In seconds, there was nothing left of them, not even juice. The ground had absorbed them.
    What was happening? Apple trees didn’t blossom twice. Was he going mad?
    Footsteps sounded softly on the path that ran past the orchard. Almen spun to find a tall young man walking down out of the foothills. He had deep red hair and he wore ragged clothing: a brown cloak with loose sleeves and a simple white linen shirt beneath. The trousers were finer, black with a delicate embroidery of gold at the cuff.
    “Ho, stranger,” Almen said, raising a hand, not knowing what else to say, not even sure if he’d seen what he thought he’d seen. “Did you…did you get lost up in the foothills?”
    The man stopped, turning sharply. He seemed surprised to find Almen there. With a start, Almen realized the man’s left arm ended in a stump.
    The stranger looked