The Shadow Rising 

The Shadow shall rise across the world, and darken every land, even to the 
smallest corner, and there shall be neither Light nor safety. And he who shall 
be born of the Dawn, born of the Maiden, according to Prophecy, he shall stretch 
forth his hands to catch the Shadow, and the world shall scream in the pain of 
salvation. All Glory be to the Creator, and to the Light, and to he who shall be 
born again. May the Light save us from him.

&#8209;from Commentaries on the Karaethon Cycle
Sereine dar Shamelle Motara
Counsel&#8209;Sister to Comaelle, High Queen of Jaramide
(circa 325 AB, the Third Age)
 
CHAPTER
1
 
Seeds of Shadow
 
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become 
legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that 
gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet 
to come, an Age long past, a wind rose on the great plain called the Caralain 
Grass. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings 
to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
North and west the wind blew beneath early morning sun, over endless miles of 
rolling grass and far&#8209;scattered thickets, across the swift&#8209;flowing River Luan, 
past the broken&#8209;topped fang of Dragonmount, mountain of legend towering above 
the slow swells of the rolling plain, looming so high that clouds wreathed it 
less than halfway to the smoking peak. Dragonmount, where the Dragon had 
died&#8209;and with him, some said, the Age of Legends&#8209;where prophecy said he would be 
born again. Or had been. North and west, across the villages of Jualdhe and 
Darein and Alindaer, where bridges like stone lacework arched out to the Shining 
Walls, the great white walls of what many called the greatest city in the world. 
Tar Valon. A city just touched by the reaching shadow of Dragonmount each 
evening.
Within those walls Ogier&#8209;made buildings well over two thousand years old seemed 
to grow out of the ground rather than having been built, or to be the work of 
wind and water rather than that of even the fabled hands of Ogier stone&#8209;masons. 
Some suggested birds taking flight, or huge shells from distant seas. Soaring 
towers, flared or fluted or spiraled, stood connected by bridges hundreds of 
feet in the air, often without rails. Only those long in Tar Valon could avoid 
gaping like country folk who had never been off the farm.
Greatest of those towers, the White Tower dominated the city, gleaming like 
polished bone in the sun. The Wheel of Time turns around Tar Valon, so people 
said in the city, and Tar Valon turns around the Tower. The first sight 
travelers had of Tar Valon, before their horses came in view of the bridges, 
before their river boat captains sighted the island, was the Tower reflecting 
the sun like a beacon. Small wonder then that the great square surrounding the 
walled Tower grounds seemed smaller than it was under the massive Tower's gaze, 
the people in it dwindling to insects. Yet the White Tower could have been the 
smallest in Tar Valon, the fact that it was the heart of Aes Sedai power would 
still have overawed the island city.
Despite their numbers, the crowd did not come dose to filling the square. Along 
the edges people jostled each other in a milling mass, all going about their 
day's business, but closer to the Tower grounds there were ever fewer people, 
until a band of bare paving stones at least fifty paces wide bordered the tall 
white walls. Aes Sedai were respected and more in Tar Valon, of course, and the 
Amyrlin Seat ruled the city as she ruled the Aes Sedai, but few wanted to be 
closer to Aes Sedai power than they had to. There was a difference between being 
proud of a grand fireplace in your hall and walking into the flames.
A very few did go closer, to the broad stairs that led up to the Tower itself, 
to the intricately carved doors wide enough for a dozen people abreast. Those 
doors stood open, welcoming. There were always some people in need of aid or an 
answer they thought only Aes Sedai could give, and they came from far as often 
as near, from Arafel and Ghealdan, from Saldaea and Illian. Many would find help 
or guidance inside, though often not what they had expected or hoped for.
Min kept the wide hood of her cloak pulled up, shadowing her face in its depths. 
In spite of the warmth of the day, the garment was light enough not to attract 
comment, not on a woman so obviously shy. And a good many people were shy when 
they went to the Tower. There was nothing about her to attract notice. Her dark 
hair was longer than when she was last in the Tower, though still not quite to 
her shoulders, and her dress, plain blue except for narrow bands of white 
Jaerecuz lace at neck and wrists, would have suited the daughter of a well&#8209;to&#8209;do 
farmer, wearing her feastday best to the Tower just like the other women 
approaching the wide stairs. Min hoped she looked the same, at least. She had to 
stop herself from staring at them to see if they walked or held themselves 
differently. I can do it, she told herself.
She had certainly not come all this way to turn back now. The dress was a good 
disguise. Those who remembered her in the Tower remembered a young woman with 
close&#8209;cropped hair, always in a boy's coat and breeches, never in a dress. It 
had to be a good disguise. She had no choice about what she was doing. Not 
really.
Her stomach fluttered the closer she came to the Tower, and she tightened her 
grip on the bundle clutched to her breast. Her usual clothes were in there, and 
her good boots, and all her possessions except the horse she had left at an inn 
not far from the square. With luck, she would be back on the gelding in a few 
hours, riding for the Ostrein Bridge and the road south.
She was not really looking forward to climbing onto a horse again so soon, not 
after weeks in the saddle with never a day's pause, but she longed to leave this 
place. She had never seen the White Tower as hospitable, and right now it seemed 
nearly as awful as the Dark One's prison at Shayol Ghul. Shivering, she wished 
she had not thought of the Dark One. I wonder if Moiraine  thinks I came just 
because she asked me? The Light help me, acting like a fool girl. Doing fool 
things because of a fool man!
She mounted the stairs uneasily &#8209; each was deep enough to take two strides for 
her to reach the next &#8209; and unlike most of the others, she did not pause for an 
awed stare up the pale height of the Tower. She wanted this over.
Inside, archways almost surrounded he large, round entry hall, but the 
petitioners huddled in the middle of the chamber, shuffling together beneath a 
flat&#8209;domed ceiling. The pale stone floor had been worn and polished by countless 
nervous feet over the centuries. No one thought of anything except where they 
were, and why. A farmer and his wife in rough woolens, clutching each other's 
callused hands, rubbed shoulders with a merchant in velvet&#8209;slashed silks, a maid 
at her heels clutching a small worked&#8209;silver casket, no doubt her mistress's 
gift for the Tower. Elsewhere, the merchant would have stared down her nose at 
farm folk who brushed so close, and they might well have knuckled their 
foreheads and backed away apologizing. Not now. Not here.
There were few men among the petitioners, which was no surprise to Min. Most men 
were nervous around Aes Sedai. Everyone knew it had been male Aes Sedai, when 
there still had been male Aes Sedai, who were responsible for the Breaking of 
the World. Three thousand years had not dimmed that memory, even if time had 
altered many of the details. Children were still frightened by tales of men who 
could channel the One Power, men doomed to go mad from the Dark One's taint on 
saidin, the male half of the True Source. Worst was the story of Lews Therin 
Telamon, the Dragon, Lews Therin Kinslayer, who had begun the Breaking. For that 
matter, the stories frightened adults, too. Prophecy said the Dragon would be 
born again in mankind's greatest hour of need, to fight the Dark One in Tarmon 
Gai'don, the Last Battle, but that made little difference in how most people 
looked at any connection between men and the Power. Any Aes Sedai would hunt 
down a man who could channel, now; of the seven Ajahs, the Red did little else.
Of course, none of that had anything to do with seeking help from Aes Sedai, yet 
few men felt easy about being linked in any way to Aes Sedai and the Power. Few, 
that is, except Warders, but each Warder was bonded to an Aes Sedai; Warders 
could hardly be taken for the general run of men. There was a saying: "A man 
will cut off his own hand to get rid of a splinter before asking help from Aes 
Sedai." Women meant it as a comment on men's stubborn foolishness, but Min had 
heard some men say the loss of a hand might be the better decision.
She wondered what these people would do if they knew what she knew. Run 
screaming, perhaps. And if they knew her reason for being here, she might not 
survive to be taken up by the Tower guards and thrown into a cell. She did have 
friends in the Tower, but none with power or influence. If her purpose was 
discovered, it was much less likely that they could help her than that she would 
pull them to the gallows or the headsman behind her. That was saying she lived 
to be tried, of course; more likely her mouth would be stopped permanently long 
before a trial.
She told herself to stop thinking like that. I'll make it in, and I'll make it 
out. The Light burn Rand al'Thor for getting me into this!
Three or four Accepted, women Min's age or perhaps a little older, were 
circulating through the round room, speaking softly to the petitioners. Their 
white dresses had no decoration except for seven bands of color at the hem, one 
band for each Ajah. Now and again a novice, a still younger woman or girl all in 
white, came to lead someone deeper into the Tower. The petitioners always 
followed the novices with an odd mix of excited eagerness and foot&#8209;dragging 
reluctance.
Min's grip tightened on her bundle as one of the Accepted stopped in front of 
her. "The Light illumine you," the curly&#8209;haired woman said perfunctorily. "I am 
called Faolain. How may the Tower help you?"
Faolain's dark, round face held the patience of someone doing a tedious job when 
she would rather be doing something else. Studying, probably, from what Min knew 
of the Accepted. Learning to be Aes Sedai. Most important, however, was the lack 
of recognition in the Accepted's eyes; the two of them had met when Min was in 
the Tower before, though only briefly.
Just the same, Min lowered her face in assumed diffidence. It was not unnatural; 
a good many country folk did not really understand the great step up from 
Accepted to full Aes Sedai. Shielding her features behind the edge of her cloak, 
she looked away from Faolain.
"I have a question I must ask the Amyrlin Seat," she began, then cut off 
abruptly as three Aes Sedai stopped to look into the entry hall, two from one 
archway and one from another.
Accepted and novices curtsied when their rounds took them dose to one of the Aes 
Sedai, but otherwise went on about their tasks, perhaps a trifle more briskly. 
That was all. Not so for the petitioners. They seemed to catch their breaths all 
together. Away from the White Tower, away from Tar Valon, they might simply have 
thought the Aes Sedai three women whose ages they could not guess, three women 
in the flush of their prime, yet with more maturity than their smooth cheeks 
suggested. In the Tower, though, there was no question. A woman who had worked 
very long with the One Power was not touched by time in the same way as other 
women. In the Tower, no one needed to see a golden Great Serpent ring to know an 
Aes Sedai.
A ripple of curtsies spread through the huddle, and jerky bows from the few men. 
Two or three people even fell to their knees. The rich merchant looked 
frightened; the farm couple at her side stared at legends come to life. How to 
deal with Aes Sedai was a matter of hearsay for most; it was unlikely that any 
here, except those who actually lived in Tar Valon, had seen an Aes Sedai 
before, and probably not even the Tar Valoners had been this dose.
But it was not the Aes Sedai themselves that halted Min's tongue. Sometimes, not 
often, she saw things when she looked at people, images and auras that usually 
flared and were gone in moments. Occasionally she knew what they meant. It 
happened rarely, the knowing&#8209;much more rarely that the seeing, even&#8209;but when she 
knew, she was always right.
Unlike most others, Aes Sedai &#8209; and their Warders &#8209; always had images and auras, 
sometimes so many dancing and shifting that they made Min dizzy. The numbers 
made no difference in interpreting them, though; she knew what they meant for 
Aes Sedai as seldom as for anyone else. But this time she knew more than she 
wanted to, and it made her shiver.
A slender woman with black hair falling to her waist, the only one of the three 
she recognized &#8209; her name was Ananda; she was Yellow Ajah &#8209; wore a sickly brown 
halo, shriveled and split by rotting fissures that fell in and widened as they 
decayed. The small, fair&#8209;haired Aes Sedai beside Ananda was Green Ajah, by her 
green&#8209;fringed shawl. The White Flame of Tar Valon on it showed for a moment when 
she turned her back. And on her shoulder, as if nestled among the grape vines 
and flowering apple branches worked on her shawl, sat a human skull. A small 
woman's skull, picked dean and sun&#8209;bleached. The third, a plumply pretty woman 
halfway around the room, wore no shawl; most Aes Sedai did not except for 
ceremony. The lift of her chin and the set of her shoulders spoke of strength 
and pride. She seemed to be casting cool, blue eyes on the petitioners through a 
tattered curtain of blood, crimson streamers running down her face.
Blood and skull and halo faded away in the dance of images around the three, 
came and faded again. The petitioners stared in awe, seeing only three women who 
could touch the True Source and channel the One Power. No one but Min saw the 
rest. No one but Min knew those three women were going to die. All on the same 
day.
"The Amyrlin cannot see everyone," Faolain said with poorly hidden impatience. 
"Her next public audience is not for ten days. Tell me what you want, and I will 
arrange for you to see the sister who can best help you."
Min's eye flew to the bundle in her arms and stayed there, partly so she would 
not have to see again what she had already seen. All three of them! Light! What 
chance was there that three Aes Sedai would die on the same day? But she knew. 
She knew.
"I have the right to speak to the Amyrlin Seat. In person." It was a right 
seldom demanded &#8209; who would dare? &#8209; but it existed. "Any woman has that right, 
and I ask it."
"Do you think the Amyrlin Seat herself can see everyone who comes to the White 
Tower? Surely another Aes Sedai can help you." Faolain gave heavy weight to the 
titles as if to overpower Min. "Now tell me what your question is about. And 
give me your name, so the novice will know who to come for."
"My name is . . . Elmindreda." Min winced in spite of herself. She had always 
hated the name, but the Amyrlin was one of the few people living who had ever 
heard it. If only she remembered. "I have the right to speak to the Amyrlin. And 
my question is for her alone. I have the right."
The Accepted arched an eyebrow. "Elmindreda?" Her mouth twitched toward an 
amused smile. "And you claim your rights. Very well. I will send word to the 
Keeper of the Chronicles that you wish to see the Amyrlin Seat personally, 
Elmindreda."
Min wanted to slap the woman for the way she emphasized "Elmindreda," but 
instead she forced out a murmured "Thank you."
"Do not thank me yet. No doubt it will be hours before the Keeper finds time to 
reply, and it will certainly be that you can ask your question at the Mother's 
next public audience. Wait with patience. Elmindreda." She gave Min a tight 
smile, almost a smirk, as she turned away.
Grinding her teeth, Min took her bundle to stand against the wall between two of 
the archways, where she tried to blend into the pale stonework. Trust no one, 
and avoid notice until you reach the Amyrlin, Moiraine had told her. Moiraine 
was one Aes Sedai she did trust. Most of the time. It was good advice in any 
case. All she had to do was reach the Amyrlin, and it would be over. She could 
don her own clothes again, see her friends, and leave. No more need for hiding.
She was relieved to see that the Aes Sedai had gone. Three Aes Sedai dying on 
one day. It was impossible; that was the only word. Yet it was going to happen. 
Nothing she said or did could change it&#8209;when she knew what an image meant, it 
happened&#8209;but she had to tell the Amyrlin about this. It might even be as 
important as the news she brought from Moiraine, though that was hard to 
believe.
Another Accepted came to replace one already there, and to Min's eyes bars 
floated in front of her apple&#8209;cheeked face, like a cage. Sheriam, the Mistress 
of Novices, looked into the hall&#8209;after one glance, Min kept her gaze on the 
stone under her feet; Sheriam knew her all too well &#8209; and the red&#8209;haired Aes 
Sedai's face seemed battered and bruised. It was only the viewing, of course, 
but Min still had to bite her lip to stifle a gasp. Sheriam, with her calm 
authority and sureness, was as indestructible as the Tower. Surely nothing could 
harm Sheriam. But something was going to.
An Aes Sedai unknown to Min, wearing the shawl of the Brown Ajah, accompanied a 
stout woman in finely woven red wool to the doors. The stout woman walked as 
lightly as a girl, face shining, almost laughing with pleasure. The Brown sister 
was smiling, too, but her aura faded like a guttering candle flame.
Death. Wounds, captivity, and death. To Min it might as well have been printed 
on a page.
She set her eyes on her feet. She did not want to see any more. Let her 
remember, she thought. She had not felt desperation at any time on her long ride 
from the Mountains of Mist, not even on the two occasions when someone tried to 
steal her horse, but she felt it now. Light, let her remember that bloody name.
"Mistress Elmindreda?"
Min gave a start. The black&#8209;haired novice who stood before her was barely old 
enough to be away from home, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, though she made a great 
effort at dignity. "Yes? I am . . . . That is my name.'
"I am Sahra. If you will come with me &#8209; " Sahra's piping voice took on a note of 
wonder - the Amyrlin Seat will see you in her study now.'
Min gave a sigh of relief and followed eagerly.
Her cloak's deep hood still hid her face, but it did not stop her seeing, and 
the more she saw, the more she grew eager to reach the Amyrlin. Few people 
walked the broad corridors that spiraled upward with their brightly colored 
floor tiles, and their wall hangings and golden lampstands &#8209; the Tower had been 
built to hold far greater numbers than it did now &#8209; but nearly everyone she saw 
as she climbed higher wore an image or aura that spoke to her of violence and 
danger.
Warders hurried by with barely a glance for the two women, men who moved like 
hunting wolves, their swords only an afterthought to their deadliness, but they 
seemed to have bloody faces, or gaping wounds. Swords and spears danced about 
their heads, threatening. Their auras flashed wildly, flickered on the knife 
edge of death. She saw dead men walking, knew they would die on the same day as 
the Aes Sedai in the entry hall, or at most a day later. Even some of the 
servants, men and women with the Flame of Tar Valon on their breasts, hurrying 
about their work, bore signs of violence. An Aes Sedai glimpsed down a side 
hallway appeared to have chains in the air around her, and another, crossing the 
corridor ahead of Min and her guide, seemed for most of those few strides to 
wear a silver collar around her neck. Min's breath caught at that; she wanted to 
scream.
"It can all be overwhelming to someone who's never seen it before," Sahra said, 
trying and failing to sound as if the Tower were as ordinary to her now as her 
home village. "But you are safe here. The Amyrlin Seat will make things right." 
Her voice squeaked when she mentioned the Amyrlin.
"Light, let her do just that," Min muttered. The novice gave her a smile that 
was meant to be soothing.
By the time they reached the hall outside the Amyrlin's study, Min's stomach was 
churning and she was treading almost on Sahra's heels. Only the need to pretend 
that she was a stranger had kept her from running ahead long since.
One of the doors to the Amyrlin's chambers opened, and a young man with red&#8209;gold 
hair came stalking out, nearly striding into Min and her escort. Tall and 
straight and strong in his blue coat thickly embroidered with gold on sleeves 
and collar, Gawyn of House Trakand, eldest son of Queen Morgase of Andor, looked 
every inch the proud young lord. A furious young lord. There was no time to drop 
her head; he was staring down into her hood, right into her face.
His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed to slits of blue ice. "So you are 
back. Do you know where my sister and Egwene have gone?"
"They are not here?" Min forgot everything in a rising flood of panic. Before 
she knew what she was doing she had seized his sleeves, peering up at him 
urgently, and forced him back a step. "Gawyn, they started for the Tower months 
ago! Elayne and Egwene, and Nynaeve, too. With Verin Sedai and . . . . Gawyn, I 
. . . I. . . . " 
"Calm yourself," he said, gently undoing her grip on his coat. "Light! I didn't 
mean to frighten you so. They arrived safely. And would not say a word of where 
they had been, or why. Not to me. I suppose there's scant hope you will?" She 
thought she kept her face straight, but he took one look and said, "I thought 
not. This place has more secrets than . . . . They've vanished again. And 
Nynaeve, too." Nynaeve was almost an offhand addition; she might be one of Min's 
friends, but she meant nothing to him. His voice began to roughen once more, 
growing tighter by the second. "Again without a word. Not a word! Supposedly 
they're on a farm somewhere as penance for running away, but I cannot find out 
where. The Amyrlin won't give me a straight answer."
Min flinched; for a moment, streaks of dried blood had made his face a grim 
mask. It was like a double hammer blow. Her friends were gone &#8209; it had eased her 
coming to the Tower, knowing they were here &#8209; and Gawyn was going to be wounded 
on the day the Aes Sedai died.
Despite all she had seen since entering the Tower, despite her fear, none of it 
had really touched her personally until now. Disaster striking the Tower would 
spread far from Tar Valon, yet she was not of the Tower and never could be. But 
Gawyn was someone she knew, someone she liked, and he was going to be hurt more 
than the blood told, hurt somehow deeper than wounds to his flesh. It hit her 
that if catastrophe seized the Tower, not only distant Aes Sedai would be 
harmed, women she could never feel close to, but her friends as well. They were 
of the Tower.
In a way she was glad Egwene and the others were not there, glad she could not 
look at them and perhaps see signs of death. Yet she wanted to look, to be sure, 
to look at her friends and see nothing, or see that they would live. Where in 
the Light were they? Why had they gone? Knowing those three, she thought it 
possible that if Gawyn did not know where they were, it was because they did not 
want him to know. It could be that.
Suddenly she remembered where she was and why, and that she was not alone with 
Gawyn. Sahra seemed to have forgotten she was taking Min to the Amyrlin; she 
seemed to have forgotten everything but the young lord, making calf&#8209;eyes that he 
was not noticing. Even so, there was no use pretending any longer to be a 
stranger to the Tower. She was at the Amyrlin's door; nothing could stop her 
now.
"Gawyn, I don't know where they are, but if they are doing penance on a farm, 
they're probably all sweat, and mud to their hips, and you are the last one they 
will want to see them." She was not much easier about their absence than Gawyn 
was, in truth. Too much had happened, too much was happening, too much with ties 
to them, and to her. But it was not impossible they had been sent off for 
punishment. "You won't help them by making the Amyrlin angry."
"I don't know that they are on a farm. Or even alive. Why all this hiding and 
sidestepping if they're just pulling weeds? If anything happens to my sister . . 
. . Or to Egwene. . . ." He frowned at the toes of his boots. "I am supposed to 
look after Elayne. How can I protect her when I don't know where she is?"
Min sighed. "Do you think she needs looking after? Either of them?" But if the 
Amyrlin had sent them somewhere, maybe they did. The Amyrlin was capable of 
sending a woman into a bear's den with nothing but a switch if it suited her 
purposes. And she would expect the woman to come back with a bearskin, or the 
bear on a leash, as instructed. But telling Gawyn that would only inflame his 
temper and his worries. "Gawyn, they have pledged to the Tower. They won't thank 
you for meddling."
"I know Elayne isn't a child," he said patiently, "even if she does bounce back 
and forth between running off like one and playing at being Aes Sedai. But she a 
my sister, and beyond that, she is Daughter&#8209;Heir of Andor. She'll be queen, 
after Mother. Andor needs her whole and safe to take the throne, not another 
Succession."
Playing at being Aes Sedai? Apparently he did not realize the extent of his 
sister's talent. The Daughter&#8209;Heirs of Andor had been sent to the Tower to train 
for as long as there had been an Andor, but Elayne was the first to have enough 
talent to be raised to Aes Sedai, and a powerful Aes Sedai at that. Very likely 
he also did not know Egwene was just as strong.
"So you will protect her whether she wants it or not?" She said it in a flat 
voice meant to let him know he was making a mistake, but he missed the warning 
and nodded agreement.
"That has been my duty since the day she was born. My blood shed before hers; my 
life given before hers. I took that oath when I could barely see over the side 
of her cradle; Gareth Bryne had to explain to me what it meant. I won't break it 
now. Andor needs her more than it needs me."
He spoke with a calm certainty, an acceptance of something natural and right, 
that sent chills through her. She had always thought of him as boyish, laughing 
and teasing, but now he was something alien. She thought the Creator must have 
been tired when it came time to make men; sometimes they hardly seemed human. 
"And Egwene? What oath did you take about her?"
His face did not change, but he shifted his feet warily. "I'm concerned about 
Egwene, of course. And Nynaeve. What happens to Elayne's companions might happen 
to Elayne. I assume they're still together; when they were here, I seldom saw 
one without the others."
"My mother always told me to marry a poor liar, and you qualify. Except that I 
think someone else has first claim."
"Some things are meant to be," he said quietly, "and some never can. Galad is 
heartsick because Egwene is gone." Galad was his half&#8209;brother, the pair of them 
sent to Tar Valon to train under the Warders. That was another Andoran 
tradition. Galadedrid Damodred was a man who took doing the right thing to the 
point of a fault, as Min saw it, but Gawyn could see no wrong in him. And he 
would t speak his feelings for a woman Galad had set his heart on.
She wanted to shake him, shake some sense into him, but there was no time now. 
Not with the Amyrlin waiting, not with what she had to tell the Amyrlin waiting. 
Certainly not with Sahra standing there, calf&#8209;eyes or no calf&#8209;eyes. "Gawyn, I am 
summoned to the Amyrlin. Where can I find you, when she is done with me?"
"I will be in the practice yard. The only time I can stop worrying is when I am 
working the sword with Hammar." Hammar was a blademaster, and the Warder who 
taught the sword. "Most days I'm there until the sun sets."
"Good, then. I will come as soon as I can. And try to watch what you say. If you 
make the Amyrlin angry with you, Elayne and Egwene might share in it."
"That I cannot promise," he said firmly. "Something is wrong in the world. Civil 
war in Cairhien. The same and worse in Tarabon and Arad Doman. False Dragons. 
Troubles and rumors of troubles everywhere. I don't say the Tower is behind it, 
but even here things are not what they should be. Or what they seem. Elayne and 
Egwene vanishing isn't the whole of it. Still, they are the part that concerns 
me. I will find out where they are. And if they have been hurt . . . . If they 
are dead . . . ."
He scowled, and for an instant his face was that bloody mask again. More: a 
sword floated above his head, and a banner waved behind it. The long&#8209;hilted 
sword, like those most Warders used, had a heron engraved on its slightly curved 
blade, symbol of a blademaster, and Min could not say whether it belonged to 
Gawyn or threatened him. The banner bore Gawyn's sigil of the charging White 
Boar, but on a field of green rather than the red of Andor. Both sword and 
banner faded with the blood.
"Be careful, Gawyn." She meant it two ways. Careful of what he said, and careful 
in a way she could not explain, even to herself. "You must be very careful."
His eyes searched her face as if he had heard some of her deeper meaning. "I . . 
. will try," he said finally. He put on a grin, almost the grin she remembered, 
but the effort was plain. "I suppose I had better get myself back to the 
practice yard if I expect to keep up with Galad. I managed two out of five 
against Hammar this morning, but Galad actually won three, the last time he 
bothered to come to the yard." Suddenly he appeared to really see her for the 
first time, and his grin became genuine. "You ought to wear dresses more often. 
It's pretty on you. Remember, I will be there till sunset."
As he strode away with something very close to the dangerous grace of a Warder, 
Min realized she was smoothing the dress over her hip and stopped immediately. 
The Light burn all men!
Sahra exhaled as if she had been holding her breath. "He is very good&#8209;looking, 
isn't he?" she said dreamily. "Not as good&#8209;looking as Lord Galad, of course. And 
you really know him." It was half a question, but only half.
Min echoed the novice's sigh. The girl would talk with her friends in the 
novices' quarters. The son of a queen was a natural topic, especially when he 
was handsome and had an air about him like the hero in a gleeman's tale. A 
strange woman only made for more interesting speculation. Still, there was 
nothing to be done about it. At any rate, it could hardly cause any harm now.
"The Amyrlin Seat must be wondering why we haven't come," she said.
Sahra came to herself with a wide&#8209;eyed start and a loud gulp. Seizing Min's 
sleeve with one hand, she jumped to open one of the doors, pulling Min behind 
her. The moment they were inside, the novice curtsied hastily and burst out in 
panic, "I've brought her, Leane Sedai. Mistress Elmindreda? The Amyrlin Seat 
wants to see her?"
The tall, coppery&#8209;skinned woman in the anteroom wore the hand&#8209;wide stole of the 
Keeper of the Chronicles, blue to show she had been raised from the Blue Ajah. 
Fists on hips, she waited for the girl to finish, then dismissed her with a 
dipped "Took you long enough, child. Back to your chores, now." Sahra bobbed 
another curtsy and scurried out as quickly as she had entered.
Min stood with her eyes on the floor, her hood still pulled up around her face. 
Blundering in front of Sahra had been bad enough&#8209;though at least the novice did 
not know her name&#8209;but Leane knew her better than anyone in the Tower except the 
Amyrlin. Min was sure it could make no difference now, but after what had 
happened in the hallway, she meant to hold to Moiraine's instructions until she 
was alone with the Amyrlin.
This time her precautions did no good. Leane took two steps, pushed back the 
hood, and grunted as if she had been poked in the stomach. Min raised her head 
and stared back defiantly, trying to pretend she had not been attempting to 
sneak past. Straight, dark hair only a little longer than her own framed the 
Keeper's face; the Aes Sedai's expression was a blend of surprise and 
displeasure at being surprised.
"So you are Elmindreda, are you?" Leant said briskly. She was always brisk. "I 
must say you look it more in that dress than in your usual . . . garb."
"Just Min, Leane Sedai, if you please." Min managed to keep her face straight, 
but it was difficult not to glare. The Keeper's voice had held too much 
amusement. If her mother had had to name her after someone in a story, why did 
it have to be a woman who seemed to spend most of her time sighing at men, when 
she was not inspiring them to compose songs about her eyes, or her smile?
"Very well. Min. I'll not ask where you've been, nor why you've come back in a 
dress, apparently wanting to ask a question of the Amyrlin. Not now, at least." 
Her face said she meant to ask later, though, and get answers. "I suppose the 
Mother knows who Elmindreda is? Of course. I should have known that when she 
said to send you straight in, and alone. The Light alone knows why she puts up 
with you." She broke off with a concerned frown. "What is the matter, girl? Are 
you ill?"
Min carefully blanked her face. "No. No, I am all right." For a moment the 
Keeper had been looking through a transparent mask of her own face, a screaming 
mask. "May I go in now, Leane Sedai?"
Leane studied her a moment longer, then jerked her head toward the inner 
chamber. "In with you." Min's leap to obey would have satisfied the hardest 
taskmistress.
The Amyrlin Seat's study had been occupied by many grand and powerful women over 
the centuries, and reminders of the fact filled the room, from the tall 
fireplace all of golden marble from Kandor, cold now, to the paneled walls of 
pale, oddly striped wood, iron hard yet carved in wondrous beasts and wildly 
feathered birds. Those panels had been brought from the mysterious lands beyond 
the Aiel Waste well over a thousand years ago, and the fireplace was more than 
twice as old. The polished redstone of the floor had come from the Mountains of 
Mist. High arched windows let onto a balcony. The iridescent stone framing the 
windows shone like pearls, and had been salvaged from the remains of a city sunk 
into the Sea of Storms by the Breaking of the World; no one had ever seen its 
like.
The current occupant, Siuan Sanche, had been born a fisherman's daughter in 
Tear, though, and the furnishings she had chosen were simple, if well made and 
well polished. She sat in a stout chair behind a large table plain enough to 
have served a farmhouse. The only other chair in the room, just as plain and 
usually set off to one side, now stood in front of the table atop a small Tairen 
rug, simple in blue and brown and gold. Half a dozen books rested open on tall 
reading stands about the floor. That was all of it. A drawing hung above the 
fireplace: tiny fishing boats working among reeds in the Fingers of the Dragon, 
just as her father's boat had.
At first glance, despite her smooth Aes Sedai features, Siuan Sanche herself 
looked as simple as her furnishings. She herself was sturdy, and handsome rather 
than beautiful, and the only bit of ostentation in her clothing was the broad 
stole of the Amyrlin Seat she wore, with one colored stripe for each of the 
seven Ajahs. Her age was indeterminate, as with any Aes Sedai; not even a hint 
of gray showed in her dark hair. But her sharp blue eyes brooked no nonsense, 
and her firm jaw spoke of the determination of the youngest woman ever to be 
chosen Amyrlin Seat. For over ten years Siuan Sanche had been able to summon 
rulers, and the powerful, and they had come, even if they hated the White Tower 
and feared Aes Sedai.
As the Amyrlin strode around in front of the table, Min set down her bundle and 
began an awkward curtsy, muttering irritably under her breath at having to do 
so. Not that she wanted to be disrespectful &#8209; that did not even occur to one 
facing a woman like Siuan Sanche &#8209; but the bow she usually would have made 
seemed foolish in a dress, and she had only a rough idea of how to curtsy.
Halfway down, with her skirts already spread, she froze like a crouching toad. 
Siuan Sanche was standing there as regal as any queen, and for a moment she was 
also lying on the floor, naked. Aside from her being in only her skin, there was 
something odd about the image, but it vanished before Min could say what. It was 
as strong a viewing as she had ever seen, and she had no idea what it meant.
"Seeing things again, are you?" the Amyrlin said. "Well, I can certainly make 
use of that ability of yours. I could have used it all the months you were gone. 
But we'll not talk of that. What's done is done. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel 
wills." She smiled a tight smile. "But if you do it again, I'll have your hide 
for gloves. Stand up, girl. Leane forces enough ceremony on me in a month to 
last any sensible woman a year. I don't have time for it. Not these days. Now, 
what did you just see?"
Min straightened slowly. It was a relief to be back with someone who knew of her 
talent, even if it was the Amyrlin Seat herself. She did not have to hide what 
she saw from the Amyrlin. Far from it. "You were.... You weren't wearing any 
clothes. I . . . I don't know what it means, Mother."
Siuan barked a short, mirthless laugh. "No doubt that I'll take a lover. But I 
have no time for that, either. There's no time for winking at the men when 
you're busy bailing the boat."
"Maybe," Min said slowly. It could have meant that, though she doubted it. "I 
just do not know. But, Mother, I've been seeing things ever since I walked into 
the Tower. Something bad is going to happen, something terrible."
She started with the Aes Sedai in the entry hall and told everything she had 
seen, as well as what everything meant, when she was sure. She held back what 
Gawyn had said, though, or most of it; it was no use telling him not to anger 
the Amyrlin if she did it for him. The rest she laid out as starkly as she had 
seen it. Some of her fear came out as she dredged it all up, seeing it all 
again; her voice shook before she was done.
The Amyrlin's expression never changed. "So you spoke with young Gawyn," she 
said when Min finished. "Well, I think I can convince him to keep quiet. And if 
I remember Sahra correctly, the girl could do with some time working in the 
country. She'll spread no gossip hoeing a vegetable patch."
"I don't understand," Min said. "Why should Gawyn keep quiet? About what? I told 
him nothing. And Sahra . . . ? Mother, perhaps I didn't make myself clear. Aes 
Sedai and Warders are going to die. It has to mean a battle. And unless you send 
a lot of Aes Sedai and Warders off somewhere &#8209; and servants, too; I saw servants 
dead and injured, too &#8209; unless you do that, that battle will be here! In Tar 
Valon!"
"Did you see that?" The Amyrlin demanded. "A battle? Do you know, with your . . 
. your talent, or are you guessing?"
"What else could it be? At least four Aes Sedai are as good as dead. Mother, 
I've only laid eyes on nine of you since coming back, and four are going to die! 
And the Warders . . . . What else could it be?"
"More things than I like to think of," Siuan said grimly. "When? How long before 
this . . . thing . . . occurs?"
Min shook her head. "I do not know. Most of it will happen in the space of a 
day, maybe two, but that could be tomorrow or a year from now. Or ten." 
"Let us pray for ten. If it comes tomorrow, there isn't much I can do to stop 
it."
Min grimaced. Only two Aes Sedai besides Siuan Sanche knew of what she could do: 
Moiraine, and Verin Mathwin, who had tried to study her talent. None of them 
knew how it worked any more than she did, except that it had nothing to do with 
the Power. Perhaps that was why only Moiraine seemed able to accept the fact 
that when she knew what a viewing meant, it happened.
"Maybe it's the Whitecloaks, Mother. They were everywhere in Alindaer when I 
crossed the bridge." She did not believe the Children of the Light had anything 
to do with what was coming, but she was reluctant to say what she believed. 
Believed, not knew; yet that was bad enough.
But the Amyrlin had begun shaking her head before she finished. "They would try 
something if they could, I've no doubt &#8209; they would love to strike at the Tower 
&#8209; but Eamon Valda won't move openly without orders from the Lord Captain 
Commander, and Pedron Niall will not strike unless he thinks we're injured. He 
knows our strength too well to be foolish. For a thousand years the Whitecloaks 
have been like that. Silverpike in the reeds, waiting for a hint of Aes Sedai 
blood in the water. But we've showed them none yet, nor will we, if I can help 
it."
"Yet if Valda did try something on his own &#8209; "
Siuan cut her off. "He has no more than five hundred men dose to Tar Valon, 
girl. He sent the rest away weeks ago, to cause trouble elsewhere. The Shining 
Walls held off the Aiel. And Artur Hawkwing, too. Valda will never break into 
Tar Valon unless the city is already falling apart from the inside." Her voice 
did not change as she went on. "You very much want me to believe the trouble 
will come from the Whitecloaks. Why?" There was no gentleness in her eyes.
"Because I want to believe it," Min muttered. She licked her lips and spoke the 
words she did not want to say. "The silver collar I saw on that one Aes Sedai. 
Mother, it looked . . . It looked like one of the collars the . . . the Seanchan 
use to . . . to control women who can channel." Her voice dwindled as Siuan's 
mouth twisted with distaste.
"Filthy things," the Amyrlin growled. "As well most people don't believe a 
quarter of what they hear about the Seanchan. But there's more chance of it 
being the Whitecloaks. If the Seanchan land again, anywhere, I will know it in 
days by pigeon, and it is a long way from the sea to Tar Valon. If they do 
reappear, I will have plenty of warning. No, I fear what you see is something 
far worse that the Seanchan. I fear it can only be the Black Ajah. Only a 
handful of us know about them, and I don't relish what will happen when the 
knowledge becomes common, but they are the greatest immediate threat to the 
Tower."
Min realized she was clutching her skirt so hard that her hands hurt; her mouth 
was dry as dust. The White Tower had always coldly denied the existence of a 
hidden Ajah, dedicated to the Dark One. The surest way to anger an Aes Sedai was 
merely to mention such a thing. For the Amyrlin Seat herself to give the Black 
Ajah reality so casually made Min's spine turn to ice.
As if she had said nothing out of the ordinary, the Amyrlin went on. "But you 
didn't come all this way just to do your viewings. What word from Moiraine? I 
know everything from Arad Doman to Tarabon is in chaos, to say the least." That 
was saying the least, indeed; men supporting the Dragon Reborn were fighting 
those opposing him, and had turned both countries to civil war while they still 
fought each other for control of Almoth Plain. Siuan's tone dismissed all that 
as a detail. "But I've heard nothing of Rand al'Thor for months. He is the focus 
of everything. Where is he? What does Moiraine have him doing? Sit, girl. Sit." 
She gestured to the chair in front of the table.
Min approached the chair on wobbly legs and half fell into it. The Black Ajah! 
Oh, Light! Aes Sedai were supposed to stand for the Light. Even if she did not 
really trust them, there was always that. Aes Sedai, and all the power of the 
Aes Sedai, stood for the Light and against the Shadow. Only now it was not true 
any longer. She hardly heard herself say, "He's on his way to Tear."
"Tear! It's Callandor, then. Moiraine means him to take the Sword That Cannot Be 
Touched out of the Stone of Tear. I swear I'll hang her in the sun to dry! I 
will make her wish she were a novice again! He cannot be ready for that yet!"
"It was not . . . ." Min stopped to dear her throat. "It was not Moiraine's 
doing. Rand left in the middle of the night, by himself. The others followed, 
and Moiraine sent me to tell you. They could be in Tear by now. For all I know, 
he could have Callandor by now."
"Burn him!" Siuan barked. "By now, he could be dead! I wish he had never heard a 
word of the Prophecies of the Dragon. If I could keep him from hearing another, 
I would."
"But doesn't he have to fulfill the Prophecies? I don't understand."
The Amyrlin leaned back against her table wearily. "As though anyone even 
understands most of them! The Prophecies aren't what makes him the Dragon 
Reborn; all that takes is for him to admit it, and he must have if he is going 
for Callandor. The Prophecies are meant to announce to the world who he is, to 
prepare him for what is coming, to prepare the world for it. If Moiraine can 
keep some control over him, she will guide him to the Prophecies we can be sure 
of&#8209;when he is ready to face them!&#8209;and for the rest, we trust that what he does 
is enough. We hope. For all I know, he has already fulfilled Prophecies none of 
us understands. The Light send it's enough."
"So you do mean to control him. He said you'd try to use him, but this is the 
first I've heard you admit it." Min felt cold inside. Angry, she added, "You 
haven't done such a good job of it so far, you and Moiraine."
Siuan's tiredness seemed to slide from her shoulders. She straightened and stood 
looking down at Min. "You had best hope we can. Did you think we could just let 
him run about loose? Headstrong and stubborn, untrained, unprepared, maybe going 
mad already. Do you think we could trust to the Pattern, to his destiny, to keep 
him alive, like some story? This isn't a story, he isn't some invincible hero, 
and if his thread is snipped out of the Pattern, the Wheel of Time won't notice 
his going, and the Creator will produce no miracles to save us. If Moiraine 
cannot reef his sails, he very well may get himself killed, and where are we 
then? Where is the world? The Dark One's prison is failing. He will touch the 
world again; it is only a matter of time. If Rand al'Thor is not there to face 
him in the Last Battle, if the headstrong young fool gets himself killed first, 
the world is doomed. The War of the Power all over again, with no Lews Therin 
and his Hundred Companions. Then fire and shadow, forever." She stopped 
suddenly, peering at Min's face. "So that's the way the wind sets, is it? You 
and Rand. I did not expect this."
Min shook her head vigorously, felt her cheeks coloring. "Of course not! I was . 
. . . It's the Last Battle. And the Dark One. Light, just thinking about the 
Dark One loose ought to be enough to freeze a Warder's marrow. And the Black 
Ajah &#8209; "
"Don't try to dissemble," the Amyrlin said sharply. "Do you think this is the 
first time I ever saw a woman afraid for her man's life? You might as well admit 
it."
Min squirmed on her chair. Siuan's eyes dug at her, knowing and impatient. "All 
right," she muttered finally, "I'll tell you all of it, and much good it does 
either of us. The first time I ever saw Rand, I saw three women's faces, and one 
of them was mine. I've never seen anything about myself before or since, but I 
knew what it meant. I was going to fall in love with him. All three of us were."
"Three. The other two. Who are they?"
Min gave her a bitter smile. "The faces were blurred; I don't know who they 
are."
"Nothing to say that he would love you in return?"
"Nothing! He has never looked at me twice. I think he sees me as . . . as a 
sister. So don't think you can use me as leash on him, because it will not 
work!"
"Yet you do love him."
"I don't have any choice." Min tried to make her voice less sullen. "I tried 
treating it as a joke, but I can't laugh anymore. You may not believe me, but 
when I know what it means, it happens."
The Amyrlin tapped a finger against her lips and looked at Min consideringly.
      That look worried Min. She had not meant to make such a show of herself, 
nor to tell as much as she had. She had not told everything, but she knew she 
should have learned by now not to give an Aes Sedai a lever, even if she did of 
see how it could be used. Aes Sedai were skilled at finding ways. "Mother, I v 
delivered Moiraine's message, and I've told everything I know of what my 
viewings meant. There's no reason now I can't put on my own clothes and go."
"Go where?"
"Tear." After talking with Gawyn, trying to make sure he did not do something 
foolish. She wished she dared ask where Egwene and the other two were, but if 
the Amyrlin would not tell Elayne's brother, there was small chance she would 
tell Min.
And Siuan Sanche still had that weighing look in her eyes. "Or wherever Rand is. 
I may be a fool, but I'm not the first woman to be a fool over a man."
"The first to be a fool over the Dragon Reborn. It will be dangerous, being dose 
to Rand al'Thor once the world finds out who he is, what he is. And if he now 
wields Callandor, the world will learn soon enough. Half will want to kill him 
anyway, as if by killing him they can stop the Last Battle, stop the Dark One 
from breaking free. A good many will die, dose to him. It might be better for 
you to stay here."
The Amyrlin sounded sympathetic, but Min did not believe it. She did not believe 
Siuan Sanche was capable of sympathy. "I'll take the risk; maybe I can help him. 
With what I see. It isn't even as if the Tower would be that much safer, not so 
long as there is one Red sister here. They'll see a man who can channel and 
forget the Last Battle, and the Prophecies of the Dragon."
"So will many others," Siuan broke in calmly. "Old ways of thinking are hard to 
shed, for Aes Sedai as for anyone else."
Min gave her a puzzled look. She seemed to be taking Min's side of the thing 
now. "It is no secret I am friends with Egwene and Nynaeve, and no secret 
they're from the same village as Rand. For the Red Ajah, that will be connection 
enough. When the Tower finds out what he is, I would probably be arrested before 
the day is out. So will Egwene and Nynaeve, if you don't have them hidden away 
somewhere."
"Then you mustn't be recognized. You catch no fish if they see the net. I 
suggest you forget your coat and breeches for a time." The Amyrlin smiled like a 
cat smiling at a mouse.
"What fish do you expect to catch with me?" Min asked in a faint voice. She 
thought she knew, and hoped desperately she was wrong.
Her hope did not stop the Amyrlin from saying, "The Black Ajah. Thirteen of them 
fled, but I fear some remain. I cannot be sure who I can trust; for a while I 
was afraid to trust anyone. You are no Darkfriend, I know, and your particular 
talent may just be some help. At the very least, you'll be another trustworthy 
pair of eyes."
"You've been planning this since I walked in, haven't you? That's why you want 
to keep Gawyn and Sahra quiet." Anger built up inside Min like steam in a 
kettle. The woman said frog and expected people to jump. That they usually did 
just made it worse. She was no frog, no dancing puppet. "Is this what you did to 
Egwene and Elayne and Nynaeve? Send them off after the Black Ajah? I wouldn't 
put it past you!"
"You tend your own nets, child, and let those girls tend theirs. As far as you 
are concerned, they are working penance on a farm. Do I make myself plain?"
That unwavering stare made Min shift on her chair. It was easy to defy the 
Amyrlin &#8209; until she started staring at you with those sharp, cold blue eyes. 
"Yes, Mother." The meekness of her reply rankled, but a glance at the Amyrlin 
convinced her to let it lie. She plucked at the fine wool of her dress. "I 
suppose it won't kill me to wear this a little longer." Suddenly Siuan looked 
amused; Min felt her hackles rising.
"I fear that won't be enough. Min in a dress is still Min in a dress to anyone 
who looks dose. You cannot always wear a cloak with the hood up. No, you must 
change everything that can be changed. For one thing, you will continue to go by 
Elmindreda. It is your name, after all." Min winced. "Your hair is almost as 
long as Leane's, long enough to put in curls. For the rest. . . . I never had 
any use for rouge and powder and paints, but Leane remembers the use of them."
Min's eyes had grown wider by the word since the mention of curls. "Oh, no," she 
gasped.
"No one will take you for Min who wears breeches once Leane makes you into a 
perfect Elmindreda."
"Oh, NO!"
"As to why you are staying in the Tower &#8209; a reason suitable for a fluttery young 
woman who looks and acts nothing at all like Min." The Amyrlin frowned 
thoughtfully, ignoring Min's efforts to break in. "Yes. I will let it be put 
about that Mistress Elmindreda managed to encourage two suitors to the point 
that she has to take shelter from them in the Tower until she can decide between 
them. A few women still claim sanctuary each year, and sometimes for reasons as 
silly." Her face hardened, and her eyes sharpened. "If you're still thinking of 
Tear, think again. Consider whether you can be of more help to Rand there, or 
here. If the Black Ajah brings the Tower down, or worse, gains control, he loses 
even the little help I can give. So. Are you a woman, or a lovesick girl?"
Trapped. Min could see it as plainly as a shackle on her leg. "Do you always get 
your way with people, Mother?"
The Amyrlin's smile was even colder this time. "Usually, child. Usually."
 
Shifting her red&#8209;fringed shawl, Elaida stared thoughtfully at the door to the 
Amyrlin's study, through which the two young women had just vanished. The novice 
came back out almost immediately, took one look at Elaida's face, and bleated 
like a frightened sheep. Elaida thought she recognized her, though she could not 
bring the girl's name to mind. She had more important uses for her time than 
teaching wretched children.
"Your name?"
"Sahra, Elaida Sedai." The girl's reply was a breathless squeak. Elaida might 
have no interest in novices, but the novices knew her, and her reputation.
She remembered the girl now. A daydreamer with moderate ability who would never 
be of any real power. It was doubtful she knew anything more than Elaida had 
already seen and heard &#8209; or remembered much more than Gawyn's smile, for that 
matter. A fool. Elaida flicked a dismissive hand.
The girl dropped a curtsy so deep her face almost touched the floor tiles, then 
fled at a dead run.
Elaida did not see her go. The Red sister had turned away, already forgetting 
the novice. As she swept down the corridor, not a line marred her smooth 
features, but her thoughts boiled furiously. She did not even notice the 
servants, the novices and Accepted, who scrambled out of her way, curtsying as 
she passed. Once she almost walked over a Brown sister with her nose in a sheaf 
of notes. The plump Brown jumped back with a startled squawk that Elaida did not 
hear.
Dress or no dress, she knew the young woman who had gone in to see the Amyrlin. 
Min, who had spent so much time with the Amyrlin on her first visit to the 
Tower, though for no reason anyone knew. Min, who was such close friends with 
Elayne, Egwene, and Nynaeve. The Amyrlin was hiding the whereabouts of those 
three. Elaida was sure of it. All reports that they were serving penance on a 
farm had come at third or fourth hand from Siuan Sanche, more than enough 
distance to hide any twisting of words to avoid an outright lie. Not to mention 
the fact that all Elaida's  considerable efforts to find this farm had yielded 
nothing.
"The Light burn her!" For a moment open anger painted her face. She was not sure 
whether she meant Siuan Sanche or the Daughter&#8209;Heir. Either would serve. A 
slender Accepted heard her, glanced at her face, and went as white as her own 
dress; Elaida strode by without seeing her.
Apart from everything else, it infuriated her that she could not find Elayne. 
Elaida had the Foretelling sometimes, the ability to foresee future events. If 
it came seldom and faintly, that was still more than any Aes Sedai had had since 
Gitara Moroso, dead now twenty years. The very first thing Elaida had ever 
Foretold, while still an Accepted &#8209; and had known enough even then to keep to 
herself &#8209; was that the Royal line of Andor would be the key to defeating the 
Dark One in the Last Battle. She had attached herself to Morgase as soon as it 
was clear Morgase would succeed to the throne, had built her influence year by 
patient year. And now all her effort, all her sacrifice &#8209; she might have been 
Amyrlin herself had she not concentrated all her energies on Andor &#8209; might be 
for naught because Elayne had disappeared.
With an effort she forced her thoughts back to what was important now. Egwene 
and Nynaeve came from the same village as that strange young man, Rand al'Thor. 
And Min knew him as well, however much she had tried to hide the fact. Rand 
al'Thor lay at the heart of it.
Elaida had only seen him once, supposedly a shepherd from the Two Rivers, in 
Andor, but looking every inch the Aielman. The Foretelling had come to her at 
the sight of him. He was ta'veren, one of those rare individuals who, instead of 
being woven into the Pattern as the Wheel of Time chose, forced the Pattern to 
shape itself around them, for a time at least. And Elaida had seen chaos 
swirling around him, division and strife for Andor, perhaps for even more of the 
world. But Andor must be kept whole, whatever else happened; that first 
Foretelling had convinced her of that.
There were more threads, enough to snare Siuan in her own web. If the rumors 
were to be believed, there were three ta'veren, not just one. All three from the 
same village, this Emond's Field, and all three near the same age, odd enough to 
occasion a good deal of talk in the Tower. And on Siuan's journey to Shienar, 
near a year ago now, she had seen them, even talked with them. Rand al'Thor. 
Perrin Aybara. Matrim Cauthon. It was said to be mere happenstance. Just 
fortuitous chance. So it was said. Those who said it did not know what Elaida 
knew.
When Elaida saw the young al'Thor man, it had been Moiraine who spirited him 
away. Moiraine who had accompanied him, and the other two ta'veren, in Shienar. 
Moiraine Damodred, who had been Siuan Sanche's closest friend when they were 
novices together. Had Elaida been one to make wagers, she would have wagered 
that no one else in the Tower remembered that friendship. On the day they were 
raised Aes Sedai, at the end of the Aiel War, Siuan and Moiraine had walked away 
from one another and afterward behaved almost like strangers. But Elaida had 
been one of the Accepted over those two novices, had taught their lessons and 
chastised them for slacking at chores, and she remembered. She could hardly 
believe that their plot could stretch back so far&#8209;al'Thor could not have been 
born much before that&#8209;yet it was the last link to tie them all together. For 
her, it was enough.
Whatever Siuan was up to, she had to be stopped. Turmoil and chaos multiplied on 
every side. The Dark One was sure to break free &#8209; the very thought made Elaida 
shiver and wrap her shawl around her more tightly &#8209; and the Tower had to be 
aloof from mundane struggles to face that. The Tower had to be free to pull the 
strings to make the nations stand together, free of the troubles Rand al'Thor 
would bring. Somehow, he had to be stopped from destroying Andor.
She had told no one what she knew of al'Thor. She meant to deal with him 
quietly, if possible. The Hall of the Tower already spoke of watching, even 
guiding, these ta'veren; they would never agree to dispose of them, of the one 
in particular, as he must be disposed of. For the good of the Tower. For the 
good of the world.
She made a sound in her throat, dose to a growl. Siuan had always been 
headstrong, even as a novice, had always thought much of herself for a poor 
fisherman's daughter, but how could she be fool enough to mix the Tower in this 
without telling the Hall?  She knew what was coming as well as anyone. The only 
way it could be worse was if . . . .
Abruptly Elaida stopped, staring at nothing. Could it be that this al'Thor could 
channel? Or one of the others? Most likely it would be al'Thor. No. Surely not. 
Not even Siuan would touch one of those. She could not. "Who knows what that 
woman could do?" she muttered. "She was never fit to be the Amyrlin Seat."
"Talking to yourself, Elaida? I know you Reds never have friends outside your 
own Ajah, but surely you have friends to talk to inside it."
Elaida turned her head to regard Alviarin. The swan&#8209;necked Aes Sedai stared back 
with the insufferable coolness that was a hallmark of the White Ajah. There was 
no love lost between Red and White; they had stood on opposite sides in the Hall 
of the Tower for a thousand years. White stood with Blue, and Siuan had been a 
Blue. But Whites prided themselves on dispassionate logic.
"Walk with me," Elaida said. Alviarin hesitated before falling in beside her.
At first the White sister arched a disparaging eyebrow at what Elaida had to say 
concerning Siuan, but before the end she was frowning in concentration. "You 
have no proof of anything . . . improper," she said when Elaida finally fell 
silent.
"Not yet," Elaida said firmly. She permitted herself a tight smile when Alviarin 
nodded. It was a beginning. One way or another, Siuan would be stopped before 
she could destroy the Tower.
 
Well hidden in a stand of tall leatherleaf above the north bank of the River 
Taren, Dain Bornhald tossed back his white cloak, with its flaring golden sun on 
the breast, and raised the stiff leather tube of a looking glass to his eye. A 
cloud of tiny bitemes buzzed around his face, but he ignored them. In the 
village of Taren Ferry, across the river, tall stone houses stood on high 
foundations against the floods that came every spring. Villagers hung out of 
windows or waited on stoops to stare at the thirty white&#8209;cloaked riders sitting 
their horses in burnished plate&#8209;and&#8209;mail. A delegation of village men and women 
were meeting with the horsemen. Rather, they were listening to Jaret Byar, from 
what Bornhald could see, which was much the best.
Bornhald could almost hear his father's voice. Let them think there it a chance, 
and some fool will try to take it. Then there's killing to do, and another fool 
will try to avenge the first, so there's more killing. Put the fear of the Light 
into them from the first, let them know no one will be harmed if they do as 
they're told, and you'll have no trouble.
His jaw tightened at the thought of his father, dead now. He was going to do 
something about that, and soon. He was sure only Byar knew why he had leaped to 
accept this command, aimed at an all&#8209;but&#8209;forgotten district in the hinterlands 
of
Andor, and Byar would hold his tongue. Byar had been as dedicated to Dain's 
father as a hound, and he had transferred all that loyalty to Dain. Bornhald had 
had no hesitation in naming Byar second under him when Eamon Valda gave him the 
command.
Byar turned his horse and rode back onto the ferry. Immediately the ferrymen 
cast off and began hauling the barge across by means of a heavy rope slung over 
the swiftly flowing water. Byar glanced at the men at the rope; they eyed him 
nervously as they tramped the length of the barge, then trotted back to take up 
the cable again. It all looked good.
"Lord Bornhald?"
Bomhald lowered the looking glass and turned his head. The hard&#8209;faced man who 
had appeared at his shoulder stood rigid, staring straight ahead from under a 
conical helmet. Even after the hard journey from Tar Valon &#8209; and Bornhald had 
pressed every mile &#8209; his armor shone as brightly as his snowy cloak with its 
golden sunburst.
"Yes, Child Ivon?"
"Hundredman Farran sent me, my Lord. It's the Tinkers. Ordeith was talking to 
three of them, my Lord, and now none of the three can be found."
"Blood and ashes!" Bornhald spun on his bootheel and strode back into the trees, 
Ivon at his heels.
Out of sight of the river, white&#8209;cloaked horsemen clogged the spaces between 
leatherleafs and pines, lances held with casual familiarity or bows laid across 
their pommels. The horses stamped their hooves impatiently and flicked their 
tails. The
riders waited more stolidly; this would not be their first&#8209;river crossing into 
strange territory, and this time no one would be trying to stop them.
In a large clearing beyond the mounted men stood a caravan of the Tuatha'an, the 
Traveling People. Tinkers. Nearly a hundred horse&#8209;drawn wagons, like small, boxy 
houses on wheels, made an eye&#8209;jarring blend of colors, red and green and yellow 
and every hue imaginable in combinations only a Tinker's eye could like. The 
people themselves wore clothes that made their wagons look dull. They sat on the 
ground in a large cluster, eyeing the mounted men with an oddly calm unease; the 
thin crying of a child was swiftly comforted by its mother. Nearby, dead 
mastiffs made a mound already buzzing with flies. Tinkers would not raise a hand 
even to defend themselves, and the dogs had been mostly show, but Bornhald had 
not been willing to take a chance.
Six men were all he had thought necessary to watch Tinkers. Even with stiff 
faces, they looked embarrassed. None glanced at the seventh man sitting a horse 
near the wagons, a bony little man with a big nose, in a dark gray coat that 
looked too big for him despite the fineness of its cut. Farran, a bearded 
boulder of a man yet light on his feet for all his height and width, stood 
glaring at all seven equally. The hundredman pressed a gauntleted hand to his 
heart in salute but left all talking to Bornhald.
"A word with you, Master Ordeith," Bornhald said quietly. The bony man cocked 
his head, looking at Bornhald for a long moment before dismounting. Farren 
growled, but Bornhald kept his voice low. "Three of the Tinkers cannot be found, 
Master Ordeith. Did you perhaps put your own suggestion into practice?" The 
first words out of Ordeith's mouth when he saw the Tinkers had been "Kill them. 
They're of no use." Bornhald had killed his share of men, but he had never 
matched the casualness with which the little man had spoken.
Ordeith rubbed a finger along the side of his large nose. "Now, why would I be 
killing them? And after you ripped me so for just suggesting it." His Lugarder 
accent was heavy today; it came and went without him seeming to notice, another 
thing about the man that disturbed Bornhald.
"Then you allowed them to escape, yes?"
"Well, as to that, I did take a few of them off where I could see what they 
knew. Undisturbed, you see."
"What they knew? What under the Light could Tinkers know of use to us?"
"There's no way of telling until you ask, now is there?" Ordeith said. "I didn't 
hurt any of them much, and I told them to get themselves back to the wagons. Who 
would be thinking they'd have the nerve to run away with so many of your men 
about?"
Bornhald realized he was grinding his teeth. His orders had been to make the 
best time possible to meet this odd fellow, who would have more orders for him. 
Bornhald liked none of it, though both sets of orders bore the seal and 
signature of Pedron Niall, Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light.
Too much had been left unsaid, including Ordeith's exact status. The little man 
was there to advise Bornhald, and Bornhald was to cooperate with Ordeith. 
Whether Ordeith was under his command had been left vague, and he did not like 
the strong implication that he should heed the fellow's advice. Even the reason 
for sending so many of the Children into this backwater had been vague. To root 
out Darkfriends, of course, and spread the Light; that went without saying. But 
close to half a legion on Andoran soil without permission &#8209; the order risked 
much if word of it reached the Queen in Caemlyn. Too much to be balanced by the 
few answers Bornhald had been given.
It all came back to Ordeith. Bornhald did not understand how the Lord Captain 
Commander could trust this man, with his sly grins and his black moods and his 
haughty stares so you could never be sure what kind of man you were talking to. 
Not to mention his accent changing in the middle of a sentence. The fifty 
Children who had accompanied Ordeith were as sullen and frowning a lot as 
Bornhald had ever seen. He thought Ordeith must have picked them himself to have 
so many sour scowls, and it said something of the man that he would choose that 
sort. Even his name, Ordeith, meant "wormwood" in the Old Tongue. Still, 
Bornhald had his own reasons for wanting to be where he was. He would cooperate 
with the man, since he had to. But only as much as he had to.
"Master Ordeith," he said in a carefully level tone, "this ferry is the only way 
in or out of the Two Rivers district." That was not quite the truth. According 
to the map he had, there was no way across the Taren except here, and the upper 
reaches of the Manetherendrelle, bordering the region on the south, had no 
fords. To the east lay bogs and swamps. Even so, there must be a way out 
westward, across the Mountains of Mist, though his map stopped at the edge of 
the range. At best, however, it would be a hard crossing that many of his men 
might not survive, and he did not intend to let Ordeith know of even that small 
chance. "When it is time to leave, if I find Andoran soldiers holding this bank, 
you will ride with the first to cross. You will find it interesting to see at 
close hand the difficulty of forcing a way across a river this wide, yes?"
"This is your first command, is it not?" Ordeith's voice held a hint of mockery.
"This may be part of Andor on the map, but Caemlyn has not sent a tax collector 
this far west in generations. Even if those three talk, who will believe three 
Tinkers? If you think the danger is too great, remember whose seal is on your 
orders."
Farran glanced at Bornhald, half reached for his sword. Bornhald shook his head 
slightly, and Farran let his hand fall. "I mean to cross the river, Master 
Ordeith. I will cross if the next word I hear is that Gareth Bryne and the 
Queen's Guards will be here by sundown."
"Of course," Ordeith said, suddenly soothing. "There will be as much glory here 
as at Tar Valon, I assure you." His deep, dark eyes took a glazed look, stared 
at something in the distance. "There are things in Tar Valon I want, too."
Bornhald shook his head. And I must cooperate with him.
Jaret Byar drew up and swung down from his saddle beside Farran. As tall as the 
hundredman, Byar was a long&#8209;faced man with dark, deep&#8209;set eyes. He looked as if 
every ounce of fat had been boiled off of him. "The village is secured, my Lord. 
Lucellin is making certain no one slips off. They nearly soiled themselves when 
I mentioned Darkfriends. None in their village, they say. The folk futher south 
are the Darkfriend kind, though, they say."
"Further south, is it?" Bornhald said briskly. "We shall see. Put three hundreds 
across the river, Byar. Farran's first. The rest to follow after the Tinkers 
cross. And make sure no more of them get away, yes?"
"We will scour the Two Rivers," Ordeith broke in. His narrow face was twisted; 
saliva bubbled at his lips. "We will flog them, and flay them, and sear their 
souls! I promised him! He'll come to me, now! He will come!"
Bornhald nodded for Byar and Farran to carry out his commands. A madman, he 
thought. The Lord Captain Commander has tied me to a madman. But at least I will 
find my path to Perrin of the Two Rivers. Whatever it takes, I will avenge my 
father!
 
From a colonnaded terrace on a hilltop, the High Lady Suroth looked across the 
wide, lopsided bowl of Cantorin Harbor. The shaven sides of her scalp left a 
wide crest of black hair that fell down her back. Her hands rested lightly on a 
smooth stone balustrade as white as her pristine gown with its hundreds of 
pleats. There was a faint rhythmic clicking as she unconsciously drummed her 
fingers with their inch&#8209;long nails, the first two on each hand lacquered blue.
A slight breeze blew off of the Aryth Ocean, carrying more than a hint of salt 
in its coolness. Two young women kneeling against the wall behind the High Lady 
held white&#8209;plumed fans ready if the breeze should fail. Two more women and four 
young men completed the line of crouching figures waiting to serve. Barefoot, 
all eight wore sheer robes, to please the High Lady's aesthetic senses with the 
dean lines of their limbs and the grace of their motions. At the moment Suroth 
truly did not see the servants, no more than one saw furniture.
She saw the six Deathwatch Guards at either end of the colonnade, though, stiff 
as statues with their black&#8209;tasseled spears and black&#8209;lacquered shields. They 
symbolized her triumph, and her danger. The Deathwatch Guard served only the 
Empress and her chosen representatives, and they would kill or die with equal 
fervor, whichever was necessary. There was a saying: "On the heights, the paths 
are paved with daggers."
Her fingernails clicked on the stone balustrade. How thin was the razor's edge 
she walked.
Vessels of the Atha'an Miere, the Sea Folk, filled the inner harbor behind the 
seawall, even the largest looking too narrow for their length. Cut rigging made 
their yards and booms slant at crazy angles. Their decks were empty, their crews 
ashore and under guard, as were any in these islands who had the skill to sail 
the open sea. Great, bluff&#8209;bowed Seanchan ships by the score lay in the outer 
harbor, and anchored off the harbor mouth. One, its ribbed sails bellied with 
wind, escorted a swarm of small fishing boats back toward the island port. If 
the smaller craft scattered, some of them might escape, but the Seanchan ship 
carried a damane, and one demonstration of a damane's power had quelled any such 
thoughts. The charred, shattered hulk of the Sea Folk ship still lay on a 
mudflat near the harbor mouth.
How long she would manage to keep Sea Folk elsewhere &#8209; and the accursed 
mainlanders &#8209; from learning that she held these islands, Suroth did not know. It 
will be long enough, she told herself. It must be long enough.
She had worked something of a miracle in rallying most of the Seanchan forces 
after the debacle the High Lord Turak had led them to. All but a handful of the 
vessels that had escaped from Falme lay under her control, and no one questioned 
her right to command the Hailene, the Forerunners. If her miracle held, no one 
on the mainland suspected they were here. Waiting to take back the lands the 
Empress had sent them to reclaim, waiting to achieve the Corenne, the Return. 
Her agents already scouted the way. There would be no need to return to the 
Court of the Nine Moons and apologize to the Empress for a failure not even 
hers.
The thought of having to apologize to the Empress sent a tremor through her. 
Such an apology was always humiliating, and usually painful, but what made her 
shiver was the chance of being denied death at the end, of being forced to 
continue as if nothing had occurred while everyone, common as well as the Blood, 
knew her degradation. A handsome young serving man sprang to her side, bearing a 
pale green robe worked in brilliantly plumaged birds&#8209;of&#8209;delight. She held her 
arms out for the garment and noticed him no more than a clod of dirt beside her 
velvet slipper.
To escape that apology, she must retake what had been lost a thousand years ago. 
And to do that, she must deal with this man who, her mainland agents told her, 
claimed to be the Dragon Reborn. If I cannot find a way to deal with him, the 
displeasure of the Empress will be the least of my worries.
Turning smoothly, she entered the long room fronting the terrace, its outer wall 
all doors and tall windows to catch the breezes. The pale wood of the walls, 
smooth and glistening like satin, pleased Suroth, but she had removed the 
furnishings of the old owner, the former Atha'an Miere governor of Cantorin, and 
replaced them with a few tall screens, most painted with birds or flowers. Two 
were different. One showed a great spotted cat of the Sen T'jore, as large as a 
pony, the other a black mountain eagle, crest erect like a pale crown and 
snowy&#8209;tipped wings spread to their full seven feet. Such screens were considered 
vulgar, but Suroth liked animals. Unable to bring her menagerie with her across 
the Aryth Ocean, she had had the screens made to depict her two favorites. She 
had never taken kindly to being balked in anything.
Three women awaited her as she had left them, two kneeling, one lying prostrate 
on the bare, polished floor, patterned in inlays of light and dark wood. The 
kneeling women wore the dark blue dresses of sul'dam, red panels embroidered 
with forked silver lightning on the breast and on the sides of their skirts. One 
of the two, Alwhin, a sharp&#8209;faced, blue&#8209;eyed woman with a perpetual glower, had 
the left side of her head shaved. The rest of her hair hung to her shoulder in a 
light brown braid.
Suroth's mouth tightened momentarily at the sight of Alwhin. No sul'dam had ever 
before been raised to the so'jhin, the hereditary upper servants of the Blood, 
much less to a Voice of the Blood. Yet there had been reasons in Alwhin's case.
Alwhin knew too much.
Still, it was to the woman lying facedown, all in plain dark gray, that Suroth 
directed her attention. A wide collar of silvery metal encircled the woman's 
neck, connected by a shining leash to a bracelet of the same material on the 
wrist of the second sul'dam, Taisa. By means of leash and collar, the a'dam, 
Taisa could control the gray&#8209;clad woman. And she had to be controlled. She was 
damane, a woman who could channel, and thus too dangerous to be allowed to run 
loose. Memories of the Armies of the Night were still strong in Seanchan a 
thousand years after their destruction.
Suroth's eyes flickered uneasily to the two sul'dam. She no longer trusted any 
sul'dam, and yet she had no choice but to trust them. No one else could control 
the damane, and without the damane . . . The very concept was unthinkable. The 
power of Seanchan, the very power of the Crystal Throne, was built on controlled 
damane.
There were too many things about which Suroth had no choice to suit her. Such as 
Alwhin, who watched as if she had been so'jhin all of her life. No. As if she 
were of the Blood itself, and knelt because she chose to.
"Pura." The damane had had another name when she was one of the hated Aes Sedai, 
before falling into Seanchan hands, but Suroth neither knew what it had been nor 
cared. The gray&#8209;clad woman tensed, but did not raise her head; her training had 
been particularly harsh. "I will ask again, Pura. How does the White Tower 
control this man who calls himself the Dragon Reborn?"
The damane moved her head a fraction, enough to shoot a frightened look at 
Taisa. If her answer was displeasing, the sul'dam could make her feel pain 
without raising a finger, by means of the a'dam. "The Tower would not try to 
control a false Dragon, High Lady," Pura said breathily. "They would capture 
him, and gentle him."
Taisa looked an indignant question at the High Lady. The answer had avoided 
Suroth's query, had perhaps even implied that one of the Blood had spoken 
untruth. Suroth gave a slight shake of her head, the merest sideways motion &#8209; 
she had no wish to wait while the damane recovered from punishment &#8209; and Taisa 
bowed her head in acquiescence.
"Once again, Pura, what do you know of Aes Sedai . . ." Suroth's mouth twisted 
at being defiled with that name; Alwhin gave a grunt of distaste ". . . Aes 
Sedai aiding this man? I warn you. Our soldiers fought women of the Tower, women 
channeling the Power, at Falme, so do not attempt to deny it."
"Pura . . . Pura does not know, High Lady." There was urgency in the damane's 
voice, and uncertainty; she darted another wide&#8209;eyed glance at Taisa. It was 
dear that she wanted desperately to be believed. "Perhaps.... Perhaps the 
Amyrlin, or the Hall of the Tower .... No, they would not. Pura does not know, 
High Lady."
"The man can channel," Suroth said curtly. The woman on the floor moaned, though 
she had heard the same words from Suroth before. Saying it again made
Suroth's stomach knot, but she allowed nothing to show on her face. Little of 
what had happened at Falme had been the work of women channeling; damane could 
sense that, and the sul'dam wearing the bracelet always knew what her damane 
felt. That meant it had to have been the work of the man. It also meant he was 
incredibly powerful. So powerful that Suroth had once or twice found herself 
wondering, growing queasy, whether he might really be the Dragon Reborn. That 
cannot be, she told herself firmly. In any case, it made no difference to her 
plans. "It is impossible to believe that even the White Tower would allow such a 
man to walk free. How do they control him?"
The damane lay there silently, face to the floor, shoulders shaking, weeping.
"Answer the High Lady!" Taisa said sharply. Taisa did not move, but Pura gasped, 
flinching as if struck across the hips. A blow delivered through the a'dam.
"P&#8209;Pura does not kn&#8209;know." The damane stretched out a hesitant hand as though to 
touch Suroth's foot. "Please. Pura has learned to obey. Pura speaks only the 
truth. Please do not punish Pura."
Suroth stepped back smoothly, letting none of her irritation show. That she 
should be forced to move by a damane. That she could almost be touched by one 
who could channel. She felt a need to bathe, as if the touch had actually 
landed.
Taisa's dark eyes bulged in outrage at the damane's effrontery; her cheeks were 
scarlet with shame that this should happen while she wore the woman's bracelet. 
She seemed torn between prostrating herself beside the damane to beg forgiveness 
and punishing the woman then and there. Alwhin stared a thin&#8209;lipped contempt, 
every line of her face saying that such things did not happen when she wore a 
bracelet.
Suroth raised one finger a fraction, making a small gesture every so'jhin knew 
from childhood, a simple dismissal.
Alwhin hesitated before interpreting it, then tried to cover her slip by 
rounding harshly on Taisa. "Take this . . . creature from the presence of the 
High Lady Suroth. And when you have punished her, go to Surela and tell her that 
you control your charges as if you had never worn the bracelet before. Tell her 
that you are to be &#8209; "
Suroth shut Alwhin's voice from her mind. None of that had been her command 
except the dismissal, but quarrels between sul'dam were beneath her notice. She 
wished she knew whether Pura was managing to hide something. Her agents reported 
claims that the women of the White Tower could not lie. It had not been possible 
to force Pura to tell even a simple lie, to say that a white scarf was black, 
yet that was not enough to be conclusive. Some might accept the tears of the 
damane, her protests of inability whatever the sul'dam did, but none who did 
would have risen to lead the Return. Pura might have some reservoir of will 
left, might be clever enough to try using the belief that she was incapable of 
lying. None of the women collared on the mainland were fully obedient, 
trustworthy, not like the damane brought from Seanchan. None of them truly 
accepted what they were, as Seanchan damane did. Who could say what secrets 
might hide in one who had called herself Aes Sedai?
Not for the first time Suroth wished she had the other Aes Sedai who had been 
captured on Toman Head. With two to question, there would have been a better 
chance to catch lies and evasions. It was a useless wish. The other could be 
dead, drowned at sea, or on display at the Court of the Nine Moons. Some of the 
ships Suroth had failed to gather in must have managed the journey back across 
the ocean, and one might well have carried the woman.
She herself had sent a ship carrying carefully crafted reports, nearly half a 
year ago now, as soon as she had solidified her control of the Forerunners, with 
a captain and crew from families that had served hers since Luthair Paendrag had 
proclaimed himself Emperor, nearly a thousand years ago. Dispatching the ship 
had been a gamble, for the Empress might send back someone to take Suroth's 
place. Not sending the vessel would have been a greater, though; only utter and 
crushing victory could have saved her then. Perhaps not even that. So the 
Empress knew of Falme, knew of Turak's disaster and Suroth's intention to go on. 
But what did she think of that knowledge, and what was she doing about it? That 
was a greater concern than any damane, whatever she had been before collaring.
Yet the Empress did not know everything. The worst could not be entrusted to any 
messenger, no matter how loyal. It would only be passed from Suroth's lips 
directly to the ear of the Empress, and Suroth had taken pains to keep it so. 
Only four still lived who knew the secret, and two of those would never speak of 
it to anyone, not of their own volition. Only three deaths can hold it more 
tightly.
Suroth did not realize she had murmured the last aloud until Alwhin said, "And 
yet the High Lady needs all three alive." The woman had a properly humble 
suppleness to her stance, even to the trick of downcast eyes that still managed 
to watch for any sign from Suroth. Her voice was humble, too. "Who can say, High 
Lady, what the Empress &#8209; may she live forever! &#8209; might do if she learned of an 
attempt to keep such knowledge from her?"
Instead of answering, Suroth made the tiny dismissing gesture once more. Again 
Alwhin hesitated &#8209; this time it had to be simple reluctance to leave; the woman 
rose above herself! &#8209; before bowing deeply and backing out of Suroth's presence.
With an effort Suroth found calmness. The sul'dam and the other two were a 
problem she could not solve now, but patience was a necessity for the Blood. 
Those who lacked it were likely to end in the Tower of Ravens.
On the terrace, kneeling servants leaned forward a hair in readiness as she 
appeared again. The soldiers maintained their watch to see she was undisturbed. 
Suroth took up her place before the balustrade, this time staring out to sea, 
toward the mainland hundreds of miles to the east.
To be the one who successfully led the Forerunners, who began the Return, would 
bring much honor. Perhaps even adoption into the family of the Empress, though 
that was an honor not without complications. To also be the one who captured 
this Dragon, whether false or real, along with the means of controlling his 
incredible power . . . .
But if - when -  I take him, do I give him to the Empress? That is the question.
Her long nails began to click again on the wide stone rail.
 
CHAPTER
2
 
Whirlpools in the Pattern
 
Inland the hot night wind blew, north across the vast delta called the Fingers 
of the Dragon, a winding maze of waterways broad and narrow, some choked with 
knifegrass. Vast plains of reeds separated dusters of low islands forested with 
spider&#8209;rooted trees seen nowhere else. Eventually the delta gave way to its 
source, the River Erinin, the river's great width spotted with the lights of 
small boats lantern&#8209;fishing. Boats and lights bobbed wildly, sudden and 
unexpected, and some older men muttered of evil things passing in the night. 
Young men laughed, but they hauled the nets more vigorously, too, eager to be 
home and out of the dark. The stories said evil could not cross your threshold 
unless you invited it in. That was what the stories said. But out in the 
darkness. . . .
The last tang of salt had vanished by the time the wind reached the great city 
of Tear, hard by the river, where tile&#8209;roofed inns and shops shouldered against 
tall, towered palaces gleaming in the moonlight. Yet no palace was half so tall 
as the massive bulk, almost a mountain, that stretched from city's heart to 
water's edge. The Stone of Tear, fortress of legend, the oldest stronghold of 
mankind, erected in the last days of the Breaking of the World. While nations 
and empires rose and fell, were replaced and fell anew, the Stone stood. It was 
the rock on which armies had broken spears and swords and hearts for three 
thousand years. And in all that time it had never fallen to invading arms. Until 
now.
The streets of the city, the taverns and inns, were all but empty in the muggy 
darkness, people keeping cautiously within their own walls. Who held the Stone 
was lord of Tear, city and nation. That was the way it had always been, and the 
people of Tear accepted it always. By daylight they would cheer their new lord 
with enthusiasm as they had cheered the old; by night they huddled together, 
shivering despite the heat when the wind howled across their rooftops like a 
thousand keening mourners.
Strange new hopes danced in their heads, hopes none in Tear had dared for a 
hundred generations, hopes mixed with fears as old as the Breaking.
The wind lashed the long, white banner catching the moon above the Stone as if 
trying to rip it away. Along its length marched a sinuous figure like a legged 
serpent, golden&#8209;maned like a lion, scaled in scarlet and gold, seeming to ride 
the wind. Banner of prophecy, hoped for and dreaded. Banner of the Dragon. The 
Dragon Reborn. Harbinger of the world's salvation, and herald of a new Breaking 
to come. As if outraged at such defiance, the wind dashed itself against the 
hard walls of the Stone. The Dragon banner floated, unheeding in the night, 
awaiting greater storms.
In a room more than halfway up the Stone's southern face, Perrin sat on the 
chest at the foot of his canopied bed and watched the dark&#8209;haired young woman 
pacing up and down. There was a trace of wariness in his golden eyes. Usually 
Faile bantered with him, maybe poked a little gentle fun at his deliberate ways; 
tonight she had not said ten words since coming through the door. He could smell 
the rose petals that had been folded into her clothes after cleaning, and the 
scent that was just her. And in the hint of clean perspiration, he smelled 
nervousness. Faile almost never showed nerves. Wondering why she did now set an 
itch between his shoulders that had nothing to do with the night's heat. Her 
narrow, divided skirts made a soft whisk&#8209;whisk&#8209;whisk with her strides.
He scratched his two&#8209;week growth of beard irritably. It was even curlier than 
the hair on his head. It was also hot. For the hundredth time he thought of 
shaving.
"It suits you," Faile said suddenly, stopping in her tracks.
Uncomfortably, he shrugged shoulders heavy from long hours working at a forge. 
She did that sometimes, seemed to know what he was thinking. "It itches," he 
muttered, and wished he had spoken more forcefully. It was his beard; he could 
shave it off any time he wanted.
She studied him, her head tilted to one side. Her bold nose and high cheekbones 
made it seem a fierce study, a contrast to the soft voice in which she said, "It 
looks right on you."
Perrin sighed, and shrugged again. She had not asked him to keep the beard, and 
she would not. Yet he knew he was going to put off shaving again. He wondered 
how his friend Mat would handle this situation. Probably with a pinch and a kiss 
and some remark that made her laugh until he brought her around to his way of 
thinking. But Perrin knew he did not have Mat's way with the girls. Mat would 
never find himself sweating behind a beard just because a woman thought he 
should have hair on his face. Unless, maybe, the woman was Faile. Perrin 
suspected that her father must deeply regret her leaving home, and not just 
because she was his daughter. He was the biggest fur trader in Saldaea, so she 
claimed, and Perrin could see her getting the price she wanted every time.
"Something is troubling you, Faile, and it isn't my beard. What is it?"
Her expression became guarded. She looked everywhere but at him, making a 
contemptuous survey of the room's furnishings.
Carvings of leopards and lions, stooping hawks and hunting scenes decorated 
everything from the tall wardrobe and bedposts as thick as his leg to the padded 
bench in front of the cold marble fireplace. Some of the animals had garnet 
eyes.
He had tried to convince the majhere that he wanted a simple room, but she did 
not seem to understand. Not that she was stupid or slow. The majhere commanded 
an army of servants greater in numbers than the Defenders of the Stone; whoever 
commanded the Stone, whoever held its walls, she saw to the day&#8209;to&#8209;day matters 
that let everything function. But she looked at the world through Tairen eyes. 
Despite his clothes, he must be more than the young countryman he seemed, 
because commoners were never housed in the Stone&#8209;save for Defenders and 
servants, of course. Beyond that, he was one of Rand's party, a friend or a 
follower or in any case close to the Dragon Reborn in some way. To the majhere, 
that set him on a level with a Lord of the Land at the very least, if not a High 
Lord. She had been scandalized enough at putting him in here, without even a 
sitting room; he thought she might have fainted if he had insisted on an even 
plainer chamber. If there were such things short of the servants' quarters, or 
the Defenders'. At least nothing here was gilded except the candlesticks.
Faile's opinions, though, were not his. "You should have better than this. You 
deserve it. You can wager your last copper that Mat has better."
"Mat likes gaudy things," he said simply.
"You do not stand up for yourself."
He did not comment. It was not his rooms that made her smell of unease, any more 
than his beard.
After a moment, she said, "The Lord Dragon seems to have lost interest in you. 
All his time is taken by the High Lords, now."
The itch between his shoulders worsened; he knew what was troubling her now. He 
tried to make his voice light. "The Lord Dragon? You sound like a Tairen. His 
name is Rand."
"He's your friend, Perrin Aybara, not mine. If a man like that has friends." She 
drew a deep breath and went on in a more moderate tone. "I have been thinking 
about leaving the Stone. Leaving Tear. I don't think Moiraine would try to stop 
me. News of . . . of Rand has been leaving the city for two weeks, now. She 
can't think to keep him secret any longer."
He only just stopped another sigh. "I don't think she will, either. If anything, 
I think she considers you a complication. She will probably give you money to 
see you on your way."
Planting fists on hips, she moved to stare down at him. "Is that all you have to 
say?"
"What do you want me to say? That I want you to stay?" The anger in his own 
voice startled him. He was angry with himself, not her. Angry because he had not 
seen this coming, angry because he could not see how to deal with it. He liked 
being able to think things through. It was easy to hurt people without meaning 
to when you were hasty. He'd done that now. Her dark eyes were large with shock. 
He tried to smooth his words. "I do want you to stay, Faile, but maybe you 
should leave. I know you're no coward, but the Dragon Reborn, the Forsaken . . . 
." Not that anywhere was really safe &#8209; not for long, not now &#8209; yet there were 
safer places than the Stone. For a while, anyway. Not that he was stupid enough 
to put it to her that way.
But she did not appear to care how he put it. "Stay? The Light illumine me! 
Anything is better than sitting here like a boulder, but . . . ." She knelt 
gracefully in front of him, resting her hands on his knees. "Perrin. I do not 
like wondering when one of the Forsaken is going to walk around the corner in 
front of me, and I do not like wondering when the Dragon Reborn is going to kill 
us all. He did it back in the Breaking, after all. Killed everyone dose to him."
"Rand isn't Lews Therin Kinslayer," Perrin protested. "I mean, he is the Dragon 
Reborn, but he isn't . . . he wouldn't. . . ." He trailed off, not knowing how 
to finish. Rand was Lews Therin Telamon reborn; that was what being the Dragon 
Reborn meant. But did it mean Rand was doomed to Lews Therin's fate? Not just 
going mad &#8209; any man who channeled had that fate in front of him, and then a 
rotting death &#8209; but killing everyone who cared for him?
"I have been talking to Bain and Chiad, Perrin."
That was no surprise. She spent considerable time with the Aiel women. The 
friendship made some trouble for her, but she seemed to like the Aiel women as 
much as she despised the Stone's Tairen noblewomen. But he saw no connection to 
what they were talking about, and he said so.
"They say Moiraine sometimes asks where you are. Or Mat. Don't you see? She 
would not have to do that if she could watch you with the Power."
"Watch me with the Power?" he said faintly. He had never even considered that.
"She cannot. Come with me, Perrin. We can be twenty miles across the river 
before she misses us."
"I can't," he said miserably. He tried diverting her with a kiss, but she leaped 
to her feet and backed away so fast he nearly fell on his face. There was no 
point going after her. She had her arms crossed beneath her breasts like a 
barrier.
"Don't tell me you are that afraid of her. I know she is Aes Sedai, and she has 
all of you dancing when she twitches the strings. Perhaps she has the . . . Rand 
. . . so tied he cannot get loose, and the Light knows Egwene and Elayne, and 
even Nynaeve, don't want to, but you can break her cords if you try."
"It has nothing to do with Moiraine. It's what I have to do. I &#8209; "
She cut him short. "Don't you dare hand me any of that hairy&#8209;chested drivel 
about a man having to do his duty. I know duty as well as you, and you have no 
duty here. You may be  ta'veren, even if I don't see it, but he is the Dragon 
Reborn, not you."
"Will you listen?" he shouted, glaring, and she jumped. He had never shouted at 
her before, not like that. She raised her chin and shifted her shoulders, but 
she did not say anything. He went on. "I think I am part of Rand's destiny, 
somehow. Mat, too. I think he can't do what he has to unless we do our part, as 
well. That is the duty. How can I walk away if it might mean Rand will fail?"
"Might?" There was a hint of demand in her voice, but only a hint. He wondered 
if he could make himself shout at her more often. "Did Moiraine tell you this, 
Perrin? You should know by now to listen closely to what an Aes Sedai says."
"I worked it out for myself. I think ta'veren are pulled toward each other. Or 
maybe Rand pulls us, Mat and me both. He's supposed to be the strongest ta'veren 
since Artur Hawkwing, maybe since the Breaking. Mat won't even admit he's 
ta'veren, but however he tries to get away, he always ends up drawn back to 
Rand. Loial says he has never heard of three ta'veren, all the same age and all 
from the same place."
Faile sniffed loudly. "Loial does not know everything. He isn't very old for an 
Ogier."
"He's past ninety," Perrin said defensively, and she gave him a tight smile. For 
an Ogier, ninety years was not much older than Perrin. Or maybe younger. He did 
not know much about Ogier. In any case, Loial had read more books than Perrin 
had ever seen or even heard of; sometimes he thought Loial had read every book 
ever printed.
"And he knows more than you or I do. He believes maybe I have the right of it. 
And so does Moiraine. No, I haven't asked her, but why else does she keep a 
watch on me? Did you think she wanted me to make her a kitchen knife?"
She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke it was in sympathetic tones. 
"Poor Perrin. I left Saldaea to find adventure, and now that I'm in the heart of 
one, the greatest since the Breaking, all I want is to go somewhere else. You 
just want to be a blacksmith, and you're going to end up in the stories whether 
you want it or not."
He looked away, though the scent of her still filled his head. He did not think 
he was likely to have any stories told about him, not unless his secret spread a 
long way beyond the few who knew already. Faile thought she knew everything 
about him, but she was wrong.
An axe and a hammer leaned against the wall opposite him, each plain and 
functional, with a haft as long as his forearm. The axe was a wicked half&#8209;moon 
blade balanced by a thick spike, meant for violence. With the hammer he could 
make things, had made things, at a forge. The hammerhead weighed more than twice 
as much as the axe blade, but it was the axe that felt heavier by far every time 
he picked it up. With the axe, he had . . . . He scowled, not wanting to think 
about that. She was right. All he wanted was to be a blacksmith, to go home, and 
see his family again, and work at the smithy. But it was not to be; he knew 
that.
He got to his feet long enough to pick up the hammer, then sat back down. There 
was something comforting in holding it. "Master Luhhan always says you can't 
walk away from what has to be done." He hurried on, realizing that was a little 
too dose to what she had called hairy&#8209;chested drivel. "He's the blacksmith back 
home, the man I was apprenticed to. I've told you about him."
To his surprise, she did not take the opportunity to point out his near echo. In 
fact, she said nothing, only looked at him, waiting for something. After a 
moment it came to him.
"Are you leaving, then?" he asked.
She stood up, brushing her skirt. For a long moment she kept silent, as if 
deciding on her answer. "I do not know," she said finally. "This is a fine mess 
you've put me in."
"Me? What did I do?"
"Well, if you don't know, I am certainly not going to tell you."
Scratching his beard again, he stared at the hammer in his other hand. Mat would 
probably know exactly what she meant. Or even old Thom Merrilin. The 
white&#8209;haired gleeman claimed no one understood women, but when he came out of 
his tiny room in the belly of the Stone he soon had half a dozen girls young 
enough to be his granddaughters sighing and listening to him play the harp and 
tell of grand adventure and romance. Faile was the only woman Perrin wanted, but 
sometimes he felt like a fish trying to understand a bird.
He knew she wanted him to ask. He knew that much. She might or might not tell 
him, but he was supposed to ask. Stubbornly he kept his mouth shut. This time he 
meant to wait her out. 
Outside in the darkness, a cock crowed.
Faile shivered and hugged herself. "My nurse used to say that meant a death 
coming. Not that I believe it, of course."
He opened his mouth to agree it was foolishness, though he shivered, too, but 
his head whipped around at a grating sound and a thump. The axe had toppled to 
the floor. He only had time to frown, wondering what could have made it fall, 
when it shifted again, untouched, then leaped straight for him.
He swung the hammer without thought. Metal ringing on metal drowned Faile's 
scream; the axe flew across the room, bounced off the far wall, and darted back 
at him, blade first. He thought every hair on his body was trying to stand on 
end.
As the axe sped by her, Faile lunged forward and grabbed the haft with both 
hands. It twisted in her grip, slashing toward her wide&#8209;eyed face. Barely in 
time Perrin leaped up, dropping the hammer to seize the axe, just keeping the 
half&#8209;moon blade from her flesh. He thought he would die if the axe &#8209; his 
axe&#8209;harmed her. He jerked it away from her so hard that the heavy spike nearly 
stabbed him in the chest. It would have been a fair trade, to stop the axe from 
hurting her, but with a sinking feeling he began to think it might not be 
possible.
The weapon thrashed like a thing alive, a thing with a malevolent will. It 
wanted Perrin&#8209;he knew that as if it had shouted at him&#8209;but it fought with 
cunning. When he pulled the axe away from Faile, it used his own movement to 
hack at him; when he forced it from himself, it tried to reach her, as if it 
knew that would make him stop pushing. No matter how hard he held the haft, it 
spun in his hands, threatening with spike or curved blade. Already his hands 
ached from the effort, and his thick arms strained, muscles tight. Sweat rolled 
down his face. He was not sure how much longer it would be before the axe fought 
free of his grip. This was all madness, pure madness, with no time to think.
"Get out," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Get out of the room, Faile!"
Her face was bloodless pale, but she shook her head and wrestled with the axe. 
"No! I will not leave you!"
"It will kill both of us!"
She shook her head again.
Growling in his throat, he let go of the axe with one hand&#8209;his arm quivered with 
holding the thing one&#8209;handed; the twisting haft burned his palm &#8209; and thrust 
Faile away. She yelped as he wrestled her to the door. Ignoring her shouts and 
her fists pounding at him, he held her against the wall with a shoulder until he 
could pull the door open and shove her into the hallway.
Slamming the door behind her, he put his back against it, sliding the latch home 
with his hip as he seized the axe with both hands again. The heavy blade, 
gleaming and sharp, trembled within inches of his face. Laboriously, he pushed 
it out to arm's length. Faile's muted shouts penetrated the thick door, and he 
could feel her beating on it, but he was barely conscious of her. His yellow 
eyes seemed to shine, as if they reflected every scrap of light in the room.
"Just you and me, now," he snarled at the axe. "Blood and ashes, how I hate 
you!" Inside, a part of him came dose to hysterical laughter. Rand it the one 
who's supposed to go mad, and here 1 am, talking to an axe! Rand! Burn him!
Teeth bared with effort, he forced the axe back a full step from the door. The 
weapon vibrated, fighting to reach flesh; he could almost taste its thirst for 
his blood. With a roar he suddenly pulled the curved blade toward him, threw 
himself back. Had the axe truly been alive, he was sure he would have heard a 
cry of triumph as it flashed toward his head. At the last instant, he twisted, 
driving the axe past himself. With a heavy thunk the blade buried itself in the 
door.
He felt the life &#8209; he could not think what else to call it&#8209;go out of the 
imprisoned weapon. Slowly, he took his hands away. The axe stayed where it was, 
only steel and wood again. The door seemed a good place to leave it for now, 
though. He wiped sweat from his face with a shaking hand. Madness. Madness walks 
wherever Rand is.
Abruptly he realized he could no longer hear Faile's shouts, or her pounding. 
Throwing back the latch, he hastily pulled the door open. A gleaming arc of 
steel stuck through the thick wood on the outside, shining in the light of 
wide&#8209;spaced lamps along the tapestry&#8209;hung hallway.
Faile stood there, hands raised, frozen in the act of beating on the door. Eyes 
wide and wondering, she touched the tip of her nose. "Another inch," she said 
faintly, "and . . . ."
With a sudden start, she flung herself on him, hugging him fiercely, raining 
kisses on his neck and beard between incoherent murmurs. Just as quickly, she 
pushed back, running anxious hands over his chest and arms. "Are you hurt? Are 
you injured? Did it . . . ?"
"I'm all right," he told her. "But are you? I did not mean to frighten you."
She peered up at him. "Truly? You are not hurt in any way?"
"Completely unhurt. I &#8209; " Her full&#8209;armed slap made his head ring like hammer on 
anvil.
"You great hairy lummox! I thought you were dead! I was afraid it had killed 
you! I thought&#8209;!" She cut off as he caught her second slap in midswing.
"Please don't do that again," he said quietly. The smarting imprint of her hand 
burned on his cheek, and he thought his jaw would ache the rest of the night.
He gripped her wrist as gently as he would have a bird, but though she struggled 
to pull free, his hand did not budge an inch. Compared to swinging a hammer all 
day at the forge, holding her was no effort at all, even after his fight against 
the axe. Abruptly she seemed to decide to ignore his grip and stared him in the 
eye; neither dark nor golden eyes blinked. "I could have helped you. You had no 
right &#8209; "
"I had every right," he said firmly. "You could not have helped. If you had 
stayed, we'd both be dead. I couldn't have fought &#8209; not the way I had to &#8209; and 
kept you safe, too." She opened her mouth, but he raised his voice and went on. 
"I know you hate the word. I'll try my best not to treat you like porcelain, but 
if you ask me to watch you die, I will tie you like a lamb for market and send 
you off to Mistress Luhhan. She won't stand for any such nonsense."
Tonguing a tooth and wondering if it was loose, he almost wished he could see 
Faile trying to ride roughshod over Alsbet Luhhan. The blacksmith's wife kept 
her husband in line with scarcely more effort than she needed for her house. 
Even Nynaeve had been careful of her sharp tongue around Mistress Luhhan. The 
tooth still held tight, he decided.
Faile laughed suddenly, a low, throaty laugh. "You would, too, wouldn't you? 
Don't think you would not dance with the Dark One if you tried, though."
Perrin was so startled he let go of her. He could not see any real difference 
between what he had just said and what he had said before, but the one had made 
her blaze up, while this she took . . . fondly. Not that he was certain the 
threat to kill him was entirely a joke. Faile carried knives hidden about her 
person, and she knew how to use them.
She rubbed her wrist ostentatiously and muttered something under her breath. He 
caught the words "hairy ox," and promised himself he would shave every last 
whisker of that fool beard. He would.
Aloud, she said, "The axe. That was him, wasn't it? The Dragon Reborn, trying to 
kill us."
"It must have been Rand." He emphasized the name. He did not like thinking of 
Rand the other way. He preferred remembering the Rand he had grown up with in 
Emond's Field. "Not trying to kill us, though. Not him."
She gave him a wry smile, more a grimace. "If he was not trying, I hope he never 
does."
"I don't know what he was doing. But I mean to tell him to stop it, and right 
now. "
"I don't know why I care for a man who worries so about his own safety," she 
murmured.
He frowned at her quizzically, wondering what she meant, but she only tucked her 
arm through his. He was still wondering as they started off through the Stone. 
The axe he left where it was; stuck in the door, it would not harm anyone.
 
Teeth clamped on a long&#8209;stemmed pipe, Mat opened his coat a bit more and tried 
to concentrate on the cards lying facedown in front of him, and on the coins 
spilled in the middle of the table. He had had the bright red coat made to an 
Andoran pattern, of the best wool, with golden embroidery scrolling around the 
cuffs and long collar, but day by day he was reminded how much farther south 
Tear lay than Andor. Sweat ran down his face, and plastered the shirt to his 
back.
None of his companions around the table appeared to notice the heat at all, 
despite coats that looked even heavier than his, with fat, swollen sleeves, all 
padded silks and brocades and satin stripes. Two men in red&#8209;and&#8209;gold livery kept 
the gamblers' silver cups full of wine and proffered shining silver trays of 
olives and cheeses and nuts. The heat did not seem to affect the servants, 
either, though now and again one of them yawned behind his hand when he thought 
no one was looking. The night was not young.
Mat refrained from lifting his cards to check them again. They would not have 
changed. Three rulers, the highest cards in three of the five suits, were 
already good enough to win most hands.
He would have been more comfortable dicing; there was seldom a deck of cards to 
be found in the places he usually gambled, where silver changed hands in fifty 
different dice games, but these young Tairen lordlings would rather wear rags 
than play at dice. Peasants tossed dice, though they were careful not to say so 
in his hearing. It was not his temper they feared, but who they thought his 
friends were. This game called chop was what they played, hour after hour, night 
after night, using cards hand&#8209;painted and lacquered by a man in the city who had 
been made well&#8209;to&#8209;do by these fellows and others like them. Only women or horses 
could draw them away, but neither for long.
Still, he had picked up the game quickly enough, and if his luck was not as good 
as it was with dice, it would do. A fat purse lay beside his cards, and another 
even fatter rested in his pocket. A fortune, he would have thought once, back in 
Emond's Field, enough to live the rest of his life in luxury. His ideas of 
luxury had changed since leaving the Two Rivers. The young lords kept their coin 
in careless, shining piles, but some old habits he had no intention of changing. 
In the taverns and inns it was sometimes necessary to depart quickly. Especially 
if his luck was really with him.
When he had enough to keep himself as he wanted, he would leave the Stone just 
as quickly. Before Moiraine knew what he was thinking. He would have been days 
gone by now, if he had had his way. It was just that there was gold to be had 
here. One night at this table could earn him more than a week of dicing in 
taverns. If only his luck would catch.
He put on a small frown and puffed worriedly at his pipe, to look unsure whether 
his cards were good enough to go on with. Two of the young lords had pipes in 
their teeth, too, but silver&#8209;worked, with amber bits. In the hot, still air, 
their perfumed tabac smelled like a fire in a lady's dressing chamber. Not that 
Mat had ever been in a lady's dressing chamber. An illness that nearly killed 
him had left his memory as full of holes as the best lace, yet he was sure he 
would have remembered that. Not even the Dark One would be mean enough to make 
me forget that.
"Sea Folk ship docked today," Reimon muttered around his pipe. The 
broad­-shouldered young lord's beard was oiled and trimmed to a neat point. That 
was the latest fashion among the younger lords, and Reimon chased the latest 
fashions as assiduously as he chased women. Which was only a little less 
diligently than he gambled. He tossed a silver crown onto the pile in the middle 
of the table for another card. "A raker. Fastest ships there are, rakers, so 
they say. Outrun the wind, they say. I would like to see that. Burn my soul, but 
I would." He did not bother to look at the card he was dealt; he never did until 
he had a full five.
The plump, pink&#8209;cheeked man between Reimon and Mat gave an amused chuckle. "You 
want to see the ship, Reimon? You mean the girls, do you not? The women. Exotic 
Sea Folk beauties, with their rings and baubles and swaying walks, eh?" He put 
in a crown and took his card, grimacing when he peeked at it. That meant 
nothing; going by his face, Edorion's cards were always low and mismatched. He 
won more than he lost, though. "Well, perhaps my luck will be better with the 
Sea Folk girls."
The dealer, tall and slender on Mat's other side, with a pointed beard even more 
darkly luxuriant than Reimon's, laid a finger alongside his nose. "You think to 
be lucky with those, Edorion? The way they keep to themselves, you'll be lucky 
to catch a whiff of their perfume." He made a wafting gesture, inhaling deeply 
with a sigh, and the other lordlings laughed, even Edorion.
A plain&#8209;faced youth named Estean laughed loudest of all, scrubbing a hand 
through lank hair that kept falling over his forehead. Replace his fine yellow 
coat with drab wool, and he could have passed for a farmer, instead of the son 
of a High Lord with the richest estates in Tear and in his own right the 
wealthiest man at the table. He had also drunk much more wine than any of the 
others.
Swaying across the man next to him, a foppish fellow named Baran who always 
seemed to be looking down his sharp nose, Estean poked the dealer with a none 
too steady finger. Baran leaned back, twisting his mouth around his pipestem as 
if he feared Estean might throw up.
"That's good, Carlomin," Estean gurgled. "You think so too, don't you, Baran? 
Edorion won't get a sniff. If he wants to try his luck . . . take a gamble . . . 
he ought to go after the Aiel wenches, like Mat, here. All those spears and 
knives. Burn my soul. Like asking a lion to dance." Dead silence dropped around 
the table. Estean laughed on alone, then blinked and scrubbed fingers through 
his hair again. "What's the matter? Did I say something? Oh! Oh, yes. Them."
Mat barely stopped a scowl. The fool had to bring up the Aiel. The only worse 
subject would have been Aes Sedai; they would almost rather have Aiel walking 
the corridors, staring down any Tairen who got in their way, than even one Aes 
Sedai, and these men thought they had four, at least. He fingered an Andoran 
silver crown from his purse on the table and pushed it into the pot. Carlomin 
dealt out the card slowly.
Mat lifted it carefully with a thumbnail, and did not let himself so much as 
blink. The Ruler of Cups, a High Lord of Tear. The rulers in a deck varied 
according to the land where the cards were made, with the nation's own ruler 
always as Ruler of Cups, the highest suit. These cards were old. He had already 
seen new decks with Rand's face or something like it on the Ruler of Cups, 
complete with the Dragon banner. Rand the ruler of Tear; that still seemed 
ludicrous enough to make him want to pinch himself. Rand was a shepherd, a good 
fellow to have fun with when he was not going all over&#8209;serious and responsible. 
Rand the Dragon Reborn, now; that told him he was a stone fool to be sitting 
there, where Moiraine could put her hand on him whenever she wanted, waiting to 
see what Rand would do next. Maybe Thom Merrilin would go with him. Or Perrin. 
Only, Thom seemed to be settling into the Stone as if he never meant to leave, 
and Perrin was not going anywhere unless Faile crooked a finger. Well, Mat was 
ready to travel alone, if need be.
Yet there was silver in the middle of the table and gold in front of the 
lordlings, and if he was dealt the fifth ruler, there was no hand in chop could 
beat him. Not that he really needed it. Suddenly he could feel luck tickling his 
mind. Not tingling as it did with the dice, of course, but he was already 
certain no one was going to beat four rulers. The Tairens had been betting 
wildly all night, the price of ten farms crossing the table on the quickest 
hands.
But Carlomin was staring at the deck of cards in his hand instead of buying his 
fourth, and Baran was puffing his pipe furiously and stacking the coins in front 
of him as if ready to stuff them into his pockets. Reimon wore a scowl behind 
his beard, and Edorion was frowning at his nails. Only Estean appeared 
unaffected; he grinned uncertainly around the table, perhaps already forgetting 
what he had said. They usually managed to put some sort of good face on the 
situation if the Aiel came up, but the hour was late, and the wine had flowed 
freely.
Mat scoured his mind for a way to keep them and their gold from walking away 
from his cards. One glance at their faces was enough to tell him that simply 
changing the subject would not be enough. But there was another way. If he made 
them laugh at the Aiel . . . . Is it worth making them laugh at me, too? Chewing 
his pipestem, he tried to think of something else.
Baran picked up a stack of gold in each hand and moved to stick them in his 
pockets.
"I might just try these Sea Folk women," Mat said quickly, taking his pipe to 
gesture with. "Odd things happen when you chase Aiel girls. Very odd. Like the 
game they call Maidens' Kiss." He had their attention, but Baran had not put 
down the coins, and Carlomin still showed no sign of buying a card.
Estean gave a drunken guffaw. "Kiss you with steel in your ribs, I suppose. 
Maidens of the Spear, you see. Steel. Spear in your ribs. Burn my soul." No one 
else laughed. But they were listening.
"Not quite." Mat managed a grin. Burn me, I've told this much. 1 might as well 
tell the rest. "Rhuarc said if I wanted to get along with the Maidens, I should 
ask them how to play Maidens' Kiss. He said that was the best way to get to know 
them." It still sounded like one of the kissing games back home, like Kiss the 
Daisies. He had never considered the Aiel clan chief a man to play tricks. He 
would be warier the next time. He made an effort to improve the grin. "So I went 
along to Bain and . . ." Reimon frowned impatiently. None of them knew any 
Aiel's name but Rhuarc, and none of them wanted to. Mat dropped the names and 
hurried on " . . . went along dumb as a bull&#8209;goose fool, and asked them to show 
me." He should have suspected something from the wide smiles that had bloomed on 
their faces. Like cats who had been asked to dance by a mouse. "Before I knew 
what was happening, I had a fistful of spears around my neck like a collar. I 
could have shaved myself with one sneeze."
The others around the table exploded in laughter, from Reimon's wheezing to 
Estean's wine&#8209;soaked bray.
Mat left them to it. He could almost feel the spearpoints again, pricking if he 
so much as twitched a finger. Bain, laughing all the while, had told him she had 
never heard of a man actually asking to play Maidens' Kiss.
Carlomin stroked his beard and spoke into Mat's hesitation. "You cannot stop 
there. Go on. When was this? Two nights ago, I'll wager. When you didn't come 
for the game, and no one knew where you were."
"I was playing stones with Thom Merrilin that night," Mat said quickly. "This 
was days ago." He was glad he could lie with a straight face. "They each took a 
kiss. That's all. If she thought it was a good kiss, they eased up with the 
spears. If not, they pushed a little harder; to encourage, you might say. That 
was all. I'll tell you this; I got nicked less than I do shaving."
He stuck his pipe back between his teeth. If they wanted to know more, they 
could go ask to play the game themselves. He almost hoped some of them were fool 
enough. Bloody Aiel women and their bloody spears. He had not made it to his own 
bed until daybreak.
"It would be more than enough for me," Carlomin said dryly. "The Light burn my 
soul if it would not." He tossed a silver crown into the center of the table and 
dealt himself another card. "Maidens' Kiss." He shook with mirth, and another 
ripple of laughter ran around the table.
Baran bought his fifth card, and Estean fumbled a coin from the heap scattered 
in front of him, peering at it to see what it was. They would not stop now.
"Savages," Baran muttered around his pipe. "Ignorant savages. That is all they 
are, burn my soul. Live in caves, out in the Waste. In caves! No one but a 
savage could live in the Waste."
Reimon nodded. "At least they serve the Lord Dragon. I would take a hundred 
Defenders and clean them out of the Stone, if not for that." Baran and Carlomin 
growled fierce agreement.
It was no effort for Mat to keep his face straight. He had heard much the same 
before. Boasting was easy when no one expected you to carry through. A hundred 
Defenders? Even if Rand stood aside for some reason, the few hundred Aiel 
holding the Stone could probably keep it against any army Tear could raise. Not 
that they seemed to want the Stone, really. Mat suspected they were only there 
because Rand was. He did not think any of these lordlings had figured that out &#8209; 
they tried to ignore the Aiel as much as possible &#8209; but he doubted it would make 
them feel any better.
"Mat." Estean fanned his cards out in one hand, rearranging them as if he could 
not decide what order they were meant to go in. "Mat, you will speak to the Lord 
Dragon, won't you?"
"About what?" Mat asked cautiously. Too many of these Tairens knew he and Rand 
had grown up together to suit him, and they seemed to think he was arm in arm 
with Rand whenever he was out of their sight. None of them would have gone near 
his own brother if he could channel. He did not know why they thought him a 
bigger fool.
"Didn't I say?" The plain&#8209;faced man squinted at his cards and scratched his 
head, then brightened. "Oh, yes. His proclamation, Mat. The Lord Dragon's. His 
last one. Where he said commoners had the right to call lords before a 
magistrate. Who ever heard of a lord being summoned to a magistrate? And for 
peasants!"
Mat's hand tightened on his purse until the coins inside grated together. "It 
would be a shame," he said quietly, "if you were tried and judged just for 
having your way with a fisherman's daughter whatever she wanted, or for having 
some farmer beaten for splashing mud on your cloak."
The others shifted uneasily, catching his mood, but Estean nodded, head bobbing 
so it seemed about to fall off. "Exactly. Though it wouldn't come to that, of 
course. A lord being tried before a magistrate? Of course not. Not really." He 
laughed drunkenly at his cards. "No fishermen's daughters. Smell of fish, you 
see, however you have them washed. A plump farm girl is best."
Mat told himself he was there to gamble. He told himself to ignore the fool's 
blather, reminded himself of how much gold he could take out of Estean's purse. 
His tongue did not listen, though. "Who knows what it might come to? Hangings, 
maybe."
Edorion gave him a sidelong look, guarded and uneasy. "Do we have to talk about 
. . . about commoners, Estean? What about old Astoril's daughters? Have you 
decided which you'll marry yet?"
"What? Oh. Oh, I'll flip a coin, I suppose." Estean frowned at his cards, 
shifted one, and frowned again. "Medore has two or three pretty maids. Perhaps 
Medore."
Mat took a long drink from his silver winecup to keep from hitting the man in 
his farmer's face. He was still on his first cup; the two servants had given up 
trying to add more. If he hit Estean, none of them would lift a hand to stop 
him. Not even Estean. Because he was the Lord Dragon's friend. He wished he was 
in a tavern somewhere out in the city, where some dockman might question his 
luck and only a quick tongue, or quick feet, or quick hands would see him leave 
with a whole skin. Now that war a fool thought.
Edorion glanced at Mat again, measuring his mood. "I heard a rumor today. I hear 
the Lord Dragon is taking us to war with Illian."
Mat gagged on his wine. "War?" he spluttered.
"War," Reimon agreed happily around his pipestem.
"Are you certain?" Carlomin said, and Baran added, "I've heard no rumors."
"I heard it just today, from three or four tongues." Edorion seemed to be 
absorbed in his cards. "Who can say how true it is?"
"It must be true," Reimon said. "With the Lord Dragon to lead us, holding 
Callandor, we'll not even have to fight. He will scatter their armies, and we 
will march straight into Illian. Too bad, in a way. Burn my soul if it isn't. I 
would like a chance to match swords with the Illianers."
"You'll get no chance with the Lord Dragon leading," Baran said. "They will fall 
on their knees as soon as they see the Dragon banner."
"And if they do not," Carlomin added with a laugh, "the Lord Dragon will blast 
them with lightning where they stand."
"Illian first," Reimon said. "And then. . . . Then we'll conquer the world for 
the Lord Dragon. You tell him I said so, Mat. The whole world."
Mat shook his head. A month gone, they would have been horrified by even the 
idea of a man who could channel, a man doomed to go mad and die horribly. Now 
they were ready to follow Rand into battle, and trust his power to win for them. 
Trust the Power, though it was not likely they would put it that way. Yet he 
supposed they had to find something to hang on to. The invincible Stone was in 
the hands of the Aiel. The Dragon Reborn was in his chambers a hundred feet 
above their heads, and Callandor was with him. Three thousand years of Tairen 
belief and history lay in ruins, and the world had been turned on its head. He 
wondered whether he had handled it any better; his own world had gone all askew 
in little more than a year. He rolled a gold Tairen crown across the backs of 
his fingers. However well he had done, he would not go back.
"When will we march, Mat?" Baran asked.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "I don't think Rand would start a war." Unless 
he had gone mad already. That hardly bore thinking about.
The others looked as if he had assured them the sun would not come up tomorrow.
"We are all loyal to the Lord Dragon, of course." Edorion frowned at his cards. 
"Out in the countryside, though . . . . I hear that some of the High Lords, a 
few, have been trying to raise an army to take back the Stone." Suddenly no one 
was looking at Mat, though Estean still seemed to be trying to make out his 
cards. "When the Lord Dragon takes us to war, of course, it will all melt away. 
In any case, we are loyal, here in the Stone. The High Lords, too, I am certain. 
It is only the few out in the countryside."
Their loyalty would not outlast their fear of the Dragon Reborn. For a moment 
Mat felt as though he were planning to abandon Rand in a pit of vipers. Then he 
remembered what Rand was. It was more like abandoning a weasel in a henyard. 
Rand had been a friend. The Dragon Reborn, though . . . . Who could be a friend 
to the Dragon Reborn? I'm not abandoning anybody. He could probably pull the 
Stone down on their heads, if he wanted to. On my head, too. He told himself 
again that it was time to be gone.
"No fishermen's daughters," Estean mumbled. "You will speak to the Lord Dragon?"
"It is your turn, Mat," Carlomin said anxiously. He looked half afraid, though 
what he feared &#8209; that Estean would anger Mat again, or that the talk might go 
back to loyalty &#8209; was impossible to say. "Will you buy the fifth card, or 
stack?"
Mat realized he had not been paying attention. Everyone but himself and Carlomin 
had five cards, though Reimon had neatly stacked his facedown beside the pot to 
show that he was out. Mat hesitated, pretending to think, then sighed and tossed 
another coin toward the pile.
As the silver crown bounced end over end, he suddenly felt luck grow from 
trickles to a flood. Every ping of silver against wooden tabletop rang clear in 
his head; he could have called face or sigil and known how the coin would land 
on any bounce. Just as he knew what his next card would be before Carlomin laid 
it in front of him.
Sliding his cards together on the table, he fanned them in one hand. The Ruler 
of Flames stared at him alongside the other four, the Amyrlin Seat balancing a 
flame on her palm, though she looked nothing like Siuan Sanche. However the 
Tairens felt about Aes Sedai, they acknowledged the power of Tar Valon, even if 
Flames was the lowest suit.
What were the odds of being dealt all five? His luck was best with random 
things, like dice, but perhaps a little more was beginning to rub off on cards. 
"The Light burn my bones to ash if it is not so," he muttered. Or that was what 
he meant to say.
"There," Estean all but shouted. "You cannot deny it this time. That was the Old 
Tongue. Something about burning, and bones." He grinned around the table. "My 
tutor would be proud. I ought to send him a gift. If I can find out where he 
went."
Nobles were supposed to be able to speak the Old Tongue, though in reality few 
knew more than Estean seemed to. The young lords set to arguing over exactly 
what Mat had said. They seemed to think it had been a comment on the heat.
Goose bumps pebbled Mat's skin as he tried to recall the words that had just 
come out of his mouth. A string of gibberish, yet it almost seemed he should 
understand. Burn Moiraine! If she'd left me alone, I wouldn't have holes in my 
memory big enough for a wagon and team, and I wouldn't be spouting . . . 
whatever it bloody is! He would also be milking his father's cows instead of 
walking the world with a pocketful of gold, but he managed to ignore that part 
of it.
"Are you here to gamble," he said harshly, "or babble like old women over their 
knitting!"
"To gamble," Baran said curtly. "Three crowns, gold!" He tossed the coins onto 
the pot.
"And three more besides." Estean hiccoughed and added six golden crowns to the 
pile.
Suppressing a grin, Mat forgot about the Old Tongue. It was easy enough; he did 
not want to think about it. Besides, if they were starting this strongly, he 
might win enough on this hand to leave in the morning. And if he's crazy enough 
to start a war, I'll leave if 1 have to walk.
Outside in the darkness, a cock crowed. Mat shifted uneasily and told himself 
not to be foolish. No one was going to die.
His eyes dropped to his cards &#8209; and blinked. The Amyrlin's flame had been 
replaced by a knife. While he was telling himself he was tired and seeing 
things, she plunged the tiny blade into the back of his hand.
With a hoarse yell, he flung the cards away and hurled himself backward, 
overturning his chair, kicking the table with both feet as he fell. The air 
seemed to thicken like honey. Everything moved as if time had slowed, but at the 
same time everything seemed to happen at once. Other cries echoed his, hollow 
shouts reverberating inside a cavern. He and the chair drifted back and down; 
the table floated upward.
The Ruler of Flames hung in the air, growing larger, staring at him with a cruel 
smile. Now close to life&#8209;size, she started to step out of the card; she was 
still a painted shape, with no depth, but she reached for him with her blade, 
red with his blood as if it had already been driven into his heart. Beside her 
the Ruler of Cups began to grow, the Tairen High Lord drawing his sword.
Mat floated, yet somehow he managed to reach the dagger in his left sleeve and 
hurl it in the same motion, straight for the Amyrlin's heart. If this thing had 
a heart. The second knife came into his left hand smoothly and left more 
smoothly. The two blades drifted through the air like thistledown. He wanted to 
scream, but that first yell of shock and outrage still filled his mouth. The 
Ruler of Rods was expanding beside the first two cards, the Queen of Andor 
gripping the rod like a bludgeon, her red&#8209;gold hair framing a madwoman's snarl.
He was still falling, still yelling that drawn&#8209;out yell. The Amyrlin was free of 
her card, the High Lord striding out with his sword. The flat shapes moved 
almost as slowly as he. Almost. He had proof the steel in their hands could cut, 
and no doubt the rod could crack a skull. His skull.
His thrown daggers moved as if sinking in jelly. He was sure the cock had crowed 
for him. Whatever his father said, the omen had been real. But he would not give 
up and die. Somehow he had two more daggers out from under his coat, one in 
either hand. Struggling to twist in midair, to get his feet under him, he threw 
one knife at the golden&#8209;haired figure with the bludgeon. The other he held on to 
as he tried to turn himself, to land ready to face . . . .
The world lurched back into normal motion, and he landed awkwardly on his side, 
hard enough to drive the wind out of him. Desperately he struggled to his feet, 
drawing another knife from under his coat. You could not carry too many, Thom 
claimed. Neither was needed.
For a moment he thought cards and figures had vanished. Or maybe he had imagined 
it all. Maybe he was the one going mad. Then he saw the cards, back to ordinary 
size, pinned to one of the dark wood panels by his still quivering knives. He 
took a deep, ragged breath.
The table lay on its side, coins still spinning across the floor where lordlings 
and servants crouched among scattered cards. They gaped at Mat and his knives, 
those in his hands and those in the wall, with equally wide eyes. Estean 
snatched a silver pitcher that had somehow escaped being overturned and began 
pouring wine down his throat, the excess spilling over his chin and down his 
chest.
"Just because you do not have the cards to win," Edorion said hoarsely, "there 
is no need to&#8209;" He cut off with a shudder.
"You saw it, too." Mat slipped the knives back into their sheaths. A thin 
trickle of blood ran down the back of his hand from the tiny wound. "Don't 
pretend you went blind!"
"I saw nothing," Reimon said woodenly. "Nothing!" He began crawling across the 
floor, gathering up gold and silver, concentrating on the coins as if they were 
the most important thing in the world. The others were doing the same, except 
Estean, who scrambled about checking the fallen pitchers for any that still held 
wine. One of the servants had his face hidden in his hands; the other, eyes 
closed, was apparently praying in a low, breathless whine.
With a muttered oath, Mat strode to where his knives pinned the three cards to 
the panel. They were only playing cards again, just stiff paper with the clear 
lacquer cracked. But the figure of the Amyrlin still held a dagger instead of a 
flame. He tasted blood and realized he was sucking the cut in the back of his 
hand.
Hastily he wrenched his knives free, tearing each card in half before tucking 
the blade away. After a moment, he hunted through the cards littering the floor 
until he found the rulers of Coins and Winds, and tore them across, too. He felt 
a little foolish &#8209; it was over and done with; the cards were just cards again &#8209; 
but he could not help it.
None of the young lords crawling about on hands and knees tried to stop him. 
They scrambled out of his way, not even glancing at him. There would be no more 
gambling tonight, and maybe not for some nights to come. At least, not with him. 
Whatever had happened, it had been aimed at him, dearly. Even more clearly, it 
had to have been done with the One Power. They wanted no part of that.
"Burn you, Rand!" he muttered under his breath. "If you have to go mad, leave me 
out of it!" His pipe lay in two pieces, the stem bitten through cleanly. Angrily 
he grabbed his purse from the floor and stalked out of the room.
 
In his darkened bedchamber Rand tossed uneasily on a bed wide enough for five 
people. He was dreaming.
Through a shadowy forest Moiraine was prodding him with a sharp stick toward 
where the Amyrlin Seat waited, sitting on a stump with a rope halter for his 
neck in her hands. Dim shapes moved half&#8209;seen through the trees, stalking, 
hunting him; here a dagger blade flashed in the failing light, over there he 
caught a glimpse of ropes ready for binding. Slender and not as tall as his 
shoulder, Moiraine wore an expression he had never seen on her face. Fear. 
Sweating, she prodded harder, trying to hurry him to the Amyrlin's halter. 
Darkfriends and the Forsaken in the shadows, the White Tower's leash ahead and 
Moiraine behind. Dodging Moiraine's stick, he fled.
"It is too late for that," she called after him, but he had to get back. Back.
Muttering, he thrashed on the bed, then was still, breathing more easily for a 
moment.
He was in the Waterwood back home, sunlight slanting through the trees to 
sparkle on the pond in front of him. There was green moss on the rocks at this 
end of the pond, and thirty paces away at the other end a small arc of 
wildflowers. This was where, as a child, he had learned to swim.
"You should have a swim now."
He spun around with a start. Min stood there, grinning at him in her boy's coat 
and breeches, and next to her, Elayne, with her red&#8209;golden curls, in a green 
silk gown fit for her mother's palace.
It was Min who had spoken, but Elayne added, "The water looks inviting, Rand. No 
one will bother us here."
"I don't know," he began slowly. Min cut him off by twining her fingers behind 
his neck and pulling herself up on tiptoe to kiss him.
She repeated Elayne's words in a soft murmur. "No one will bother us here." She 
stepped back and doffed her coat, then attacked the laces of her shirt.
Rand stared, the more so when he realized Elayne's gown was lying on the mossy 
ground. The Daughter&#8209;Heir was bending, arms crossed, gathering up the hem of her 
shift.
"What are you doing?" he demanded in a strangled voice.
"Getting ready to go swimming with you," Min replied.
Elayne flashed him a smile, and hoisted the shift over her head.
He turned his back hastily, though half wanting not to. And found himself 
staring at Egwene, her big, dark eyes looking back at him sadly. Without a word 
she turned and vanished into the trees.
"Wait!" he shouted after her. "I can explain."
He began to run; he had to find her. But as he reached the edge of trees, Min's 
voice stopped him.
"Don't go, Rand."
She and Elayne were in the water already, only their heads showing as they swam 
lazily in the middle of the pond.
"Come back," Elayne called, lifting a slim arm to beckon. "Do you not deserve 
what you want for a change?"
He shifted his feet, wanting to move but unable to decide which way. What he 
wanted. The words sounded strange. What did he want? He raised a hand to his 
face, to wipe away what felt like sweat. Festering flesh almost obliterated the 
heron branded on his palm; white bone showed through red&#8209;edged gaps.
With a jerk, he came awake, lying there shivering in the dark heat. Sweat soaked 
his smallclothes, and the linen sheets beneath his back. His side burned, where 
an old wound had never healed properly. He traced the rough scar, a circle 
nearly an inch across, still tender after all this time. Even Moiraine's Aes 
Sedai Healing could not mend it completely. But I'm not rotting yet. And I'm not 
mad, either. Not yet. Not yet. That said it all. He wanted to laugh, and 
wondered if that meant he was a little mad already.
Dreaming about Min and Elayne, dreaming of them like that . . . . Well, it was 
not madness, but it was surely foolishness. Neither one of them had ever looked 
at him in that way when he was awake. Egwene he had been all but promised to 
since they were both children. The betrothal words had never been spoken in 
front of the Women's Circle, but everyone in and around Emond's Field knew they 
would marry one day.
That one day would never come, of course; not now, not with the fate that lay 
ahead of a man who channeled. Egwene must have realized that, too. She must 
have. She was all wrapped up in becoming Aes Sedai. Still, women were odd; she 
might think she could be an Aes Sedai and marry him anyway, channeling or no 
channeling. How could he tell her that he did not want to marry her anymore, 
that he loved her like a sister? But there would not be any need to tell her, he 
was sure. He could hide behind what he was. She had to understand that. What man 
could ask a woman to marry him when he knew he had only a few years, if he was 
lucky, before he went insane, before he began to rot alive? He shivered despite 
the heat.
1 need sleep. The High Lords would be back in the morning, maneuvering for his 
favor. For the Dragon Reborn's favor. Maybe 1 won't dream, this time. He started 
to roll over, searching for a dry place on the sheets&#8209;and froze, listening to 
small rustlings in the darkness. He was not alone.
The Sword That Is Not a Sword lay across the room, beyond his reach, on a 
throne-like stand the High Lords had given him, no doubt in the hopes he would 
keep Callandor out of their sight. Someone wanting to steal Callandor. A second 
thought came. Or to kill the Dragon Reborn. He did not need Thom's whispered 
warnings to know that the High Lords' professions of undying loyalty were only 
words of necessity.
He emptied himself of thought and emotions, assuming the Void; that much came 
without effort. Floating in the cold emptiness within himself, thought and 
emotion outside, he reached for the True Source. This time he touched it easily, 
which was not always the case.
Saidin filled him like a torrent of white heat and light, exalting him with 
life, sickening him with the foulness of the Dark One's taint, like a skim of 
sewage floating on pure, sweet water. The torrent threatened to wash him away, 
burn him up, engulf him.
Fighting the flood, he mastered it by bare effort of will and rolled from the 
bed, channeling the Power as he landed on his feet in the stance to begin the 
sword&#8209;form called Apple Blossoms in the Wind. His enemies could not be many or 
they would have made more noise; the gently named form was meant for use against 
more than one opponent.
As his feet hit the carpet, a sword was in his hands, with a long hilt and a 
slightly curved blade sharp on only one edge. It looked to have been wrought 
from flame yet it did not feel even warm. The figure of a heron stood black 
against the yellow&#8209;red of the blade. In the same instant every candle and gilded 
lamp burst alight, small mirrors behind them swelling the illumination. Larger 
mirrors on the walls and two stand&#8209;mirrors reflected it further, until he could 
have read comfortably anywhere in the large room.
Callandor sat undisturbed, a sword seemingly of glass, hilt and blade, on a 
stand as tall as a man and just as wide, the wood ornately carved and gilded and 
set with precious stones. The furnishings, too, were all gilded and begemmed, 
bed and chairs and benches, wardrobes and chests and washstand. The pitcher and 
bowl were golden Sea Folk porcelain, as thin as leaves. The broad Tarabon 
carpet, in scrolls of scarlet and gold and blue, could have fed an entire 
village for months. Almost every flat surface held more delicate Sea Folk 
porcelain, or else goblets and bowls and ornaments of gold worked with silver, 
and silver chased with gold. On the broad marble mantel over the fireplace, two 
silver wolves with ruby eyes tried to pull down a golden stag a good three feet 
tall. Draperies of scarlet silk embroidered with eagles in thread&#8209;of­-gold hung 
at the narrow windows, stirring slightly in a failing wind. Books lay wherever 
there was room, leather&#8209;bound, wood&#8209;bound, some tattered and still dusty from 
the deepest shelves of the Stone's library.
Now, where he had thought to see assassins, or thieves, one beautiful young 
woman stood hesitant and surprised in the middle of the carpet, black hair 
falling in shining waves to her shoulders. Her thin, white silk robe emphasized 
more than it hid. Berelain, ruler of the city&#8209;state of Mayene, was the last 
person he had expected.
After one wide&#8209;eyed start, she made a deep, graceful curtsy that drew her 
garments tight. "I am unarmed, my Lord Dragon. I submit myself to your search, 
if you doubt me." Her smile suddenly made him uncomfortably aware that he wore 
nothing but his smallclothes.
I'll be burned if she makes me scramble around trying to cover myself. The 
thought floated beyond the Void. I didn't ask her to walk in on me. To sneak in! 
Anger and embarrassment drifted along the borders of emptiness too, but his face 
reddened all the same; dimly he was aware of it, aware of the knowledge 
deepening the flush in his cheeks. So coldly calm within the Void; outside . . . 
. He could feel each individual droplet of sweat sliding down his chest and 
back. It took a real effort of stubborn will to stand there under her eyes. 
Search her? The Light help me!
Relaxing his stance, he let the sword vanish but held the narrow flow connecting 
him to saidin. It was like drinking from a hole in a dike when the whole long 
mound of earth wanted to give way, the water sweet as honeyed wine and sickening 
as a rivulet through a midden.
He did not know much of this woman, except that she walked through the Stone as 
if it were her palace in Mayene. Thom said the First of Mayene asked questions 
constantly, of everyone. Questions about Rand. Which might have been natural, 
given what he was, but they made him no easier in his mind. And she had not 
returned to Mayene. That was not natural. She had been held captive in all but 
name for months, until his arrival, cut off from her throne and the ruling of 
her small nation. Most people would have taken the first opportunity to get away 
from a man who could channel.
"What are you doing here?" He knew he sounded harsh, and did not care. "There 
were Aiel guarding that door when I went to sleep. How did you come past them?"
Berelain's lips curved up a trifle more; to Rand it seemed the room had gotten 
suddenly even hotter. "They passed me through immediately, when I said I had 
been summoned by the Lord Dragon."
"Summoned? I didn't summon anybody." Stop this, he told himself. She's a queen, 
or the next thing to it. You know as much about the ways of queens as you do 
about flying. He tried to make himself be civil, only he did not know what to 
call the First of Mayene. "My Lady . . ." That would have to do. ". . . why 
would I summon you at this time of night?"
She gave a low, rich laugh, deep in her throat; even wrapped in emotionless 
emptiness it seemed to tickle his skin, make the hairs stir on his arms and 
legs. Suddenly he took in her clinging garb as if for the first time, and felt 
himself go red all over again. She can't mean . . . . Can she? Light, I've never 
said two words to her before.
"Perhaps I wish to talk, my Lord Dragon." She let the pale robe fall to the 
floor, revealing an even thinner white silk garment he could only call a 
nightgown. It left her smooth shoulders completely bare, and exposed a 
considerable expanse of pale bosom. He found himself wondering distantly what 
held it up. It was difficult not to stare. "You are a long way from your home, 
like me. The nights especially seem lonely."
"Tomorrow, I will be happy to talk with you."
"But during the day, people surround you. Petitioners. High Lords. Aiel." She 
gave a shiver; he told himself he really ought to look away, but he could as 
easily have stopped breathing. He had never before been so aware of his own 
reactions when wrapped in the Void. "The Aiel frighten me, and I do not like 
Tairen lords of any sort. "
About the Tairens he could believe her, but he did not think anything frightened 
this woman. Burn me, she's in a strange man's bedchamber in the middle of the 
night, only half&#8209;dressed, and I'm the one who's jumpy as a cat in a dog run, 
Void or no. It was time to put an end to things before they went too far.
"It would be better if you return to your own bedchamber, my Lady." Part of him 
wanted to tell her to put on a cloak, too. A thick cloak. Part of him did. "It. 
. . . It is really too late for talking. Tomorrow. In daylight."
She gave him a slanted, quizzical look. "Have you absorbed stuffy Tairen ways 
already, my Lord Dragon? Or is this reticence something from your Two Rivers? We 
are not so . . . formal . . . in Mayene."
"My Lady. . . ." He tried to sound formal; if she did not like formality, that 
was what he wanted. "I am promised to Egwene al'Vere, my Lady."
"You mean the Aes Sedai, my Lord Dragon? If she really is Aes Sedai. She is 
quite young &#8209; perhaps too young &#8209; to wear the ring and the shawl." Berelain 
spoke as if Egwene were a child, though she herself could not be more than a 
year older than Rand, if that, and he had only a little over two years on 
Egwene. "My Lord Dragon, I do not mean to come between you. Marry her, if she is 
Green Ajah. I would never aspire to wed the Dragon Reborn himself. Forgive me if 
I overstep myself, but I told you we are not so . . . formal in Mayene. May I 
call you Rand?"
Rand surprised himself by sighing regretfully. There had been a glint in her 
eye, a slight shift of expression, gone quickly, when she mentioned marrying the 
Dragon Reborn. If she had not considered it before, she had now. The Dragon 
Reborn, not Rand al'Thor; the man of prophecy, not the shepherd from the Two 
Rivers. He was not shocked, exactly; some girls back home mooned over whoever 
proved himself fastest or strongest in the games at Bel Tine and Sunday, and now 
and again a woman set her eyes on the man with the richest fields or the largest 
flocks. It would have been good to think she wanted Rand al'Thor. "It is time 
for you to go, my Lady," he said quietly.
She stepped closer. "I can feel your eyes on me, Rand." Her voice was smoky 
heat. "I am no village girl tied to her mother's apron, and I know you want&#8209;"
"Do you think I'm made of stone, woman?" She jumped at his roar, but the next 
instant she was crossing the carpet, reaching for him, her eyes dark pools that 
could pull a man into their depths.
"Your arms look as strong as stone. If you think you must be harsh with me, then 
be harsh, so long as you hold me." Her hands touched his face; sparks seemed to 
leap from her fingers.
Without thinking he channeled the flows still linked to him, and suddenly she 
was staggering back, eyes wide with startlement, as if a wall of air pushed her. 
It was air, he realized; he did things without knowing what he was doing more 
often than he did know. At least, once done, he could usually remember how to do 
them again.
The unseen, moving wall scraped ripples along the carpet, sweeping along 
Berelain's discarded robe, a boot he had tossed aside undressing, and a red 
leather footstool supporting an open volume of Eban Vandes's The History of the 
Stone of Tear, pushing them along as it forced her almost to the wall, fenced 
her in. Safely away from him. He tied off the flow &#8209; that was all he could think 
to call what he did &#8209; and no longer needed to maintain the shield himself. For a 
moment he studied what he had done, until he was sure he could repeat it. It 
looked useful, especially the tying off.
Dark eyes still wide, Berelain felt along the confines of her invisible prison 
with trembling hands. Her face was almost as white as her skimpy silk shift. 
Footstool, boot and book lay at her feet, jumbled with the robe.
"Much as I regret it," he told her, "we will not speak again, except in public, 
my Lady." He really did regret it. Whatever her motives, she was beautiful. Burn 
me, I am a fool! He was not sure how he meant that &#8209; for thinking of her beauty, 
or for sending her away. "In fact, it is best you arrange your journey back to 
Mayene as soon as possible. I promise you that Tear will not trouble Mayene 
again. You have my word." It was a promise good only for his lifetime, perhaps 
only as long as he stood in the Stone, but he had to offer her something. A 
bandage for wounded pride, a gift to take her mind off being afraid.
But her fear was already under control, on the outside, at least. Honesty and 
openness filled her face, all efforts at allure gone. "Forgive me. I have 
handled this badly. I did not mean to offend. In my country, a woman may speak 
her mind to a man freely, or he to her. Rand, you must know that you are a 
handsome man, tall and strong. I would be the one made of stone, if I did not 
see it, and admire. Please do not send me away from you. I will beg it, if you 
wish." She knelt smoothly, like a dance. Her expression still said she was being 
open, confessing everything, but on the other hand, in kneeling she had managed 
to tug her already precarious gown down until it looked in real danger of 
falling off. "Please, Rand?"
Even sheltered in emptiness as he was, he gaped at her, and it had nothing to do 
with her beauty or her near undress. Well, only partly. If the Defenders of the 
Stone had been half as determined as this woman, half as steadfast in purpose, 
ten thousand Aiel could never have taken the Stone.
"I am flattered, my Lady," he said diplomatically. "Believe me, I am. But it 
would not be fair to you. I cannot give you what you deserve." And let her make 
of that what she will.
Outside in the darkness, a cock crowed.
To Rand's surprise, Berelain suddenly stared past him, eyes as big as teacups. 
Her mouth dropped open, and her slim throat corded with a scream that would not 
come. He spun, the yellow&#8209;red sword flashing back into his hands.
Across the room, one of the stand&#8209;mirrors threw his reflection back at him, a 
tall young man with reddish hair and gray eyes, wearing only white linen 
smallclothes and holding a sword carved from fire. The reflection stepped out 
onto the carpet, raising its sword.
I have gone mad. Thought drifted on the borders of the Void. No! She saw it. 
It's real!
Movement to his left caught the comer of his eye. He twisted before he could 
think, sword sweeping up in The Moon Rises Over Water. The blade slashed through 
the shape &#8209; his shape &#8209; climbing out of a mirror on the wall. The form wavered, 
broke up like dust motes floating on air, vanished. Rand's reflection appeared 
in the mirror again, but even as it did, it put hands on the mirror frame. He 
was aware of movement in mirrors all around the room.
Desperately, he stabbed at the mirror. Silvered glass shattered, yet it seemed 
that the image shattered first. He thought he heard a distant scream inside his 
head, his own voice screaming, fading. Even as shards of mirror fell, he lashed 
out with the One Power. Every mirror in the room exploded silently, fountaining 
glass across the carpet. The dying scream in his head echoed again and again, 
sending shivers down his back. It was his voice; he could hardly believe it was 
not himself who made the sounds.
He spun back to face the one that had gotten out, just in time to meet its 
attack, Unfolding the Fan to counter Stones Falling Down the Mountain. The 
figure leaped back, and suddenly Rand realized it was not alone. As quickly as 
he had smashed the mirrors, two more reflections had escaped. Now they stood 
facing him, three duplicates of himself down to the puckered round scar on his 
side, all staring at him, faces twisted with hatred and contempt, with a strange 
hunger. Only their eyes seemed empty, lifeless. Before he could take a breath, 
they rushed at him.
Rand stepped sideways, pieces of broken mirror slicing his feet, ever sideways, 
from stance to stance and form to form, trying to face only one at a time. He 
used everything Lan, Moiraine's Warder, had taught him of the sword in their 
daily practice.
Had the three fought together, had they supported one another, he would have 
died in the first minute, but each fought him alone, as if the others did not 
exist. Even so, he could not stop their blades entirely; in minutes blood ran 
down the side of his face, his chest, his arms. The old wound tore open, adding 
its flow to stain his smallclothes with red. They had his skill as well as his 
face, and they were three to his one. Chairs and tables toppled; priceless Sea 
Folk porcelain shattered on the carpet.
He felt his strength ebbing. None of his cuts was major by itself, except the 
old wound, but all together . . . . He never thought of calling for help from 
the Aiel outside his door. The thick walls would stifle even a death scream. 
Whatever was done, he must do alone. He fought wrapped in the cold 
emotionlessness of the Void, but fear scraped at its boundaries like wind&#8209;lashed 
branches scratching a window in the night.
His blade slipped past its opponent to slash across a face just below the eyes &#8209; 
he could not help wincing; it was his face &#8209; its owner sliding back just far 
enough to avoid a killing cut. Blood welled from the gash, veiling mouth and 
chin in dark crimson, but the ruined face did not change expression, and its 
empty eyes never flickered. It wanted him dead the way a starving man wanted 
food.
Can anything kill them? All three bled from the wounds he had managed to 
inflict, but bleeding did not seem to slow them as he knew it was slowing him. 
They tried to avoid his sword, but did not appear to realize they had been hurt. 
If they have been, he thought grimly. Light, if they bleed, they can be hurt! 
They must!
He needed a respite, a moment to catch his breath, to gather himself. Suddenly 
he leaped away from them, onto the bed, rolling across its width. He sensed 
rather than saw blades slashing the sheets, barely missing his flesh. 
Staggering, he landed on his feet, caught at a small table to steady himself. 
The shining, gold&#8209;worked silver bowl on the table wobbled. One of his doubles 
had climbed onto the torn bed, kicking goose feathers as it padded across 
warily, sword at the ready. The other two came slowly around, still ignoring 
each other, intent only on him. Their eyes glistened like glass.
Rand shuddered as pain stabbed his hand on the table. An image of himself, no 
more than six inches tall, drew back its small sword. Instinctively, he grabbed 
the figure before it could stab again. It writhed in his grip, baring teeth at 
him. He became aware of small movements all around the room, of small 
reflections by the score stepping out of polished silver. His hand began to 
numb, to grow cold, as if the thing were sucking the warmth out of his flesh. 
The heat of saidin swelled inside him; a rushing filled his head, and the heat 
flowed into his icy hand.
Suddenly the small figure burst like a bubble, and he felt something flow into 
him &#8209; from the bursting &#8209; some little portion of his lost strength. He jerked as 
tiny jolts of vitality seemed to pelt him.
When he raised his head &#8209; wondering why he was not dead &#8209; the small reflections 
he had half&#8209;glimpsed were gone. The three larger stood wavering, as if his gain 
in strength had been their loss. Yet as he looked up, they steadied on their 
feet and came on, if more cautiously.
He backed away, thinking furiously, sword threatening first one and then 
another. If he continued to fight them as he had been, they would kill him 
sooner or later. He knew that as surely as he knew he was bleeding. But 
something linked the reflections. Absorbing the small one &#8209; the far&#8209;off thought 
made him queasy, but that was what it had been &#8209; had not only brought the others 
with it, it had also affected the bigger, for a moment at least. If he could do 
the same to one of them, it might destroy all three.
Even thinking of absorbing them made him vaguely aware of wanting to empty his 
stomach, but he did not know another way. I don't know this way. How did I do 
it? Light, what did I do? He had to grapple with one of them, to touch it at 
least; he was somehow sure of that. But if he tried to get that close, he would 
have three blades through him in as many heartbeats. Reflections. How much are 
they still reflections?
Hoping he was not being a fool &#8209; if he was, he might well be a dead one &#8209; he let 
his sword vanish. He was ready to bring it back on the instant, but when his 
carved&#8209;fire blade winked out of existence, the others' did, too. For a moment, 
confusion painted three copies of his face, one a bloody ruin. But before he 
could seize one of them, they leaped for him, all four crashing to the floor in 
a tangle of grappling limbs, rolling across the glass&#8209;littered carpet.
Cold soaked into Rand. Numbness crept along his limbs, through his bones, until 
he barely felt the shards of mirror, the slivers of porcelain grinding into his 
flesh. Something dose to panic flickered across the emptiness surrounding him. 
He might have made a fatal mistake. They were larger than the one he had 
absorbed, and they were drawing more heat from him. And not only heat. As he 
grew colder, the glassy gray eyes staring into his took on life. With chill 
certainty he knew that if he died, that would not end the struggle. The three 
would turn on one another until only one remained, and that one would have his 
life, his memories, would be him.
Stubbornly he fought, struggling harder the weaker he became. He pulled on 
saidin, trying to fill himself with its heat. Even the stomach&#8209;turning taint was 
welcome, for the more of it he felt, the more saidin suffused him. If his 
stomach could rebel, then he was still alive, and if he lived, he could fight. 
But how? How? What did I do before? Saidin raged through him till it seemed that 
if he survived his attackers, he would only be consumed by the Power. How did I 
do it? All he could do was pull at saidin, and try . . . reach . . . strain. . . 
.
One of the three vanished &#8209; Rand felt it slide into him; it was as if he had 
fallen from a height, flat onto stony ground &#8209; and then the other two together. 
The impact flung him onto his back, where he lay staring up at the worked 
plaster ceiling with its gilded bosses, lay luxuriating in the fact that he was 
still breathing.
The Power still swelled in every crevice of his being. He wanted to spew up 
every meal he had ever eaten. He felt so alive that, by comparison, life not 
soaked in saidin was living a shadow. He could smell the beeswax of the candles, 
and the oil in the lamps. He could feel every fiber of the carpet against his 
back. He could feel every gash in his flesh, every cut, every nick, every 
bruise. But he held on to saidin.
One of the Forsaken had tried to kill him. Or all of them had. It must have been 
that, unless the Dark One was free already, in which case he did not think he 
would have faced anything as easy or as simple as this. So he held his link to 
the True Source. Unless I did it myself. Can I hate what I am enough to try to 
kill myself? Without even knowing it? Light, I have to learn to control it. I 
have to!
Painfully, he pushed himself up. Leaving bloody footprints on the carpet, he 
limped to the stand where Callandor rested. Blood from hundreds of cuts covered 
him. He lifted the sword, and its glassy length glowed with the Power flowing 
into it. The Sword That Is Not a Sword. That blade, apparently glass, would cut 
as well as the finest steel, yet Callandor truly was not a sword, but instead a 
remnant of the Age of Legends, a sa'angreal. With the aid of one of the 
relatively few angreal known to have survived the War of the Shadow and Breaking 
of the World, it was possible to channel flows of the One Power that would have 
burned the channeler to ash without it. With one of the even rarer sa'angreal, 
the flows could be increased as much over those possible with an angreal as an 
angreal increased them over channeling naked. And Callandor, usable only by a 
man, linked to the Dragon Reborn through three thousand years of legend and 
prophecy, was one of the most powerful sa'angreal ever made. Holding Callandor 
in his hands, he could level a city's walls at a blow. Holding Callandor in his 
hands, he could face even one of the Forsaken. It was them. It must have been.
Abruptly he realized he had not heard a sound from Berelain. Half fearing to see 
her dead, he turned.
Still kneeling, she flinched. She had donned her robe again, and hugged it 
around her like steel armor, or stone walls. Face as white as snow, she licked 
her lips. "Which one are . . . ?" She swallowed and began again. "Which one . . 
. ?" She could not finish it.
"I am the only one there is," he said gently. "The one you were treating as if 
we were betrothed." He meant it to soothe her, perhaps make her smile &#8209; surely a 
woman as strong as she had shown herself to be could smile, even facing a 
blood&#8209;drenched man &#8209; but she bent forward, pressing her face to the floor.
"I apologize humbly for having most grievously offended you, Lord Dragon." Her 
breathy voice did sound humble, and frightened. Completely unlike herself. "I 
beg you to forget my offense, and forgive. I will not bother you again. I swear 
it, my Lord Dragon. On my mother's name and under the Light, I swear it."
He loosed the knotted flow; the invisible wall confining her became a momentary 
stir that ruffled her robe. "There is nothing to forgive," he said wearily. He 
felt very tired. "Go as you wish."
She straightened hesitantly, stretched out a hand, and gave a relieved gasp when 
it encountered nothing. Gathering the skirts of her robe, she began to pick her 
way across the glass&#8209;littered carpet, shards grating under her velvet slippers. 
Short of the door, she stopped, facing him with an obvious effort. Her eyes 
could not quite meet his. "I will send the Aiel in to you, if you wish. I could 
send for one of the Aes Sedai to tend your wounds."
She would as soon be in a room with a Myrddraal, now, or the Dark One himself, 
but she's no milksop. "Thank you," he said quietly, "but no. I would appreciate 
it if you told no one what happened here. Not yet. I will do what needs to be 
done." It had to be the Forsaken.
"As my Lord Dragon commands." She gave him a tight curtsy and hurried out, 
perhaps afraid he might change his mind about letting her go.
"As soon the Dark One himself," he murmured as the door closed behind her.
Limping to the foot of the bed, he lowered himself into the chest there and laid 
Callandor across his knees, bloody hands resting on the glowing blade. With that 
in his hands, even one of the Forsaken would fear him. In a moment he would send 
for Moiraine to Heal his wounds. In a moment he would speak to the Aiel outside, 
and become the Dragon Reborn again. But for now, he only wanted to sit, and 
remember a shepherd named Rand al'Thor.
 
CHAPTER
3
 
Reflection
 
Despite the hour, a good many people were hurrying through the Stone's wide 
corridors, a steady trickle of men and women in the black and gold of Stone 
servants or the livery of one High Lord or another. Now and again a Defender or 
two appeared, bareheaded and unarmed, some with their coats undone. The servants 
bowed or curtsied to Perrin and Faile if they came close, then hurried on with 
hardly a pause. Most of the soldiers gave a start on seeing them. Some bowed 
stiffly, hand to heart, but one and all quickened their steps as if eager to be 
away.
Only one lamp in three or four was lit. In the dim stretches between their tall 
stands, shadows blurred the hanging tapestries and obscured the occasional chest 
against the wall. For any eyes but Perrin's, they did. His eyes glowed like 
burnished gold in those murky lengths of hall. He walked quickly from lamp to 
lamp and kept his gaze down unless he was in full light. Most people in the 
Stone knew about his strangely colored eyes, one way or another. None of them 
mentioned it, of course. Even Faile seemed to assume the color was part of his 
association with an Aes Sedai, something that simply was, to be accepted but 
never explained. Even so, a prickling always ran across his back whenever he 
realized that a stranger had seen his eyes shining in the dark. When they held 
their tongues, the silence only emphasized his apartness.
"I wish they wouldn't look at me like that," he muttered as a grizzled Defender 
twice his age came close to running once he had passed. "As though they are 
afraid of me. They haven't before; not this way. Why aren't all these people in 
bed?" A woman carrying a mop and a bucket bobbed a curtsy and scurried by with 
her head down.
Her arm twined through his, Faile glanced at him. "I would say the guards are 
not supposed to be in this part of the Stone unless they are on duty. A good 
time to cuddle a maid on a lord's chair, and maybe pretend they are the lord and 
lady, while lord and lady are asleep. They are probably worried that you might 
report them. And servants do most of their work at night. Who would want them 
underfoot, sweeping and dusting and polishing, in daylight?"
Perrin nodded doubtfully. He supposed she would know about such things from her 
father's house. A successful merchant likely had servants, and guards for his 
wagons. At least these folk were not out of their beds because what had happened 
to him had happened to them, too. If that were the case, they would be out of 
the Stone altogether, and likely still running. But why had he been a target, 
singled out, as it seemed? He was not looking forward to confronting Rand, but 
he had to know. Faile had to stretch her stride to keep up with him.
For all its splendor, all the gold and fine carving and inlays, the interior of 
the Stone had been designed for war as much as its exterior had been. 
Murderholes dotted the ceiling wherever corridors crossed. Never used arrowslits 
peeked into the halls at places where they might cover an entire hallway. He and 
Faile climbed narrow, curving staircase after narrow, curving staircase, all 
built into the walls or else enclosed, with more arrowslits looking down on the 
corridor below. None of this design had hampered the Aiel, of course, the first 
enemy ever to get beyond the outer wall.
As they trotted up one of the winding stairs &#8209; Perrin did not realize they were 
trotting, though he would have been moving faster if not for Faile on his arm &#8209; 
he caught a whiff of old sweat and a hint of sickly&#8209;sweet perfume, but they 
registered only in the back of his brain. He was caught up in what he was going 
to say to Rand. Why did you try to kill me? Are you going mad already? There was 
no easy way to ask, and he did not expect easy answers.
Stepping out into a shadowed corridor nearly at the top of the Stone, he found 
himself staring at the backs of a High Lord and two of the nobleman's personal 
guards. Only the Defenders were allowed to wear armor inside the Stone, but 
these three had swords at their hips. That was not unusual, of course, but their 
presence here, on this floor, in the shadows, staring intently at the bright 
light at the far end of the hall, that was not usual at all. That light came 
from the anteroom in front of the chambers Rand had been given. Or taken. Or 
maybe been pushed into by Moiraine.
Perrin and Faile had made no effort to be quiet in climbing the stairs, but the 
three men were so intent in their watching that none of them noticed the new 
arrivals at first. Then one of the blue&#8209;coated bodyguards twisted his head as if 
working a cramp in his neck; his mouth dropped open when he saw them. Biting off 
an oath, the fellow whirled to face Perrin, baring a good hand of his 
swordblade. The other was only a heartbeat slower. Both stood tensed, ready, but 
their eyes shifted uneasily, sliding off Perrin's. They gave off a sour smell of 
fear. So did the High Lord, though he had his fear tightly reined.
The High Lord Torean, white streaking his dark, pointed beard, moved languidly, 
as if at a ball. Pulling a too sweetly scented handkerchief from his sleeve, he 
dabbed at a knobby nose that appeared not at all large when compared with his 
ears. A fine silk coat with red satin cuffs only exaggerated the plainness of 
his face. He eyed Perrin's shirtsleeves and dabbed his nose again before 
inclining his head slightly. "The Light illumine you," he said politely. His 
glance touched Perrin's yellow stare and flinched away, though his expression 
did not change. "You are well, I trust?" Perhaps too politely.
Perrin did not really care for the man's tone, but the way Torean looked Faile 
up and down, with a sort of casual interest, clenched his fists. He managed to 
keep his voice level, though. "The Light illumine you, High Lord Torean. I am 
glad to see you helping keep watch over the Lord Dragon. Some men in your place 
might resent him being here."
Torean's thin eyebrows twitched. "Prophecy has been fulfilled, and Tear has 
fulfilled its place in that prophecy. Perhaps the Dragon Reborn will lead Tear 
to a still greater destiny. What man could resent that? But it is late. A good 
night to you." He eyed Faile again, pursing his lips, and walked off down the 
hall just a bit too briskly, away from the anteroom's lights. His bodyguards 
heeled him like well&#8209;trained dogs.
"There was no need for you to be uncivil," Faile said in a tight voice when the 
High Lord was out of hearing. "You sounded as if your tongue were frozen iron. 
If you do intend to remain here, you had better learn to get on with the lords."
"He was looking at you as if he wanted to dandle you on his knee. And I do not 
mean like a father."
She sniffed dismissively. "He is not the first man ever to look at me. If he 
found the nerve to try more, I could put him in his place with a frown and a 
glance. I do not need you to speak for me, Perrin Aybara." Still, she did not 
sound entirely displeased.
Scratching his beard, he peered after Torean, watching the High Lord and his 
guards vanish around a distant corner. He wondered how the Tairen lords managed 
without sweating to death. "Did you notice, Faile? His heel&#8209;hounds did not take 
their hands off their swords until he was ten paces clear of us."
She frowned at him, then down the hall after the three, and nodded slowly. 
"You're right. But I do not understand. They do not bow and scrape the way they 
do for him, but everyone walks as warily around you and Mat as they do around 
the Aes Sedai."
"Maybe being a friend of the Dragon Reborn isn't as much protection as it used 
to be.
She did not suggest leaving again, not in words, but her eyes were full of it. 
He was more successful in ignoring the unspoken suggestion than he had been with 
the spoken.
Before they reached the end of the hallway, Berelain came hurrying out of the 
bright lights of the anteroom, clutching a thin white robe tightly around her 
with both arms. If the First of Mayene had been walking any faster, she would 
have been running.
To show Faile he could be as civil as she could possibly wish, Perrin swept a 
bow that he wagered even Mat could not have bettered. By contrast, Faile's 
curtsy was the barest nod of her head, the merest bending of a knee. He hardly 
noticed. As Berelain rushed past them without a glance, the smell of fear, rank 
and raw as a festering wound, made his nostrils twitch. Beside this, Torean's 
fear was nothing. This was mad panic tied with a frayed rope. He straightened 
slowly, staring after her.
"Filling your eyes?" Faile asked softly.
Intent on Berelain, wondering what had driven her so near the brink, he spoke 
without thinking. "She smelled of - "
Far down the corridor, Torean suddenly stepped out of a side hallway to seize 
Berelain's arm. He was talking a torrent, but Perrin could not make out more 
than a handful of scattered words, something about her overstepping herself in 
her pride, and something else that seemed to be Torean offering her his 
protection. Her reply was short, sharp, and even more inaudible, delivered with 
lifted chin. Pulling herself free roughly, the First of Mayene walked away, back 
straight and seemingly more in command of herself. On the point of following, 
Torean saw Perrin watching. Dabbing at his nose with his handkerchief, the High 
Lord vanished back into the crossing corridor.
"I do not care if she smelled of the Essence of Dawn," Faile said darkly. "That 
one is not interested in hunting a bear, however fine his hide would look 
stretched on a wall. She hunts the sun."
He frowned at her. "The sun? A bear? What are you talking about?"
"You go on by yourself. I think I will go to my bed after all."
"If that's what you want," he said slowly, "but I thought you were as eager to 
find out what happened as I am."
"I think not. I'll not pretend I am eager to meet the . . . Rand . . . not after 
avoiding it until now. And now I am especially not eager. No doubt the two of 
you will have a fine talk without me. Especially if there's wine."
"You don't make any sense," he muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "If 
you want to go to bed, then fine, but I wish you would say something I 
understand."
For a long moment she studied his face, then suddenly bit her lip. He thought 
she was trying not to laugh. "Oh, Perrin, sometimes I believe it is your 
innocence I enjoy most of all." Sure enough, traces of laughter silvered her 
voice. "You go on to . . . to your friend and tell me of it in the morning. As 
much as you want to." She pulled his head down to brush his lips with a kiss 
and, as quick as the kiss, ran back down the hallway.
Shaking his head, he watched until she turned in to the stairs with no sign of 
Torean. Sometimes it was as if she spoke another language. He headed toward the 
lights.
The anteroom was a round chamber fifty paces or more across. A hundred gilded 
lamps hung on golden chains from its high ceiling. Polished redstone columns 
made an inner ring, and the floor appeared to be one huge slab of black marble, 
streaked with gold. It had been the anteroom of the king's chambers, in the days 
when Tear had kings, before Artur Hawkwing put everything from the Spine of the 
World to the Aryth Ocean under one king. The Tairen kings had not returned when 
Hawkwing's empire collapsed, and for a thousand years the only inhabitants of 
these apartments had been mice tracking through dust. No High Lord had ever had 
enough power to dare claim them for his own.
A ring of fifty Defenders stood rigidly in the middle of the room, breastplates 
and rimmed helmets gleaming, spears all slanted at exactly the same angle. 
Facing every direction as they did, they were supposed to keep all intruders 
from the current lord of the Stone. Their commander, a captain distinguished by 
two short white plumes on his helmet, held himself only a trifle less stiffly. 
He posed with one hand on his sword hilt and the other on his hip, 
self&#8209;important with his duty. They all smelled of fear and uncertainty, like men 
who lived under a crumbling cliff and had almost managed to convince themselves 
it would never fall. Or at least not tonight. Not in the next hour.
Perrin walked on by them, his bootheels making echoes. The officer started 
toward him, then hesitated when Perrin did not stop to be challenged. He knew 
who Perrin was, of course; at least, he knew as much as any Tairen knew. 
Traveling companion of Aes Sedai, friend of the Lord Dragon. Not a man to be 
interfered with by a mere officer of the Defenders of the Stone. There was his 
apparent task of guarding the Lord Dragon's rest, of course, but though he 
probably did not admit it even to himself, the officer had to know that he and 
his brave show of polished armor were simply that. The real guards were those 
Perrin met when he strode beyond the columns and approached the doors to Rand's 
chambers.
They had been sitting so still behind the columns that they seemed to fade into 
the stone, though their coats and breeches &#8209; in shades of gray and brown, made 
to hide them in the Waste &#8209; stood out here as soon as they moved. Six Maidens of 
the Spear, Aiel women who had chosen a warrior's life over the hearth, flowed 
between him and the doors on soft, laced boots that reached their knees. They 
were tall for women, the tallest barely a hand shorter than he, sun&#8209;darkened, 
with short&#8209;cropped hair, yellow or red or something in between. Two held curved 
horn bows with arrows nocked, if not drawn. The others carried small hide 
bucklers and three or four short spears each &#8209; short, but with spearheads long 
enough to stick through a man's body with inches to spare.
"I do not think I can let you go in," a woman with flame&#8209;colored hair said, 
smiling slightly to take the sting out of the words. Aiel did not go about 
grinning as much as other folk, or show a great deal of any outward emotion for 
that matter. "I think he does not want to see anyone tonight."
"I am going in, Bain." Ignoring her spears, he took her by the upper arms. That 
was when it became impossible to ignore the spears, since she had managed to get 
a spearpoint hard against the side of his throat. For that matter, a somewhat 
blonder woman named Chiad suddenly had one of her spears at the other side, as 
if the two were intended to meet somewhere in the middle of his neck. The other 
women only watched, confident that Bain and Chiad could handle whatever had to 
be done. Still, he did his best. "I don't have time to argue with you. Not that 
you listen to people who argue with you, as I remember. I am going in." As 
gently as he could, he picked Bain up and set her out of his way.
Chiad's spear only needed her to breathe on it to draw blood, but after one 
startled widening of dark blue eyes, Bain abruptly took hers away and grinned. 
"Would you like to learn a game called Maidens' Kiss, Perrin? You might play 
well, I think. At the very least you would learn something." One of the others 
laughed aloud. Chiad's spearpoint left his neck.
He took a deep breath, hoping they would not notice it was his first since the 
spears touched him. They had not veiled their faces &#8209; their shoufa lay coiled 
around their necks like dark scarves &#8209; but he did not know if Aiel had to do so 
before they killed, only that veiling meant they were ready to.
"Another time, perhaps," he said politely. They were all grinning as if Bain had 
said something amusing, and his not understanding was part of the humor. Thom 
was right. A man could go crazy trying to understand women, of any nation and 
any station in life; that was what Thom said.
As he reached for a door handle in the shape of a rearing golden lion, Bain 
added, "On your head be it. He has already chased out what most men would 
consider better company by far than you."
Of course, he thought, pulling open the door, Berelain. She was coming from 
here. Tonight, everything it revolving around &#8209; 
The First of Mayene vanished from his thoughts as he got a look into the room. 
Broken mirrors hung on the walls and broken glass covered the floor, along with 
shards of shattered porcelain and feathers from the slashed mattress. Open books 
lay tumbled among overturned chairs and benches. And Rand was sitting at the 
foot of his bed, slumped against one of the bedposts with eyes closed and hands 
limp atop Callandor, which lay across his knees. He looked as if he had taken a 
bath in blood.
"Get Moiraine!" Perrin snapped at the Aiel women. Was Rand still alive? If he 
was, he needed Aes Sedai Healing to stay that way. "Tell her to hurry!" He heard 
a gasp behind him, then soft boots running.
Rand lifted his head. His face was a smeared mask. "Shut the door."
"Moiraine will be here soon, Rand. Rest easy. She will &#8209; "
"Shut the door, Perrin."
Murmuring among themselves, the Aiel women frowned, but moved back. Perrin 
pulled the door to, cutting off a questioning shout from the white&#8209;plumed 
officer.
Glass crunched under his boots as he crossed the carpet to Rand. Tearing a strip 
from a wildly sliced linen sheet, he wadded it against the wound in Rand's side. 
Rand's hands tightened on the transparent sword at the pressure, then relaxed. 
Blood soaked through almost immediately. Cuts and gashes covered him from the 
soles of his feet to his head; slivers of glass glittered in many of them. 
Perrin rolled his shoulders helplessly. He did not know what more to do, other 
than wait for Moiraine.
"What under the Light did you try to do, Rand? You look as though you tried to 
skin yourself. And you nearly killed me, as well." For a moment he thought Rand 
was not going to answer.
"Not me," Rand said finally, in a near whisper. "One of the Forsaken."
Perrin tried to relax muscles he did not remember tensing. The effort was only 
partly successful. He had mentioned the Forsaken to Faile, not exactly casually, 
but by and large he had been trying not to think of what the Forsaken might do 
when they found out where Rand was. If one of them could bring down the Dragon 
Reborn, he or she would stand high above the others when the Dark One broke 
free. The Dark One free, and the Last Battle lost before it was fought.
"Are you sure?" he said, just as quietly.
"It had to be, Perrin. It had to be."
"If one of them came after me as well as you . . . ? Where's Mat, Rand? If he 
was alive, and went through what I did, he'd be thinking what I did. That it was 
you. He'd be here by now to bless you out."
"Or on a horse and halfway to the city gates." Rand struggled to sit erect. 
Drying blood smears cracked, and fresh trickles started on his chest and 
shoulders. "If he is dead, Perrin, you had best get as far from me as you can. I 
think you and Loial are right about that." He paused, studying Perrin. "You and 
Mat must wish I had never been born. Or at least that you'd never seen me."
There was no point in going to check; if anything had happened to Mat, it was 
over and done now. And he had a feeling that his makeshift bandage pressed 
against Rand's side might be what would keep him alive long enough for Moiraine 
to get there. "You don't seem to care if he has gone off. Burn me, he's 
important, too. What are you going to do if he's gone? Or dead, the Light send 
it not so."
"What they least expect." Rand's eyes looked like morning mist covering the 
dawn, blue&#8209;gray with a feverish glow seeping through. His voice had a knife 
edge. "That is what I have to do in any case. What everyone least expects."
Perrin took a slow breath. Rand had a right to taut nerves. It was not a sign of 
incipient madness. He had to stop watching for signs of madness. Those signs 
would come soon enough, and watching would do nothing but keep his stomach tied 
in knots. "What's that?" he asked quietly.
Rand closed his eyes. "I only know I have to catch them by surprise. Catch 
everyone by surprise," he muttered fiercely.
One of the doors opened to admit a tall Aielman, his dark red hair touched with 
gray. Behind him the Tairen officer's plumes bobbed as he argued with the 
Maidens; he was still arguing when Bain pushed the door shut.
Rhuarc surveyed the room with sharp blue eyes, as if he suspected enemies hiding 
behind a drape or an overturned chair. The clan chief of the Taardad Aiel had no 
visible weapon except the heavy&#8209;bladed knife at his waist, but he carried 
authority and confidence like weapons, quietly, yet as surely as if they were 
sheathed alongside the knife. And his shoufa hung about his shoulders; no one 
who knew the slightest about Aiel took one for less than dangerous when he wore 
the means to veil his face.
"That Tairen fool outside sent word to his commander that something had happened 
in here," Rhuarc said, "and rumors are already sprouting like corpse moss in a 
deep cave. Everything from the White Tower trying to kill you to the Last Battle 
fought here in this room." Perrin opened his mouth; Rhuarc raised a forestalling 
hand. "I happened to meet Berelain, looking as if she had been told the day she 
would die, and she told me the truth of it. And it does look to be the truth, 
though I doubted her."
"I sent for Moiraine," Perrin said. Rhuarc nodded. Of course, the Maidens would 
have told him everything they knew.
Rand gave a painful bark of a laugh. "I told her to keep quiet. It seems the 
Lord Dragon doesn't rule Mayene." He sounded more wryly amused than anything 
else.
"I have daughters older than that young woman," Rhuarc said. "I do not believe 
she will tell anyone else. I think she would like to forget everything that 
happened tonight. "
"And I would like to know what happened," Moiraine said, gliding into the room. 
Slight and slender as she was, Rhuarc towered over her as much as the man who 
followed her in &#8209; Lan, her Warder &#8209; but it was the Aes Sedai who dominated the 
room. She must have run to come so fast, but she was calm as a frozen lake now. 
It took a great deal to ruffle Moiraine's serenity. Her blue silk gown had a 
high lace neck and sleeves slashed with darker velvet, but the heat and humidity 
did not appear to touch her. A small blue stone, suspended on her forehead from 
a fine golden chain in her dark hair, flashed in the light, emphasizing the 
absence of the slightest sheen of sweat.
As always when they met, Lan's and Rhuarc's icy blue stares nearly struck 
sparks. A braided leather cord held Lan's dark hair, gray&#8209;streaked at the 
temples. His face looked to have been carved from rock, all hard planes and 
angles, and his sword rode his hip like part of his body. Perrin was not sure 
which of the two men was more deadly, but he thought a mouse could starve on the 
difference.
The Warder's eyes swung to Rand. "I thought you were old enough to shave without 
someone to guide your hand."
Rhuarc smiled, a slight smile but the first Perrin had ever seen from him in 
Lan's presence. "He is young yet. He will learn."
Lan glanced back at the Aielman, then returned the smile, just as slightly.
Moiraine gave the two men a brief, withering look. She did not seem to pick her 
way as she crossed the carpet, but she stepped so lightly, holding her skirts 
up, that not one shard of glass crunched under her slippers. Her eyes swept 
around the room; taking in the smallest details, Perrin was sure. For a moment 
she studied him &#8209; he did not meet her gaze; she knew too much about him for 
comfort &#8209; but she bore down on Rand like a silent, silken avalanche, icy and 
inexorable.
Perrin dropped his hand and moved out of her way. The wadded cloth stayed 
against Rand's side, held by congealing blood. From head to foot the blood was 
beginning to dry in black streaks and smears. The slivers of glass in his skin 
glittered in the lamplight. Moiraine touched the blood&#8209;caked cloth with her 
fingertips, then took her hand back as though changing her mind about looking 
underneath. Perrin wondered how the Aes Sedai could look at Rand without 
wincing, but her smooth face did not change. She smelled faintly of rose&#8209;scented 
soap.
"At least you are alive." Her voice was musical, a chill, angry music at the 
moment. "What happened can wait. Try to touch the True Source."
"Why?" Rand asked in a wary voice. "I cannot Heal myself, even if I knew how to 
Heal. No one can. I know that much."
For the space of a breath Moiraine seemed on the point of an outburst, strange 
as that would have been, but in another breath she was once again layered in 
calm so deep that surely nothing could crack it. "Only some of the strength for 
Healing comes from the Healer. The Power can replace what comes from the Healed. 
Without it, you will spend tomorrow flat on your back and perhaps the next day 
as well. Now, draw on the Power, if you can, but do nothing with it. Simply hold 
it. Use this, if you must." She did not have to bend far to touch Callandor.
Rand moved the sword from under her hand. "Simply hold it, you say." He sounded 
about to laugh out loud. "Very well."
Nothing happened that Perrin could see, not that he expected to. Rand sat there 
like the survivor of a lost battle, looking at Moiraine. She hardly blinked. 
Twice she scrubbed her fingers against her palms as if unaware.
After a time Rand sighed. "I cannot even reach the Void. I can't seem to 
concentrate." A quick grin cracked the blood drying on his face. "I do not 
understand why." A thick red thread snaked its way down past his left eye.
"Then I will do it as I always have," Moiraine said, and took Rand's head in her 
hands, careless of the blood that ran over her fingers.
Rand lurched to his feet with a roaring gasp, as if all the breath were being 
squeezed from his lungs, back arching so his head nearly tore free of her grasp. 
One arm flung wide, fingers spread and bending back so far it seemed they must 
break; the other hand clamped down on Callandor's hilt, the muscles of that arm 
knotting visibly into cramps. He shook like cloth caught in a windstorm. Dark 
flakes of dried blood fell, and bits of glass tinkled onto the chest and floor, 
forced out of cuts dosing up and knitting themselves together.
Perrin shivered as if that windstorm roared around him. He had seen Healing done 
before, that and more, greater and worse, but he could never be complacent about 
seeing the Power used, about knowing it was being used, not even for this. Tales 
of Aes Sedai, told by merchants' guards and drivers, had embedded themselves in 
his mind long years before he met Moiraine. Rhuarc smelled sharply uneasy. Only 
Lan took it as a matter of course. Lan and Moiraine.
Almost as soon as it began, it was done. Moiraine took her hands away, and Rand 
slumped, catching the bedpost to hold himself on his feet. It was difficult to 
say whether he clutched the bedpost or Callandor more tenaciously. When Moiraine 
tried to take the sword to replace it on the ornate stand against the wall, he 
drew it away from her firmly, even roughly.
Her mouth tightened momentarily, but she contented herself with pulling the wad 
of cloth from his side, using it to scrub away some of the surrounding smears. 
The old wound was a tender scar again. The other injuries were simply gone. The 
mostly dried blood that still covered him could have come from someone else.
Moiraine frowned. "It still does not respond," she murmured, half to herself. 
"It will not heal completely."
"That is the one that will kill me, isn't it?" he asked her softly, then quoted, 
"'His blood on the rocks of Shayol Ghul, washing away the Shadow, sacrifice for 
man's salvation.' "
"You read too much," she said sharply, "and understand too little."
"Do you understand more? If you do, then tell me."
"He is only trying to find his way," Lan said suddenly. "No man likes to run 
forward blindly when he knows there is a cliff somewhere ahead."
Perrin gave a twitch of surprise. Lan almost never disagreed with Moiraine, or 
at least not where anyone could overhear. He and Rand had been spending a good 
deal of time together, though, practicing the sword.
Moiraine's dark eyes flashed, but what she said was "He needs to be in bed. Will 
you ask that washwater be brought, and another bedchamber prepared? This one 
needs a thorough cleaning and a new mattress." Lan nodded and put his head into 
the anteroom for a moment, speaking quietly.
"I will sleep here, Moiraine." Letting go of the bedpost, Rand pushed himself 
erect, grounding Callandor's point on the littered carpet and resting both hands 
on the hilt. If he leaned a little on the sword, it did not show much. "I won't 
be chased any more. Not even out of a bed."
"Tai'shar Manetheren," Lan murmured.
This time even Rhuarc looked startled, but if Moiraine heard the Warder 
compliment Rand, she gave no sign of it. She was staring at Rand, her face 
smooth but thunderheads in her eyes. Rand wore a quizzical little smile, as if 
wondering what she would try next.
Perrin edged toward the doors. If Rand and the Aes Sedai were going to match 
wills, he would just as soon be elsewhere. Lan did not appear to care; it was 
hard to tell with that stance of his, somehow standing with his back straight 
and slouching at the same time. He could have been bored enough to sleep where 
he stood or ready to draw his sword; his manner suggested either, or both. 
Rhuarc stood much the same, but he was eyeing the doors, too.
"Stay where you are!" Moiraine did not look away from Rand, and her outflung 
finger pointed halfway between Perrin and Rhuarc, but Perrin's feet stopped just 
the same. Rhuarc shrugged and folded his arms.
"Stubborn," Moiraine muttered. This time the word was for Rand. "Very well. If 
you mean to stand there until you drop, you can use the time before you fall on 
your face to tell me what occurred here. I cannot teach you, but if you tell me 
perhaps I can see what you did wrong. A small chance, but perhaps I can." Her 
voice sharpened.
"You must learn to control it, and I do not mean just because of things like 
this. If you do not learn to control the Power, it will kill you. You know that. 
I have told you often enough. You must teach yourself. You must find it within 
yourself."
"I did nothing except survive," he said in a dry voice. She opened her mouth, 
but he went on. "Do you think I could channel and not know it? I didn't do it in 
my sleep. This happened awake." He wavered, and caught himself on the sword.
"Even you could not channel anything but Spirit asleep," Moiraine said coolly, 
"and this was never done with Spirit. I was about to ask what did happen."
Perrin felt his hackles rising as Rand told his story. The axe had been bad 
enough, but at least the axe was something solid, something real. To have your 
own reflection jump out of mirrors at you . . . . Unconsciously he shifted his 
feet, trying not to stand on any fragments of glass.
Soon after he began speaking, Rand glanced behind him at the chest, a quick 
look, as if he did not want it observed. After a moment the slivers of silvered 
glass that were scattered across the lid of the chest stirred and slid off onto 
the carpet as though pushed by an unseen broom. Rand exchanged looks with 
Moiraine, then sat down slowly and went on. Perrin was not sure which of them 
had cleared the chest top. There was no mention of Berelain in the tale.
"It must have been one of the Forsaken," Rand finished at last. "Maybe Sammael. 
You said he's in Illian. Unless one of them is here in Tear. Could Sammael reach 
the Stone from Illian?"
"Not even if he held Callandor," Moiraine told him. "There are limits. Sammael 
is only a man, not the Dark One."
Only a man? Not a very good description, Perrin thought. A man who could 
channel, but who somehow had not gone mad; at least, not yet, not that anyone 
knew. A man perhaps as strong as Rand, but where Rand was trying to learn, 
Sammael knew every trick of his talents already. A man who had spent three 
thousand years trapped in the Dark One's prison, a man who had gone over to the 
Shadow of his own choice. No. "Only a man" did not begin to describe Sammael, or 
any of the Forsaken, male or female.
"Then one of them is here. In the city." Rand put his head down on his wrists, 
but jerked himself erect immediately, glaring at those in the room. "I'll not be 
chased again. I'll be the hound, first. I will find him &#8209; or her &#8209; and I will &#8209; 
"
"Not one of the Forsaken," Moiraine cut in. "I think not. This was too simple. 
And too complex."
Rand spoke calmly. "No riddles, Moiraine. If not the Forsaken, who? Or what?"
The Aes Sedai's face could have done for an anvil, yet she hesitated, feeling 
her way. There was no telling whether she was unsure of the answer or deciding 
how much to reveal.
"As the seals holding the Dark One's prison weaken," she said after a time, "it 
may be inevitable that a . . . miasma . . . will escape even while he is still 
held. Like bubbles rising from the things rotting on the bottom of a pond. But 
these bubbles will drift through the Pattern until they attach to a thread and 
burst."
"Light!" It slipped out before Perrin could stop it. Moiraine's eyes turned to 
him. "You mean what happened to . . . to Rand is going to start happening to 
everybody?"
"Not to everyone. Not yet, at least. In the beginning I think there will only be 
a few bubbles, slipping through cracks the Dark One can reach through. Later, 
who can say? And just as ta'veren bend the other threads in the Pattern around 
them, I think perhaps ta'veren will tend to attract these bubbles more 
powerfully than others do." Her eyes said she knew Rand was not the only one to 
have had a waking nightmare. A brief touch of a smile, there and gone almost 
before he saw it, said he could keep silent if he wished to hold it secret from 
others. But she knew. "Yet in the months to come&#8209;the years, should we be lucky 
enough to have that long&#8209;I fear a good many people will see things to give them 
white hairs, if they survive."
"Mat," Rand said. "Do you know if he . . . ? Is he . . . ?"
"I will know soon enough," Moiraine replied calmly. "What is done cannot be 
undone, but we can hope." Whatever her tone, though, she smelled ill at ease 
until Rhuarc spoke.
"He is well. Or was. I saw him on my way here."
"Going where?" Moiraine said with an edge in her voice.
"He looked to be heading for the servants' quarters," the Aielman told her. He 
knew that the three were ta'veren, if not as much else as he thought he did, and 
he knew Mat well enough to add, "Not the stables, Aes Sedai. The other way, 
toward the river. And there are no boats at the Stone's docks." He did not 
stumble over words like "boat" and "dock" the way most of the Aid did, although 
in the Waste such things existed only in stories.
She nodded as if she had expected nothing else. Perrin shook his head; she was 
so used to hiding her real thoughts, she seemed to veil them out of habit.
Suddenly one of the doors opened and Bain and Chiad slipped in, without their 
spears. Bain was carrying a large white bowl and a fat pitcher with steam rising 
from the top. Chiad had towels folded under her arm.
"Why are you bringing this?" Moiraine demanded.
Chiad shrugged. "She would not come in."
Rand barked a laugh. "Even the servants know enough to stay clear of me. Put it 
anywhere. "
"Your time is running out, Rand," Moiraine said. "The Tairens are becoming used 
to you, after a fashion, and no one fears what is familiar as much as what is 
strange. How many weeks, or days, before someone tries to put an arrow in your 
back or poison in your food? How long before one of the Forsaken strikes, or 
another bubble comes sliding along the Pattern?"
"Don't try to harry me, Moiraine." He was blood filthy, half naked, more than 
half leaning on Callandor to stay sitting up, but he managed to fill those words 
with quiet command. "I will not run for you, either."
"Choose your way soon," she said. "And this time, inform me what you mean to do. 
My knowledge cannot aid you if you refuse to accept my help."
"Your help?" Rand said wearily. "I'll take your help. But I will decide, not 
you." He looked at Perrin as if trying to tell him something without words, 
something he did not want the others to hear. Perrin had not a clue what it was. 
After a moment Rand sighed; his head sank a little. "I want to sleep. All of 
you, go away. Please. We will talk tomorrow." His eyes flickered to Perrin 
again, underscoring the words for him.
Moiraine crossed the room to Bain and Chiad, and the two Aiel women leaned close 
so she could speak for their ears alone. Perrin heard only a buzz, and wondered 
if she was using the Power to stop him eavesdropping. She knew the keenness of 
his hearing. He was sure of it when Bain whispered back and he still could not 
make out anything. The Aes Sedai had done nothing about his sense of smell, 
though. The Aiel women looked at Rand as they listened, and they smelled wary. 
Not afraid, but as if Rand were a large animal that would be dangerous if they 
misstepped.
The Aes Sedai turned back to Rand. "We will talk tomorrow. You cannot sit like a 
partridge waiting for a hunter's net." She was moving for the door before Rand 
could reply. Lan looked at Rand as if about to say something, but followed her 
without speaking.
"Rand?" Perrin said.
"We do what we have to." Rand did not look up from the dear hilt between his 
hands. "We all do what we have to." He smelled afraid.
Perrin nodded and followed Rhuarc out of the room. Moiraine and Lan were nowhere 
in sight. The Tairen officer was staring at the doors from ten paces off, trying 
to pretend the distance was his choice and had nothing to do with the four Aiel 
women watching him. The other two Maidens were still in the bedchamber, Perrin 
realized. He heard voices from the room.
"Go away," Rand said tiredly. "Just put that down and go away."
"If you can stand up," Chiad said cheerfully, "we will. Only stand."
There was the sound of water splashing into a bowl. "We have tended to wounded 
before," Bain said in soothing tones. "And I used to wash my brothers when they 
were little."
Rhuarc pushed the door shut, cutting off the rest.
"You do not treat him the way the Tairens do," Perrin said quietly. "No bowing 
and scraping. I don't think I have heard one of you call him Lord Dragon."
"The Dragon Reborn is a wetlander prophecy," Rhuarc said. "Ours is He Who Comes 
With the Dawn."
"I thought they were the same. Else why did you come to the Stone? Burn me, 
Rhuarc, you Aiel are the People of the Dragon, just as the Prophecies say. 
You've as good as admitted it, even if you won't say it out loud."
Rhuarc ignored the last part. "In your Prophecies of the Dragon, the fall of the 
Stone and the taking of Callandor proclaim that the Dragon has been Reborn. Our 
prophecy says only that the Stone must fall before He Who Comes With the Dawn 
appears to take us back to what was ours. They may be one man, but I doubt even 
the Wise Ones could say for sure. If Rand is the one, there are things he must 
do yet to prove it."
"What?" Perrin demanded.
"If he is the one, he will know, and do them. If he does not, then our search 
still goes on."
Something unreadable in the Aielman's voice pricked Perrin's ears. "And if he 
isn't the one you search for? What then, Rhuarc?"
"Sleep well and safely, Perrin." Rhuarc's soft boots made no sound on the black 
marble as he walked away.
The Tairen officer was still staring past the Maidens, smelling of fear, failing 
to mask the anger and hatred on his face. If the Aiel decided Rand was not He 
Who Comes With the Dawn . . . . Perrin studied the Tairen officer's face and 
thought of the Maidens not being there, of the Stone empty of Aiel, and he 
shivered. He had to make sure Faile decided to leave. That was all there was for 
it. She had to decide to go, and without him.
 
CHAPTER
4
 
Strings
 
Thom Merrilin sprinkled sand across what he had written to blot the ink, then 
carefully poured the sand back into its jar and flipped the lid shut. Riffling 
through the papers scattered in rough piles across the table&#8209;six tallow candles 
made fire a real danger, but he needed the light&#8209;he selected a crumpled sheet 
marred by an inkblot. Carefully he compared it with what he had written, then 
stroked a long white mustache with a thumb in satisfaction and permitted himself 
a leathery&#8209;faced smile. The High Lord Carleon himself would have thought it was 
his own hand.
 
Be wary. Your husband suspects.
 
Only those words, and no signature. Now if he could arrange for the High Lord 
Tedosian to find it where his wife, the Lady Alteima, might carelessly have left 
it . . . .
A knock sounded at the door, and he jumped. No one came to see him at this time 
of the night.
"A moment," he called, hastily stuffing pens and inkpots and selected papers 
into a battered writing chest. "A moment while I put on a shirt."
Locking the chest, he shoved it under the table where it might escape casual 
notice and ran an eye over his small, windowless room to see if he had left 
anything out that should not be seen. Hoops and balls for juggling littered his 
narrow, unmade bed, and lay among his shaving things on a single shelf with fire 
wands and small items for sleight of hand. His gleeman's cloak, covered with 
loose patches in a hundred colors, hung from a peg on the wall along with his 
spare clothes and the hard leather cases holding his harp and flute. A woman's 
diaphanous red silk scarf was tied around the strap of the harp case, but it 
could have belonged to anyone.
He was not sure he remembered who had tied it there; he tried to pay no more 
attention to one woman than any other, and all of it lighthearted and laughing. 
Make them laugh, even make them sigh, but avoid entanglements, that was his 
motto; he had no time for those. That was what he told himself.
"I'm coming." He limped to the door irritably. Once he had drawn oohs and aahs 
from people who could hardly believe, even while they watched, that a rawboned, 
white&#8209;haired old man could do backsprings and handstands and flips, limber and 
quick as a boy. The limp had put an end to that, and he hated it. The leg ached 
worse when he was tired. He jerked open the door, and blinked in surprise. 
"Well. Come in, Mat. I thought you would be hard at work lightening lordlings' 
purses."
"They didn't want to gamble any more tonight," Mat said sourly, dropping onto 
the three&#8209;legged stool that served as a second chair. His coat was undone and 
his hair disheveled. His brown eyes darted around, never resting on one spot 
long, but their usual twinkle, suggesting that the lad saw something funny where 
no one else did, was missing tonight.
Thom frowned at him, considering. Mat never stepped across this threshold 
without a quip about the shabby room. He accepted Thom's explanation that his 
sleeping beside the servants' quarters would help people forget that he had 
arrived in the shadow of Aes Sedai, but Mat seldom let a chance for a joke pass. 
If he realized that the room also assured that no one could think of Thom having 
any connection to the Dragon Reborn, Mat, being Mat, probably thought that a 
reasonable wish. It had taken Thom all of two sentences, delivered in haste 
during a rare moment when no one was looking, to make Rand see the real point. 
Everyone listened to a gleeman, everyone watched him, but no one really saw him 
or remembered who he talked to, as long as he was only a gleeman, with his 
hedgerow entertainments fit for country folk and servants, and perhaps to amuse 
the ladies. That was how Tairens saw it. It was not as if he were a bard, after 
all.
What was bothering the boy to bring him down here at this hour? Probably one or 
another of the young women, and some old enough to know better, who had let 
themselves be caught by Mat's mischievous grin. Still, he would pretend it was 
one of Mat's usual visits until the lad said otherwise.
"I'll get the stones board. It is late, but we have time for one game." He could 
not resist adding, "Would you care for a wager on it?" He would not have tossed 
dice with Mat for a copper, but stones was another matter; he thought there was 
too much order and pattern in stones for Mat's strange luck.
"What? Oh. No. It's too late for games. Thom, did . . . ? Did anything . . . 
happen down here?"
Leaning the stones board against a table leg, Thom dug his tabac pouch and 
long&#8209;stemmed pipe out of the litter remaining on the table. "Such as what?" he 
asked, thumbing the bowl full. He had time to stick a twist of paper in the 
flame of one of the candles, puff the pipe alight and blow out the spill before 
Mat answered.
"Such as Rand going insane, that's what. No, you'd not have had to ask if it 
had."
A prickling made Thom shift his shoulders, but he blew a blue&#8209;gray streamer of 
smoke as calmly as he could and took his chair, stretching his gimpy leg out in 
front of him. "What happened?"
Mat drew a deep breath, then let everything out in a rush. "The playing cards 
tried to kill me. The Amyrlin, and the High Lord, and . . . . I didn't dream it, 
Thom. That's why those puffed&#8209;up jackdaws don't want to gamble anymore. They're 
afraid it will happen again. Thom, I'm thinking of leaving Tear."
The prickling felt as if he had blackwasp nettles stuffed down his back. Why had 
he not left Tear himself long since? Much the wisest thing. Hundreds of villages 
lay out there, waiting for a gleeman to entertain and amaze them. And each with 
an inn or two full of wine to drown memories. But if he did, Rand would have no 
one except Moiraine to keep the High Lords from maneuvering him into corners, 
and maybe cutting his throat. She could do it, of course. Using different 
methods than his. He thought she could. She was Cairhienin, which meant she had 
probably taken in the Game of Houses with her mother's milk. And she would tie 
another string to Rand for the White Tower while she was about it. Mesh him in 
an Aes Sedai net so strong he would never escape. But if the boy was going mad 
already . . . .
Fool, Thom called himself. A pure fool to stay mixed in this because of 
something fifteen years in the past. Staying would not change that; what was 
done was done. He had to see Rand face&#8209;to&#8209;face, no matter what he had told him 
about keeping clear. Perhaps no one would think it too odd if a gleeman asked to 
perform a song for the Lord Dragon, a song especially composed. He knew a 
deservedly obscure Kandori tune, praising some unnamed lord for his greatness 
and courage in grandiose terms that never quite managed to name deeds or places. 
It had probably been bought by some lord who had no deeds worth naming. Well, it 
would serve him now. Unless Moiraine decided it was strange. That would be as 
bad as the High Lords taking notice. I am a fool! I should be out of here 
tonight!
He was roiling inside, his stomach churning acid, but he had spent long years 
learning to keep his face straight before ever he put on a gleeman's cloak. He 
puffed three smoke rings, one inside the other, and said, "You have been 
thinking of leaving Tear since the day you walked into the Stone."
Perched on the edge of the stool, Mat shot him an angry look. "And I mean to. I 
do. Why not come with me, Thom? There are towns where they think the Dragon 
Reborn hasn't drawn a breath yet, where nobody's given a thought to the bloody 
Prophecies of the bloody Dragon in years, if ever. Places where they think the 
Dark One is a grandmother's tale, and Trollocs are travelers' wild stories, and 
Myrddraal ride shadows to scare children. You could play your harp and tell your 
stories, and I could find a game of dice. We could live like lords, traveling as 
we want, staying where we want, with no one trying to kill us."
That hit too close for comfort. Well, he was a fool and there it was; he just 
had to make the best of it. "If you really mean to go, why haven't you?"
"Moiraine watches me," Mat said bitterly. "And when she isn't, she has somebody 
else doing it."
"I know. Aes Sedai don't like to let someone go once they lay hands on them." It 
was more than that, he was sure, more than what was openly known, certainly, but 
Mat denied any such thing, and no one else who knew was talking either, if 
anyone besides Moiraine did know. It hardly mattered. He liked Mat &#8209; he even 
owed him, in a fashion &#8209; but Mat and his troubles were a street&#8209;corner raree 
com­pared to Rand. "But I cannot believe she really has someone watching you all 
the time."
"As good as. She's always asking people where I am, what I'm doing. It gets back 
to me. Do you know anybody who won't tell an Aes Sedai what she wants to know? I 
don't. As good as being watched."
"You could avoid eyes if you put your mind to it. I've never seen anyone as good 
at sneaking about as you. I mean that as a compliment."
"Something always comes up," Mat muttered. "There's so much gold to be had here. 
And there's a big&#8209;eyed girl in the kitchens who likes a little kiss and tickle, 
and one of the maids has hair like silk, to her waist, and the roundest . . . . 
" He trailed off as if he had suddenly realized how foolish he sounded.
"Have you considered that maybe it's because &#8209; "
"If you mention ta'veren, Thom, I'm leaving."
Thom changed what he had been going to say. " &#8209; that maybe it's because Rand is 
your friend and you don't want to desert him?"
"Desert him!" The boy jumped up, kicking over the stool. "Thom, he is the bloody 
Dragon Reborn! At least, that's what he and Moiraine say. Maybe he is. He can 
channel, and he has that bloody sword that looks like glass. Prophecies! I don't 
know. But I know I would have to be as crazy as these Tairens to stay." He 
paused. "You don't think . . . . You don't think Moiraine is keeping me here, do 
you? With the Power?"
"I do not believe she can," Thom said slowly. He knew a good bit about Aes 
Sedai, enough to have some idea how much he did not know, and he thought he was 
right on this.
Mat raked his fingers through his hair. "Thom, I think about leaving all the 
time, but . . . . I get these strange feelings. Almost as if something was going 
to happen. Something. . . . Momentous; that's the word. It's like knowing 
there'll be fireworks for Sunday, only I don't know what it is I'm expecting. 
Whenever I think too much about leaving, it happens. And suddenly I've found 
some reason to stay another day. Always just one more bloody day. Doesn't that 
sound like Aes Sedai work to you?"
Thom swallowed the word ta'veren and took his pipe from between his teeth to 
peer into the smoldering tabac. He did not know much about ta'veren, but then no 
one did except the Aes Sedai, or maybe some of the Ogier. "I was never much good 
at helping people with their problems." And worse with my own, he thought. "With 
an Aes Sedai close to hand, I'd advise most people to ask her for help." Advice 
I'd not take myself.
"Ask Moiraine!"
"I suppose that is out of the question in this case. But Nynaeve was your Wisdom 
back in Emond's Field. Village Wisdoms are used to answering people's questions, 
helping with their problems."
Mat gave a raucous snort of laughter. "And put up with one of her lectures about 
drinking and gambling and . . . ? Thom, she acts like I'm ten years old. 
Sometimes I think she believes I'll marry a nice girl and settle down on my 
father's farm."
"Some men would not find it an objectionable life," Thom said quietly.
"Well, I would. I want more than cows and sheep and tabac for the rest of my 
life. I want &#8209; " Mat shook his head. "All these holes in memory. Sometimes I 
think if I could just fill them in, I'd know . . . . Burn me, I don't know what 
I'd know, but I know I want to know it. That's a twisty riddle, isn't it?"
"I'm not certain even an Aes Sedai can help with that. A gleeman surely can't."
"I said no Aes Sedai!"
Thom sighed. "Calm yourself, boy. I was not suggesting it."
"I am leaving. As soon as I can fetch my things and find a horse. Not a minute 
longer."
"In the middle of the night? The morning will do." He refrained from adding, If 
you really do leave. "Sit down. Relax. We'll play a game of stones. I have a jar 
of wine here, somewhere."
Mat hesitated, glancing at the door. Finally he jerked his coat straight. "The 
morning will do." He sounded uncertain, but he picked up the overturned stool 
and set it beside the table. "But no wine for me," he added as he sat down. 
"Strange enough things happen when my head is clear. I want to know the 
difference."
Thom was thoughtful as he put the board and the bags of stones on the table. 
Just that easily the lad was diverted. Pulled along by an even stronger ta'veren 
named Rand al'Thor, was how Thom saw it. It occurred to him to wonder if he was 
caught in the same way. His life had certainly not been headed toward the Stone 
of Tear and this room when he first met Rand, but since then it had been 
twitched about like a kite string. If he decided to leave, say if Rand really 
had gone mad, would he find reasons to keep putting it off?
"What is this, Thom?" Mat's boot had encountered the writing case under the 
table. "Is it all right if I move it out of my way?"
"Of course. Go right ahead." He winced inside as Mat shoved the case aside 
roughly with his foot. He hoped he had corked all the ink bottles tightly. 
"Choose," he said, holding out his fists.
Mat tapped the left, and Thom opened it to reveal a smooth black stone, flat and 
round. The boy chortled at having the first go and placed the stone on the 
crosshatched board. No one seeing the eagerness in his eyes would have suspected 
that only moments before he had been twice as eager to go. A greatness he 
refused to recognize clinging to his back, and an Aes Sedai intent on keeping 
him for one of her pets. The lad was well and truly caught.
If he was caught, too, Thom decided, it would be worth it to help one man, at 
least, keep free of Aes Sedai. Worth it, to make a payment on that 
fifteen&#8209;year&#8209;old debt.
Suddenly and strangely content, he set a white stone. "Did I ever tell you," he 
said around his pipestem, "about the wager I once made with a Domani woman? She 
had eyes that could drink a man's soul, and an odd&#8209;looking red bird she had 
bought off a Sea Folk ship. She claimed it could tell the future. This bird had 
a fat yellow beak nearly as long as its body, and it . . . ."
 
CHAPTER
5
 
Questioners
 
"They should be back by now." Egwene fluttered the painted silk fan vigorously, 
glad the nights were at least a little cooler than the days. Tairen women 
carried the fans all the time &#8209; the nobles, at least, and the wealthy &#8209; but as 
far as she could see they did no good at all except when the sun was down, and 
not much then. Even the lamps, great golden, mirrored things on silvered wall 
brackets, seemed to add to the heat. "What can be keeping them?" An hour, 
Moiraine had promised them, for the first time in days, and then she had left 
without explanation after a bare five minutes. "Did she give any hint of why 
they wanted her, Aviendha? Or who wanted her, for that matter?"
Seated cross&#8209;legged on the floor beside the door, large green eyes startling in 
her dark tanned face, the Aiel woman shrugged. In coat and breeches and soft 
boots, shoufa looped about her neck, she appeared unarmed. "Careen whispered her 
message to Moiraine Sedai. I would not have been proper to listen. I am sorry, 
Aes Sedai."
Guiltily, Egwene fingered the Great Serpent ring on her right hand, the golden 
serpent biting its own tail. As an Accepted, she should have been wearing it on 
the third finger of her left hand, but letting the High Lords believe that they 
had four full Aes Sedai inside the Stone kept them on their best manners, or 
what passed for manners among Tairen nobles. Moiraine did not lie, of course; 
she never said they were more than Accepted. But she never said they were 
Accepted, either, and let everyone think what they wanted to think, believe what 
they thought they saw. Moiraine could not lie, but she could make truth dance a 
fine jig.
It was not the first time Egwene and the others had pretended to full sisterhood 
since leaving the Tower, but more and more she felt uncomfortable deceiving 
Aviendha. She liked the Aiel woman, thought they could be friends if they could 
ever come to know one another; but that hardly seemed possible as long as 
Aviendha thought Egwene was Aes Sedai. The Aiel woman was there only at 
Moiraine's order, issued for unspoken purposes of her own. Egwene suspected it 
was to give them an Aiel bodyguard, as if they had not learned to protect 
themselves. Still, even if she and Aviendha did become friends, she could not 
tell her the truth. The best way to keep a secret was to make sure no one knew 
who did not absolutely have to know. Another point Moiraine had made. Sometimes 
Egwene found herself wishing the Aes Sedai could be wrong, glaringly wrong, just 
once. In a way that would not mean disaster, of course. That was the rub.
"Tanchico," Nynaeve muttered. Her dark, wrist&#8209;thick braid hung down her back to 
her waist as she stared out of one of the narrow windows, casements swung out in 
the hope of catching a night breeze. On the broad River Erinin below bobbed the 
lanterns of a few fishing boats that had not ventured downriver, but Egwene 
doubted she saw them. "There is nothing for it but to go to Tanchico, it seems." 
Nynaeve gave an unconscious hitch to her green dress, with its wide neck that 
bared her shoulders; she did that a good deal. She would have denied wearing the 
dress for Lan, Moiraine's Warder &#8209; she would have if Egwene had dared make the 
suggestion &#8209; but green, blue and white seemed to be Lan's favorite colors on 
women, and every dress that was not green, blue or white had vanished from 
Nynaeve's wardrobe. "Nothing for it." She did not sound happy.
Egwene caught herself giving an upward tug to her own dress. They felt odd, 
these dresses that just clung to the shoulders. On the other hand, she did not 
believe she could bear to be more covered. Light as it was, the pale red linen 
felt like wool. She wished she could bring herself to wear the filmy gowns 
Berelain wore. Not that they were suitable for public eyes, but they certainly 
did appear to be cool.
Stop fretting over comfort, she told herself sternly. Keep your mind on the 
business at hand. "Perhaps," she said aloud. "Myself, I am not convinced."
A long, narrow table, polished till it glistened, ran down the middle of the 
room. A tall chair stood at the end near Egwene, lightly carved and touched here 
and there with gilt, quite plain for Tear, while the sidechairs had 
progressively lower backs, until those at the far end seemed little more than 
benches. Egwene had no idea what purpose the Tairens had put the room to. She 
and the others used it for questioning two prisoners taken when the Stone fell.
She could not force herself to go into the dungeons, though Rand had ordered all 
of the implements that had decorated the guardroom walls melted or burned. 
Neither Nynaeve nor Elayne had been eager to return, either. Besides, this 
brightly lit room, with its clean&#8209;swept green tile floor and its wall panels 
carved with the Three Crescents of Tear, was a sharp contrast to the grim, gray 
stone of the cells, all dim and dank and dirty. That had to have some softening 
effect on the two women in prisoners' rough&#8209;woven woolens.
Only that drab brown dress, however, would have told most people that Joiya 
Byir, standing beyond the table with her back turned, was a prisoner at all. She 
had been White Ajah, and had lost none of the Whites' cool arrogance on shifting 
her allegiance to the Black. Every line of her proclaimed that she stared 
rigidly at the far wall of her own choice, and for no other reason. Only a woman 
who could channel would have seen the thumb&#8209;thick flows of Air that held Joiya's 
arms to her sides and lashed her ankles together. A cage woven of Air kept her 
eyes straight ahead. Even her ears were stopped up, so she could not hear what 
anyone said until they wanted her to.
Once again Egwene checked the shield woven from Spirit that blocked Joiya from 
touching the True Source. It held, as she knew it must. She herself had woven 
all the flows around Joiya and tied them to maintain themselves, but she could 
not be easy in the same room with a Darkfriend who had the ability to channel, 
even if it was blocked. Worse than just a Darkfriend. Black Ajah. Murder was the 
least of Joiya's crimes. She should have been bowed down under her weight of 
broken oaths, blasted lives and blighted souls.
Joiya's fellow prisoner, her sister in the Black Ajah, lacked her strength. 
Standing stoop&#8209;shouldered at the far end of the table, head down, Amico Nagoyin 
seemed to sink in on herself under Egwene's gaze. There was no need to shield 
her. Amico had been stilled during her capture. Still able to sense the True 
Source, she would never again touch it, never again channel. The desire to, the 
need to, would remain, as sharp as the need to breathe, and her loss would be 
there for as long as she lived, saidar forever out of reach. Egwene wished she 
could find in herself even a shred of pity. But she did not wish for it very 
hard.
Amico murmured something at the tabletop.
"What?" Nynaeve demanded. "Speak up."
Amico raised her face humbly on its slender neck. She was still a beautiful 
woman, with large, dark eyes, but there was something different about her that 
Egwene could not quite put her finger on. Not the fear that made her clutch her 
coarse prisoner's dress with both hands. Something else.
Swallowing, Amico said, "You should go to Tanchico."
"You've told us that twenty times," Nynaeve said roughly. "Fifty times. Tell us 
something new. Name names we do not already know. Who still in the White Tower 
is Black Ajah?"
"I do not know. You must believe me." Amico sounded tired, utterly beaten. Not 
at all the way she had sounded when they were the prisoners and she the gaoler. 
"Before we left the Tower, I knew only Liandrin, Chesmal and Rianna. No one knew 
more than two or three others, I think. Except Liandrin. I have told you 
everything I know."
"Then you are remarkably ignorant for a woman who expected to rule part of the 
world when the Dark One breaks free," Egwene said dryly, snapping her fan shut 
for emphasis. It still stunned her, how easily she could say that now. Her 
stomach still clenched, and icy fingers still crawled her spine, but she no 
longer wanted to scream, or run weeping. It was possible to become used to 
anything.
"I overheard Liandrin that once, talking to Temaile," Amico said wearily, 
starting a tale she had told them many times. In the first days of her captivity 
she had tried to improve her story, but the more she elaborated the more she had 
tangled herself in her own lies. Now she almost always told it the same way, 
word for word. "If you could have seen Liandrin's face when she saw me .... She 
would have murdered me on the spot had she thought I had heard anything. And 
Temaile likes to hurt people. She enjoys it. I only heard a little before they 
saw me. Liandrin said there was something in Tanchico, something dangerous to . 
. . to him." She meant Rand. She could not say his name, and a mention of the 
Dragon Reborn was enough to send her into tears. "Liandrin said it was dangerous 
to whoever used it, too. Almost as dangerous as to . . . him. That is why she 
had not already gone after it. And she said being able to channel would not 
protect him. She said, 'When we find it, his filthy ability will bind him for 
us."' Sweat ran down her face, but she shivered almost uncontrollably.
Not a word had changed.
Egwene opened her mouth, but Nynaeve spoke first. "I've heard enough of this. 
Let us see if the other has anything new to say."
Egwene glared at her, and Nynaeve stared back just as hard, neither blinking. 
Sometimes she thinks she's still the Wisdom, Egwene thought grimly, and I'm 
still the village girl to teach about herbs. She had better realize things are 
different now. Nynaeve was strong in the Power, stronger than Egwene, but only 
when she could actually manage to channel; unless angry, Nynaeve could not 
channel at all.
Elayne usually smoothed things over when it came to this, as it did more often 
than it should. By the time Egwene thought of smoothing matters herself, she had 
almost always dug in her heels and flared back, and trying to be soothing then 
would only be backing down. That was how Nynaeve would see it, she was sure. She 
could not remember Nynaeve ever making any move to back down, so why should she? 
This time Elayne was not there; Moiraine had summoned the Daughter&#8209;Heir with a 
word and a gesture to follow the Maiden who had come for the Aes Sedai. Without 
her, the tension stretched, each of the Accepted waiting for the other to blink 
first. Aviendha barely breathed; she kept herself strictly out of their 
confrontations. No doubt she considered it simple wisdom to stand clear.
Strangely, it was Amico who broke the impasse this time, though likely all she 
meant to do was demonstrate her cooperation. She turned to face the far wall, 
waiting patiently to be bound.
The foolishness of it struck Egwene suddenly. She was the only woman in the room 
who could channel&#8209;unless Nynaeve grew angry, or Joiya's shield failed; she 
tested the weave of Spirit again without thinking&#8209;and she indulged in a staring 
match while Amico waited to accept her bonds. At another time she might have 
laughed at herself aloud. Instead, she opened herself to saidar, that 
never&#8209;seen, ever&#8209;felt glowing warmth that seemed always to be just beyond the 
corner of her eye. The One Power filled her, like joyous life itself redoubled, 
and she wove the flows around Amico.
Nynaeve merely grunted; it was doubtful she was mad enough to sense what Egwene 
was doing&#8209;she could not, without her temper up &#8209; yet she could see Amico stiffen 
as the flows of Air touched her, then slump, half supported by the flows, as if 
to show how little she was resisting.
Aviendha shuddered, the way she had taken to doing whenever she knew the Power 
was being channeled near her.
Egwene wove blocks for Amico's ears &#8209; questioning them one at a time did little 
good if they could hear each other's stories &#8209; and turned to Joiya. She shifted 
her fan from hand to hand so she could wipe them on her dress, and stopped with 
a grimace of distaste. Her sweaty palms had nothing to do with the temperature.
"Her face," Aviendha said abruptly. And surprisingly; she almost never spoke 
unless addressed by Moiraine or one of the others. "Amico's face. She does not 
have the look she did, as if the years had passed her by. Not as much as she 
did. Is that because she was . . . because she was stilled?" she finished in a 
breathless rush. She had picked up a few habits being so much around them. No 
woman of the Tower could speak of stilling without a chill.
Egwene moved down the table, to where she could see Amico's face from the side 
and yet stay out of Joiya's vision. Joiya's eyes always turned her stomach to a 
lump of ice.
Aviendha was right; that was the difference she herself had noticed and not 
understood. Amico looked young, perhaps younger than her years, but it was not 
quite the agelessness of Aes Sedai who had worked years with the One Power. "You 
have sharp eyes, Aviendha, but I don't know if this has anything to do with 
stilling. It must, though, I suppose. I don't know what else could cause it."
She realized that did not sound very much like an Aes Sedai, who generally spoke 
as if they knew everything; when an Aes Sedai said she did not know, she usually 
managed to make her denial appear to cloak volumes of knowledge. While she was 
racking her brain for something properly portentous, Nynaeve came to her rescue.
"Relatively few Aes Sedai have ever been burned out, Aviendha, and far fewer 
stilled."
"Burned out" was what it was called when it happened by accident; officially, 
stilling resulted from trial and sentence. Egwene could not see the point of it, 
really; it was like having two words for falling down the stairs, depending on 
whether you tripped or were pushed. For that, most Aes Sedai seemed to see it 
the same, except when teaching novices or Accepted. Three words, actually. Men 
were "gentled," must be gentled, before they went mad. Only now there was Rand, 
and the Tower did not dare gentle him.
Nynaeve had put on a lecturing tone, no doubt trying to sound Aes Sedai. She was 
doing an imitation of Sheriam before a class, Egwene realized, hands clasped at 
her waist, smiling slightly as if it were all so simple when you applied 
yourself.
"Stilling is not a thing anyone would choose to study, you understand," Nynaeve 
continued. "It is generally accepted to be irreversible. What makes a woman able 
to channel cannot be replaced once it is removed, any more than a hand that has 
been cut off can be Healed back into existence." At least, no one had ever been 
able to Heal stilling. There had been attempts. What Nynaeve said was generally 
true, yet some sisters of the Brown Ajah would study almost anything if given 
the chance, and some Yellow sisters, the best Healers, would try to learn to 
Heal anything. But even a hint of success at Healing a woman who had been 
stilled was nonexistent. "Aside from that one hard fact, little is known. Women 
who are stilled seldom live more than a few years. They seem to stop wanting to 
live; they give up. As I said, it is an unpleasant subject."
Aviendha shifted uncomfortably. "I only thought that might be it," she said in a 
low voice.
Egwene thought it might be, too. She resolved to ask Moiraine. If she ever saw 
her without Aviendha there as well. It seemed to her that their deceit got in 
the way almost as much as it helped.
"Let us see if Joiya still tells the same tale, too." Even so, she had to take 
herself in hand before she could unravel the flows of Air woven around the 
Darkfriend.
Joiya must have been stiff from standing so still for so long, but she turned 
smoothly to face them. The sweat beading her forehead could not diminish her 
dignity and presence, any more than her drab, rough dress lessened the sense of 
her being there by choice. She was a handsome woman with something motherly 
about her face despite its ageless smoothness, something comforting. But the 
dark eyes set in that face made a hawk's look kind. She smiled at them, a smile 
that never reached those eyes. "The Light illumine you. May the hand of the 
Creator shelter you."
"I will not hear that out of you." Nynaeve's voice was quiet and calm, but she 
tossed her braid over her shoulder and gripped the end in her fist, the way she 
did when angry or uneasy. Egwene did not think she was uneasy; Joiya did not 
seem to make Nynaeve's skin crawl as she did Egwene's.
"I have repented my sins," Joiya said smoothly. "The Dragon is Reborn, and he 
holds Callandor. The Prophecies are fulfilled. The Dark One must fail. I can see 
that, now. My repentance is real. No one can walk so long in the Shadow that she 
cannot come again to the Light."
Nynaeve's face had grown darker by the word. Egwene was sure she was furious 
enough to channel now, but if she did it would probably be to strangle Joiya. 
Egwene did not believe Joiya's repentance any more than Nynaeve, of course, but 
the woman's information might be real. Joiya was quite capable of a cold 
decision to go over to what she believed would be the winning side. Or she might 
only be buying time, lying in hope of rescue.
Lies should not have been possible for an Aes Sedai, even one who had lost all 
right to the name, not outright lies. The very first of the Three Oaths, taken 
with the Oath Rod in hand, should have seen to that. But whatever oaths to the 
Dark One were sworn on joining the Black Ajah, they seemed to sever all Three 
Oaths.
Well. The Amyrlin had sent them out to hunt the Black Ajah, to hunt Liandrin and 
the other twelve who had done murder and fled the Tower. And all they had to go 
on now was what these two could, or would, tell them.
"Give us your tale again," Egwene commanded. "Use different words, this time. I 
am tired of listening to memorized stories." If she was lying, there was more 
chance she would trip herself up telling it differently. "We will hear you out." 
That was for Nynaeve's benefit; she gave a loud sniff, then a curt nod.
Joiya shrugged. "As you wish. Let me see. Different words. The false Dragon, 
Mazrim Taim, who was captured in Saldaea, can channel with incredible strength. 
Perhaps as much as Rand al'Thor, or nearly so, if the reports can be believed. 
Before he can be brought to Tar Valon and gentled, Liandrin means to break him 
free. He will be proclaimed as the Dragon Reborn, his name given as Rand 
al'Thor, and then he will be set to destruction on such a scale as the world has 
not seen since the War of the Hundred Years."
"That is impossible," Nynaeve broke in. "The Pattern will not accept a false 
Dragon, not now that Rand has proclaimed himself."
Egwene sighed. They had had this out before, but Nynaeve always argued the 
point. She was not sure Nynaeve really believed that Rand was the Dragon Reborn, 
no matter what she said, no matter the Prophecies and Callandor and the fall of 
the Stone. Nynaeve was just enough older than he to have looked after him when 
he was a child, just as she had after Egwene. He was an Emond's Fielder, and 
Nynaeve still saw her first duty as protecting the people of Emond's Field.
"Is that what Moiraine told you?" Joiya asked with a touch of contempt. 
"Moiraine has spent little time in the Tower since she was raised, and not much 
more with her sisters anywhere. I suppose she knows the workings of village 
life, perhaps even something of the politics between nations, but she does claim 
certainty about matters learned only through study and discussion with those who 
know. Still, she might be correct. Mazrim Taim might well find it impossible to 
proclaim himself. But if others do it for him, is there a difference that 
matters?"
Egwene wished Moiraine would come back. The woman would not speak so confidently 
if Moiraine were there. Joiya knew very well that she and Nynaeve were only 
Accepted. It made a difference.
"Go on," Egwene said, almost as harshly as Nynaeve. "And remember, different 
words."
"Of course," Joiya replied, as though responding to a gracious invitation, but 
her eyes glittered like chips of black glass. "You can see the obvious result. 
Rand al'Thor will be blamed for the depredations of . . . Rand al'Thor. Even 
proof that they are not the same man may well be dismissed. After all, who can 
say what tricks the Dragon Reborn can play? Perhaps put himself in two places at 
once. Even the sort who have always rallied to a false Dragon will hesitate in 
the face of the indiscriminate slaughter and worse laid at his feet. Those who 
do not shrink at such butchery will seek out the Rand al'Thor who seems to revel 
in blood. The nations will unite as they did in the Aiel War . . ." She gave 
Aviendha an apologetic smile, incongruous beneath those merciless eyes. " . . . 
but no doubt much more quickly. Even the Dragon Reborn cannot stand against 
that, not forever. He will be crushed before the Last Battle even begins, by the 
very ones he was meant to save. The Dark One will break free, the day of Tarmon 
Gai'don will come, and the Shadow will cover the earth and remake the Pattern 
for all time. That is Liandrin's plan." There was not a hint of satisfaction in 
her voice, but no horror, either.
It was a plausible story, more plausible than Amico's tale of a few eavesdropped 
sentences, but Egwene believed Amico and not Joiya. Perhaps because she wanted 
to. A vague threat in Tanchico was easier to face than this fully fleshed plan 
to turn every hand against Rand. No, she thought. Joiya is lying. I am sure she 
is. Yet they could not afford to ignore either story. But they could not chase 
after both, not with any hope of success.
The door banged open, and Moiraine strode in, with Elayne following. The 
Daughter&#8209;Heir was frowning at the floor in front of her toes, lost in dark 
thoughts, but Moiraine . . . . For once the Aes Sedai's serenity had vanished; 
fury painted her face.
 
CHAPTER
6
 
Doorways
 
Rand al'Thor," Moiraine told the air in a low, tight voice, "is a mule&#8209;headed, 
stone&#8209;willed fool of a . . . a . . . a man!"
Elayne lifted her chin angrily. Her childhood nurse, Lini, used to say you could 
weave silk from pig bristles before you could make a man anything but a man. But 
that was no excuse for Rand.
"We breed them that way in the Two Rivers." Nynaeve was suddenly all 
half&#8209;suppressed smiles and satisfaction. She seldom hid her dislike of the Aes 
Sedai half as well as she thought she did. "Two Rivers women never have any 
trouble with them." From the startled look Egwene gave her, that was a lie big 
enough to warrant having her mouth washed out.
Moiraine's brows drew down as if she were about to reply to Nynaeve in harder 
kind. Elayne stirred, but she could not find anything to say that would head off 
argument. Rand kept dancing through her head. He had no right! But what right 
did she have?
Egwene spoke instead. "What did he do, Moiraine?"
The Aes Sedai's eyes swung to Egwene, a stare so hard that the younger woman 
stepped back and snapped her fan open, nervously fluttering it at her face. But 
Moiraine's gaze settled on Joiya and Amico, the one watching her warily, the 
other bound and unaware of anything but the far wall.
Elayne gave a small start at realizing Joiya was not bound. Hastily she checked 
the shield blocking the woman from the True Source. She hoped none of the others 
had noticed her jump; Joiya frightened her nearly to death, but Egwene and 
Nynaeve were no more scared of the woman than Moiraine was. Sometimes it was 
difficult being as brave as the Daughter&#8209;Heir of Andor should be; she often 
found herself wishing she could manage as well as those two.
"The guards," Moiraine muttered as if to herself. "I saw them in the corridor 
still, and never thought." She smoothed her dress, composing herself with an 
obvious effort. Elayne did not believe she had ever seen Moiraine so out of 
herself as tonight. But then, the Aes Sedai had cause. No more than I do. Or do 
I? She found herself trying not to meet Egwene's eyes.
Had it been Egwene or Nynaeve or Elayne who was off balance, Joiya would surely 
have said something, subtle and of two meanings, calculated to upset them a 
little more. If they had been alone, at least. With Moiraine, she only watched 
uneasily, silently.
Moiraine walked the length of the table, her calm restored. Joiya was nearly a 
head the taller, but had she also been dressed in silks, there would have been 
no doubt which was in command of the situation. Joiya did not quite draw back, 
but her hands tightened on her skirts for a moment before she could master them.
"I have made arrangements," Moiraine said quietly. "In four days you will be 
taken upriver by ship, to Tar Valon and the Tower. There they are not so gentle 
as we have been. If you have not found the truth so far, find it before you 
reach Southharbor, or you will assuredly go to the gallows in the Traitors' 
Court. I will not speak to you again unless you send word that you have 
something new to tell. And I do not want to hear a word from you &#8209; not one word 
&#8209; unless it is new. Believe me, it will save you pain in Tar Valon. Aviendha, 
will you tell the captain to bring in two of his men?" Elayne blinked as the 
Aiel woman unfolded herself and vanished through the doorway; sometimes Aviendha 
could be so still she seemed not to be there.
Joiya's face worked as if she wanted to speak, but Moiraine stared up at her, 
and finally the Darkfriend turned her eyes away. They glittered like a raven's, 
full of black murder, but she held her tongue.
To Elayne's eyes a golden&#8209;white glow suddenly surrounded Moiraine, the glow of a 
woman embracing saidar. Only another woman trained to channel could have seen 
it. The flows holding Amico unraveled more quickly than Elayne could have 
managed. She was stronger than Moiraine, potentially, at least. In the Tower, 
the women teaching her had been almost unbelieving at her potential, and at 
Egwene's and Nynaeve's. Nynaeve was the strongest of them all &#8209; when she could 
manage to channel. But Moiraine had the experience. What they were still 
learning to do, Moiraine could do half asleep. Yet there were some things Elayne 
could do, and the other two, that the Aes Sedai could not. It was a small 
satisfaction in the face of how easily Moiraine cowed Joiya.
Freed, able to hear, Amico turned and became aware of Moiraine for the first 
time. With a squeak, she dropped a curtsy as deep as any new novice. Joiya was 
glaring at the door, avoiding anyone's gaze. Nynaeve, arms crossed and knuckles 
white from gripping her braid, was giving Moiraine a stare almost as murderous 
as Joiya's. Egwene fingered her skirt and glowered at Joiya; Elayne frowned, 
wishing she were as brave as Egwene, wishing she did not feel she was betraying 
her friend. Into that walked the captain with two more Defenders in black and 
gold on his heels. Aviendha was not with them; it seemed she had taken her 
opportunity to escape Aes Sedai.
The grizzled officer, two short white plumes on his rimmed helmet, shied as his 
eyes met Joiya's, though she did not even seem to see him. His gaze skittered 
from woman to woman uncertainly. The mood of the room was trouble, and a wise 
man did not want any part of trouble among this sort of women. The two soldiers 
clutched their tall spears to their sides almost as if they feared they might 
have to defend themselves. Perhaps they did fear it.
"You will take these two back to their cells," Moiraine told the officer curtly. 
"Repeat your instructions. I want no mistakes."
"Yes, Ae &#8209; " The captain's throat seemed to seize. He gulped a breath. "Yes, my 
Lady," he said, watching her anxiously to see if that would do. When she only 
continued to look at him, waiting, he gave an audible sigh of relief. "The 
prisoners are to talk to no one except myself, not even each other. Twenty men 
in the guardroom and two outside each cell at all times, four if a cell door has 
to be opened for any reason. I myself will watch their food prepared and take it 
to them. All as you have commanded, my Lady." A hint of question tinged his 
voice. A hundred rumors floated through the Stone concerning the prisoners, and 
why two women needed to be guarded so heavily. And there were whispered stories 
about the Aes Sedai, each darker than the last.
"Very good," Moiraine said. "Take them."
It was not clear who was more eager to leave the room, the prisoners or the 
guards. Even Joiya stepped quickly, as if she could not bear keeping silent near 
Moiraine for another moment.
Elayne was certain she had kept her face calm since entering the room, but 
Egwene came to her, put an arm around her. "What is the matter, Elayne? You look 
about to cry."
The concern in her voice made Elayne feel like bursting into tears. Light! she 
thought. I will not be that silly. I will not! "A weeping woman is a bucket with 
no bottom." Lini had been full of sayings like that.
"Three times &#8209; " Nynaeve burst out at Moiraine, "only three! &#8209; you have 
consented to help us question them. This time you vanish before we begin, and 
now you calmly announce you are sending them off to Tar Valon! If you will not 
help, at least do not interfere!"
"Do not presume on the Amyrlin's authority too far," Moiraine said coolly. "She 
may have set you to chase Liandrin, but you are still only Accepted, and 
woefully ignorant, whatever letters you carry. Or did you mean to keep 
questioning them forever before reaching a decision? You Two Rivers people seem 
to work at avoiding decisions that must be made." Nynaeve opened and closed her 
mouth, eyes bulging, as if wondering which accusation to answer first, but 
Moiraine turned to Egwene and Elayne. "Pull yourself together, Elayne. How you 
can carry out the Amyrlin's orders if you think every land has the customs you 
were born to, I do not know. And I do not know why you are so upset. Do not let 
your feelings hurt others."
"What do you mean?" Egwene said. "What customs? What are you talking about?"
"Berelain was in Rand's chambers," Elayne said in a small voice before she could 
stop herself. Her eyes flickered guiltily toward Egwene. Surely she had kept her 
own feelings hidden.
Moiraine gave her a reproachful look and sighed. "I would have spared you this 
if I could, Egwene. If Elayne had not let her disgust with Berelain overcome her 
sense. The customs of Mayene are not those either of you were born to. Egwene, I 
know what you feel for Rand, but you must realize by now that nothing can come 
of it. He belongs to the Pattern, and to history."
Seemingly ignoring the Aes Sedai, Egwene peered into Elayne's eyes. Elayne 
wanted to look away, and could not. Suddenly Egwene leaned closer, whispering 
behind a cupped hand. "I love him. Like a brother. And you like a sister. I wish 
you well of him."
Elayne's eyes widened, a smile spreading slowly across her face. She answered 
Egwene's hug with a fierce hug of her own. "Thank you," she murmured softly. "I 
love you too, sister. Oh, thank you."
"She got it wrong," Egwene said half to herself, a delighted grin blooming on 
her face. "Have you ever been in love, Moiraine?"
What a startling question. Elayne could not imagine the Aes Sedai in love. 
Moiraine was Blue Ajah, and it was said Blue sisters gave all their passions to 
causes.
The slender woman was not at all taken aback. For a long moment she looked 
levelly at the pair of them, each with an arm around the other. Finally she 
said, "I could wager I know the face of the man I will marry better than either 
of you knows that of your future husband."
Egwene gaped in surprise.
"Who?" Elayne gasped.
The Aes Sedai appeared regretful of having spoken. "Perhaps I only meant we 
share an ignorance. Do not read too much into a few words." She looked at 
Nynaeve consideringly. "Should I ever choose a man &#8209; should, I say &#8209; it will not 
be Lan. That much I will say."
That was a sop to Nynaeve, but Nynaeve did not seem to like hearing it. Nynaeve 
had what Lini would have called "a hard patch to hoe," loving not just a Warder 
but a man who tried to deny returning her love. Fool man that he was, he talked 
of the war against the Shadow he could not stop fighting and could never win, of 
refusing to dress Nynaeve in widow's clothes for her wedding feast. Silly things 
of that sort. Elayne did not see how Nynaeve put up with it. She was not a very 
patient woman.
"If you are finished chatting about men," Nynaeve said acidly, as though to 
prove just that, "perhaps we can go back to what is important?" Gripping her 
braid hard, she picked up speed and force as she went along, like a waterwheel 
with the gears disengaged. "How are we to decide whether Joiya is lying, or 
Amico, if you send them away? Or whether they both are? Or neither? I don't 
relish dithering here, Moiraine, no matter what you think, but I have walked 
into too many traps to want to walk into another. And I don't want to run after 
Jak&#8209;o'&#8209;the&#8209;Wisps, either. I . . . we . . . are the ones the Amyrlin sent after 
Liandrin and her cronies. Since you don't seem to think they are important 
enough to spare more than a moment to help us, the least you can do is not crack 
our ankles with a broom!"
She seemed about to rip that braid free and try to strangle the Aes Sedai with 
it, and Moiraine wore a dangerously cool crystalline calm that suggested she 
might be ready to teach again the lesson on holding her tongue that she had 
taught Joiya. It was, Elayne decided, time for her to stop moping. She did not 
know how she had fallen into the role of peacemaker among these women &#8209; 
sometimes she wanted to take them all by the scruff of the neck and shake them &#8209; 
but her mother always said no good decision was ever made in anger. "You might 
add to your list of what you want to know," she said, "why were we summoned to 
Rand? That is where Careen took us. He is all right, now, of course. Moiraine 
Healed him." She could not repress a shudder, thinking of her brief glimpse 
inside his chamber, but the diversion worked a charm.
"Healed!" Nynaeve gasped. "What happened to him?"
"He almost died," the Aes Sedai said, as calmly as if she were saying he had a 
pot of tea.
Elayne felt Egwene tremble as they listened to Moiraine's dispassionate report, 
but perhaps some of the trembling was her own. Bubbles of evil drifting through 
the Pattern. Reflections leaping out of mirrors. Rand a mass of blood and 
wounds. Almost as an afterthought, Moiraine added that she was sure Perrin and 
Mat had experienced something of the same, but escaped unharmed. The woman must 
have ice instead of blood. No, she was heated enough about Rand's stubbornness. 
And she wasn't cold when she spoke of marrying, however much she pretended to 
be. But now she could have been discussing whether a bolt of silk was the right 
color for a dress.
"And these . . . these things will keep on?" Egwene said when Moiraine finished. 
"Is there nothing you can do to stop it? Or that Rand can do?"
The small blue stone dangling from Moiraine's hair swung as she shook her head. 
"Not until he learns to control his abilities. Perhaps not then. I do not know 
if even he will be strong enough to push the miasma away from himself. At the 
least, though, he will be better able to defend himself."
"Can't you do something to help him?" Nynaeve demanded. "You are the one of us 
who is supposed to know everything, or pretends to. Can't you teach him? Some 
part of it, anyway? And don't quote proverbs about birds teaching fish to fly."
"You would know better," Moiraine replied, "if you had taken the advantage of 
your studies that you should have. You should know better. You want to know how 
to use the Power, Nynaeve, but you do not care to learn about the Power. Saidin 
is not saidar. The flows are different, the ways of weaving are different. The 
bird has a better chance."
This time Egwene took a turn at diffusing tension. "What is Rand being stubborn 
about, now?" Nynaeve opened her mouth, and she added, "He can be stubborn as a 
stone, sometimes." Nynaeve shut her mouth with a snap; they all knew how true 
that was.
Moiraine eyed them, considering. At times, Elayne was not sure how much the Aes 
Sedai trusted them. Or anyone. "He must move," the Aes Sedai said at last. 
"Instead, he sits here, and the Tairens already begin to lose their fear of him. 
He sits here, and the longer he sits, doing nothing, the more the Forsaken will 
see his inaction as a sign of weakness. The Pattern moves and flows; only the 
dead are still. He must act, or he will die. From a crossbow bolt in his back, 
or poison in his food, or the Forsaken banding together to rip his soul from his 
body. He must act or die." Elayne winced at each danger on her list; that they 
were real only made it worse.
"And you know what he must do, don't you?" Nynaeve said tightly. "You have this 
action planned."
Moiraine nodded. "Would you rather he go haring off alone once more? I dare not 
risk it. This time he might be dead, or worse, before I find him."
That was true enough. Rand hardly knew what he was doing. And Elayne was sure 
Moiraine had no wish to lose the little guidance she still gave him. The little 
he allowed her to give.
"Will you share your plan for him with us?" Egwene demanded. She was certainly 
not helping soothe the air now.
"Yes, do," Elayne said, surprising herself with a cool echo of Egwene's tone. 
Confrontation was not her way when it could be avoided; her mother always said 
it was better to guide people than try to hammer them into line.
If their manner irritated Moiraine, she gave no sign of it. "As long as you 
understand that you must keep it to yourselves. A plan revealed is a plan doomed 
to fail. Yes, I see you do understand."
Elayne certainly did; the plan was dangerous, and Moiraine was not sure it would 
work.
"Sammael is in Illian," the Aes Sedai went on. "The Tairens are always as ripe 
for war with Illian as the other way around. They have been killing each other 
off and on for a thousand years, and they speak of their chance for it as other 
men speak of the next feastday. I doubt even knowing of Sammael's presence would 
change that, not with the Dragon Reborn to lead them. Tear will follow Rand 
eagerly enough in that enterprise, and if he brings Sammael down, he &#8209; "
"Light!" Nynaeve exclaimed. "You not only want him to start a war, you want him 
to seek out one of the Forsaken! No wonder he is being stubborn. He is not a 
fool, for a man."
"He must face the Dark One in the end," Moiraine said calmly. "Do you truly 
think he can avoid the Forsaken now? As for war, there are wars enough without 
him, and every one worse than useless."
"Any war is useless," Elayne began, then faltered as comprehension suddenly 
filled her. Sadness and regret had to show on her face, too, but certainly 
comprehension. Her mother had lectured her often on how a nation was led as well 
as how it was governed, two very different things, but both necessary. And 
sometimes things had to be done for both that were worse than unpleasant, 
although the price of not doing them was worse still.
Moiraine gave her sympathetic look. "It is not always pleasant, is it? Your 
mother began when you were just old enough to understand, I suppose, teaching 
you what you will need to rule after her." Moiraine had grown up in the Royal 
Palace in Cairhien, not destined to reign, but related to the ruling family and 
no doubt overhearing the same lectures. "Yet sometimes it seems ignorance would 
be better, to be a farm woman knowing nothing beyond the boundaries of her 
fields."
"More riddles?" Nynaeve said contemptuously. "War used to be something I heard 
about from peddlers, something far away that I didn't really understand. I know 
what it is, now. Men killing men. Men behaving like animals, reduced to animals. 
Villages burned, farms and fields burned. Hunger, disease and death, for the 
innocent as the guilty. What makes this war of yours better, Moiraine? What 
makes it cleaner?"
"Elayne?" Moiraine said quietly.
She shook her head &#8209; she did not want to be the one to explain this &#8209; but she 
was not sure even her mother sitting on the Lion Throne could have kept silent 
under Moiraine's compelling, dark&#8209;eyed stare. "War will come whether Rand begins 
it or not," she said reluctantly. Egwene stepped back a pace, staring at her in 
disbelief no sharper than that on Nynaeve's face; the incredulity faded from 
both women as she continued. "The Forsaken will not stand idly and wait. Sammael 
cannot be the only one to have seized a nation's reins, just the lone one we 
know. They will come after Rand eventually, in their own persons perhaps, but 
certainly with whatever armies they command. And the nations that are free of 
the Forsaken? How many will cry glory to the Dragon banner and follow him to 
Tarmon Gai'don, and how many will convince themselves the fall of the Stone is a 
lie and Rand only another false Dragon who must be put down, a false Dragon 
perhaps strong enough to threaten them if they do not move against him first? 
One way or another, war will come." She cut off sharply. There was more to it, 
but she could not, would not, tell them that part.
Moiraine was not so reticent. "Very good," she said, nodding, "yet incomplete." 
The look she gave Elayne said she knew Elayne had left out what she had on 
purpose. Hands folded calmly at her waist, she addressed Nynaeve and Egwene. 
"Nothing makes this war better, or cleaner. Except that it will cement the 
Tairens to him, and the Illianers will end up following him just as the Tairens 
do now. How could they not, once the Dragon banner flies over Illian? Just the 
news of his victory might decide the wars in Tarabon and Arad Doman in his 
favor; there are wars ended for you.
"In one stroke he will make himself so strong in terms of men and swords that 
only a coalition of every remaining nation from here to the Blight can defeat 
him, and with the same blow he shows the Forsaken that he is not a plump 
partridge on a limb for the netting. That will make them wary, and buy him time 
to learn to use his strength. He must move first, be the hammer, not the nail." 
The Aes Sedai grimaced slightly, a hint of her earlier anger marring her calm. 
"He must move first. And what does he do? He reads. Reads himself into deeper 
trouble."
Nynaeve looked shaken, as if she could see all the battles and death; Egwene's 
dark eyes were large with horrified understanding. Their faces made Elayne 
shiver. One had watched Rand grow up, the other had grown up with him. And now 
they saw him starting wars. Not the Dragon Reborn, but Rand al'Thor.
Egwene struggled visibly, latching onto the smallest part, the most 
inconsequen­tial, of what Moiraine had said. "How can reading put him in 
trouble?"
"He has decided to find out for himself what the Prophecies of the Dragon say." 
Moiraine's face remained cool and smooth, but suddenly she sounded almost as 
tired as Elayne felt. "They may have been proscribed in Tear, but the Chief 
Librarian had nine different translations in a locked chest. Rand has them all, 
now. I pointed out the verse that applies here, and he quoted it to me, from an 
old Kandori translation.
 
"Power of the Shadow made human flesh,
 wakened to turmoil, strife and ruin.
The Reborn One, marked and bleeding,
dancer the sword in dreams and mist,
chains the Shadowsworn to his will,
from the city, lost and forsaken,
leads the spears to war once more,
breaks the spears and maker them see,
truth long hidden in the ancient dream."'
 
She grimaced. "It applies to this as well as it does to anything. Illian under 
Sammael is surely a forsaken city. Lead the Tairen spears to war, chain Sammael, 
and he has fulfilled the verse. The ancient dream of the Dragon Reborn. But he 
will not see it. He even has a copy in the Old Tongue, as if he understood two 
words. He runs after shadows, and Sammael, or Rahvin, or Lanfear may have him by 
the throat before I can convince him of his mistake."
"He is desperate." Nynaeve's gentle tone was not for Moiraine, Elayne was sure, 
but for Rand. "Desperate and trying to find his way."
"So am I desperate," Moiraine said firmly. "I have dedicated my life to finding 
him, and I will not let him fail if I can prevent it. I am almost desperate 
enough to &#8209; " She broke off, pursing her lips. "Let it be enough that I will do 
what I must."
"But it isn't enough," Egwene said sharply. "What is it you'll do?"
"You have other matters to concern you," the Aes Sedai said. "The Black Ajah - "
"No!" Elayne's voice was knife&#8209;edged and commanding, her knuckles a hard white 
where she gripped her soft blue skirts. "You keep many secrets, Moiraine, but 
tell us this. What do you mean to do to him?" An image flashed in her mind of 
seizing Moiraine and shaking the truth out of her if need be.
"Do to him? Nothing. Oh, very well. There is no reason you should not know. You 
have seen what the Tairens call the Great Holding?"
Oddly for a people that feared the Power so, the Tairens held in the Stone a 
collection of objects connected to the Power second only to that in the White 
Tower. Elayne, for one, thought it was because they had been forced to guard 
Callandor so long, whether they wanted or not. Even the Sword That Is Not a 
Sword might seem less than what it was when it was one among many. But the 
Tairens had never been able to make themselves display their prizes. The Great 
Holding was kept in a filthy series of crowded rooms buried even deeper than the 
dungeons. When Elayne had first seen them the locks on the doors had long since 
rusted shut, where the doors had not simply collapsed from dry rot.
"We spent an entire day down there," Nynaeve said. "To see if Liandrin and her 
friends took anything. I don't think they did. Everything was buried in dust and 
mold. It will take ten riverboats to transport all of it to the Tower. Perhaps 
they can make some sense of it there; I surely could not." The temptation to 
prod Moiraine was apparently too great to avoid, for she added, "You would know 
all this if you had given us a little more of your time."
Moiraine took no notice. She seemed to be looking inward, examining her own 
thoughts, and she spoke almost to herself. "There is one particular ter'angreal 
in the Holding, a thing like a redstone doorframe, subtly twisted to the eye. If 
I cannot make him reach some decision, I may have to step through." The small 
blue stone on her forehead trembled, sparkling. Apparently she was not eager to 
take that step.
At the mention of ter'angreal, Egwene instinctively touched the bodice of her 
dress. She had sewn a small pocket there herself, to hide the stone ring it now 
held. That ring was a ter'angreal, powerful in its way if small, and Elayne was 
one of only three women who knew she had it. Moiraine was not one of the three.
They were strange things, ter'angreal, fragments of the Age of Legends like 
angreal and sa'angreal, if more numerous. Ter'angreal used the One Power instead 
of magnifying it. Each had apparently been made to do one thing and one thing 
alone, but though some were used now, no one was sure if those uses were 
anything like what they had been made for. The Oath Rod, on which a woman took 
the Three Oaths on being raised Aes Sedai, was a ter'angreal that made those 
oaths a part of her flesh and bone. The last test a novice took on being raised 
to Accepted was inside another ter'angreal that ferreted out her most heartfelt 
fears and made them seem real &#8209; or perhaps took her to a place where they were 
real. Odd things could happen with ter'angreal. Aes Sedai had been burned out or 
killed, or had simply vanished, in studying them. And in using them.
"I saw that doorway," Elayne said. "In the last room at the end of the hall. My 
lamp went out, and I fell three times before I made it to the door." A slight 
flush of embarrassment reddened her cheeks. "I was afraid to channel in there, 
even to relight the lamp. Much of it looks rubbish, to me&#8209;I think the Tairens 
simply grabbed anything that anyone hinted might be connected to the Power&#8209;but I 
thought if I channeled, I might accidentally empower something that wasn't 
rubbish, and who knows what it might do."
"And if you had stumbled in the dark and fallen through the twisted doorway?" 
Moiraine said wryly. "That needs no channeling, only to step through."
"To what purpose?" Nynaeve asked.
"To gain answers. Three answers, each true, about past, present or future."
Elayne's first thought was for the children's tale, Bili Under the Hill, but 
only because of the three answers. A second thought came on its heels, and not 
to her alone. She spoke while Nynaeve and Egwene were still opening their 
mouths. "Moiraine, this solves our problem. We can ask whether Joiya or Amico is 
telling the truth. We can ask where Liandrin and the others are. The names of 
the Black Ajah still in the Tower &#8209; "
"We can ask what this thing is that is dangerous to Rand," Egwene put in, and 
Nynaeve added, "Why haven't you told us of this before? Why have you let us go 
on listening to the same tales day after day when we could have settled it all 
by now?"
The Aes Sedai winced and threw up her hands. "You three rush in blindly where 
Lan and a hundred Warders would tread warily. Why do you think I have not 
stepped through? Days ago I could have asked what Rand must do to survive and 
triumph, how he can defeat the Forsaken and the Dark One, how he can learn to 
control the Power and hold off madness long enough to do what he must." She 
waited, hands on hips, while it sank in. None of them spoke. "There are rules," 
she went on, "and dangers. No one may step through more than once. Only once. 
You may ask three questions, but you must ask all three and hear the answers 
before you may leave. Frivolous questions are punished, it seems, but it also 
seems what may be serious for one can be frivolous coming from another. Most 
importantly, questions touching the Shadow have dire consequences.
"If you asked about the Black Ajah, you might be returned dead, or come out a 
gibbering madwoman, if you came out at all. As for Rand . . . I am not certain 
it is possible to ask a question about the Dragon Reborn that does not touch the 
Shadow in some way. You see? Sometimes there are reasons for caution."
"How do you know all this?" Nynaeve demanded. Planting fists on hips she 
confronted the Aes Sedai. "The High Lords surely never let Aes Sedai study 
anything in the Holding. From the filth down there, none of it has seen sunlight 
in a hundred years or more."
"More, I should think," Moiraine told her calmly. "They ceased their collecting 
nearly three hundred years gone. It was just before they stopped completely that 
they acquired this ter'angreal. Up until then it was the possession of the 
Firsts of Mayene, who used its answers to help keep Mayene out of Tear's grasp. 
And they allowed Aes Sedai to study it. In secret, of course; Mayene has never 
dared anger Tear too openly."
"If it was so important to Mayene," Nynaeve said suspiciously, "why is it here, 
in the Stone?"
"Because Firsts have made bad decisions as well as good in trying to keep Mayene 
free of Tear. Three hundred years ago the High Lords were planning to build a 
fleet to follow Mayener ships and find the oilfish shoals. Halvar, the then 
First, raised the price of Mayener lamp oil well above that of oil from Tear's 
olives, and to further convince the High Lords that Mayene would always put its 
own interests behind those of Tear, made them a gift of the ter'angreal. He had 
already used it, so it was no further good to him, and he was almost as young as 
Berelain is now, apparently with a long reign ahead of him and many years of 
needing Tairen goodwill."
"He was a fool," Elayne muttered. "My mother would never make such a mistake."
"Perhaps not," Moiraine said. "But then, Andor is not a small nation cornered by 
a much larger and stronger. Halvar was a fool as it turned out &#8209; the High Lords 
had him assassinated the very next year &#8209; but his foolishness does present me 
with an opportunity, if I need it. A dangerous one, yet better than none."
Nynaeve muttered to herself, perhaps disappointed that the Aes Sedai had not 
tripped herself up.
"It leaves the rest of us right where we were." Egwene sighed. "Not knowing who 
is lying, or whether they both are."
"Question them again, if you wish," Moiraine said. "You have until they are put 
on the ship, though I very much doubt either will change her tale now. My advice 
is to concentrate on Tanchico. If Joiya speaks truly, it will take Aes Sedai and 
Warders to guard Mazrim Taim, not just the three of you. I sent a warning to the 
Amyrlin by pigeon when I first heard Joiya's story. In fact, I sent three 
pigeons, to make sure one reaches the Tower."
"So kind of you to keep us informed," Elayne murmured coolly. The woman did go 
her own way. Just because they were only pretending to be full Aes Sedai was no 
reason for Moiraine to keep them in the dark. The Amyrlin had sent them out to 
hunt the Black Ajah.
Moiraine inclined her head briefly, as if accepting the thanks for real. "You 
are welcome. Remember that you are the hounds the Amyrlin set after the Black 
Ajah." Her slight smile at Elayne's start said she knew exactly what Elayne had 
been thinking. "The decision on where to course must be yours. You have pointed 
that out to me, as well," she added drily. "I trust it will prove an easier 
decision than mine. And I trust you will sleep well, what sleep is left before 
daybreak. A good night to you. "
"That woman . . ." Elayne muttered when the door had closed behind the Aes 
Sedai. "Sometimes I could almost strangle her." She dropped into one of the 
chairs at the table and sat frowning at her hands in her lap.
Nynaeve gave a grunt that might have been agreement as she went to a narrow 
table against the wall where silver goblets and spice jars stood next to two 
pitchers. One pitcher, full of wine, rested in a gleaming bowl of now mossy 
melted ice, brought all the way from the Spine of the World packed in chests of 
sawdust. Ice in the summer to chill a High Lord's drink; Elayne could barely 
imagine such a thing.
"A cool drink before bed will do us all good," Nynaeve said, busying herself 
with wine and water and spices.
Elayne lifted her head as Egwene took a seat next to her. "Did you mean what you 
said, Egwene? About Rand?" Egwene nodded, and Elayne sighed. "Do you remember 
what Min used to say, all her jokes about sharing him? I sometimes wondered if 
that was a viewing she did not tell us about. I thought she meant we both loved 
him, and she knew it. But you had the right to him, and I didn't know what to 
do. I still don't. Egwene, he loves you."
"He will just have to be put straight," Egwene said firmly. "When I marry, it 
will be because I want to, not just because a man expects me to love him. I will 
be gentle with him, Elayne, but before I am done, he will know he is free. 
Whether he wants to be or not. My mother says men are different from us. She 
says we want to be in love, but only with the one we want; a man needs to be in 
love, but he will love the first woman to tie a string to his heart."
"That is all very well," Elayne said in a tight voice, "but Berelain was in his 
chambers."
Egwene sniffed. "Whatever she intends, Berelain won't keep her mind on one man 
long enough to make him love her. Two days ago she was casting eyes at Rhuarc. 
In two more, she'll be smiling at someone else. She is like Else Grinwell. You 
remember her? The novice who spent all her time out at the practice yards 
fluttering her eyelashes at the Warders?"
"She was not just fluttering her eyelashes, in his bedchamber at this hour. She 
was wearing even less than usual, if that is possible!"
"Do you mean to let her have him, then?"
"No!" Elayne said it very fiercely, and she meant it, but in the next breath she 
was full of despair. "Oh, Egwene, I do not know what to do. I love him. I want 
to marry him. Light! What will mother say? I would rather spend a night in 
Joiya's cell than listen to the lectures mother will give me." Andoran nobles, 
even in royal families, married commoners often enough that it hardly occasioned 
comment &#8209; in Andor, at least &#8209; but Rand was not exactly the usual run of 
commoner. Her mother was quite capable of actually sending Lini to drag her home 
by her ear.
"Morgase can hardly say much if Mat is to be believed," Egwene said 
comfortingly. "Or even half believed. This Lord Gaebril your mother is mooning 
after hardly sounds the choice of a woman thinking with her head."
"I am sure Mat exaggerated," Elayne replied primly. Her mother was too shrewd to 
make herself a fool over any man. If Lord Gaebril &#8209; she had never even heard of 
him before Mat spoke his name &#8209; if this fellow dreamed he could gain power 
through Morgase, she would give him a rude awakening.
Nynaeve brought three goblets of spiced wine to the table, beads of condensation 
running down their shining sides, and small green&#8209;and&#8209;gold woven straw mats to 
put them on so the damp would not mar the table's polish. "So," she said, taking 
a chair, "you've discovered you are in love with Rand, Elayne, and Egwene has 
discovered she isn't."
The two younger women gaped at her, one dark, the other fair, yet a near mirror 
image of astonishment.
"I have eyes," Nynaeve said complacently. "And ears, when you don't take the 
trouble to whisper." She sipped at her wine, and her voice grew cold when she 
continued. "What do you mean to do about it? If that chit Berelain has her claws 
into him, it will not be easy to pry them loose. Are you sure you want to go to 
the effort? You know what he is. You know what lies ahead of him, even setting 
the Prophecies aside. Madness. Death. How long does he have? A year? Two? Or 
will it begin before summer's end? He is a man who can channel." She bit off 
each word in tones of iron. "Remember what you were taught. Remember what he 
is."
Elayne held her head high and met Nynaeve stare for stare. "It does not matter. 
Perhaps it should, but it doesn't. Perhaps I am being foolish. I do not care. I 
cannot change my heart to order, Nynaeve."
Suddenly Nynaeve smiled. "I had to be sure," she said warmly. "You must be sure. 
It isn't easy loving any man, but loving this man will be harder yet." Her smile 
faded as she went on. "My first question still has to be answered. What do you 
mean to do about it? Berelain may look soft &#8209; she certainly makes men see her 
so! &#8209; but I do not think she is. She will fight for what she wants. And she's 
the kind to hold hard to something she doesn't particularly want, just because 
someone else does want it."
"I would like to stuff her in a barrel," Egwene said, gripping her goblet as if 
it were the First's throat, "and ship her back to Mayene. In the bottom of the 
hold."
Nynaeve's braid swung as she shook her head. "All very well, but try to offer 
advice that helps. If you cannot, keep silent and let her decide what she must 
do." Egwene stared at her, and she added, "Rand is Elayne's to deal with, now, 
not yours. You have stepped aside, remember."
The remark should have made Elayne smile, but it did not. "This was all supposed 
to be different." She sighed. "I thought I would meet a man, learn to know him 
over months or years, and slowly I would come to realize I loved him. That is 
the way I always thought it would be. I hardly know Rand. I've talked with him 
no more than half a dozen times in the space of a year. But I knew I loved him 
five minutes after I first set eyes on him." Now that was foolish. Only, it was 
true, and she did not care if it was foolish. She would tell her mother the same 
to her face, and Lini. Well, perhaps not Lini. Lini had drastic ways of dealing 
with foolishness, and she seemed to think Elayne had not aged beyond ten. "As 
matters stand, though, I don't even have the right to be angry with him. Or 
Berelain." But she was. I would like to slap his face till his ears ring for a 
year! 1'd like to switch her all the way to the ship that takes her back to 
Mayene! Only, she did not have the right, and that made it all the worse. 
Infuriatingly, a plaintive tone touched her voice. "What can I do? He has never 
looked at me twice."
"In the Two Rivers," Egwene said slowly, "if a woman wants a man to know she is 
interested in him, she puts flowers in his hair at Bel Time or Sunday. Or she 
might embroider a feastday shirt for him any time. Or make a point of asking him 
to dance and no one else." Elayne gave her an incredulous look, and she hastened 
to add, "I am not suggesting you embroider a shirt, but there are ways to let 
him know how you feel."
"Mayeners believe in speaking out." Elayne's voice held a brittle edge. "Perhaps 
that is the best way. Just tell him right out. At least he'll know how I feel, 
then. At least I'll have some right to &#8209; "
She snatched her spiced wine and tilted her head back, drinking. Speak out? Like 
some Mayener hussy! Setting the empty goblet back on the small mat, she drew a 
deep breath and murmured, "What will Mother say?"
"What's more important," Nynaeve said gently, "is what you will do when we have 
to leave here. Whether it's Tanchico, or the Tower, or somewhere else, we will 
have to go. What will you do when you've just told him you love him, and you 
must leave him behind? If he asks you to stay with him? If you want to?"
"I will go." There was no hesitation in Elayne's reply, but a touch of asperity. 
The other woman should not have had to ask. "If I must accept him being the 
Dragon Reborn, he must accept that I am what I am, that I have duties. I want to 
be Aes Sedai, Nynaeve. It isn't some idle amusement. Neither is the work we 
three have to do. Could you really think I would abandon you and Egwene?"
Egwene hurried to assure her that the thought had never crossed her mind; 
Nynaeve did the same, but slowly enough to give herself the lie.
Elayne looked from one to the other of them. "In truth, I feared you might tell 
me I was foolish, fretting over a thing like this when we have the Black Ajah to 
worry about."
A slight flicker of Egwene's eyes said the thought had occurred to her, but 
Nynaeve said, "Rand is not the only one who might die next year, or next month, 
We might, too. Times are not what they were, and we cannot be, either. If you 
sit and wish for what you want, you may not see it this side of the grave."
It was a chilling sort of reassurance, but Elayne nodded. She was not being 
silly. If only the Black Ajah could be settled so easily. She pressed her empty 
silver goblet to her forehead for the coolness. What were they to do?
 
CHAPTER
7
 
Playing With Fire
 
With the sun barely above the horizon the next morning, Egwene presented herself 
at the doors to Rand's chambers, followed by a foot&#8209;dragging Elayne. The 
Daughter&#8209;Heir wore a long&#8209;sleeved dress of pale blue silk, cut in the Tairen 
fashion, and pulled low after some little discussion. A necklace of sapphires 
like a deep morning sky, and another strand woven into her red&#8209;gold curls, 
showed up the blue of her eyes. Despite the damp warmth, Egwene wore a plain, 
deep red scarf, as large as a shawl, around her shoulders. Aviendha had supplied 
the scarf, and the sapphires too. Surprisingly, the Aiel woman had a tidy store 
of such things somehow.
For all she had known they were there, Egwene gave a start when the Aiel guards 
glided to their feet with startling suddenness. Elayne let out a small gasp, but 
quickly eyed them with that regal bearing she managed so well. It seemed to have 
no effect on these sun&#8209;dark men. The six were Shae'en M'taal, Stone Dogs, and 
appeared relaxed for Aiel, meaning they seemed to be looking everywhere, seemed 
ready to move in any direction.
Egwene drew herself up in imitation of Elayne &#8209; she did wish she could do that 
as well as the Daughter&#8209;Heir &#8209; and announced, "I . . . we . . . want to see how 
the Lord Dragon's wounds are."
Her remark was plainly foolish, if they knew much about Healing, but that 
likelihood was small; few people did, and Aiel probably less than most. She had 
not intended to give any reason for being there&#8209;it was enough that they thought 
her Aes Sedai&#8209;but when the Aiel appeared almost to spring out of the black 
marble floor, it suddenly seemed a good idea. Not that they were making any move 
to stop Elayne and her, of course. But these men were all so tall, so 
stone&#8209;faced, and they carried those short spears and horn bows as if using them 
would be as natural as breathing, and as easy. With those light&#8209;colored eyes 
regarding her so intently, it was all too easy to remember stories of 
black&#8209;veiled Aiel, without mercy or pity, of the Aiel War and the men like these 
who had destroyed every army sent against them until the last, who had only 
turned back to the Waste after fighting the allied nations to a standstill 
during three blood&#8209;soaked days and nights before Tar Valon itself. She very 
nearly embraced saidar.
Gaul, the Stone Dogs' leader, nodded, looking down at Elayne and her with a 
touch of respect. He was a handsome man, in a rugged way, a little older than 
Nynaeve, with eyes as green and clear as polished gems and long eyelashes so 
dark they seemed to outline his eyes in black. "They may be troubling him. He is 
in a foul mood this morning." Gaul grinned, just a quick flash of white teeth, 
in understand­ing of a temper when wounded. "He has chased off a group of these 
High Lords already, and threw one of them out himself. What was his name?"
"Torean," another, even taller man replied. He had an arrow nocked, the short, 
curved bow held almost casually. His gray eyes rested on the two women for an 
instant, then went back to searching among the anteroom's columns.
"Torean," Gaul agreed. "I thought he would slide as far as those pretty carvings 
. . ." He pointed a spear to the ring of stiff&#8209;standing Defenders. ". . . but he 
came short by three paces. I lost a good Tairen hanging, all hawks in gold 
thread, to Mangin." The taller man gave a brief, contented smile.
Egwene blinked at the image of Rand physically pitching a High lord across the 
floor. He had never been violent; far from it. How much had he changed? She had 
been too busy with Joiya and Amico, and he too busy with Moiraine or Lan or the 
High Lords, to do more than speak in passing, a few words about home here and 
there, about how the Bel Tine festival might have gone this year and what Sunday 
would be like. It had all been so brief. How much had he changed?
"We have to see him," Elayne said, a slight tremor in her voice.
Gaul made a bow, grounding the point of one spear on the black marble. "Of 
course, Aes Sedai."
It was with some trepidation that Egwene entered Rand's chambers, and Elayne's 
face spoke volumes of the effort those few steps took.
No evidence of last night's horror remained, unless it was the absence of 
mirrors; lighter patches marked the wall panels where those hanging there had 
been taken away. Not that the room came anywhere near neatness; books lay 
everywhere, on everything, some lying open as if abandoned in the middle of a 
page, and the bed was still unmade. The crimson draperies were pulled open on 
all the windows, facing westward toward the river that was Tear's heartvein, and 
Callandor sparkled like polished crystal on a huge gilded stand of surpassing 
gaudiness. Egwene thought the stand the ugliest thing she had ever seen 
decorating a room&#8209;until she glimpsed the silver wolves savaging a golden stag on 
the mantel above the fireplace. Scant breezes off the river kept the room 
surprisingly cool compared to the rest of the Stone.
Rand sat in his shirtsleeves, sprawled in a chair with one leg over the arm and 
a leather&#8209;bound book propped against his knee. At the sound of their footsteps, 
he snapped the book shut and dropped it among the others on the scroll&#8209;worked 
carpet, bounding to his feet ready to fight. The scowl on his face faded as he 
took in who they were.
For the first time in the Stone, Egwene looked for changes in him and found 
them. How many months before then since she had seen him last? Enough for his 
face to have grown harder, for the openness that had once been there to fade. He 
moved differently, too, a little like Lan, a little like the Aiel. With his 
height and his reddish hair, and eyes that seemed now blue, now gray, as the 
light took them, he looked all too much like an Aielman, too much for comfort. 
But had he changed inside?
"I thought you were . . . someone else," he mumbled, sharing out embarrassed 
glances between them. That was the Rand she knew, even to the flush that rose in 
his cheeks every time he looked at her or Elayne, either one. "Some . . . people 
want things I can't give. Things I will not give." Suspicion grew on his face 
with shocking suddenness, and his tone hardened. "What do you want? Did Moiraine 
send you? Are you supposed to convince me to do what she wants?"
"Don't be a goose," Egwene said sharply before she thought. "I do not want you 
to start a war!"
Elayne added in pleading tones, "We came to . . . to help you, if we can." That 
was one of their reasons, and the easiest to bring up, they had decided over 
breakfast.
"You know about her plans for . . ." he began roughly, then made a sudden shift. 
"Help me? How? That is what Moiraine says."
Egwene sternly folded her arms beneath her breasts, holding the scarf tight, in 
the way Nynaeve used to address the Village Council when she meant to have her 
way no matter how stubborn they were. It was too late to start over; the only 
thing was to go on as she had begun. "I told you not to be a fool, Rand al'Thor. 
You may have Tairens bowing to your boots, but I remember when Nynaeve switched 
your bottom for letting Mat talk you into stealing a jar of apple brandy." 
Elayne kept her face carefully composed. Too carefully; it was plain to Egwene 
that she wanted to laugh out loud.
Rand did not notice, of course. Men never did. He grinned at Egwene, close to 
laughing himself. "We had just turned thirteen. She found us asleep behind your 
father's stable, and our heads hurt so much we didn't even feel her switch." 
That was not at all the way Egwene recalled it. "Not like when you threw that 
bowl at her head. Remember? She'd dosed you with dogweed tea because you had 
been moping about for a week, and as soon as you tasted it, you hit her with her 
best bowl. Light, did you squeal! When was that? Two years ago come this &#8209; "
"We are not here to talk over old times," Egwene said, shifting the scarf 
irritably. It was thin wool, but still far too hot. Really, he did have the 
habit of remembering the most unfortunate things.
He grinned as if he knew what she was thinking, and went on in better humor. 
"You are here to help me, you say. With what? I don't suppose you know how to 
make a High Lord keep his word when I'm not staring over his shoulder. Or how to 
stop unwanted dreams? I could surely use help with &#8209; " Eyes darting to Elayne 
and back to her, he made another abrupt shift. "What about the Old Tongue? Did 
you learn any of that in the White Tower?" Without waiting for an answer he 
began rooting through the volumes scattered across the carpet. There were more 
on the chairs, among the tumbled bedclothes. "I have a copy here . . . 
some­where . . . of. . . ."
"Rand." Egwene raised her voice. "Rand, I cannot read the Old Tongue." She shot 
a look at Elayne, warning her not to admit to any such knowledge. They had not 
come to translate the Prophecies of the Dragon for him. The sapphires in the 
Daughter-­Heir's hair swayed as she nodded agreement. "We had other things to 
learn."
He straightened from the books with a sigh. "It was too much to hope." For a 
moment he seemed on the point of saying more, but stared at his boots. Egwene 
wondered how he managed to deal with the High Lords in all their arrogance if 
she and Elayne put him so out of countenance.
"We came to help you with channeling," she told him. "With the Power." What 
Moiraine claimed was supposed to be true; a woman could not teach a man to 
channel any more than she could teach him how to bear a child. Egwene was not so 
sure. She had felt something woven from saidin, once. Or rather, she had felt 
nothing, something blocking her own flows as surely as stone dammed water. But 
she had learned as much outside the Tower as within; surely in her knowledge 
there was something she could teach him, some guidance she could offer.
"If we can," Elayne added.
Suspicion flashed across his face again. It was unnerving how his mood changed 
so quickly. "I have more chance of reading the Old Tongue than you do of . . . . 
Are you sure this isn't Moiraine's doing? Did she send you here? Thinks she can 
convince me by some roundabout way, does she? Some twisty Aes Sedai plot I'll 
not see the point of until I am mired in it?" He grunted sourly and pulled a 
dark green coat from the floor behind one of the chairs, shrugging into it 
hastily. "I agreed to meet some more of the High Lords this morning. If I don't 
keep an eye on them, they just find ways to get around what I want. They'll 
learn sooner or later. I rule Tear, now. Me. The Dragon Reborn. I will teach 
them. You will have to excuse me."
Egwene wanted to shake him. He ruled Tear? Well, perhaps he did, if it came to 
that, but she remembered a boy with a lamb nestled inside his coat, proud as a 
rooster because he had driven off the wolf that tried to take it. He was a 
shepherd, not a king, and even if he had call to give himself airs, it was no 
good to him that he did.
She was about to tell him as much, but before she could Elayne spoke up 
fiercely. "No one sent us. No one. We came because . . . because we care for 
you. Perhaps it will not work, but you can try. If I . . . if we care enough to 
try, you can try, too. Is it so unimportant to you that you cannot spare us an 
hour? For you life?"
He stopped buttoning up his coat, staring at the Daughter&#8209;Heir so intently that 
for a moment Egwene thought he had forgotten she was there. With a shiver he 
pulled his eyes away. Glancing at Egwene, he shifted his feet and frowned at the 
floor. "I will try," he muttered. "It'll do no good, but I will . . . . What do 
you want me to do?"
Egwene drew a deep breath. She had not thought convincing him would be this 
easy; he had always been like a boulder buried in mud when he decided to dig his 
heels in, which he did far too often.
"Look at me," she said, embracing saidar. She let the Power fill her as 
completely as it ever had, more completely, accepting every drop she could hold; 
it was as if light suffused every particle of her, as if the Light itself filled 
every cranny. Life seemed to burst inside her like fireworks. She had never 
before let this much in. It was a shock to realize she was not quivering; surely 
she could not bear this glorious sweetness. She wanted to revel in it, to dance 
and sing, to simply lie back and let it roll through her, over her. She made 
herself speak. "What do you see? What do you feel? Look at me, Rand!"
He lifted his head slowly, still frowning. "I see you. What am I supposed to 
see? Are you touching the Source? Egwene, Moiraine has channeled around me a 
hundred times, and I never saw anything. Except what she did. It doesn't work 
that way. Even I know that much."
"I am stronger than Moiraine," she told him firmly. "She would be whimpering on 
the floor, or insensible, if she tried to hold as much as I hold now." It was 
true, though she had never before rated the Aes Sedai's ability so closely.
It cried out to be used, this Power pulsing through her stronger than 
heartblood. With this much, she could do things Moiraine could not dream of 
doing. The wound in Rand's side that Moiraine could never Heal completely. She 
did not know Healing &#8209; it was considerably more complex than anything she had 
ever done &#8209; but she had watched Nynaeve Heal, and perhaps, with this great pool 
of the Power filling her, she could see something of how that could be Healed. 
Not to do it, of course; only to see.
Carefully she spun out hair&#8209;fine flows of Air and Water and Spirit, the Powers 
used for Healing, and felt for his old injury. One touch, and she recoiled, 
shivering, snatching back her weaving; her stomach churned as if every meal she 
had ever eaten wanted to come up. It seemed that all the darkness in the world 
rested there in Rand's side, all the world's evil in a festering sore only 
lightly covered by tender scar tissue. A thing like that would soak up Healing 
flows like drops of water on dry sand. How could he bear the pain? Why was he 
not weeping?
From first thought to action had taken only a moment. Shaken, and desperately 
hiding it, she went on without a pause. "You are as strong as I. I know it; you 
must be. Feel, Rand. What do you feel?" Light, what can Heal that? Can anything?
"I don't feel anything," he muttered, shifting his feet. "Goose bumps. And no 
wonder. It's not that I don't trust you, Egwene, but I cannot help being nervous 
when a woman is channeling around me. I am sorry."
She did not bother explaining to him the difference between channeling and 
merely embracing the True Source. There was so much he did not know, even 
compared to her own scant knowledge. He was a blind man trying to work a loom by 
touch, with no idea of colors or what the threads, or even the loom, looked 
like.
With an effort she released saidar, and it was an effort. Part of her wanted to 
cry at the loss. "I am not touching the Source now, Rand." She stepped closer 
and peered up at him. "Do you still feel goose bumps?"
"No. But that's just because you told me." He gave an abrupt shrug of his 
shoulders. "You see? I started thinking about it, and I have them again."
Egwene smiled triumphantly. She did not need to look around at Elayne to confirm 
what she had already sensed, what they had agreed upon earlier for this point. 
"You can sense a woman embracing the Source, Rand. Elayne is doing just that 
right now." He squinted at the Daughter&#8209;Heir. "It doesn't matter what you see or 
don't see. You felt it. We have that much. Let's see what else we can find. 
Rand, embrace the Source. Embrace saidin." The words came out hoarsely. They had 
agreed on this, too, she and Elayne. He was Rand, not a monster from the 
stories, and they had agreed on it, but still, asking a man to . . . . The 
wonder was that she had gotten the words out at all. "Do you see anything?" she 
asked Elayne. "Or feel anything?"
Rand still doled out glances between them, in between staring at the floor and 
sometimes blushing. Why was he so out of countenance? Studying him fixedly, the 
Daughter&#8209;Heir shook her head. "He could just be standing there for all I can 
tell. Are you sure he is doing anything?"
"He can be stubborn, but he isn't foolish. At least, he isn't foolish most of 
the time."
"Well, stubborn or foolish or something else, I feel nothing at all."
Egwene frowned at him. "You said you would do as we asked, Rand. Are you? If you 
felt something, so should I, and I do not &#8209; " She broke off with a stifled yelp. 
Something had pinched her bottom. Rand's lips twitched, clearly fighting a grin. 
"That," she told him crisply, "was not nice."
He tried to keep his face innocent, but the grin slipped. "You said you wanted 
to feel something, and I just thought &#8209; " His sudden roar made Egwene jump. 
Clapping a hand to his left buttock, he hobbled in a pained circle. "Blood and 
ashes, Egwene! There was no need to &#8209; " He fell off into deeper, inaudible 
mutters Egwene was just as glad she did not understand.
She took the opportunity to flap the scarf for a little air, and shared a small 
smile with Elayne. The glow faded around the Daughter&#8209;Heir. They both came close 
to giggling as they rubbed themselves surreptitiously. That should show him. 
About a hundred for one, Egwene estimated.
Turning back to Rand, she put on her sternest face. "I would have expected 
something like that from Mat. I thought you, at least, had grown up. We came 
here to help you, if we can. Try to cooperate. Do something with the Power, 
something that isn't childish. Perhaps we will be able to sense that."
Hunched, he glared at them. "Do something," he muttered. "You had no call to &#8209; 
I'll limp for &#8209; You want me to do something?"
Suddenly she lifted into the air, and Elayne, too; they stared at each other, 
wide&#8209;eyed, as they floated a pace above the carpet. There was nothing holding 
them, no flows Egwene could feel or see. Nothing. Her mouth tightened. He had no 
right to do this. No right at all, and it was time he learned it. The same sort 
of shield of Spirit that cut Joiya off from the Source would stop him, too; Aes 
Sedai used it on the rare men they found who could channel.
She opened herself to saidar &#8209; and her stomach sank. Saidar was there &#8209; she 
could feel its warmth and light &#8209; but between her and the True Source stood 
something, nothing, an absence that shut her away from the Source like a stone 
wall. She felt hollow inside, until panic welled up to fill her. A man was 
channeling, and she was caught in it. He was Rand, of course, but dangling there 
like a basket, helpless, all she could think of was a man channeling, and the 
taint on saidin. She tried to shout at him, but all that came out was a croak.
"You want me to do something?" Rand growled. A pair of small tables flexed their 
legs awkwardly, the wood creaking, and began to stumble about in a stiff parody 
of dance, gilt flaking off and falling. "Do you like this?" Fire flared up in 
the fireplace, filling the hearth from side to side, burning on stone bare of 
ashes. "Or this?" The tall stag and wolves above the fireplace began to soften 
and slump. Thin streams of gold and silver flowed out from the mass, fining down 
to shining threads, snaking, weaving themselves into a narrow sheet of metallic 
cloth; the length of glittering fabric hung in the air as it grew, its far end 
still linked to the slowly melting statuette on the stone mantel. "Do 
something," Rand said. "Do something! Do you have any idea what it is like to 
touch saidin, to hold it? Do you? I can feel the madness waiting. Seeping into 
me!"
Abruptly the capering tables burst into flame like torches, dancing still; books 
spun into the air, pages fluttering; the mattress on the bed erupted, showering 
feathers across the room like snow. Feathers falling onto the burning tables 
filled the room with their sharp, sooty stink.
For a moment Rand stared wildly at the blazing tables. Then whatever was holding 
Egwene and Elayne vanished, along with the shield; their heels thumped onto the 
carpet in the same instant the flames went out as if sucked into the wood they 
had been consuming. The blaze in the fireplace winked out, as well, and the 
books fell to the floor in a worse jumble than before. The length of 
gold&#8209;and&#8209;silver cloth dropped, too, along with strands of rough&#8209;melted metal, no 
longer liquid or even hot. Only three largish items, two silver and one gold, 
remained on the mantel, cold and unrecognizable.
Egwene had staggered into Elayne as they landed. They clutched each other for 
support, but Egwene felt the other woman doing exactly what she was doing, 
embracing saidar as quickly as she could. In moments she had a shield ready to 
throw around Rand if he even appeared to be channeling, but he stood stunned, 
staring at the charred tables with feathers still drifting down around him, 
flecking his coat.
He did not seem to be a danger, now, but the room was certainly a mess. She wove 
tiny flows of Air to pull all the floating feathers together, and those already 
on the carpet, as well. As an afterthought, she added those on his coat. The 
rest of it he could have the majhere straighten, or see to himself.
Rand flinched as the feathers floated past him to alight on the tattered ruins 
of the mattress. It did nothing for the smell, burned feathers and burned wood, 
but at least the room was neater, and the open windows and faint breezes were 
already lessening the stench.
"The majhere may not want to give me another," he said with a strained laugh. "A 
mattress a day is probably more than she is willing to . . . ." He avoided 
looking at her or Elayne. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to . . . . Sometimes it 
runs wild. Sometimes there's nothing there when I reach for it, and sometimes it 
does things I don't . . . . I'm sorry. Perhaps you had better go. I seem to say 
that a lot." He blushed again and cleared his throat. "I am not touching the 
Source, but maybe you had best go.
"We are not done yet," Egwene said gently. More gently than she felt &#8209; she 
wanted to box his ears; the idea of picking her up like that, shielding her &#8209; 
and Elayne &#8209; but he was on the ragged edge. Of what, she did not know, and she 
did not want to find out, not now, not here. With so many exclaiming over their 
strength &#8209; everyone said she and Elayne would be among the strongest Aes Sedai, 
if not the strongest, in a thousand years or more &#8209; she had assumed they were as 
strong as he. Near to it, at least. She had just been rudely disabused. Perhaps 
Nynaeve could come close, if she was angry enough, but Egwene knew she herself 
could never have done what he just had, split her flows that many ways, worked 
that many things at once. Working two flows at once was far more than twice as 
hard as working one of the same magnitude, and working three much more than 
twice again working two. He had to have been weaving a dozen. He did not even 
look tired, yet exertion with the Power took energy. She very much feared he 
could handle her and Elayne both like kittens. Kittens he might decide to drown, 
if he went mad.
But she would not, could not, just walk away. That would be the same as 
quitting, and she was not made that way. She meant to do what she had come there 
for &#8209; all of it &#8209; and he was not going to chase her off short of it. Not him or 
anything else.
Elayne's blue eyes were filled with determination, and the moment Egwene fell 
silent she added in a much firmer voice, "And we will not go until we are. You 
said you would try. You must try."
"I did say that, didn't I?" he murmured after a time. "At least we can sit 
down."
Not looking at the blackened tables or the band of metallic cloth lying crumpled 
on the carpet, he led them, limping slightly, to high&#8209;backed chairs near the 
windows. They had to move books from the red silk cushions in order to sit; 
Egwene's chair held Volume Twelve of The Treasurer of the Stone of Tear, a 
dusty, wood&#8209;bound book entitled Travels in the Aiel Waste, with Various 
Observations on the Savage Inhabitants, and a thick, tattered leather volume 
called Dealings with the Territory of Mayene, 500 to 750 of the New Era. Elayne 
had a bigger stack to move, but Rand hurriedly took them from her along with 
those from his chair and put them all on the floor, where the pile promptly fell 
over. Egwene laid hers neatly beside them.
"What do you want me to do now?" He sat on the edge of his seat, hands on his 
knees. "I promise I won't do anything but what you ask this time."
Egwene bit her tongue to keep from telling him that promise came a bit late. 
Perhaps she had been a little vague in what she had asked for, but that was no 
excuse. Still, that was something to be dealt with another time. She realized 
she was thinking of him as just Rand again, but he looked as if he had just 
splashed mud on her best dress and was worried she would not believe it an 
accident. Yet she had not let go of saidar, and neither had Elayne. There was no 
need to be foolish. "This time," she said, "we just want you to talk. How do you 
embrace the Source? Just tell us. Take it step by step, slowly."
"More like wrestling than embracing." He grunted. "Step by step? Well, first I 
imagine a flame, and then I push everything into it. Hate, fear, nervousness. 
Everything. When they're all consumed, there's an emptiness, a void, inside my 
head. I am in the middle of it, but I'm a part of whatever I am concentrating 
on, too." 
"That sounds familiar," Egwene said. "I've heard your father talk about a trick 
of concentration he uses to win the archery competitions. What he calls the 
Flame and the Void."
Rand nodded; sadly, it seemed. She thought he must be missing home, and his 
father. "Tam taught it to me first. And Lan uses it, too, with the sword. Selene 
&#8209; someone I met once &#8209; called it the Oneness. A good many people seem to know 
about it, whatever they call it. But I found out for myself that when I was 
inside the void, I could feel saidin, like a light just beyond the corner of my 
eye in the emptiness. There's nothing but me and that light. Emotion, even 
thought, is outside. I used to have to take it bit by bit, but it all comes at 
once, now. Most of it does, anyway. Most of the time."
"Emptiness," Elayne said with a shiver. "No emotion. That doesn't sound very 
much like what we do."
"Yes, it does," Egwene insisted eagerly. "Rand, we just do it a little 
differently, that's all. I imagine myself to be a flower, a rosebud, imagine it 
until I am the rosebud. That is like your void, in a way. The rosebud's petals 
open out to the light of saidar, and I let it fill me, all light and warmth and 
life and wonder. I surrender to it, and by surrendering, I control it. That was 
the hardest part to learn, really; how to master saidar by submitting, but it 
seems so natural now that I do not even think about it. That is the key to it, 
Rand. I am sure. You must learn to surrender &#8209; " He was shaking his head 
vigorously.
"That's nothing like what I do," he protested. "Let it fill me? I have to reach 
out and take hold of saidin. Sometimes there's still nothing there when I do, 
nothing I can touch, but if I didn't reach for it, I could stand there forever 
and nothing would happen. It fills me all right, once I take hold, but surrender 
to it?" He raked his fingers through his hair. "Egwene, if I surrendered &#8209; even 
for a minute &#8209; saidin would consume me. It's like a river of molten metal, an 
ocean of fire, all the light of the sun gathered in one spot. I must fight it to 
make it do what I want, fight it to keep from being eaten up."
He sighed. "I know what you mean about life filling you, though, even with the 
taint turning my stomach. Colors are sharper, smells clearer. Everything is more 
real, somehow. I don't want to let go, once I have it, even while it's trying to 
swallow me. But the rest . . . . Face the facts, Egwene. The Tower is right 
about this. Accept it for the truth, because it is."
She shook her head. "I will accept it when it is proved to me." She did not 
sound as sure as she wanted to, not as sure she had been. What he told sounded 
like some twisted half&#8209;reflection of what she did, similarities only emphasizing 
differences. Yet there were similarities. She would not give up. "Can you tell 
the flows apart? Air, Water, Spirit, Earth, Fire?"
"Sometimes," he said slowly. "Not usually. I just take what I need to do what I 
want. Fumble for it, mostly. It's very strange. Sometimes I need to do a thing, 
and I do it, but only afterward do I know what it was I did, or how. It's almost 
like remembering something I've forgotten. But I can remember how to do it 
again. Most of the time."
"Yet you do remember how," she insisted. "How did you set fire to those tables?" 
She wanted to ask him how he had made them dance &#8209; she thought she saw a way, 
with Air and Water &#8209; but she wanted to start with something simple; lighting a 
candle and putting it out were things a novice could do.
Rand's face took on a pained expression. "I don't know." He sounded embarrassed. 
"When I want fire, for a lamp or a fireplace, I just make it, but I do not know 
how. I don't really need to think to do things with fire."
That almost stood to reason. Of the Five Powers, Fire and Earth had been 
strongest in men in the Age of Legends, and Air and Water in women; Spirit had 
been shared equally. Egwene hardly had to think to use Air or Water, once she 
had learned to do a thing in the first place. But the thought did not further 
their purpose.
This time it was Elayne who pressed him. "Do you know how you extinguished them? 
You seemed to think before they went out."
"That I do remember, because I don't believe I have ever done it before. I took 
in the heat from the tables and spread it into the stone of the fireplace; a 
fireplace wouldn't even notice that much heat."
Elayne gasped, unconsciously cradling her left arm for a moment, and Egwene 
winced in sympathy. She remembered when that arm had been a mass of blisters 
because the Daughter&#8209;Heir had done what Rand had just described, and with just 
the lamp in her room. Sheriam had threatened to let the blisters heal by 
themselves; she had not done it, but she had threatened. It was one of the 
warnings novices were given; never draw heat in. A flame could be extinguished 
using Air or Water, but using Fire to pull the heat away meant disaster with a 
flame of any size. It was not a matter of strength, so Sheriam had said; heat 
once taken in could not be gotten rid of, not by the strongest woman ever to 
come out of the White Tower. Women had actually burst into flame themselves that 
way. Women had burst into flame. Egwene drew a ragged breath.
"What's the matter?" Rand asked.
"I think you just proved the difference to me." She sighed.
"Oh. Does that mean you're ready to give up?"
"No!" She tried to make her voice softer. She was not angry with him. Exactly. 
She was not sure who she was angry with. "Maybe my teachers were right, but 
there has to be a way. Some way. Only I cannot think of one, right now."
"You tried," he said simply. "I thank you for that. It is not your fault it did 
not work. "
"There must be a way," Egwene muttered, and Elayne murmured, "We will find it. 
We will."
"Of course you will," he said with a forced cheerfulness. "But not today." He 
hesitated. "I suppose you'll be going, then." He sounded half&#8209;regretful, 
half&#8209;glad. "I do need to tell the High Lords a few things about taxes this 
morning. They seem to think they can take as much from a farmer in a poor year 
as a good without beggaring him. And I suppose you have to get back to 
questioning those Darkfriends." He frowned.
He had not said anything, but Egwene was sure he would like to keep them as far 
from the Black Ajah as possible. She was a little surprised he had not already 
tried to make them return to the Tower. Perhaps he knew that she and Nynaeve 
would put a flea in his ear the size of a horse if he tried.
"We do," she said firmly. "But not right away. Rand . . ." The time had come to 
bring up her second reason for being there, but it was even more difficult than 
she had expected. This was going to hurt him; those sad, wary eyes convinced her 
it would. But it had to be done. She snugged the scarf around her; it enveloped 
her from shoulders to waist. "Rand, I cannot marry you."
"I know," he said.
She blinked. He was not taking it as hard as she expected. She told herself that 
was good. "I do not mean to hurt you &#8209; really, I don't &#8209; but I do not want to 
marry you."
"I understand, Egwene. I know what I am. No woman could - "
"You wool&#8209;brained idiot!" she snapped. "This had nothing to do with you 
channeling. I do not love you! At least, not in the way to want to marry you."
Rand's jaw dropped. "You don't . . . love me?" He sounded as surprised as he 
looked. And hurt, too.
"Please try to understand," she said in a gentler voice. "People change, Rand. 
Feelings change. When people are apart, sometimes they grow apart. I love you as 
I would a brother, perhaps more than a brother, but not to marry. Can you 
understand that?"
He managed a rueful grin. "I really am a fool. I didn't really believe you might 
change, too. Egwene, I do not want to marry you, either. I did not want to 
change, I didn't try to, but it happened. If you knew how much this means to me. 
Not having to pretend. Not being afraid I'll hurt you. I never wanted to do 
that, Egwene. Never to hurt you."
She very nearly smiled. He was putting on such a brave face; he was actually 
quite close to convincing. "I am glad you are taking it so well," she told him 
in a soft voice. "I did not want to hurt you, either. And now I really must go." 
Rising from her chair, she bent to brush a kiss across his cheek. "You will find 
someone else."
"Of course," he said, getting to his feet, the lie loud in his voice.
"You will."
She slipped out with a sense of satisfaction and hurried across the anteroom, 
letting saidar go as she took the scarf from her shoulders. The thing was 
abominably hot.
He was ready for Elayne to pick up like a lost puppy if she handled him the way 
they had discussed. She thought Elayne would manage him nicely, now and later. 
For as much later as they had. Something had to be done about his control. She 
was willing to admit that what she had been told was right &#8209; no woman could 
teach him; fish and birds &#8209; but that was not the same as giving up. Something 
had to be done, so a way had to be found. That horrible wound and the madness 
were problems for later, but they would be dealt with eventually. Somehow. 
Everyone said Two Rivers men were stubborn, but they could not match Two Rivers 
women.
 
CHAPTER
8
 
Hard Heads
 
Elayne was not certain Rand realized she was still in the room, the way he 
stared after Egwene with a half&#8209;bewildered expression. Now and again he shook 
his head as if arguing with himself, or trying to straighten his mind. She was 
content to wait him out. Anything that put off the moment a while longer. She 
concentrated on maintaining an outward composure, back straight and head high, 
hands folded in her lap, a calmness on her face that could have rivaled 
Moiraine's best. Butterflies the size of hedgehogs frolicked in her stomach.
It was not fear of him channeling. She had let go of saidin as soon as Egwene 
stood to leave. She wanted to trust him, and she had to. It was what she wanted 
to happen that had her trembling inside. She had to concentrate not to finger 
her necklace or fiddle with the strand of sapphires in her hair. Was her perfume 
too heavy? No. Egwene said he liked the smell of roses. The dress. She wanted to 
tug it up, but . . . .
He turned &#8209; the slight limp in his step tightened her lips thoughtfully &#8209; saw 
her sitting in her chair, and gave a start, eyes widening with what seemed very 
close to panic. She was glad to see it; the effort of keeping her own face 
serene had leaped tenfold as soon as his eyes touched her. Those eyes were blue 
now, like a misty morning sky.
He recovered on the instant and made a quite unnecessary bow, wiping his hands 
once nervously on his coat. "I did not realize you were still &#8209; " Flushing, he 
cut off; forgetting her presence might be taken as an insult. "I mean . . . I 
didn't . . . that is, I . . ." He took a deep breath and began again. "I am not 
as much of a fool as I sound, my Lady. It isn't every day someone tells you they 
don't love you, my Lady."
She put on a tone of mock severity. "If you call me that again, I shall call you 
my Lord Dragon. And curtsy. Even the Queen of Andor might curtsy to you, and I 
am only Daughter&#8209;Heir."
"Light! Don't do that." He seemed uneasy out of all proportion to the threat.
"I will not, Rand," she said in a more serious voice, "if you call me by my 
name. Elayne. Say it."
"Elayne." He spoke awkwardly, yet, delightfully, as if he were savoring the 
name, too.
"Good." It was absurd to be so pleased; all he had done was say her name, after 
all. There was something she had to know before she could go on. "Did it hurt 
you very much?" That could be taken two ways, she realized. "What Egwene told 
you, I mean."
"No. Yes. Some. I don't know. Fair is fair, after all." His small grin took some 
of the edge off of his wariness. "I sound a fool again, don't I?"
"No. Not to me."
"I told her the pure truth, but I don't think she believed me. I suppose I did 
not want to believe it of her, either. Not really. If that isn't foolish, I 
don't know what is."
"If you tell me one more time that you are a fool, I may begin to believe it." 
He won't try to hold on to her; I won't have to deal with that. Her voice was 
calm, with a light enough tone to let him know she did not really mean what she 
said. "I saw a Cairhienin lord's fool, once, a man in a funny striped coat, too 
big for him and sewn with bells. You would look silly wearing bells."
"I suppose I would," he said ruefully. "I will remember that." His slow grin was 
wider this time, warming his whole face.
The butterflies' wings flogged her for haste, but she occupied herself with 
straightening her skirts. She had to go slowly, carefully. If I don't, he'll 
think I am just a foolish girl. And he will be right. The butterflies in her 
belly were beating kettle drums, now.
"Would you like a flower?" he asked suddenly, and she blinked in confusion.
"A flower?"
"Yes." Striding to the bed, he scooped up a double handful of feathers from the 
tattered mattress and held them out to her. "I made one for the majhere last 
night. You'd have thought I had given her the Stone. But yours will be much 
prettier," he added hastily. "Much prettier. I promise."
"Rand, I &#8209; "
"I will be careful. It takes only a trickle of the Power. Just a thread, and I 
will be very careful."
Trust. She had to trust him. It was a small surprise to realize that she did. "I 
would like that, Rand."
For long moments he stared at the fluffy mound in his hands, a slow frown on his 
face. Abruptly he let the feathers fall, dusting his hands. "Flowers," he said. 
"That's no fit gift for you." Her heart went out to him; clearly he had tried to 
embrace saidin and failed. Masking disappointment in action, he limped hurriedly 
to the metallic cloth and began gathering it over his arm. "Now this is a proper 
gift for the Daughter&#8209;Heir of Andor. You could have a seamstress make . . ." He 
floundered over what a seamstress might make from a four&#8209;pace length of 
gold&#8209;and&#8209;silver cloth, less than two feet wide.
"I am sure a seamstress will have many ideas," she told him diplomatically. 
Pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve, she knelt for a moment to collect the 
feathers he had dropped into the square of pale blue silk.
"The maids will take care of that," he said as she tucked the small bundle 
securely into her belt pouch.
"Well, this bit is done." How could he understand that she would keep the 
feathers because he had wanted them to be a flower? He shifted his feet, holding 
the glittering folds as if he did not know what to do with them. "The majhere 
must have seamstresses," she told him. "I will give that to one of them." He 
brightened, smiling; she saw no reason to tell him she meant it as a gift. Those 
thundering butterflies would not let her hold back any longer. "Rand, do you . . 
. like me?"
"Like you?" he frowned. "Of course, I like you. I like you very much."
Did he have to look as if he did not understand at all? "I am fond of you, 
Rand." She was startled that she said it so calmly; her stomach seemed to be 
trying to writhe up into her throat, and her hands and feet felt like ice. "More 
than fond." That was enough; she was not going to make a fool of herself. He has 
to say more than "like." first. She almost giggled hysterically. I will keep 
control of myself. I will not let him see me behave like a moon&#8209;eyed girl. I 
will not.
"I am fond of you," he said slowly.
"I am not usually so forward." No; that might make hire think of Berelain. There 
was red in his cheeks; he was thinking of Berelain. Burn him! Her voice came as 
smooth as silk. "Soon I will have to go, Rand. To leave Tear. I may not see you 
again for months." Or ever, a tiny voice cried in her head. She refused to 
listen. "I could not go without letting you know how I feel. And I am . . . very 
fond of you."
"Elayne, I am fond of you. I feel . . . I want . . ." The scarlet spots on his 
cheeks grew. "Elayne, I don't know what to say, how to . . . ."
Suddenly it was her face that was flaming. He must think she was trying to force 
him into saying more. Aren't you? the small voice mocked, which only made her 
cheeks hotter. "Rand, I am not asking for . . . ." Light! How to say it? "I only 
wanted you to know how I feel. That is all." Berelain would not have let it go 
at that. Berelain would have been wrapped around him by now. Telling herself she 
would not let that half&#8209;dressed snip better her, she moved closer to him, took 
the glittering cloth from his arm, and dropped it on the carpet. For some reason 
he seemed taller than he ever had before. "Rand . . . Rand, I want you to kiss 
me." There. It was out.
"Kiss you?" he said as if he had never heard of kissing before. "Elayne, I don't 
want to promise more than . . . I mean, it isn't as if we were betrothed. Not 
that I am suggesting we should be. It's just that  . . . I am fond of you, 
Elayne. More than fond. I just do not want you to think I . . ."
She had to laugh at him, with all his confused earnestness. "I do not know how 
things are done in the Two Rivers, but in Caemlyn you don't wait until you are 
betrothed before kissing a girl. And it does not mean you must become betrothed, 
either. But  perhaps you do not know how &#8209; " His arms went around her almost 
roughly, and his lips came down on hers. Her head spun; her toes tried to curl 
up in her slippers. Some time later &#8209; she was not certain how long &#8209; she 
realized she was leaning against his chest, knees trembling, trying to gulp air.
"Forgive me for interrupting you," he said. She was glad to hear a touch of 
breathlessness in his voice. "I am just a backward shepherd from the Two 
Rivers."
"You are uncouth," she murmured against his shirt, "and you did not shave this 
morning, but I would not say you are backward."
"Elayne, I &#8209; "
She put a hand over his mouth. "I do not want to hear anything; from you that 
you do not mean with your whole heart," she sail firmly. "Not now, or ever."
He nodded, not as if he understood why, but at least as if he understood that 
she meant what she said. Straightening her hair &#8209; the strand of sapphires was 
tangled beyond mending without a mirror &#8209; she stepped out of his encircling 
arms, not without reluctance; it would be all too easy to remain there, and she 
had already been more forward than she had ever dreamed of before. Speaking up 
like that; asking for a kiss. Asking! She was not Berelain.
Berelain. Perhaps Min had had a viewing. What Min saw, happened, but she would 
not share him with Berelain. Perhaps she needed to do a bit more plain speaking. 
Obliquely plain, at least. "I expect you will not lack for company after I go. 
Just remember that some women see a man with their hearts, while others see no 
more than a bauble to wear, no different than a necklace or a bracelet. Remember 
that I will come back, and I am one who sees with her heart." He looked 
confused, at first, then a little alarmed. She had said too much, too fast. She 
had to divert him. "Do you know what you have not said to me? You have not tried 
to frighten me away by telling me how dangerous you are. Don't try now. It is 
too late."
"I did not think of it." Another thought came to him, though, and his eyes 
crinkled with suspicion. "Did you and Egwene scheme this up between you?"
She managed to combine wide&#8209;eyed innocence with mild outrage. "How could you 
even consider such a thing? Do you imagine we would hand you around between us 
like a package? You think a good deal of yourself. There is such a thing as 
being over-proud." He did look confused, now. Quite satisfactory. "Are you sorry 
for what you did to us, Rand?"
"I did not mean to frighten you," he said hesitantly. "Egwene made me angry; 
she's always been able to without half trying. That's no excuse, I know. I said 
I was sorry, and I am. Look what it got me. Burned tables and another mattress 
ruined."
"And for . . . the pinch?"
His face reddened again, but he faced her firmly even so. "No. No, I am not 
sorry for that. The two of you, talking over my head, as if I were a lump of 
wood with no ears. You deserved as much, both of you, and I won't say 
different."
For a moment she considered him. He rubbed his arms through his coat sleeves as 
she momentarily embraced saidar. She did not know Healing to any degree, but she 
had learned bits and pieces on the edge of it. Channeling, she soothed away the 
hurt she had given him for the pinch. His eyes widened in surprise, and he 
shifted on his feet as if testing the absence of pain. "For being honest," she 
told him simply.
There was a rap at the door, and Gaul looked in. At first the Aielman had his 
head down, but after a quick glance at them he raised it. Color flooded Elayne's 
face as she realized he had suspected that he might be interrupting something he 
should not see. She very nearly embraced saidar again and taught him a lesson.
"The Tairens are here," Gaul said. "The High Lords you were expecting."
"I will go, then," she told Rand. "You must tell them about &#8209; taxes, was it not? 
Think on what I have said." She did not say "think of me," but she was sure the 
effect would be the same.
He reached out as if to stop her, but she slipped away from him. She had no 
intention of putting on a display in front of Gaul. The man was Aiel, but what 
must he think of her, wearing perfume and sapphires at that hour of the morning? 
It required real effort not to pull the neckline of her dress up higher.
The High Lords entered as she reached the door, a cluster of graying men in 
pointed beards and colorful, ornate coats with puffy sleeves. They crowded out 
of her way with reluctant bows, their bland faces and polite murmurs not hiding 
their relief that she was leaving.
She glanced back once from the doorway. A tall, broad&#8209;shouldered young man in a 
plain green coat among the High Lords in their silks and satin stripes, Rand 
looked like a stork among peacocks, yet there was something about him, a 
presence that said he commanded there by right. The Tairens recognized it, 
bending their stiff necks reluctantly. He thought probably they bowed just 
because he was the Dragon Reborn, and perhaps they thought so, too. But she had 
seen men, like Gareth Bryne, the Captain&#8209;Commander of her mother's Guards, who 
could have dominated a room in rags, with no title and no one knowing their 
name. Rand might not know it, but he was such a man. He had not been when she 
first saw him, but he was now. She pulled the door shut behind her.
The Aiel around the entrance glanced at her, and the captain commanding the ring 
of Defenders in the middle of the anteroom stared uneasily, but she barely 
noticed them. It was done. Or at least it was begun. Four days she had before 
Joiya and Amico were put on that ship, four days at most to twine herself so 
firmly into Rand's thoughts that he had no room for Berelain. Or if not that, 
firmly enough that she stayed inside his head until she had the chance to do 
more. She had never thought she might do a thing like this, stalk a man like a 
huntress stalking a wild boar. The butterflies were still gamboling in her 
stomach. At least she had not let him see how nervous she was. And it occurred 
to her that she had not once thought of what her mother would say. With that, 
the flutterings vanished. She did not care what her mother said. Morgase had to 
accept her daughter as a woman; that was all there was to it.
The Aiel bowed as she moved away, and she acknowledged them with a gracious nod 
that would have done Morgase proud. Even the Tairen captain looked at her as if 
he could see her new serenity. She did not think she would be troubled by 
butterflies again. For the Black Ajah perhaps, but not for Rand.
 
Ignoring the High Lords in their anxious semicircle, Rand watched the door close 
behind Elayne with wonder in his eyes. Dreams coming true, even only this much, 
made him uneasy. A swim in the Waterwood was one thing, but he would never have 
believed a dream where she came to him like this. She had been so cool and 
collected, while he was tripping over his own tongue. And Egwene, giving his own 
thoughts back to him and only concerned she might hurt him. Why was it women 
could go to pieces or fly into a rage at the smallest thing, yet never flicker 
an eyelash at what left you gaping?
"My Lord Dragon?" Sunamon murmured even more diffidently than usual. Word of 
this morning must have spread through the Stone already; that first lot had 
nearly run on their way out, and it was doubtful Torean would show his face, or 
his filthy suggestions, anywhere Rand was.
Sunamon essayed, an ingratiating smile, then smothered it, dry-washing his plump 
hands, when Rand only looked at him. The rest pretended they did not see the 
burned tables, or the shattered mattress and scattered books, or the half&#8209;melted 
lumps over the fireplace that had been the stag and wolves. High Lords were good 
at seeing only what they wanted to see. Carleon and Tedosian, false 
self&#8209;effacement in every line of their thick bodies, surely never realized there 
was anything suspicious in never looking at one another. But then, Rand might 
never have noticed if not for Thom's note, found in the pocket of a coat just 
back from being brushed.
"The Lord Dragon wished to see us?" Sunamon managed.
Could Egwene and Elayne have worked it up between them? Of course not. Women did 
not do things like that any more than men. Did they? It had to be coincidence. 
Elayne heard that he was free and decided to speak. That was it. "Taxes," he 
barked. The Tairens did not move, but they gave the impression of stepping back. 
How he hated dealing with these men; he wanted to dive back into the books.
"It is a bad precedent, my Lord Dragon, lowering taxes," a lean, gray&#8209;haired man 
said in an oily voice. Meilan was tall for a Tairen, only a hand shorter than 
Rand, and hard as any Defender. He held himself in a stoop in Rand's presence; 
his dark eyes showed how he hated it. But he had hated it when Rand told them to 
stop crouching around him, too. None of them straightened, but Meilan especially 
had not liked being reminded of what he did. "The peasants have always paid 
easily, but if we lower their taxes, when the day comes that we raise them back 
to where they now are, the fools will complain as bitterly as if we had doubled 
the present levy. There might well be riots when that day comes, my Lord 
Dragon."
Rand strode across the room to stand before Callandor; the crystal sword 
glittered, outshining the gilt and gemstones surrounding it. A reminder of who 
he was, of the power he could wield. Egwene. It was foolish to feel hurt because 
she said she no longer loved him. Why should he expect her to have feelings for 
him that he did not have for her? Yet it did hurt. A relief, but not a pleasant 
one. "You will have riots if you drive men off their farms." Three books stood 
in a stack almost by Meilan's feet. The Treasurer of the Stone of Tear, Travels 
in the Waste, and Dealings with the Territory of Mayene. The keys lay in those, 
and in the various translations of The Karaethon Cycle, if he could only find 
them and fit them to the proper locks. He pushed his mind back to the High 
Lords. "Do you think they will watch their families starve and do nothing?"
"The Defenders of the Stone have put down riots before, my Lord Dragon," Sunamon 
said soothingly. "Our own guards can keep peace in the countryside. The peasants 
will not disturb you, I give you my assurance."
"There are too many farmers as it is." Carleon flinched at Rand's glare. "It is 
the civil war in Cairhien, my Lord Dragon," he explained hurriedly. "The 
Cairhienin can buy no grain, and the granaries are bursting. This year's harvest 
will go to waste as it is. And next year . . . ? Burn my soul, my Lord Dragon, 
but what we need is for some of those peasants to stop their eternal digging and 
planting." He seemed to realize he had said too much, though he clearly did not 
understand why. Rand wondered whether he had any idea how food got to his table. 
Did he see anything but gold, and power?
"What will you do when Cairhien is buying grain again?" Rand said coolly. "For 
that matter, is Cairhien the only land that needs grain?" Why had Elayne spoken 
up like that? What did she expect of him? Fond, she said. Women could play games 
with words like Aes Sedai. Did she mean she loved him? No, that was plain 
foolishness. Over-proud to a degree.
"My Lord Dragon," Meilan said, half subservient, half as if explaining 
some­thing to a child, "if the civil wars stopped today, Cairhien still could 
not buy more than a few bargeloads for two, even three years. We have always 
sold our grain to Cairhien."
Always &#8209; for the twenty years since the Aiel War. They were so bound up in what 
they had always done that they could not see what was so simple. Or would not 
see it. When the cabbages sprouted like weeds around Emond's Field, it was a 
near certainty that bad rain or whiteworm had struck Deven Ride or Watch Hill. 
When Watch Hill had too many turnips, Emond's Field would have a shortage, or 
Deven Ride.
"Offer it in Illian," he told them. What did Elayne expect? "Or Altara." He did 
like her, but he liked Min as much. Or thought he did. It was impossible to sort 
out his feelings for either of them. "You have ships for the sea as well as 
riverboats and barges, and if you don't have enough, hire them from Mayene." He 
liked both women, but beyond that . . .  He had spent very nearly his whole life 
mooning after Egwene; he was not about to dive into that again until he was 
sure. Sure of something. Sure. If Dealings with the Territory of Mayene was to 
be believed . . .  Stop this, he told himself. Keep your mind on these weasels, 
or they'll find cracks to slip through, and bite you on the way. "Pay with 
grain; I'm sure the First will be amenable, for a good price. And maybe a signed 
agreement, a treaty . . ." That was a good word; the sort they used. ". . . 
pledging to leave Mayene alone in return for ships." He owed her that.
"We trade little with Illian, my Lord Dragon. They are vultures, and scum." 
Tedosian sounded scandalized, and so did Meilan when he said, "We have always 
dealt with Mayene from strength, my Lord Dragon. Never with bent knee."
Rand took a deep breath. The High Lords tensed. It always came to this. He 
always tried to reason with them, and it always failed. Thom said the High Lords 
had heads as hard as the Stone, and he was right. What do I feel for her? 
Dreaming about her. She's certainly pretty. He was not sure if he meant Elayne 
or Min. Stop this! A kiss means no more than a kiss. Stop it! Putting women 
firmly out of his head, he set himself to telling these stone&#8209;brained fools what 
they were going to do. "First, you will cut taxes on farmers by three&#8209;quarters, 
and on everyone else by half. Don't argue! Just do it! Second, you go to 
Berelain and ask &#8209; ask! &#8209; her price for hiring . . . ."
The High Lords listened with false smiles and grinding teeth, but they listened.
Egwene was considering Joiya and Amico when Mat fell in beside her, just walking 
down the hallway as if he merely happened to be going the same way. He was 
frowning to himself, and his hair needed brushing, as if he had been scrubbing 
his fingers through it. Once or twice he glanced at her but did not speak. The 
servants they passed bowed or curtsied, and so did the occasional High Lords and 
Ladies, if with markedly less enthusiasm. Mat's lip&#8209;curling stares at the nobles 
would have brought trouble if she had not been there, friend of the Lord Dragon 
or not.
This silence was not like him, not like the Mat she knew. Except for his fine 
red coat&#8209;wrinkled as if he had slept in it &#8209; he seemed no different than the old 
Mat, yet they were surely all different now. His quiet was unsettling. "Is last 
night troubling you?" she asked at last.
He missed a step. "You know about that? Well, you would, wouldn't you. Doesn't 
bother me. Wasn't much to it. Over and done with now, anyway."
She pretended to believe him. "Nynaeve and I do not see much of you." That was a 
rank understatement.
"I have been busy," he muttered with an uncomfortable shrug, looking everywhere 
but at her again.
"Dicing?" she asked dismissively.
"Cards." A plump maid, curtsying with her arms full of folded towels, glanced at 
Egwene and, apparently thinking she was not looking, winked at Mat. He grinned 
at her. "I've been busy playing cards."
Egwene's eyebrows rose sharply. That woman had to be ten years older than 
Nynaeve. "I see. It must use up a great deal of time. Playing cards. Too much to 
spare a few moments for old friends."
"The last time I spared you a moment, you and Nynaeve tied me up with the Power 
like a pig for market so you could rummage through my room. Friends don't steal 
from friends." He grimaced. "Besides, you're always with that Elayne, with her 
nose in the air. Or Moiraine. I do not like &#8209; " Clearing his throat, he shot her 
a sideways glance. "I don't like taking up your time. You are busy, from what I 
hear. Questioning Darkfriends. Doing all sorts of important things, I should 
imagine. You know these Tairens think you are Aes Sedai, don't you?"
She shook her head ruefully. It was Aes Sedai he did not like. However much of 
the world Mat saw, nothing would ever change him. "It is not stealing to take 
back what was supposed to be a loan," she told him.
"I don't remember you saying anything about a loan. Aaah, what use do I have for 
a letter from the Amyrlin? Just get me in trouble. You could have asked, 
though."
She refrained from pointing out that they had asked. She wanted neither an 
argument nor a sulky departure. He would not call it that, of course. This time 
she would let him get away with his version. "Well, I am glad you are still 
willing to talk to me. Was there a special reason for it today?"
He shoved his fingers through his hair and muttered to himself. What he needed 
was his mother to haul him off by his ear for a long talking to. Egwene 
counseled herself to patience. She could be patient when she wanted to. She 
would not say a word before he did, if she burst for it.
The corridor opened into a railed colonnade of white marble, looking down on one 
of the Stone's few gardens. Large white blossoms covered a few small, 
waxy&#8209;leafed trees and gave a scent even sweeter than the banks of red and yellow 
roses. A sullen breeze failed to stir the hangings on the inner wall, but it did 
cut the morning's growing damp warmth. Mat took a seat on the wide balustrade 
with his back against a column and one foot up in front of him. Peering down 
into the garden, he finally said, "I . . . need some advice."
He wanted advice from her? She goggled at him. "Whatever I can do to help," she 
said faintly. He turned his head to her, and she did her best to assume 
something like Aes Sedai calm. "What do you want advice about?"
"I don't know."
It was a ten&#8209;pace drop to the garden. Besides, there were men down there weeding 
among the roses. If she pushed him over, he might land on one. A gardener, not a 
rosebush. "How am I supposed to advise you, then?" she asked in a thin voice.
"I am . . . trying to decide what to do." He looked embarrassed; he had a right 
to, in her opinion.
"I hope you are not thinking of trying to leave. You know how important you are. 
You cannot run away from it, Mat."
"You think I don't know that? I don't think I could leave if Moiraine told me I 
could. Believe me, Egwene, I am not going anywhere. I just want to know what's 
going to happen." He gave a rough shake of his head, and his voice grew tighter. 
"What comes next? What's in these holes in my memory? There are chunks of my 
life that aren't even there; they don't exist, as if they never happened! Why do 
I find myself spouting gibberish? People say it's the Old Tongue, but it's goose 
gabble to me. I want to know, Egwene. I have to know, before I go as crazy as 
Rand."
"Rand is not crazy," she said automatically. So Mat was not trying to run away. 
That was a pleasant surprise; he had not seemed to believe in responsibility. 
But them was pain and worry in his voice. Mat never worried, or never let anyone 
see it if he did. "I do not know the answers, Mat," she said gently. "Perhaps 
Moiraine - "
"No!" He was on his feet in a bound. "No Aes Sedai! I mean . . . . You're 
different. I know you, and you aren't . . . . Didn't they teach you anything in 
the Tower, some trick or other, something that would serve?"
"Oh, Mat, I am sorry. I am so sorry."
His laugh reminded her of their childhood. Just so he had always laughed when 
his grandest expectations went astray. "Ah, well, I guess it does not matter. 
It'd still be the Tower, if at second hand. No offense to you." Just so he had 
moaned over a splinter in his finger and treated a broken leg as if it were 
nothing at all.
"There might be a way," she said slowly. "If Moiraine says it is all right. She 
might."
"Moiraine! Haven't you heard a word I said? The last thing I want is Moiraine 
meddling. What way?"
Mat had always been rash. But he wanted no more than she did, to know. If only 
he showed a little sense and caution for once. A passing Tairen noblewoman with 
dark braids coiled about her head, shoulders bare above yellow linen, bent her 
knee slightly, looking at them with no expression; she walked on quickly, with a 
stiff back. Egwene watched her until she was well beyond earshot, and they were 
alone. Unless the gardeners, thirty feet below, counted. Mat was staring at her 
expectantly.
In the end, she told him of the ter'angreal, the twisted doorway that held 
answers on its other side. It was the dangers she emphasized, the consequences 
of foolish questions, or those touching the Shadow, the dangers even Aes Sedai 
might not know. She was more than flattered that he had come to her, but he had 
to show a little sense. "You must remember this, Mat. Frivolous questions can 
get you killed, so if you do use it, you will have to be serious for a change. 
And you mustn't ask any questions that touch the Shadow."
He had listened with greater and greater incredulity. When she was done, he 
exclaimed, "Three questions? You go in like Bili, I suppose, spend a night and 
come out ten years later with a purse that's always full of gold and a &#8209; "
"For once in your life, Matrim Cauthon," she snapped, "do not talk like a fool. 
You know very well ter'angreal are not stories. It's the dangers you have to be 
aware of. Maybe the answers you seek are inside this one, but you must not try 
it before Moiraine says you can. You must promise me that, or 1 promise you I 
will take you to her like a trout on a string. You know I can."
He gave a loud snort. "I'd be a fool if I did try it, no matter what Moiraine 
says.
Walk into a bloody ter'angreal? It's less I want to do with the bloody Power, 
not more. You can blot it right out of your mind."
"It is the only chance I know, Mat."
"Not for me, it isn't," he said firmly. "No chance at all is better than that."
Despite his tone, she wanted to put an arm around him. Only he would likely make 
some joke at her expense, and try to goose her. He had been incorrigible from 
the clay he was horn. But he had come to her for help.  "I'm sorry, Mat. What 
will you do?
"Oh, play cards, I suppose. If anyone will play with me. Play stones with Thom. 
Dice in the taverns. I can still go as far as the city, at least." His gaze 
strayed toward a passing maidservant, a slender, dark&#8209;eyed girl, near his own 
age. "I'll find something to take up time."
Her hand itched to slap him, but instead she said cautiously, "Mat, you really 
aren't thinking of leaving, are you?"
"Would you tell Moiraine, if I was?" He put up his hands to forestall her. 
"Well, there's no need. I told you I wouldn't. I'll not pretend I'd not like to, 
but I won't. Is that good enough for you?" A pensive frown crept onto his face. 
"Egwene, do you ever wish you were back home? That none of this had ever 
happened?"
It was a startling question, coming from him, but she knew her answer. "No. Even 
with everything, no. Do you?"
"I would be a fool then, wouldn't I?" he laughed. "It's cities I like, and this 
one will do for now. This one will do. Egwene, you won't tell Moiraine about 
this, will you? About me asking for advice and all?"
"Why shouldn't I?" she asked suspiciously. He was Mat, after all.
He gave an embarrassed hitch of his shoulders. "I've been keeping wider of her 
than I have of . . . . Anyway, I've been staying clear, especially when she 
wants to root around in my head. She might think I'm weakening. You won't tell 
her, will you?"
"I won't," she said, "if you promise me you will not go near that ter'angreal 
without asking her permission. I shouldn't even have told you about it."
"I promise." He grinned. "I won't go near that thing unless my life depends on 
it. I swear." He finished with mock solemnity.
Egwene shook her head. However much everything else changed, Mat just never 
would.
 
CHAPTER
9
 
Decisions
 
Three days passed with heat and damp that seemed to sap even the Tairens' 
strength. The city slowed to a lethargic walk, the Stone to a crawl. Servants 
worked nearly in their sleep; the majhere tore her coiled braids in frustration, 
but even she could not find the energy to rap knuckles or flick ears with a hard 
fingers. Defenders of the Stone slumped at their posts like half&#8209;melted candles, 
and the officers showed more interest in chilled wine than in making their 
rounds. The High Lords kept largely to their apartments, sleeping through the 
hottest part of the day and a few left the Stone entirely for the relative cool 
of estates far to the east, on the slopes of the Spine of the World. Oddly, only 
the outlanders, who felt the heat worst of all, pushed on with their lives as 
hard as ever, if not harder. For them, the heavy heat did not weigh nearly as 
much as did the hours rushing by.
Mat quickly discovered that he had been right about the young lords who saw the 
playing cards try to kill him. Not only did they avoid him, they spread the word 
among their friends, often garbled; no one in the Stone who had two pieces of 
silver in hand would say more than hasty excuses while backing away. The rumors 
spread beyond the lordlings. More than one serving woman who had enjoyed a 
cuddle now declined, too, and two said uneasily that they had heard it was 
dangerous to be alone with him. Perrin appeared all wrapped up in his own 
worries, and Thom seemed to vanish by sleight of hand; Mat had no idea what 
occupied the gleeman, but he was seldom to be found, day or night. Moiraine, the 
one person Mat wished would ignore him, instead seemed to be there whenever he 
turned around; she was just passing by, or crossing the corridor in the 
distance, but her eyes met his every last time, looking as if she knew what he 
was thinking and what he wanted, knew how she was going to make him do exactly 
what she wanted instead. None of it made any difference in one respect; he still 
managed to find excuses to put off leaving for another day. As he saw it, he had 
not promised Egwene he would stay. But he did.
Once, he carried a lamp down into the belly of the Stone, to the so&#8209;called Great 
Holding, as far as the dry&#8209;rotted door at the far end of the narrow hallway. A 
few minutes of peering into the shadowy interior at dim shapes covered with 
dusty canvas, roughly stacked crates and barrels, their flat ends used as 
shelves for jumbles of figurines and carvings and peculiar things of crystal and 
glass and metal &#8209; a few minutes of that, and he hurried away, muttering, "I'd 
have to be the biggest bloody fool in the whole bloody world!"
Nothing kept him from going into the city, though, and there was no chance at 
all of meeting Moiraine in the dockside taverns of the Maule, the port district, 
or the inns in the Chalm, where the warehouses were, dimly lit, cramped, often 
dirty places of cheap wine, bad ale, occasional fights and unending dice games. 
The stakes in the dice games were small, compared to what he had grown used to, 
but that was not why he always found himself back in the Stone after a few 
hours. He tried not to think about what always drew him back, near to Rand.
Perrin sometimes saw Mat in the waterfront taverns, drinking too much cheap 
wine, dicing as if he did not care whether he won or lost, once flashing a knife 
when a burly shipman pressed him on how often he did win. It was not like Mat to 
be so irritable, but Perrin avoided him instead of trying to find out what was 
troubling him. Perrin was not there for wine or dice, and the men who thought of 
fighting changed their minds after a good look at his shoulders &#8209; and his eyes. 
He bought bad ale, though, for sailors in wide leather trousers and for 
under-merchants with thin silver chains across their coat fronts, for any man 
who looked to be from a distant land. It was rumor he hunted, word of something 
that might draw Faile away from Tear. Away from him.
He was sure if he found an adventure for her, something that smacked of a chance 
at putting her name in the stories, she would go. She pretended to understand 
why he had to stay, but occasionally she still hinted that she wanted to leave 
and hoped he would go with her. He was certain the right bait would pull her, 
without him.
Most rumors she would know for outdated twistings of the truth, just as he did. 
The war that burned along the Aryth Ocean was said to be the work of a people no 
one had ever heard of before called the Sawchin, or something like it &#8209; he heard 
many variations from many tellers &#8209; a strange folk who might be Artur Hawkwing's 
armies come back after a thousand years. One fellow, a Taraboner in a round, red 
hat and a mustache as thick as a bull's horns, solemnly informed him that 
Hawkwing himself led these people, his legendary sword justice in hand. There 
were rumors that the fabled Horn of Valere, meant to call dead heroes from the 
grave to fight in the Last Battle, had been found. In Ghealdan, riots had broken 
out all over the country; Illian was suffering from outbreaks of mass madness; 
in Cairhien, famine was slowing the killing; someplace in the Borderlands, 
Trolloc raids were on the increase. Perrin could not send Faile into any of 
that, not even to get her away from Tear.
Reports of trouble in Saldaea seemed promising &#8209; her own home must be attractive 
to her, and he had heard that Mazrim Taim, the false Dragon, was safely in Aes 
Sedai hands &#8209; but no one knew what sort of trouble. Making something up would do 
no good; whatever he found, she would surely ask her own questions before 
chasing after it. Besides, any turmoil in Saldaea might easily be as bad as the 
other things he heard.
He could not tell her where he was spending his time, either, because she would 
inevitably ask why. She knew he was not Mat, to enjoy lolling about taverns. He 
had never been good at lying, so he put her off as best he could, and she began 
to give him long, silent, slanted looks. All he could do was redouble his 
efforts to find a tale to lure her away. He had to send her away from him before 
he got her killed. He had to.
Egwene and Nynaeve spent more hours with Joiya and Amico, to no avail. Their 
stories never wavered. Over Nynaeve's protests, Egwene even tried telling each 
of them what the other had said, to see if anything joggled loose. Amico stared 
at them, whining that she had never heard any such plan. But it might be true, 
she added. It might. She sweated with eagerness to please. Joiya coolly told 
them to go to Tanchico if they wished. "It is an uncomfortable city now, I 
hear," she said smoothly, raven eyes glittering. "The King holds little more 
than the city itself, and I understand the Panarch has ceased keeping civil 
order. Strong arms and quick knives rule Tanchico. But go, if it pleases you."
No word came from Tar Valon, nothing to say if the Amyrlin was dealing with the 
possible threat to free Mazrim Taim. There had been plenty of time for a message 
to come, by quick riverboat or a man changing horses, since Moiraine had sent 
the pigeons&#8209;provided she had sent them. Egwene and Nynaeve argued about that; 
Nynaeve admitted the Aes Sedai could not lie, but she tried to find some twist 
in Moiraine's words. Moiraine did not seem to fret over the lack of response 
from the Amyrlin, though it was hard to tell through her crystal calm.
Egwene did fret over it, and over whether Tanchico was a false trail, or a real 
one, or a trap. The Stone's library held books about Tarabon and Tanchico, but 
though she read until her eyes ached she found no clue to anything dangerous to 
Rand. Heat and worry did nothing for her temper; she was sometimes as snappish 
as Nynaeve.
Some things were going well, of course. Mat was still in the Stone; obviously he 
really was growing up and learning about responsibility. She regretted failing 
him, but she was not certain any woman in the Tower could have done more. She 
understood his thirst to know, because she thirsted, too, although for other 
knowledge, for the things she could only learn in the Tower, the things she 
might discover that no one else had known how to do before, the lost things she 
might relearn.
Aviendha began to visit with Egwene, apparently of her own choice. If the woman 
was wary at first, well, she was Aiel, after all, and she did think Egwene was 
full Aes Sedai. Still, her company was enjoyable, although Egwene sometimes 
thought she saw unasked questions in her eyes. If Aviendha kept her reserve, it 
soon became apparent that she had a quick wit, and a sense of humor akin to 
Egwene's; they sometimes ended up giggling together like girls. Aiel ways were 
nothing Egwene was used to, though, such as Aviendha's discomfort at sitting in 
a chair, and her shock at finding Egwene in her bath, a silver&#8209;plated tub the 
majhere had had brought up. Not shock at walking in on her naked &#8209; in fact, when 
she saw that Egwene was uncomfortable, she peeled off her own clothes and sat 
down on the floor to talk &#8209; but at seeing Egwene sitting chest&#8209;deep in water. It 
was dirtying so much water that made her eyes pop. For another thing, Aviendha 
refused to understand why she and Elayne had not done something drastic to 
Berelain, since they wanted her out of the way. It was all but forbidden for a 
warrior to kill a woman not wed to the spear, but since neither Elayne nor 
Berelain were Maidens of the Spear, it was apparently quite all right in 
Aviendha's view for Elayne to challenge the First of Mayene to fight with 
knives, or failing that with fists and feet. Knives were best, as she saw it. 
Berelain looked the sort of woman who could be beaten several times without 
giving up. Best simply to challenge and kill her. Or Egwene could do it for her, 
as friend and near&#8209;sister.
Even with that, it was a pleasure to have someone to talk and laugh with. Elayne 
was occupied most of the time, of course, and Nynaeve, seeming to feel the rush 
of time as keenly as Egwene, gave her free moments over to moonlit walks on the 
battlements with Lan and to preparing foods the Warder liked with her own hands, 
not to mention curses that sometimes drove the cooks from the kitchen; Nynaeve 
did not know very much about cooking. If not for Aviendha, Egwene was not sure 
what she would have done in the muggy hours between questionings of the 
Darkfriends: sweated, undoubtedly, and worried that she might have to do 
something that gave her nightmares thinking of it.
By agreement, Elayne was never present at those questionings; one more set of 
ears listening would make no difference. Instead, whenever Rand had a moment to 
spare, the Daughter&#8209;Heir just happened to be close by, to talk, or simply walk 
holding his arm, even if it was only from a meeting with some High Lords to a 
room where others waited, or to a lightning inspection of the Defenders' 
quarters. She became quite good at finding secluded corners where the two of 
them could pause, alone. Of course, he always had Aiel trailing after him, but 
she soon cared as little for what they thought as for what her mother would. She 
even entered a sort of conspiracy with the Maidens of the Spear; they seemed to 
know every hidden nook in the Stone, and they let her know whenever Rand was 
alone. They seemed to think the game great sport.
The surprise was that he asked her about the governing of nations and listened 
to what she said. That, she wished her mother could see. More than once Morgase 
had laughed, half&#8209;despairingly, and told her she had to learn to concentrate. 
Which crafts to protect and how, and which not and why, might be dry decisions, 
but as important as how to care for the sick. It might be fun to guide a 
stubborn lord or merchant into doing what he did not want to while thinking it 
was his own idea, it might be warming to feed the hungry, but if the hungry were 
to be fed it was necessary to decide how many clerks and drivers and wagons were 
needed. Others might arrange it, but then you would never know until it was too 
late whether they had made a mistake. He listened to her, and often took her 
advice. She thought she could have loved him for those two things alone. 
Berelain was not setting foot outside her chambers; Rand had begun smiling as 
soon as he saw her; nothing could be finer about the world. Unless the days 
could stop passing.
Three short days, slipping away like water through her fingers. Joiya and Amico 
would be sent north and the reason for staying in Tear would vanish; it would be 
time for her and Egwene and Nynaeve to leave, too. She would go, when that time 
came; she had never considered not. Knowing that made her proud of behaving like 
a woman, not a girl; knowing it made her want to cry.
And Rand? He met with High Lords in his chambers and issued orders. He startled 
them by appearing at secret gatherings of three or four that Thom had ferreted 
out, just to reiterate some point from his last commands. They smiled and bowed 
and sweated and wondered how much he knew. A use had to be found for their 
energy before one of them decided that if Rand could not be manipulated, he must 
be killed. Whatever it took to divert them, he would not start a war. If he had 
to confront Sammael, so be it; but he would not start a war.
Forming his plan of action occupied most of his time not given over to hounding 
the High Lords. Bits and pieces came from the books he had the librarians bring 
to his rooms by armloads, and from his talks with Elayne. Her advice was 
certainly useful with the High Lords; he could see them hastily reassessing him 
when he displayed knowledge of things they themselves only half&#8209;knew. She 
stopped him when he wanted to give her the credit.
"A wise ruler takes advice," she told him, smiling, "but should never be seen to 
take it. Let them think you know more than you do. It will not harm them, and it 
will help you." She seemed pleased he had suggested it, though.
He was not entirely sure that he was not still putting off some decision, at 
least, because of her. Three days of planning, of trying to puzzle out what was 
still missing. Something was. He could not react to the Forsaken; he had to make 
them react to him. Three days, and on the fourth she would go &#8209; back to Tar 
Valon, he hoped &#8209; but once he moved, he suspected even their brief moments 
together would end. Three days of stolen kisses, when he could forget he was 
anything but a man with his arms around a woman. He knew it for a foolish 
reason, if true. He was relieved she did not seem to want more than his company, 
but in those moments alone he could forget decisions, forget the fate awaiting 
the Dragon Reborn. More than once he considered asking her to stay, but it would 
not be fair to raise her expectations when he had no idea what he wanted from 
her beyond her presence. If she had any expectations, of course. Much better 
just to think of them as a man and a young woman walking out together of a 
feastday evening. That became easier; sometimes he forgot she was the 
Daughter&#8209;Heir, and he a shepherd. But he wished she were not going. Three days. 
He had to decide. He had to move. In a direction no one expected.
The sun slid slowly toward the horizon on the evening of the third day. The 
half&#8209;drawn draperies of Rand's bedchamber lessened the reddish yellow glare. 
Callandor glittered on its ornate stand like the purest crystal.
Rand stared at Meilan and Sunamon, then tossed the thick bundle of large vellum 
sheets at them. A treaty, all neatly scribed, lacking only signatures and seals. 
It hit Meilan in the chest, and he caught it by reflex; he bowed as if honored, 
but his tight smile revealed clenched teeth.
Sunamon shifted from foot to foot, dry&#8209;washing his hands. "All is as you said, 
my Lord Dragon," he said anxiously. "Grain for ships &#8209; "
"And two thousand Tairen levies," Rand cut him off. " 'To see to proper 
distribution of the grain and protect Tairen interests.' " His voice was like 
ice, but his stomach seemed to be boiling; he nearly shook with the desire to 
pound at these fools with his fists. "Two thousand men. Under the command of 
Torean!"
"The High Lord Torean has in interest in affairs with Mayene, my Lord Dragon," 
Meilan said smoothly.
"He has an interest in forcing his attentions on a woman who won't look at him!" 
Rand shouted. "Grain for ships, I said! No soldiers. And certainly no bloody 
Torean! Have you even spoken to Berelain?"
They blinked at him as if they did not understand the words. It was too much. He 
snatched at saidin; the vellum in Meilan's arms erupted into flame. With a yell, 
Meilan hurled the fiery bundle into the bare fireplace and hurriedly brushed at 
sparks and scorch marks on his red silk coat. Sunamon stared at the burning 
sheets, which were crackling and turning black, with his mouth hanging open.
"You will go to Berelain," he told them, surprised at how calm his voice was. 
"By tomorrow midday you will have offered her the treaty I want, or by sunset 
tomorrow I'll hang both of you. If I have to hang High Lords every day, two by 
two, I will. I will send every last one of you to the gallows if you won't obey 
me. Now, get out of my sight."
The quiet tone seemed to affect them more than his shouting had. Even Meilan 
looked uneasy as they backed away, bowing at every other step, murmuring 
protestations of undying loyalty and everlasting obedience. They sickened him.
"Get out!" he roared, and they abandoned dignity, almost fighting with one 
another to pull the doors open. They ran. One of the Aiel guards put his head in 
for a moment, to see that Rand was all right, before drawing the door shut.
Rand trembled openly. They disgusted him almost as much as he disgusted himself. 
Threatening to hang men because they did not do as he told them. Worse, meaning 
it. He could remember when he did not have a temper, or, at least, when he 
rarely had, and had managed to keep it on a short rein.
He crossed the room to where Callandor sparkled with the light streaming in 
between the draperies. The blade looked like the finest glass, absolutely clear; 
it felt like steel to his fingers, sharp as a razor. He had come close to 
reaching for it, to deal with Meilan and Sunamon. Whether to use it as a sword 
or for its real purpose, he did not know. Either possibility horrified him. I am 
not mad yet. Only angry. Light, so angry!
Tomorrow. The Darkfriends would be put on a ship, tomorrow. Elayne would be 
leaving. And Egwene and Nynaeve, of course. Back to Tar Valon, he prayed; Black 
Ajah or no Black Ajah, the White Tower had to be as safe a place as there was 
now. Tomorrow. No more excuses to put off what he had to do. Not after tomorrow.
He turned his hands over, looking at the heron branded into each palm. He had 
examined them so often that he could have sketched every line perfectly from 
memory. The Prophecies foretold them.
 
Twice and twice shall he be marked,
twice to live, and twice to die.
Once the heron to set his path.
Twice the heron, to name him true.
Once the Dragon, for remembrance lost
Twice the Dragon, for the price he must pay.
 
But if the herons "named him true," what need for Dragons? For that matter, what 
was a Dragon? The only Dragon he had ever heard of was Lews Therin Telamon. Lews 
Therin Kinslayer had been the Dragon; the Dragon was the Kinslayer. Except now 
there was himself. But he could not be marked with himself. Perhaps the figure 
on the banner was a Dragon; not even Aes Sedai seemed to know what that creature 
was.
"You are changed from when I last saw you. Stronger. Harder."
He spun, gaping at the young woman standing by the door, fair of skin and dark 
of hair and eye. Tall, dressed all in white and silver, she arched an eyebrow at 
the half&#8209;melted lumps of gold and silver over the fireplace. He had left them 
there to remind him what could happen when he acted without thinking, when he 
lost control. Much good it had done.
"Selene," he gasped, hurrying to her. "Where did you come from? How did you get 
here? I thought you must still be in Cairhien, or . . . ." Looking down at her, 
he did not want to say he feared she might be dead, or a starving refugee.
A woven silver belt glittered around her narrow waist; silver combs worked with 
stars and crescent moons shone in hair that fell to her shoulders like 
waterfalls of night. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. 
Elayne and Egwene were only pretty beside her. For some reason, though, she did 
not affect him the way she had; perhaps it was the long months since he had last 
seen her, in a Cairhien not yet racked by civil war.
"I go where I wish to be." She frowned at his face. "You have been marked, but 
no matter. You were mine, and you are mine. Any other is no more than a 
caretaker whose time has passed. I will lay claim to what is mine openly, now."
He stared at her. Marked? Did she mean his hands? And what did she mean, he was 
hers? "Selene," he said gently, "we had pleasant days together &#8209; and hard days; 
I'll never forget your courage, or your help &#8209; but there was never more between 
us than companionship. We traveled together, but that was the end of it. You 
will stay here in the Stone, in the best apartments, and when peace returns to 
Cairhien, I will see that your estates there are returned to you, if I can."
"You have been marked." She smiled wryly. "Estates in Cairhien? I may have had 
estates in those lands, once. The land has changed so much that nothing is as it 
was. Selene is only a name I sometimes use, Lews Therin. The name I made my own 
is Lanfear."
Rand barked a shallow laugh. "A poor joke, Selene. I'd as soon make jests about 
the Dark One as one of the Forsaken. And my name is Rand."
"We call ourselves the Chosen," she said calmly. "Chosen to rule the world 
forever. We will live forever. You can, also."
He frowned at her worriedly. She actually thought she was . . . . Her travails 
in reaching Tear must have unhinged her. But she did not look mad. She was calm, 
cool, certain. Without thinking, he found himself reaching for saidin. He 
reached for it &#8209; and struck a wall he could not see or feel, except that it kept 
him from the Source. "You can't be." She smiled. "Light," he breathed. "You are 
one of them."
Slowly, he backed away. If he reached Callandor, at least he would have a 
weapon. Perhaps it could not work as an angreal, but it would do for a sword. 
Could he use a sword against a woman, against Selene? No, against Lanfear, 
against one of the Forsaken.
His back came up hard against something, and he looked around to see what it 
was. There was nothing there. A wall of nothing, with his back pressed against 
it. Callandor glittered not three paces away &#8209; on the other side. He thumped a 
fist against the barrier in frustration; it was as unyielding as rock.
"I cannot trust you fully, Lews Therin. Not yet." She came closer, and he 
considered simply seizing her. He was bigger and stronger by far &#8209; and blocked 
as he was, she could wrap him up with the Power like a kitten tangled in a ball 
of string. "Not with that, certainly," she added, grimacing at Callandor. "There 
are only two more powerful that a man can use. One at least, I know, still 
exists. No, Lews Therin. I will not trust you yet with that."
"Stop calling me that," he growled. "My name is Rand. Rand al'Thor."
"You are Lews Therin Telamon. Oh, physically, nothing is the same except your 
height, but I would know who is behind those eyes even if I'd found you in your 
cradle." She laughed suddenly. "How much easier everything would be if I had 
found you then. If I had been free to . . . ." Laughter faded into an angry 
stare. "Do you wish to see my true appearance? You can't remember that, either, 
can you'"
He tried to say no, but his tongue would not work. Once he had seen two of the 
Forsaken together, Aginor and Balthamel, the first two loosed, after three 
thousand years trapped just beneath the seal on the Dark One's prison. The one 
had been more withered than anything could be and still live; the other hid his 
face behind a mask, hid every bit of his flesh as though he could not bear to 
see it or have it seen.
The air rippled around Lanfear, and she changed. She was older than he, 
certainly, but older was not the right word. More mature. Riper. Even more 
beautiful, if that was possible. A lush blossom in full flower compared to a 
bud. Even knowing what she was, she made his mouth go dry, his throat tighten.
Her dark eyes examined his face, full of confidence yet with a hint of 
questioning, as if wondering what he saw. Whatever she perceived seemed to 
satisfy her. She smiled again. "I was buried deeply, in a dreamless sleep where 
time did not flow. The turnings of the Wheel passed me by. Now you see me as I 
am, and I have you in my hands." She drew a fingernail along his jaw hard enough 
to make him flinch. "The time for games and subterfuge is past, Lews Therin. 
Long past."
His stomach lurched. "Do you mean to kill me, then? The Light burn you, I - "
"Kill you?" she spat incredulously. "Kill you! I mean to have you, forever. You 
were mine long before that pale&#8209;haired milksop stole you. Before she ever saw 
you. You loved me!"
"And you loved power!" For a moment he felt dazed. The words sounded true &#8209; he 
knew they were true &#8209; but where had they come from'
Selene - Lanfear &#8209; seemed as startled as he, but she recovered quickly. "You've 
learned much &#8209; you have done much I'd not have believed you could, unaided &#8209; but 
you are still fumbling your way through a maze in the dark, and your ignorance 
may kill you. Some of the others fear you too much to wait. Sammael, Rahvin, 
Moghedien. Others, perhaps, but those of a certainty. They will come after you. 
They will not try to turn your heart. They will come at you by stealth, destroy 
you while you sleep. Because of their fear. But there are those who could teach 
you, show you what you once knew. None would dare oppose you then."
"Teach me? You want me to let one of the Forsaken teach me?" One of the 
Forsaken. A male Forsaken. A man who had been Aes Sedai in the Age of Legends, 
who knew the ways of channeling, knew how to avoid the pitfalls, knew - As much 
had been offered him before. "No! Even if it was offered, I'd refuse, and why 
should it be? I oppose them &#8209; and you! I hate everything you've done, everything 
you stand for." Fool! he thought. Trapped here, and 1 spout defiance like some 
idiot in a story who never suspects he might make his captor angry enough to do 
something about it. But he could not force himself to take the words back. 
Stubbornly, he plowed ahead and made it worse. "I'll destroy you, if I can. You, 
and the Dark One, and every last Forsaken!"
A dangerous gleam flashed in her eyes and was gone. "Do you know why some of us 
fear you? Do you have any idea? Because they are afraid the Great Lord of the 
Dark will give you a place above them."
Rand surprised himself by managing a laugh. "Great Lord of the Dark! Can't you 
say his true name, either? Surely you don't fear to attract his attention, as 
decent people do. Or do you?"
"It would be blasphemy," she said simply. "They are right to be afraid, Sammael 
and the rest. The Great Lord does want you. He wants to exalt you above all 
other men. He told me."
"That's ridiculous! The Dark One is still bound in Shayol Ghul, or I would be 
fighting Tarmon Gai'don right now. And if he knows I exist, he'd want me dead. I 
mean to fight him."
"Oh, he knows. The Great Lord knows more than you would suspect. It is possible 
to talk with him. Go to Shayol Ghul, into the Pit of Doom, and you can . . . 
hear him. You can . . . bathe in his presence." A different light shone on her 
face, now. Ecstasy. She breathed through parted lips, and for a moment seemed to 
stare at something distant and wondrous. "Words cannot even begin to describe 
it. You must experience it to know. You must." She was seeing his face again, 
with eyes large and dark and insistent. "Kneel to the Great Lord, and he will 
set you above all others. He will leave you free to reign as you will, so long 
as you bend knee to him only once. To acknowledge him. No more than that. He 
told me this. Asmodean will teach you to wield the Power without it killing you, 
teach what you can do with it. Let me help you. We can destroy the others. The 
Great Lord will not care. We can destroy all of them, even Asmodean, once he has 
taught you all you need to know. You and I can rule the world together under the 
Great Lord, forever." Her voice dropped to a whisper, equal parts eagerness and 
fear. "Two great sa'angreal were made just before the end, one that you can use, 
one that I can. Far greater than that sword. Their power is beyond imagining. 
With those, we could challenge even . . . the Great Lord himself. Even the 
Creator!"
"You are mad," he said raggedly. "The Father of Lies says he will leave me free? 
I was born to fight him. That is why I am here, to fulfill the Prophecies. I'll 
fight him, and all of you, until the Last Battle! Until my last breath!"
"You do not have to. Prophecy is no more than the sign of what people hope for. 
Fulfilling the Prophecies will only bind you to a path leading to Tarmon Gai'don 
and your death. Moghedien or Sammael can destroy your body. The Great Lord of 
the Dark can destroy your soul. An end utter and complete. You will never be 
born again no matter how long the Wheel of time turns!"
"No!'
For what seemed a long time she studied him; he could almost see the scales 
weighing alternatives. "I could take you with me," she said finally. "I could 
have you turned to the Great Lord whatever you want or believe. There are ways."
She paused, perhaps to see if her words had had any effect. Sweat rolled down 
his back, but he kept his face straight. He would have to do something, whether 
he had a chance or not. A second attempt to reach saidin battered vainly against 
that invisible barrier. He let his eyes wander as if he were thinking. Callandor 
was behind him, as far out of reach as the other side of the Aryth Ocean. His 
belt knife lay on a table by the bed, together with a half&#8209;made fox he had been 
carving. The shapeless lumps of metal mocking him from above the fireplace, a 
drably clad man slipping in at the doors with a knife in his hand, the books 
lying everywhere. He turned back to Lanfear, tensing.
"You were always stubborn," she muttered. "I won't take you, this time. I want 
you to come to me of your own will. And I will have it. What is the matter? 
You're frowning."
A man slipping in at the doors with a knife; his eyes had slid past the fellow 
almost without seeing. Instinctively he pushed Lanfear out of the way and 
reached for the True Source; the shield blocking him vanished as he touched it, 
and his sword was in his hands like a red&#8209;gold flame. The man rushed at him, 
knife held low and point up for a killing stroke. Even then it was difficult to 
keep his eyes on the fellow, but Rand pivoted smoothly, and The Wind Blows Over 
the Wall took off the hand holding the knife and finished by driving through his 
assailant's heart. For an instant he stared into dull eyes &#8209; lifeless while that 
heart still pumped &#8209; then pulled his blade free.
"A Gray Man." Rand took what felt like his first breath in hours. The corpse at 
his feet was messy, bleeding onto the scroll&#8209;worked carpet, but there was no 
difficulty in fixing an eye on him now. It was always that way with the Shadow's 
assassins; when they were noticed, it was usually too late. "This makes no 
sense. You could have killed me easily. Why distract me for a Gray Man to sneak 
up on me?"
Lanfear was watching him warily. "I make no use of the Soulless. I told you 
there are . . . differences among the Chosen. It seems I was a day late in my 
judgment, but there is still time for you to come with me. To learn. To live. 
That sword," she all but sneered. "You do not do the tenth part of what you can. 
Come with me, and learn. Or do you mean to try to kill me, now? I loosed you to 
defend yourself."
Her voice, her stance, said she expected an attack, or at the very least was 
ready to counter it, but that was not what stopped him, any more than her 
loosing the bonds in the first place. She was one of the Forsaken; she had 
served evil so long she made a Black sister look like a newborn babe. Yet he saw 
a woman. He called himself nine kinds of fool, but he could not do it. Maybe if 
she tried to kill him. Maybe. But all she did was stand there, watching, 
waiting. No doubt ready to do things with the Power he did not even know were 
possible, if he attempted to hold her. He had managed to block Elayne and 
Egwene, but that had been one of those things he did without thinking, the way 
of it buried somewhere in his head. He could only remember that he had done it, 
not how. At least he had a firm grip on saidin; she would not surprise him that 
way again. The stomach&#8209;wrenching taint was nothing; saidin was life, perhaps in 
more ways than one.
A sudden thought boiled up in his head like a hot spring. The Aiel. Even a Gray 
Man should have found it impossible to sneak through doors watched by half a 
dozen Aiel.
"What did you do to them?" His voice grated as he backed toward the doors, 
keeping his eyes on her. If she used the Power, maybe he would have some 
warning. "What did you do to the Aiel outside?"
"Nothing," she replied coolly. "Do not go out there. This may be only a testing 
to see how vulnerable you are, but even a testing may kill you if you are a 
fool."
He flung open the left&#8209;hand door onto a scene of madness.
 
CHAPTER
10
 
The Stone Stands
 
Dead Aielmen lay at Rand's feet, tangled with the bodies of three very ordinary 
men in very ordinary coats and breeches. Ordinary&#8209;looking men, except that six 
Aiel, the entire guard, had been slain, some obviously before they knew what was 
happening, and each of those ordinary men had at least two Aiel spears through 
him.
That was not the half of it, though. As soon as he pulled the door open, a roar 
of battle had washed over him: shouting, howling, steel clashing on steel among 
the redstone columns. The Defenders in the anteroom were fighting for their 
lives beneath the gilded lamps, against bulky, black&#8209;mailed shapes 
head&#8209;and&#8209;shoulders taller than they, shapes like huge men, but with heads and 
faces distorted by horns or feathers, by muzzle or beak where mouth and nose 
should be. Trollocs. They strode on paws or hooves as often as on booted feet, 
cutting men down with oddly spiked axes and hooked spears and scythe-like swords 
that curved the wrong way. And with them, a Myrddraal, like a sleek&#8209;moving man 
with maggot&#8209;white skin in black armor, like death made bloodless flesh.
Somewhere in the Stone an alarm gong sounded, then stopped with lethal 
suddenness. Another took it up, and another, in brazen tolls.
The Defenders fought, and they still outnumbered the Trollocs, but there were 
more men down than Trollocs. Even as Rand's eyes found them, the Myrddraal tore 
off half the Tairen captain's face with one bare hand while the other drove a 
dead black blade through a Defender's throat, slipping Defenders' spear thrusts 
like a snake. The Defenders faced what they had thought were only travelers' 
tales to frighten children; their nerve was frayed to snapping. One man who had 
lost his rimmed helmet threw down his spear and tried to flee, only to have his 
head split like a melon by a Trolloc's massive axe. Yet another man looked at 
the Myrddraal and fled screaming. The Myrddraal darted sinuously to intercept. 
In a moment the humans would all be running.
"Fade!" Rand shouted. "Try me, Fade!" The Myrddraal stopped as if it had never 
moved, its pale, eyeless face turning to him. Fear rippled through Rand at that 
stare, sliding over the bubble of cold calm that encased him when he held 
saidin; in the Borderlands they said, "The look of the Eyeless is fear." Once he 
had believed Fades rode shadows like horses and disappeared when they turned 
sideways. Those old beliefs were not so very far wrong.
The Myrddraal flowed toward him, and Rand leaped the dead men in front of the 
doorway to meet it, his boots skidding on bloody black marble as he landed. 
"Rally to the Stone!" he shouted as he leaped. "The Stone stands!" Those were 
the battle cries he had heard on the night the Stone had not stood.
He thought he heard a vexed shout of "Fool!" from the room he had left, but he 
had no time for Lanfear or what she might do. That skid very nearly cost him his 
life; his red&#8209;gold blade barely turned the Myrddraal's black one as he fought 
for balance. "Rally to the Stone! The Stone stands!" He had to keep the 
Defenders together, or face the Myrddraal and twenty Trollocs alone. "The Stone 
stands!"
"The Stone stands!" he heard someone echo him, then another. "The Stone stands!"
The Fade moved as fluidly as a serpent, the snakelike illusion heightened by the 
overlapping plates of black armor down its chest. Yet not even a blacklance ever 
struck so quickly. For a time it was all Rand could do to keep its blade from 
his own unarmored flesh. That black metal could make wounds that festered, 
almost as hard to Heal as the one that ached in his side now. Each time dark 
steel forged in Thakandar, below the slopes of Shayol Ghul, met red&#8209;gold 
Power&#8209;wrought blade, light flashed like sheet lightning in the room, a sharp 
bluish white that hurt the eyes. "You will die this time," the Myrddraal rasped 
at him in a voice like the crumbling of dead leaves. "I will give your flesh to 
the Trollocs and take your women for my own."
Rand fought as coldly as he ever had, and as desperately. The Fade knew the use 
of a sword. Then an instant came when he could strike a blow squarely at the 
sword itself, not merely divert it. With a hiss as of ice falling on molten 
metal the red&#8209;gold blade sheared through the black. His next blow took that 
eyeless head from its shoulders; the shock of hacking through bone shivered up 
his arms. Inky blood fountained from the stump of its neck. The thing did not 
fall, though. Thrashing blindly with its broken sword, the headless figure 
stumbled about, striking randomly at the air.
As the Fade's head fell to roll across the floor, the remaining Trollocs fell, 
too, shrieking, kicking, tearing at their heads with coarse&#8209;haired hands. It was 
a weakness of Myrddraal and Trollocs. Even Myrddraal did not trust Trollocs, so 
they often linked with them in some way Rand did not understand; it apparently 
ensured the Trollocs' loyalty, but those linked to a Myrddraal did not survive 
its death long.
The Defenders still standing, fewer than two dozen, did not wait. In twos and 
threes they stabbed each Trolloc repeatedly with their spears until it stopped 
moving. Some of them had the Myrddraal down, but it flailed wildly no matter how 
much they stabbed. As the Trollocs fell silent, a few surviving human wounded 
could be heard moaning, weeping. There were still more men littering the floor 
than Shadowspawn. The black marble was slick with blood, almost invisible 
against the dark stone.
"Leave it," Rand told the Defenders trying to finish the Myrddraal. "It's dead 
already. Fades just don't want to admit they're dead." Lan had told him that, 
what seemed a long time ago; he had had proof of it before this. "See to the 
injured."
Peering at the headless, thrashing shape, its torso a tatter of gaping wounds, 
they shivered and moved back, muttering about Lurks. That was what they called 
Fades in Tear, in tales meant for children. Some began to hunt among the downed 
humans for any still alive, pulling aside those who could not stand, helping 
those who could to their feet. All too many were left where they lay. Hasty 
bandages ripped from a man's own bloody shirt were the only comfort that could 
be offered now.
They did not look so pretty as they had, these Tairens. Their no longer gleaming 
breast &#8209; and back-plates bore dents and scuffs; blood&#8209;soaked slashes marred once 
fine black&#8209;and&#8209;gold coats and breeches. Some had no helmets, and more than one 
leaned on his spear as if it were the only thing holding him on his feet. 
Perhaps it was. They breathed heavily, wild expressions on their faces, that 
blend of stark terror and blind numbness that afflicts men in battle. They 
stared at Rand uncertainly &#8209; fleeting, fearful stares &#8209; as if he might have 
called these creatures out of the Blight himself.
"Wipe those spearpoints," he told them. "A Fade's blood will etch steel like 
acid if it's left on long enough." Most moved slowly to obey, hesitantly using 
what was available, the coatsleeves of their own dead.
The sounds of more fighting drifted through the corridors, distant shouts, the 
muted clash of metal. They had obeyed him twice; it was time to see if they 
would do more. Turning his back on them, he started across the anteroom, toward 
the sounds of battle. "Follow me," he ordered. He raised his fire&#8209;wrought blade 
to remind them of who he was, hoping the reminder did not bring a spear in his 
back. It had to be risked. "The Stone stands! For the Stone!"
For a moment his own hollow footsteps were the only sound in the columned 
chamber; then boots began to follow. "For the Stone!" a man shouted, and 
another, "For the Stone and the Lord Dragon!" Others took it up. "For the Stone 
and the Lord Dragon!" Quickening to a trot, Rand led his bloodied army of 
twenty&#8209;three deeper into the Stone.
Where was Lanfear, and what part had she played in this? He had little time for 
wondering. Dead men spotted the halls of the Stone in pools of their own blood, 
one here and farther on two or three more, Defenders, servants, Aiel. Women, 
too, linen&#8209;gowned noble and wool&#8209;clad servant alike struck down as they fled. 
Trollocs did not care whom they killed; they took pleasure in it. Myrddraal were 
worse; Halfmen gloried in pain and death.
A little deeper in, the Stone of Tear boiled. Knots of Trollocs rampaged through 
the halls, sometimes with a Myrddraal leading, sometimes alone, battling Aiel or 
Defenders, cutting down the unarmed, hunting for more to kill. Rand led his 
small force at any Shadowspawn they found, his sword slicing coarse flesh and 
black mail with equal ease. Only the Aiel faced a Fade without flinching. The 
Aiel and Rand. He passed up Trollocs to reach Fades; sometimes the Myrddraal 
took a dozen or two Trollocs with it in dying, sometimes none.
Some of his Defenders fell and did not rise, but Aiel joined them, nearly 
doubling their number. Groups of men broke off in furious battles that drifted 
away in shouts and clatter like a forge gone mad. Other men fell in behind Rand, 
broke away, were replaced, till none of those who had started with him remained. 
Sometimes he fought alone, or ran down a hallway, empty save for himself and the 
dead, following the sounds of distant combat.
Once, with two Defenders, in a colonnade looking down into a long chamber with 
many doorways, he saw Moiraine and Lan, surrounded by Trollocs. The Aes Sedai 
stood, head high like some storied queen of battles, and bestial shapes burst 
into flame around her&#8209;but only to be replaced by more, dashing in through this 
door or that, six or eight at a time. Lan's sword accounted for those who 
escaped Moiraine's fire. The Warder had blood on both sides of his face, yet he 
flowed through the forms as coolly as if practicing before a mirror. Then a 
wolf&#8209;snouted Trolloc thrust a Tairen spear toward Moiraine's back. Lan whirled 
as though he had eyes in the back of his head, taking off the Trolloc's leg at 
the knee. The Trolloc fell, howling, yet still managed to thrust spearpoint at 
Lan just as another clubbed the Warder awkwardly with the flat of its axe, 
buckling his knees.
Rand could do nothing, for at that moment five Trollocs fell upon him and his 
two companions, all snouts and boars' tusks and rams' horns, pushing the humans 
out of the colonnade by the sheer weight of their rush. Five Trollocs should 
have been able to kill three men without much difficulty, except that one of the 
men was Rand, with a sword that treated their mail like cloth. One of the 
Defenders died, and the other vanished chasing after a wounded Trolloc, the lone 
survivor of the five. When Rand hurried back to the colonnade, there was a smell 
of burned meat from the chamber below, and great burned bodies on its floor, but 
no sign of Moiraine or Lan.
That was the way of the contest for the Stone. Or the contest for Rand's life. 
Battles sprang up and drifted away from where they began, or died when one side 
fell. Not only did men fight Trollocs and Myrddraal. Men fought men; there were 
Darkfriends siding the Shadowspawn, roughly dressed fellows who looked like 
former soldiers and tavern brawlers. They seemed as fearful of the Trollocs as 
the Tairens did, but they killed as indiscriminately, where they could. Twice 
Rand actually saw Trollocs battling Trollocs. He could only assume the Myrddraal 
had lost control of them and their bloodlust had taken over. If they wanted to 
slay each other, he left them to it.
Then, alone once more and seeking, he trotted 'round a corner and right into 
three Trollocs, each twice as wide as he and nearly half again as tall. One of 
them, with an eagle's hooked beak thrusting out of an otherwise human face, was 
hacking an arm from the corpse of a Tairen noblewoman while the other two 
watched eagerly, licking their snouts. Trollocs ate anything, so long as it was 
meat. It was an even chance whether he was more surprised or they were, but he 
was the first to recover.
The one with the eagle's beak went down, mail and belly alike opened across. The 
sword&#8209;form called Lizard in the Thornbush should have done for the other two, 
but that first fallen Trolloc, thrashing still, half&#8209;kicked his foot out from 
under him, and he staggered, his blade only scoring a slice along his target's 
mail, right into the path of the second Trolloc as it fell, wolf's muzzle 
snapping at nothing. It crushed him to the stone tiles beneath its bulk, 
trapping sword arm and sword alike. The one still standing raised its spiked 
axe, coming as close to a smile as a boar's snout and tusks would allow. Rand 
struggled to move, to breathe.
A scythe&#8209;curved sword split the boar's snout to the neck.
Wrenching its blade free, a fourth Trolloc bared goat teeth at him in a snarl, 
ears twitching beside its horns. Then it darted away, sharp hooves clicking on 
the floor tiles.
Rand heaved himself out from under the dead weight of the Trolloc, half&#8209;stunned. 
A Trolloc saved me. A Trolloc? Trolloc blood was all over him, thick and dark. 
Far down the hallway, in the opposite direction from where the goat&#8209;horned 
Trolloc had fled, blue&#8209;white flashed as two Myrddraal moved into view. Fighting 
each other, in an almost boneless blur of continuous motion. One forced the 
other into a crossing corridor, and the flashing light faded from sight. I'm 
mad. That's what it is. I am mad, and this it all some crazed dream.
"You risk everything, rushing about wildly with that . . . that sword."
Rand turned to face Lanfear. She had put on the appearance of a girl again, no 
older than he, perhaps younger. She lifted her white skirts to step over the 
Tairen lady's torn body; for all the emotion on her face, it might as well have 
been a log.
"You build a hut of twigs," she went on, "when you could have marble palaces for 
the snap of your fingers. You could have had their lives and such souls as 
Trollocs possess with little effort, and instead they nearly killed you. You 
must learn. Join with me."
"Was this your doing?" he demanded. "That Trolloc, saving me? Those Myrddraal? 
Was it?"
She considered him a moment before giving a slight, regretful shake of her head. 
"If I take credit, you will expect it again, and that could be deadly. None of 
the others is really certain where I stand, and I like it that way. You can 
expect no open aid from me."
"Expect your aid?" he growled. "You want me to turn to the Shadow. You can't 
make me forget what you are with soft words." He channeled, and she slammed 
against a wall hanging hard enough to make her grunt. He held her there, 
spread&#8209;eagled over a woven hunting scene, feet off the floor and snowy gown 
spread out and flattened. How had he blocked Egwene and Elayne? He had to 
remember.
Suddenly he flew across the hallway to crash into the wall opposite Lanfear, 
pressed there like an insect by something that barely allowed him to breathe.
Lanfear appeared to have no trouble breathing. "Whatever you can do, Lews 
Therin, I can do. And better." Pinned against the wall as she was, she seemed 
unperturbed. The din of fighting surged up somewhere nearby, then faded as the 
battle moved away. "You half&#8209;use the smallest fraction of what you are capable 
of, and walk away from what would allow you to crush all who come against you. 
Where is Callandor, Lews Therin? Still up in your bedchamber like some useless 
ornament? Do you think yours is the only hand that can wield it, now that you 
have drawn it free? If Sammael is here, he will take it, and use it against you. 
Even Moghedien would take it to deny you its use; she could gain much by trading 
it to any male Chosen."
He struggled against whatever held him; nothing moved but his head, flung from 
side to side. Callandor in the hands of a male Forsaken. The thought drove him 
half&#8209;mad with fear and frustration. He channeled, tried to pry at what held him, 
but there might as well have been nothing to pry. And then abruptly it was gone; 
he lurched away from the wall, still fighting, before he realized he was free. 
And from nothing he had done.
He looked at Lanfear. She still hung there, as complacently as if taking the air 
on a streamside. She was trying to lull him, to gull him into softening toward 
her. He hesitated over the flows holding her. If he tied them off and left her, 
she might tear half the Stone down trying to get free&#8209;if a passing Trolloc did 
not kill her, thinking she was one of the Stone's folk. That should not have 
troubled him &#8209; not the death of a Forsaken &#8209; but the thought of leaving a woman, 
or anyone, helpless for Trollocs repelled him. A glance at her unruffled 
composure rid him of that thought. No one, nothing, in the Stone would harm her 
as long as she could channel. If he could find Moiraine to block her . . . .
Once more Lanfear took the decision from him. The impact of severed flows jolted 
him, and she dropped lightly to the floor. He stared as she stepped away from 
the wall, calmly brushing her skirts. "You can't do that," he gasped foolishly, 
and she smiled.
"I do not have to see a flow to unravel it, if I know what it is and where. You 
see, you have much to learn. I like you like this. You were always too 
stiff&#8209;necked and sure of yourself for comfort. It was always better when you 
were a bit uncertain of your footing. Are you forgetting Callandor, then?"
Still he hesitated. One of the Forsaken stood there. And there was absolutely 
nothing he could do. Turning, he ran for Callandor. Her laughter seemed to 
follow him.
This time he did not turn aside to fight Trollocs or Myrddraal, did not slow his 
wild climb through the Stone unless they got in his way. Then his sword carved 
of fire sliced a way through for him. He saw Perrin and Faile, he with axe in 
hand, she guarding his back with her knives; the Trollocs seemed as reluctant to 
face Perrin's yellow&#8209;eyed stare as his axe blade. Rand left them behind without 
a second look. If one of the Forsaken took Callandor, none of them would live to 
see the sun rise.
Breathless, he scrambled through the columned anteroom, leaping the dead still 
lying there, Defenders and Trollocs alike, in his haste to reach Callandor. He 
flung open both doors. The Sword That Is Not a Sword sat on its gilded and 
gem&#8209;set stand, shining with the light of the setting sun. Waiting for him.
Now that he had it in sight, safe, he was almost loath to touch it. Once, he had 
used Callandor as it was truly meant to be used. Only once. He knew what awaited 
him when he took it up again, used it to draw on the True Source far beyond what 
any human could hold unaided. Letting go the red&#8209;gold blade seemed more than he 
could do; when it vanished, he almost called it back.
Feet dragging, he skirted the corpse of the Gray Man and put his hands slowly on 
Callandor's hilt. It was cold, like crystal long in the dark, but it did not 
feel so smooth that it would slip in the hand.
Something made him look up. A Fade stood in the doorway, hesitating, its 
pale&#8209;faced, eyeless gaze on Callandor.
Rand pulled at saidin. Through Callandor. The Sword That Is Not a Sword blazed 
in his hands, as if he held noonday. The Power filled him, hammering down like 
solid thunder. The taint rushed through him in a flood of blackness. Molten rock 
pulsed along his veins; the cold inside him could have frozen the sun. He had to 
use it, or burst like a rotted melon.
The Myrddraal turned to flee, and suddenly black clothes and armor crumpled to 
the floor, leaving oily motes floating in the air.
Rand was not even aware he had channeled until it was done; he could not have 
said what he had done if his life had depended upon it. But nothing could 
threaten his life while he held Callandor. The Power throbbed in him like the 
heartbeat of the world. With Callandor in his hands, he could do anything. The 
Power hammered at him, a hammer to crack mountains. A channeled thread whisked 
the Myrddraal's drifting remains out into the anteroom, and its clothes and 
armor, too; a trickled flow incinerated both. He strode out to hunt those who 
had come hunting him.
Some of them had come as far the anteroom. Another Fade and a huddle of cowering 
Trollocs stood before the columns at the far side staring at ash that sifted out 
of the air, the last fragments of the Myrddraal and all its garb. At the sight 
of Rand with Callandor flaring in his hands, the Trollocs howled like beasts. 
The Fade stood paralyzed with shock. Rand gave them no chance to run. 
Maintaining his deliberate pace toward them, he channeled, and flames roared 
from the bare, black marble beneath the Shadowspawn, so hot that he flung up a 
hand against it. By the time he reached them, the flames were gone; nothing 
remained but dull circles on the marble.
Back down into the Stone he went, and every Trolloc, every Myrddraal he saw died 
wreathed in fire. He burned them fighting Aiel or Tairens, and killing servants 
trying to defend themselves with spears or swords snatched from the dead. He 
burned them as they ran, whether stalking more victims or fleeing him. He began 
to move faster, trotting, then running, past the wounded, often lying untended, 
past the dead. It was not enough; he could not move fast enough. While he killed 
Trollocs in handfuls, others still slew, if only to escape.
Suddenly he stopped, surrounded by the dead, in a wide hallway. He had to do 
something &#8209; something more. The Power slid along his bones, pure essence of 
fire. Something more. The Power froze his marrow. Something to kill them all; 
all of them at once. The taint on saidin rolled over him, a mountain of rotting 
filth threatening to bury his soul. Raising Callandor, he drew on the Source, 
drew on it till it seemed he must scream screams of frozen flame. He had to kill 
them all.
Just beneath the ceiling, right above his head, air slowly began to revolve, 
spinning faster, milling in streaks of red and black and silver. It roiled and 
collapsed inward, boiling harder, whining as it whirled and grew smaller still.
Sweat rolled down Rand's face as he stared up at it. He had no idea what it was, 
only that racing flows he could not begin to count connected him to the mass. It 
had mass; a weight growing greater while the thing fell inward on itself. 
Callandor flared brighter and brighter, too brilliant to look at; he closed his 
eyes, and the light seemed to burn through his eyelids. The Power raced through 
him, a raging torrent that threatened to carry all that was him into the 
spinning. He had to let go. He had to. He forced his eyes open, and it was like 
looking at all the thunderstorms in the world compressed to the size of a 
Trolloc's head. He had to . . . had to . . . had to. . . .
Now. The thought floated like cackling laughter on the rim of his awareness. He 
severed the flows rushing out of him, leaving the thing still whirling, whining 
like a drill on bone. Now.
And the lightnings came, flashing out along the ceiling left and right like 
silver streams. A Myrddraal stepped out of a side corridor, and before it could 
take a second step half a dozen flaring streaks stabbed down, blasting it apart. 
The other streams flowed on, fanning down every branching of the corridor, 
replaced by more and more erupting every second.
Rand had not a clue to what he had made, or how it worked. He could only stand 
there, quivering with the Power that filled him with the need to use it. Even if 
it destroyed him. He could feel Trollocs and Myrddraal dying, feel the 
lightnings strike and kill. He could kill them everywhere, everywhere in the 
world. He knew it. With Callandor he could do anything. And he knew trying would 
kill him just as surely.
The lightnings faded and died with the last Shadowspawn; the spinning mass 
imploded with a loud clap of inrushing air. But Callandor still shone like the 
sun; he shook with the Power.
Moiraine was there, a dozen paces away, staring at him. Her dress was neat, 
every fold of blue silk in place, but wisps of her  hair  were disarrayed. She  
looked   tired &#8209; and shocked. "How . . . ? What you have done, I would not have 
believed possible." Lan appeared, half&#8209;trotting up the hall, sword in hand, face 
bloodied, coat torn. Without taking her eyes from Rand, Moiraine flung out a 
hand, halting the Warder short of her. Well short of Rand. As if he were too 
dangerous for even Lan to approach. "Are you . . . well, Rand?"
Rand pulled his gaze away from her, and it fell on the body of a dark&#8209;haired 
girl, little more than a child. She lay sprawled on her back, eyes wide and 
fixed on the ceiling, blood blackening the bosom of her dress. Sadly, he bent to 
brush strands of hair from her face. Light, she is only a child. I was too late. 
Why didn't I do it sooner. A child!
"I will see that someone takes care of her, Rand," Moiraine said gently. "You 
cannot help her now."
His hand shook so hard on Callandor that he could barely hold on. "With this, I 
can do anything." His voice was harsh in his own ears. "Anything!"
"Rand!" Moiraine said urgently.
He would not listen. The Power was in him. Callandor blazed, and he was the 
Power. He channeled, directing flows into the child's body, searching, trying, 
fumbling; she lurched to her feet, arms and legs unnaturally rigid and jerky.
"Rand, you cannot do this. Not this!"
Breathe. She has to breathe. The girl's chest rose and fell. Heart. Has to beat. 
Blood already thick and dark oozed from the wound in her chest. Live. Live, burn 
you! I didn't mean to be too late. Her eyes stared at him, filmed. Lifeless. 
Tears trickled unheeded down his cheeks. "She has to live! Heal her, Moiraine. I 
don't know how. Heal her!"
"Death cannot be Healed, Rand. You are not the Creator."
Staring into those dead eyes, Rand slowly withdrew the flows. The body fell 
stiffly. The body. He threw back his head and howled, as wild as any Trolloc. 
Braided fire sizzled into walls and ceiling as he lashed out in frustration and 
pain.
Sagging, he released saidin, pushed it away; it was like pushing away a boulder, 
like pushing away life. Strength drained out of him with the Power. The taint 
remained, though, a stain weighing him down with darkness. He had to ground 
Callandor on the floor tiles and lean on it to stay on his feet.
"The others." It was hard to speak; his throat hurt. "Elayne, Perrin, the rest? 
Was I too late for them, too?"
"You were not too late," Moiraine said calmly. But she had come no closer, and 
Lan looked ready to dart between her and Rand. "You must not &#8209; "
"Are they still alive?" Rand shouted.
"They are," she assured him.
He nodded in weary relief. He tried not to look at the girl's body. Three days 
waiting, so he could enjoy a few stolen kisses. If he had moved three days ago . 
. . . But he had learned things in those three days, things he might be able to 
use if he could put them together. If. Not too late for his friends, at least. 
Not too late for them. "How did the Trollocs get in? I don't think they climbed 
the walls like Aiel, not with the sun still up. Is it still up?" He shook his 
head to dispel some of the fog. "No matter. The Trollocs. How?"
Lan was the one who answered. "Eight large grain barges tied up at the Stone's 
docks late this afternoon. Apparently no one thought to question why laden grain 
barges would be coming downriver" &#8209; his voice was heavy with contempt &#8209; "or why 
they'd dock at the Stone, or why the crews left the hatches shut until nearly 
sunfall. Also, a train of wagons arrived &#8209; about two hours ago, now &#8209; thirty of 
them, supposedly bringing some lord or other's things from the country for his 
return to the Stone. When the canvas was thrown back, they were packed with 
Halfmen and Trollocs, too. If they came in any other way, I don't know of it, 
yet."
Rand nodded again, and the effort buckled his knees. Suddenly Lan was there, 
pulling Rand's arm over his shoulder to hold him up. Moiraine took his face in 
her hands. A chill rippled through him, not the blasting cold of full Healing, 
but a chill that pushed weariness out as it passed. Most of the weariness. A 
seed remained, as if he had worked a day hoeing tabac. He moved away from the 
support he no longer needed. Lan watched him warily, to see if he could really 
stand alone, or perhaps because the Warder was not certain how dangerous he was, 
how sane.
"I left some a purpose," Moiraine told him. "You need to sleep tonight."
Sleep. There was too much to do to sleep. But he gave another nod. He did not 
want her shadowing him. Yet what he said was "Lanfear was here. This was not her 
doing. She said so, and I believe her. You don't seem surprised, Moiraine." 
Would Lanfear's offer surprise her? Would anything? "Lanfear was here, and I 
talked with her. She didn't try to kill me, and I didn't try to kill her. And 
you are not surprised."
"I doubt you could kill her. Yet." Her glance at Callandor was the merest 
flicker of dark eyes. "Not unaided. And I doubt she will try to kill you. Yet. 
We know little of any of the Forsaken, and least of all Lanfear, but we do know 
she loved Lews Therin Telamon. To say you are safe from her is certainly too 
strong &#8209; there is a good deal she can do to harm you short of murder &#8209; but I do 
not think she will try to kill as long as she thinks she might win Lews Therin 
back again."
Lanfear wanted him. The Daughter of the Night, used by mothers who only 
half&#8209;believed in her to frighten children. She certainly frightened him. It was 
nearly enough to make him laugh. He had always felt guilty for looking at any 
woman besides Egwene, and Egwene did not want him, but the Daughter&#8209;Heir of 
Andor wanted to kiss him, at least, and one of the Forsaken claimed to love him. 
Nearly enough for laughter, but not quite. Lanfear seemed jealous of Elayne; 
that pale&#8209;haired milksop, she had called her. Madness. All madness.
"Tomorrow." He started away from them.
"Tomorrow?" Moiraine said.
"Tomorrow, I will tell you what I am going to do." Some of it, he would. The 
thought of Moiraine's face if he told her everything made him want to laugh. If 
he knew everything himself, yet. Lanfear had given him almost the last piece, 
without knowing it. One more step, tonight. The hand holding Callandor by his 
side trembled. With that, he could do anything. I am not mad yet. Not mad enough 
for that. "Tomorrow. A good night to us all, the Light willing." Tomorrow he 
would begin to unleash another kind of lightning. Another lightning that might 
save him. Or kill him. He was not mad yet.
 
CHAPTER
11
 
What Lies Hidden
 
Clad in her shift, Egwene drew a deep breath and left the stone ring lying 
beside an open book on her bedside table. All flecked and striped in brown and 
red and blue, it was slightly too large for a finger ring, and shaped wrong, 
flattened and twisted so that a fingertip run along the edge would circle both 
inside and out before coming back to where it had started. There war only one 
edge, impossible though that seemed. She was not leaving the ring there because 
she might fail without it, because she wanted to fail. She had to try without 
the ring sooner or later, or she could never do more than dabble her toes where 
she dreamed of swimming. It might as well be now. That was the reason. It was.
The thick leather&#8209;bound book was A Journey to Tarabon, written by Eurian 
Romavni, from Kandor &#8209; fifty&#8209;three years ago, according to the date the author 
gave in the first line, but little of any consequence would have changed in 
Tanchico in that short a time. Besides, it was the only volume she had found 
with useful drawings. Most of the books only had portraits of kings, or fanciful 
renderings of battles by men who had not seen them.
Darkness filled both windows, but the lamps gave more than adequate light. One 
tall beeswax candle burned in a gilded candlestick on the bedside table. She had 
gone to fetch that herself; this was no night to be sending a maid for a candle. 
Most of the servants were tending the wounded or weeping over loved ones, or 
being tended themselves. There had been too many for Healing any but those who 
would have died without it.
Elayne and Nynaeve waited with high&#8209;backed chairs pulled to either side of the 
wide bed with its tall, swallow&#8209;carved posts; they tried to hide their anxiety 
with differing degrees of success. Elayne managed a passably stately calm, and 
only spoiled it by frowning and chewing her underlip when she thought Egwene was 
not looking. Nynaeve was all brisk confidence, the sort that made you feel 
comforted when she tucked you into a sickbed, but Egwene recognized the set of 
her eyes; they said Nynaeve was afraid.
Aviendha sat cross&#8209;legged beside the door, her browns and grays standing out 
sharply against the deep blue of the carpet. This time the Aiel woman had her 
long&#8209;bladed knife at one side of her belt, a bristling quiver at the other, and 
four short spears across her knees. Her round, hide buckler lay close at hand, 
atop a horn bow in a worked leather case with straps that could hold it on her 
back. After tonight, Egwene could not fault her for going armed. She still 
wanted to hold a lightning bolt ready to fling herself.
Light, what was that Rand did? Burn him, he frightened me almost as badly as the 
Fades did. Maybe worse. It isn't fair he can do something like that and I can't 
even see the flows.
She climbed onto the bed and took the leatherbound book on her knees, frowning 
at an engraved map of Tanchico. Little of any use was marked, really. A dozen 
fortresses, surrounding the harbor, guarding the city on its three hilly 
peninsulas, the Verana to the east, the Maseta in the center, and the Calpene 
nearest the sea. Useless. Several large squares, some open areas that seemed to 
be parks, and a number of monuments to rulers long since dust. All useless. A 
few palaces, and things that seemed strange. The Great Circle, for instance, on 
the Calpene. On the map it was just a ring, but Master Romavni described it as a 
huge gathering place that could hold thousands to watch horse races or displays 
of fireworks by the Illuminators. There was also a King's Circle, on the Maseta 
and larger than the Great Circle, and a Panarch's Circle, on the Verana, just a 
little smaller. The Chapter House of the Guild of Illuminators was marked as 
well. They were all useless. The text certainly had nothing of use.
"Are you certain you want to try this without the ring?" Nynaeve asked quietly.
"Certain," Egwene replied as calmly as she could. Her stomach was leaping as 
badly as it had when she saw that first Trolloc tonight, holding that poor woman 
by the hair and slitting her throat like a rabbit's. The woman had screamed like 
a rabbit, too. Killing the Trolloc had done her no good; the woman was as dead 
as the Trolloc. Only her shrill scream would not go away. "If it doesn't work, I 
can always try again with the ring." She leaned over to mark the candle with a 
thumbnail. "Wake me when it burns down to there. Light, but I wish we had a 
clock."
Elayne laughed at her, a lighthearted trill, and it very nearly sounded 
unforced. "A clock in a bedchamber? My mother has a dozen docks, but I never 
heard of a clock in a bedchamber."
"Well, my father has one clock," Egwene grumbled, "the only one in the whole 
village, and I wish I had it here. Do you think it will burn that far in an 
hour? I don't want to sleep longer than that. You must wake me as soon as the 
flame reaches that mark. As soon as!"
"We will," Elayne said soothingly. "I promise it."
"The stone ring," Aviendha said suddenly. "Since you are not using it, Egwene, 
could not someone &#8209; one of us &#8209; use it to go with you?"
"No," Egwene muttered. Light, l wish they would all come with me. "Thank you for 
the thought, though."
"Can only you use it, Egwene?" the Aiel woman asked.
"Any of us might," Nynaeve replied, "even you, Aviendha. A woman needn't be able 
to channel, only sleep with it touching her skin. A man might be able to, for 
all we know. But we do not know Tel'aran'rhiod as well as Egwene, or the rules 
of it."
Aviendha nodded. "I see. A woman can make mistakes where she does not know the 
ways, and her mistakes can kill others as well as herself."
"Exactly," Nynaeve said. "The World of Dreams is a dangerous place. That much we 
do know."
"But Egwene will be careful," Elayne added, speaking to Aviendha but obviously 
meaning it for Egwene's ears. "She promised. She will look around &#8209; carefully! &#8209; 
and no more."
Egwene concentrated on the map. Careful. If she had not guarded her twisted 
stone ring so jealously&#8209;she though of it as hers; the Hall of the Tower might 
not agree, but they did not know she had it&#8209;if she had been willing to let 
Elayne or Nynaeve use it more than once or twice, they might know enough to come 
with her now. Yet it was not regret that made her avoid looking at the other 
women. She did not want them to see the fear in her eyes.
Tel'aran'rhiod. The Unseen World. The World of Dreams. Not the dreams of 
ordinary people, though sometimes they touched Tel'aran'rhiod briefly, in dreams 
that seemed as true as life. Because they were. In the Unseen World, what 
happened was real, in a strange way. Nothing that happened there affected what 
was&#8209;a door opened in the World of Dreams would still be shut in the real world; 
a tree cut down there still stood here&#8209;yet a woman could be killed there, or 
stilled. "Strange" barely began to describe it. In the Unseen World the whole 
world lay open, and maybe other worlds, too; any place was attainable. Or at 
least, its reflection in the World of Dreams was. The weave of the Pattern could 
be read there &#8209; past, present and future &#8209; by one who knew how. By a Dreamer. 
There had not been a Dreamer in the White Tower since Corianin Nedeal, nearly 
five hundred years earlier.
Four hundred and seventy&#8209;three years, to be exact, Egwene thought. Or is it four 
hundred seventy&#8209;four now? When did Corianin die? If Egwene had had a chance to 
finish novice training in the Tower, to study there as an Accepted, perhaps she 
would know. There was so much she might have known, then.
A list lay in Egwene's pouch of the ter'angreal, most small enough to slip into 
a pocket, that had been stolen by the Black Ajah when they fled the Tower. They 
all three had a copy. Thirteen of those stolen ter'angreal had "no known use" 
written alongside, and "last studied by Corianin Nedeal." But if Corianin Sedai 
had truly not discovered their uses, Egwene was sure of one of them. They gave 
entrance to Tel'aran'rhiod, not as easily as the stone ring, perhaps, and 
perhaps not without channeling, but they did it.
Two they had recovered from Joiya and Amico: an iron disc, three inches across, 
scribed on both sides with a tight spiral, and a plaque no longer than her hand, 
apparently dear amber yet hard enough to scratch steel, with a sleeping woman 
somehow carved into the middle of it. Amico had spoken freely of them, and so 
had Joiya, after a session alone in her cell with Moiraine that had left the 
Darkfriend pale&#8209;faced and almost civil. Channel a flow of Spirit into either 
ter'angreal, and it would take you into sleep and then into Tel'aran'rhiod. 
Elayne had tried both of them briefly, and they worked, though all she saw was 
the inside of the Stone, and Morgase's Royal Palace in Caemlyn.
Egwene had not wanted her to try, however fleeting the visit, but not from 
jealousy. She had not been able to argue very effectively, though, for she had 
been afraid Elayne and Nynaeve would hear what was in her voice.
Two recovered meant eleven still with the Black Ajah. That was the point Egwene 
had tried to make. Eleven ter'angreal that could take a woman to Tel'aran'rhiod, 
all in the hands of Black sisters. When Elayne made her short journeys into the 
Unseen World, she could have found the Black Ajah waiting for her, or walked 
into them before she knew they were there. The thought made Egwene's stomach 
writhe. They could be waiting for her now. Not likely; not on purpose&#8209;how would 
they know she was coming?&#8209;but they could be there when she stepped through. One 
she could face, unless she was caught by surprise, and she did not mean to allow 
that. But if they did surprise her? Two or three of them together? Liandrin and 
Rianna, Chesmal Emry and Jeane Caide and all the rest at once?
Frowning at the map, she made her hands loosen their white&#8209;knuckled grip. 
Tonight had given everything urgency. If Shadowspawn could attack the Stone, if 
one of the Forsaken could suddenly appear in their midst, she could not give in 
to fear. They had to know what to do. They had to have something besides Armco's 
vague tale. Something. If only she could learn where Mazrim Taim was in his 
caged journey to Tar Valon, or if she could somehow slip into the Amyrlin's 
dreams and speak to her. Perhaps those things were possible for a Dreamer. If 
they were, she did not know how. Tanchico was what she had to work with.
"I must go alone, Aviendha. I must." She thought her voice was calm and steady, 
but Elayne patted her shoulder.
Egwene did not know why she was scrutinizing the map. She already had it fixed 
in her head, everything in relation to everything else. Whatever existed in this 
world existed in the World of Dreams, and sometimes more besides, of course. She 
had her destination chosen. She thumbed through the book to the only engraving 
showing the inside of a building named on the map, the Panarch's Palace. It 
would do no good to find herself in a chamber if she had no idea where it was in 
the city. None of it might do any good in any case. She put that out of her 
mind. She had to believe there was some chance.
The engraving showed a large room with a high ceiling. A rope strung along 
waist&#8209;high posts would keep anyone from going too close to the things displayed 
on stands and in open&#8209;fronted cabinets along the walls. Most of those displays 
were indistinct, but not what stood at the far end of the room. The artist had 
taken pains to show the massive skeleton standing there as if the rest of the 
creature had that moment disappeared. It had four thick&#8209;boned legs, but 
otherwise resembled no animal Egwene had ever seen. For one thing, it had to 
stand at least two spans high, well over twice her height. The rounded skull, 
set low on the shoulders like a bull's, looked big enough for a child to limb 
inside, and in the picture it seemed to have four eye sockets. The skeleton 
marked the room off from any other; there was no mistaking it for anything but 
itself. Whatever it was. If Eurian Romavni had known, he had not named it in 
these pages.
"What is a panarch, anyway?" she asked, laying the book aside. She had studied 
the picture a dozen times. "All of these writers seem to think you know 
already."
"The Panarch of Tanchico is the equal of the king in authority," Elayne recited. 
"She is responsible for collecting taxes, customs and duties; he for spending 
them properly. She controls the Civil Watch and the courts, except for the High 
Court, which is the king's. The army is his, of course, except for the Panarch's 
Legion. She  - "
"I didn't really want to know." Egwene sighed. It had only been something to 
say, another few moments to delay what she was going to do. The candle was 
burning down; she was wasting precious minutes. She knew how to step out of the 
dream when she wanted, how to wake herself, but time passed differently in the 
World of Dreams, and it was easy to lose track. "As soon as it reaches the 
mark," she said, and Elayne and Nynaeve murmured reassurances.
Settling back on her feather pillows, at first she only stared at the ceiling, 
painted with blue sky and clouds and swooping swallows. She did not see them.
Her dreams had been bad enough lately, most of them. Rand was in them, of 
course. Rand as tall as a mountain, walking through cities, crushing buildings 
beneath his feet, with screaming people like ants fleeing from him. Rand in 
chains, and it was he who was screaming. Rand building a wall with him on one 
side and her on the other, her and Elayne and others she could not make out. "It 
has to be done," he was saying as he piled up stones. "I'll not let you stop me 
now." His were not the only nightmares. She had dreamed of Aiel fighting each 
other, killing each other, even throwing away their weapons and running as if 
they had gone mad. Mat wrestling with a Seanchan woman who tied an invisible 
leash to him. A wolf &#8209; she was sure it was Perrin, though &#8209; fighting a man whose 
face kept changing. Galad wrapping himself in white as though putting on his own 
shroud, and Gawyn with his eyes full of pain and hatred. Her mother weeping. 
They were the sharp dreams, the ones she knew meant something. They were 
hideous, and she did not know what any of them meant. How could she presume to 
think she could find any meanings or dues in Tel'aran'rhiod? But there was no 
other choice.. No other choice but ignorance, and she could not choose that.
Despite her anxiety, going to sleep was no problem; she was exhausted. It was 
just a matter of dosing her eyes and taking deep, regular breaths. She fixed in 
her thoughts the room in the Panarch's Palace and the huge skeleton. Deep, 
regular breaths. She could remember how using the stone ring felt, the step into 
Tel'aran'rhiod. Deep&#8209;regular&#8209;breaths.
Egwene stepped back with a gasp, one hand to her throat. This close, the 
skeleton seemed even larger than she had thought, the bones bleached dull and 
dry. She stood right in front of it, inside the rope. A white rope, as thick as 
her wrist and apparently silk. She had no doubt this was Tel'aran'rhiod. The 
detail was as fine as reality, even for things half&#8209;seen from the comer of her 
eye. That she could even be aware of the differences between this and an 
ordinary dream told her where she was. Besides, it felt . . . right.
She opened herself to saidar. A nick on the finger in the World of Dreams would 
still be there on waking; there would be no waking from a killing stroke with 
the Power, or even from a sword, or a dub. She did not intend to be vulnerable 
for an instant.
Instead of her shift, she wore something very much like Aviendha's Aiel garb, 
but in red brocaded silk; even her soft boots, laced to the knee, were supple 
red leather, suitable for gloves, with gold stitching and laces. She laughed 
softly to herself. Clothes in Tel'aran'rhiod were what you wanted them to be. 
Apparently part of her mind wanted to be ready to move quickly, while another 
part wanted to be ready for a ball. It would not do. The red faded to grays and 
browns; the coat and breeches and boots became exact copies of the Maidens'. No 
better, really, not in a city. Abruptly she was in a copy of the dresses Faile 
always wore, dark, with narrow divided skirts, long sleeves and a high snug 
bodice. Foolish to worry about it. No one a going to see me except in their 
dreams, and few ordinary dreams reach here. It would make no deference if I were 
naked.
For a moment she was naked. Her face colored with embarrassment; there was no 
one there to see her bare as in her bath, before she hastily brought the dark 
dress back, but she should have remembered how stray thoughts could affect 
things here, especially when you had embraced the Power. Elayne and Nynaeve 
thought she was so knowledgeable. She knew a few of the rules of the Unseen 
World, and knew there were a hundred, a thousand more of which she was ignorant. 
Somehow, she had to learn them, if she was to be the Tower's first Dreamer since 
Corianin.
She took a closer look at the huge skull. She had grown up in a country village, 
and she knew what animal bones looked like. Not four eye sockets after all. Two 
seemed to be for tusks of some kind instead, on either side of where its nose 
had been. Some sort of monstrous boar, perhaps, though it looked like no pig 
skull she had ever seen. It had a feel of age, though; great age.
With the Power in her, she could sense things like that, here. The usual 
enhancement of senses was with her, of course. She could feel tiny cracks in the 
gilded plaster bosses covering the ceiling fifty feet up, and the smooth polish 
of the white stone floor. Infinitesimal cracks, invisible to the eye, spread 
across the floorstones as well.
The chamber was huge, perhaps two hundred paces long and nearly half as wide, 
with rows of thin white columns, and that white rope running all the way around 
except where there were doorways, with double&#8209;pointed arches. More ropes 
encircled polished wooden stands and cabinets holding other exhibits out in the 
floor. Up under the ceiling, an elaborate pattern of tiny carvings pierced the 
walls, letting in plenty of light. Apparently she had dreamed herself into a 
Tanchico where it was day.
"A grand display of artifacts of Ages long past, of the Age of Legends and Ages 
before, open to all, even the common folk, three days in the month and on 
feastdays," Eurian Romavni had written. He had spoken in glowing terms of the 
priceless display of cuendillar figures, six of them, in a glass&#8209;sided case in 
the center of the hall, always watched by four of the Panarch's personal guards 
when people were allowed in, and had gone on for two pages about the bones of 
fabulous beasts "never seen alive by the eyes of man." Egwene could see some of 
those. On one side of the room was the skeleton of something that looked a 
little like a bear, if a bear had two front teeth as long as her forearm, and 
opposite it on the other side were the bones of some slender, four&#8209;footed beast 
with a neck so long the skull was half as high as the ceiling. There  were more, 
spaced down the chamber's walls, just as fantastic. All of them felt old enough 
to make the Stone of Tear seem new&#8209;built. Ducking under the rope barrier, she 
walked down the chamber slowly, staring.   I
A weathered stone figurine of a woman, seemingly unclothed but wrapped in hair 
that fell to her ankles, was outwardly no different from the others sharing its 
case, each not much bigger than her hand. But it gave an impression of soft 
warmth that she recognized. It was an angreal, she was sure; she wondered why 
the Tower had not managed to get it away from the Panarch. A finely jointed 
collar and two bracelets of dull black metal, on a stand by themselves, made her 
shiver; she felt darkness and pain associated with them&#8209;old, old pain, and 
sharp. A silvery thing in another cabinet, like a three&#8209;pointed star inside a 
circle, was made of no substance she knew; it was softer than metal, scratched 
and gouged, yet even older than any of the ancient bones. From ten paces she 
could sense pride and vanity.
One thing actually seemed familiar, though she could not say why. Tucked into a 
comer of one of the cabinets, as if whoever put it there had been uncertain that 
it was worthy of display, lay the upper half of a broken figure carved from some 
shiny white stone, a woman holding a crystal sphere in one upraised hand, her 
face calm and dignified and full of wise authority. Whole, she would have been 
perhaps a foot tall. But why did she appear so familiar? She almost seemed to 
call to Egwene to pick her up.
Not until Egwene's fingers dosed on the broken statuette did she realize she had 
climbed over the rope. Foolish, when 1 don't know what it is, she thought, but 
it was already too late.
As her hand grasped it, the Power surged within her, into the half&#8209;figure then 
back into her, into the figure and back, in and back. The crystal sphere 
flickered in fitful, lurid flashes, and needles stabbed her brain with each 
flash. With a sob of agony, she loosed her hold and clasped both hands to her 
head.
The crystal sphere shattered as the figure hit the floor and broke into pieces, 
and the needles vanished, leaving only dull memories of the pain and a 
queasiness that wobbled her knees. She squeezed her eyes shut so she could not 
see the room heaving. The figure had to be a ter'angreal, but why had it hurt 
her like that when she only touched it? Perhaps because it was broken; perhaps, 
broken, it could not do what it was meant for. She did not even want to think of 
what it might have been made for; testing ter'angreal was dangerous. At least it 
must be broken beyond danger now. Here, at least. Why did it seem to call me?
Nausea faded, and she opened her eyes. The figure was back on the shelf, as 
whole as it had been when she first saw it. Strange things happened in 
Tel'aran'rhiod, but that was stranger than she wanted to see. And this was not 
what she had come for. First she had to find her way out of the Panarch's 
Palace. Climbing back over the rope, she hurried out of the chamber, trying not 
to run.
The palace was empty of life, of course. Human life, at least. Colorful fish 
swam in large fountains that splashed merrily in the courtyards surrounded by 
delicately columned walks and balconies screened by stonework like intricately 
carved lace. Lily pads floated on the waters, and white flowers as big as dinner 
plates. In the World of Dreams, a place was as it was in the so&#8209;called real 
world. Except for people. Elaborate golden lamps stood in the hallways, wicks 
uncharted, but she could smell the perfumed oil in them. Her feet raised no hint 
of dust from the bright carpets that surely could never have been beaten, not 
here.
Once she did see another person walking ahead of her, a man in gilded, ornately 
worked plate&#8209;and&#8209;mail armor, a pointed golden helmet crested with white egret 
plumes under his arm. "Aeldra?" he called, smiling. "Aeldra, come look at me. I 
am named the Lord Captain of the Panarch's Legion. Aeldra?" He walked on another 
pace, still calling, and suddenly was not there. Not a Dreamer. Not even someone 
using a ter'angreal like her stone ring or Amico's iron disc. Only a man whose 
dream had touched a place he was not aware of, with dangers he did not know. 
People who died unexpectedly in their sleep had often dreamed their way into 
Tel'aran'rhiod and in truth had died there. He was well out of it, back into an 
ordinary dream.
The candle was burning down beside that bed back in Tear. Her time in 
Tel'aran'rhiod was burning away.
Hastening her steps, she came to tall, carved doors leading outside, to wide 
white stairs and a huge empty square. Tanchico spread out in every direction 
across steep hills, white buildings upon white buildings shining in the sun, 
hundreds of thin towers and almost as many pointed domes, some gilded. The 
Panarch's Circle, a tall round wall of white stone, stood in plain sight not 
half a mile away and a little lower than the palace. The Panarch's Palace rose 
atop one of the loftiest hills. At the top of the deep stairs, she was high 
enough to see water glinting to the west, inlets separating her from more hilly 
fingers where the rest of the city lay. Tanchico was larger than Tear, perhaps 
larger than Caemlyn.
So much to search, and she did not even know for what. For something that 
signified the presence of the Black Ajah, or something that indicated some sort 
of danger to Rand, if either existed here. Had she been a real Dreamer, trained 
in the use of her talent, she would surely have known what to look for, how to 
interpret what she saw. But no one remained who could teach her. Aiel Wise Ones 
supposedly knew how to decipher dreams. Aviendha had been so reluctant to talk 
about the Wise Ones that Egwene had not asked any of the other Aiel. Perhaps a 
Wise One could teach her. If she could find one.
She took a step toward the square, and suddenly she was somewhere else.
Great stone spires rose around her in a heat that sucked the moisture out of her 
breath. The sun seemed to bake right through her dress, and the breeze blowing 
in her face seemed to come from a stove. Stunted trees dotted a landscape almost 
bare of other growth, except for a few patches of tough grass and some prickly 
plants she did not recognize. She recognized the lion, however, even if she had 
never seen one in the flesh. It lay in a crevice in the rocks not twenty paces 
away, black&#8209;tufted tail switching idly, looking not at her but at something 
another hundred strides on. The large boar covered in coarse hair was rooting 
and snuffing at the base of a thorny bush, never noticing the Aiel woman 
creeping up on it with a spear ready to thrust. Garbed like the Aiel in the 
Stone, she had her shoufa around her head but her face uncovered.
The Waste, Egwene thought incredulously. I've jumped into the Aiel Waste! When 
will I learn to watch what 1 think here?
      The Aiel woman froze. Her eyes were on Egwene now, not the boar. If it was 
a boar; it did not seem to be shaped exactly right. 
Egwene was sure the woman was not a Wise One. Not dressed like a Maiden, from 
what Egwene had been told, a Maiden of the Spear who wanted to become a Wise One 
had to "give up the spear." This had to be just an Aiel woman who had dreamed 
herself into Tel'aran'rhiod, like that fellow in the palace. He would have seen 
her, too, if he had ever turned around. Egwene closed her eyes and concentrated 
on her one dear image of Tanchico, that huge skeleton in the great hall.
When she opened them again, she was staring at the massive bones. They had been 
wired together, she noticed this time. Quite cleverly, so that the wires hardly 
showed at all. The half&#8209;figurine with its crystal sphere was still on its shelf. 
She did not go near it, any more than the black collar and bracelets that felt 
of so much pain and suffering. The angreal, the stone woman, was a temptation. 
What are you going to do with it? Light, you're here to look, to search! Nothing 
more than that. Get on with it, woman!
This time she quickly found her way back to the square. Time passed differently 
here; Elayne and Nynaeve could be waking her up any moment, and she still had 
not even begun. There might be no more minutes to waste. She had to be careful 
of what she thought from here on. No more thinking about the Wise Ones. Even the 
admonition made everything lurch around her. Keep your mind on what you are 
doing, she told herself firmly.
She set out through the empty city, walking fast, sometimes trotting. Winding, 
stone&#8209;paved streets slanted up and down, curving every which way, all empty, 
except for green&#8209;backed pigeons and pale gray gulls that rose in thunderclaps of 
wings when she came close. Why birds and not people? Flies buzzed by, and she 
could see roaches and beetles scurrying along in the shadows. A pack of lean 
dogs, all different colors, loped across the street far ahead of her. Why dogs?
She pulled herself back to why she was there. What would be a sign of the Black 
Ajah? Or of this danger to Rand, if it existed? Most of the white buildings were 
plastered, the plaster chipped and cracked, often showing weathered wood or pale 
brown brick beneath. Only the towers and the larger structures &#8209; palaces, she 
supposed &#8209; were stone, if still white. Even the stone had tiny fissures, though, 
most of it; cracks too minute for the eye to catch, but she could feel them with 
the Power in her, spider-webbing domes and towers. Perhaps that meant something. 
Perhaps it meant Tanchico was a city not looked after by its inhabitants. As 
likely that as anything else. .
She jumped as a shrieking man suddenly plummeted out of the sky in front of her. 
She only had time to register baggy white trousers and thick mustaches covered 
by a transparent veil before he vanished, only a pace above the pavement. Had he 
struck, here in Tel'aran'rhiod, he would have been found dead in his bed.
He probably has as much to do with anything as the roaches, she told herself.
Perhaps something inside the buildings. It was a small chance, a wild hope, but 
she was desperate enough to try anything. Almost anything. Time. How much time 
did she have left? She began running from doorway to doorway, putting her head 
into shops and inns and houses.
Tables and benches stood in common rooms awaiting customers, as neatly arranged 
as the dully gleaming pewter mugs and plates on their shelves. The shops were as 
tidy as if the shopkeeper had just opened for the morning, yet while a tailor's 
tables held bolts of cloth, and a cutler's knives and scissors, the ceiling 
hooks hung empty in a butcher's shop and the shelves stood bare. A finger run 
along anywhere picked up no dust at all; everything was clean enough to suit her 
mother.
In the narrower streets there were homes, small simple white&#8209;plastered buildings 
with flat roofs and no windows onto the street, ready for families to walk in 
and sit on benches before cold fireplaces or around narrow cables with carved 
legs where a goodwife's best bowl or platter was given pride of place. Clothes 
hung on pegs, pots hung from ceilings, hand tools lay on benches, waiting.
On a hunch she retraced her steps once, just to see, back a dozen doors, and 
peered a second time into what was some woman's home in the real world. It was 
almost the way it had been. Almost. The red&#8209;striped bowl that had been on the 
table was now a narrow blue vase; one of the benches, on it a broken harness and 
the tools for mending it, that had been near the fireplace now sat by the door 
holding a darning basket and a child's embroidered dress.
Why did it change? she wondered. But for that matter, why should it stay the 
same? Light, 1 don't know anything!
There was a stable across the street, the white plaster showing large patches of 
brick. She trotted to it and pulled open one of the big doors. Straw covered the 
dirt floor, just as in every stable she had ever seen, but the stalls stood 
empty. No horses. Why? Something rustled in the straw, and she realized the 
stalls were not empty after all. Rats. Dozens of them, staring at her boldly, 
noses testing the air for her scent. None of the rats ran, or even shied away; 
they behaved as if they had more right there than she. In spite of herself she 
stepped back. Pigeons and gulls and dogs, flies and rats. Maybe a Wise One would 
know why.
As suddenly as that she was back in the Waste.
With a scream she fell flat on her back as the hairy boar-like creature darted 
straight for her, looking as large as a small pony. Not a pig, she saw as it 
leaped nimbly over her; the snout was too sharp and full of keen teeth, and it 
had four toes on each foot. The thought was calm, but she shuddered as the beast 
scampered away through the rocks. It was big enough to have trampled her, 
breaking bones and worse; those teeth could have ripped and torn as well as any 
wolf's. She would have awakened with the wounds. If she had waked at all.
The gritty rock under her back was a blistering stovetop. She scrambled to her 
feet, angry with herself. If she could not keep her mind on what she was doing, 
she would accomplish nothing. Tanchico was where she was supposed to be; she had 
to concentrate on that. Nothing else.
She stopped brushing at her skirts when she saw the Aiel woman watching her with 
sharp blue eyes from ten paces off. The woman was Aviendha's age, no older than 
herself, but the wisps of hair that stuck out from under her shoufa were so pale 
as to be almost white. The spear in her hands was ready to be cast, and at that 
distance she was not likely to miss.
The Aiel were said to be more than rough with those who entered the Waste 
without permission. Egwene knew she could wrap woman and spear in Air, hold them 
safely, but would the flows keep long enough when she began to fade? Or would 
they just anger the woman enough to make her cast her spear the moment she was 
able, perhaps before Egwene was truly gone? Much good it would do to take 
herself back to Tanchico with an Aiel spear through her. If she tied the flows, 
that would leave the woman trapped in Tel'aran'rhiod until they were unraveled, 
helpless if that lion or the boar-like creature returned.
No. She simply needed the woman to lower her spear, just long enough to feel 
safe dosing her eyes, to take herself back to Tanchico. Back to what she was 
supposed to be doing. She had no more time for these flights of fancy. She was 
not entirely sure someone who had only dreamed themselves into Tel'aran'rhiod 
could harm her the way other things there could, but she was not going to risk 
finding out with an Aiel spearpoint. The Aiel woman should vanish in a few 
moments. Something to put her off balance until then.
Changing her clothes was easy; as soon as the thought came, Egwene was wearing 
the same browns and grays as the woman. "I mean you no harm," she said, 
outwardly calm.
The woman did not lower her weapon. Instead, she frowned and said, "You have no 
right to wear cadin'sor, girl." And Egwene found herself standing there in her 
skin, the sun burning her from overhead, the ground seating her bare feet.
For a moment she gaped in disbelief, dancing from foot to foot. She had not 
thought it possible to change things about someone else. So many possibilities, 
so many rules, that she did not know. Hurriedly she thought herself back into 
scout shoes and the dark dress with its divided skirts and at the same time made 
the Aiel woman's garments vanish. She had to draw on saidar to do it; the woman 
must have been concentrating on keeping Egwene naked. She had a flow ready to 
seize the spear if the other woman made to throw it.
      It was the Aiel woman's turn to look shocked. She let the spear fall to 
her side, too, and Egwene seized the moment to shut her eyes and take herself 
back to Tanchico, back to the skeleton of that huge boar. Or whatever it was. 
She barely gave it a second glance this time. She was growing tired of things 
that looked like boars and were not.
How did she do that? No! It's wondering about how and why that keeps pulling me 
off the path. This time I'll stick to it.
She did hesitate, though. Just as she had closed her eyes it had seemed she saw 
another woman, beyond the Aiel woman, watching them both. A golden&#8209;haired woman 
holding a silver bow. You are letting wild fancies take you, now. You've been 
listening to too many of Thom Merrilin's stories. Birgitte was long dead; she 
could not come again until the Horn of Valere called her back from the grave. 
Dead women, even heroes of legend, surely could not dream themselves into 
Tel'aran'rhiod.
It was only a moment's pause, though. Shutting off futile speculation, she ran 
back to the square. How much time did she have left? The whole city to search, 
and time slipping away, and she as ignorant as when she started. If only she had 
some idea of what to look for. Or where. Running did not seem to tire her here 
in the World of Dreams, but run as hard as she might, she would never cover the 
entire city before Elayne and Nynaeve woke her. She did not want to have to come 
back.
A woman appeared suddenly among the flock of pigeons that had gathered in the 
square. Her gown was pale green, thin and draped closely enough to have 
satisfied Berelain, her dark hair was in dozens of narrow braids, and her face 
was covered to the eyes by a transparent veil like the one the falling man had 
worn. The pigeons soared up, and so did the woman gliding over the nearest 
rooftops with them before abruptly winking out of existence.
Egwene smiled. She dreamed of flying like a bird all the time, and this was a 
dream, after all. She leaped into the air, and kept going up, toward the roofs. 
She wobbled as she thought how ridiculous this was &#8209; Flying? People did not fly! 
&#8209; then steadied again as she forced herself to be confident. She was doing it, 
and that was all there was to it. This was a dream, and she was flying. The wind 
rushed in her face, and she wanted to laugh giddily.
She skimmed across the Panarch's Circle, where rows of stone benches slanted 
down from the high wall to a broad field of packed dirt in the center. Imagine 
so many people gathered, and to watch a fireworks display by the Guild of 
Illuminators themselves. Back home fireworks were a rare treat. She could 
remember the handful of times in her life Emond's Field had had them, with the 
grown&#8209;ups as excited as the children.
She sailed over rooftops like a falcon, over palaces and mansions, humble 
dwellings and shops, warehouses and stables. She slid by domes topped with 
golden spires and bronze weathervanes, by towers ringed with lacy stone 
balconies. Carts and wagons dotted wagonyards, waiting. Ships crowded the great 
harbor and the fingers of water between the city's peninsulas; they lined the 
docks. Everything seemed in a poor state of repair, from the carts to the ships, 
but nothing she saw pointed to the Black Ajah. As far as she knew.
She considered trying to envision Liandrin &#8209; she knew that doll's face all too 
well, with its multitude of blond braids, its self&#8209;satisfied brown eyes, and its 
smirking rosebud mouth &#8209; picture her in the hopes she might be drawn to where 
the Black sister was. But if it worked, she might find Liandrin in 
Tel'aran'rhiod, too, and maybe others of them. She was not ready for that.
It suddenly occurred to her that if any of the Black Ajah were in Tanchico, in 
the Tanchico of Tel'aran'rhiod, she was flaunting herself for them. Any eye 
looking at the sky would notice a woman flying, one who did not vanish after a 
few moments. Her smooth flight staggered, and she swooped down below roof level, 
floating along the streets more slowly than before but still faster than a horse 
could run. She might be rushing toward them, but she could not make herself stop 
and wait for them.
Fool! she called herself furiously. Fool! They could know I'm here now. They 
could be laying a trap already. She considered stepping out of the dream, back 
to her bed in Tear, but she had found nothing. If there was anything to find.
A tall woman was suddenly standing in the street ahead of her, slim in a bulky 
brown skirt and loose white blouse, with a brown shawl around her shoulders and 
a folded scarf around her forehead to hold white hair that spilled to her waist. 
Despite her plain clothes she wore a great many necklaces and bracelets of gold 
or ivory or both. Fists planted on her hips, she stared straight at Egwene, 
frowning.
Another fool woman who's dreamed herself where she has no right to be and 
doesn't believe what she's seeing, Egwene thought. She had the description of 
every woman who had gone with Liandrin, and this woman certainly matched none of 
them. But the woman did not vanish again; she stood there as Egwene approached 
swiftly. Why doesn't she go? Why . . . ? Oh, Light! She's really . . . ! She 
snatched for the flows to weave lightning, to tangle the woman in Air, fumbling 
in startled haste.
"Put your feet on the ground, girl," the woman barked. "I had enough trouble 
finding you again without you flying off like some bird when I do."
Abruptly Egwene stopped flying. Her feet thumped hard on the pavement, and she 
staggered. It was the Aiel woman's voice, but this was an older woman. Not as 
old as Egwene had thought at first &#8209; in fact, she looked much younger than her 
white hair suggested &#8209; but with the voice, and those sharp blue eyes, she was 
sure it was the same woman. "You're . . . different," she said.
"You can be what you wish to be, here." The woman sounded embarrassed, but only 
a little. "At times I like to remember . . . . That is not important. You are 
from the White Tower? It has been long since they had a dreamwalker. Very long. 
I am Amys, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel."
"You are a Wise One? You are! And you know dreams, you know Tel'aran'rhiod! You 
can . . . . My name is Egwene. Egwene al'Vere. I . . . ." She took a deep 
breath; Amys did not look a woman to lie to. "I am Aes Sedai. Of the Green 
Ajah."
Amys's expression did not change, really. A slight crinkling of her eyes, 
perhaps in skepticism. Egwene hardly looked old enough to be full Aes Sedai. 
What she said, though, was "I meant to leave you standing in your skin until you 
asked for some proper clothes. Putting on cadin'sor that way, as though you were 
. . . . You surprised me, pulling free as you did, turning my own spear on me. 
But you are still untaught, are you not, however strong. Else you would not have 
popped into the middle of my hunt that way, where you obviously did not wish to 
be. And this flying about? Did you come to Tel'aran'rhiod &#8209; Tel'aran'rhiod! &#8209; to 
stare at this city, wherever it is?"
"It's Tanchico," Egwene said faintly. She didn't know. But then how had Amys 
followed her, or found her? It was obvious she knew more of the World of Dreams 
than Egwene did, by far. "You can help me. I am trying to find women of the 
Black Ajah, Darkfriends. I think they are here, and I have to find them if they 
are."
"It truly exists, then." Amys almost whispered it. "An Ajah of Shadowrunners in 
the White Tower." She shook her head. "You are like a girl just wedded to the 
spear who thinks now she can wrestle men and leap mountains. For her it means a 
few bruises and a valuable lesson in humility. For you, here, it could mean 
death." Amys eyed the white buildings around them and grimaced. "Tanchico? In . 
. . Tarabon? This city is dying, eating itself. There is a darkness here, an 
evil. Worse than men can make. Or women." She looked at Egwene pointedly. "You 
cannot see it, or feel it, can you? And you want to hunt Shadowrunners in 
Tel'aran'rhiod."
"Evil?" Egwene said quickly. "That could be them. Are you sure? If I told you 
what they look like, could you be certain it was them? I can describe them. I 
can describe one to her last braid."
"A child," Amys muttered, "demanding a silver bracelet from her father this 
minute when she knows nothing of trading or the making of bracelets. You have 
much to learn. Far more than I can begin to teach you, now. Come to the 
Three&#8209;fold Land. I will have the word spread through the clans that an Aes Sedai 
called Egwene al'Vere is to be brought to me at Cold Rocks Hold. Give your name 
and show your Great Serpent ring, and you will have safe running. I am not there 
now, but I will return from Rhuidean before you can arrive."
"Please, you must help me. I need to know if they are here. I have to know."
"But I cannot tell you. I do not know them, or this place, this Tanchico. You 
must come to me. What you do is dangerous, far more dangerous than you know. You 
must&#8209;Where are you going? Stay!"
Something seemed to snatch at Egwene, pulling her into darkness.
Amys's voice followed her, hollow and dwindling. "You must come to me and learn. 
You must. . . ."
 
CHAPTER
12
 
Tanchico or the Tower
 
Elayne drew a ragged, relieved breath as Egwene finally stirred and opened her 
eyes. At the foot of the bed, Aviendha's features lost their tinge of 
frustration and anxiety, and she flashed a quick smile that Egwene returned. The 
candle had burned past the mark minutes ago; it seemed an hour.
"You would not wake up," Elayne said unsteadily. "I shook you and shook you, but 
you would not wake." She gave a small laugh. "Oh, Egwene, you even frightened 
Aviendha. "
Egwene put a hand on her arm and squeezed reassuringly. "I am back, now." She 
sounded tired, and she had sweated her shift through. "I suppose I had reason to 
stay a little longer than we planned. I will be more careful next time. I 
promise."
Nynaeve returned the pitcher of water to the washstand vigorously, sloshing some 
out. She had been on the point of throwing it in Egwene's sleeping face. Her 
features were composed, but the pitcher rattled the washbowl, and she let the 
spilled water drip to the carpet. "Was it something you found? Or was it . . . ? 
Egwene, if the World of Dreams can hold on to you in some way, maybe it is too 
dangerous until you learn more. Maybe the more often you go, the harder it is to 
come back. Maybe.... I don't know. But I do know we cannot risk letting you 
become lost." She crossed her arms under her breasts, ready for an argument.
"I know," Egwene said, very close to meekly. Elayne's eyebrows shot up; Egwene 
was never meek with Nynaeve. Anything but.
Egwene struggled off the bed, refusing Elayne's help, and made her way to the 
washstand to bathe her face and arms in the relatively cool water. Elayne found 
a dry shift in the wardrobe while Egwene pulled off her sodden one.
"I met a Wise One, a woman named Amys." Egwene's voice was muffled until her 
head popped out of the top of the new shift. "She said I should come to her, to 
learn about Tel'aran'rhiod. At some place in the Waste called Cold Rocks Hold."
Elayne had caught a flicker of Aviendha's eye at the mention of the Wise One's 
name. "Do you know her? Amys?"
The Aiel woman's nod could only be described as reluctant. "A Wise One. A 
dreamwalker. Amys was Far Dareis Mai until she gave up the spear to go to 
Rhuidean."
"A Maiden!" Egwene exclaimed. "So that's why she . . . . No matter. She said she 
is at Rhuidean, now. Do you know where this Cold Rocks Hold is, Aviendha?"
"Of course. Cold Rocks is Rhuarc's hold. Rhuarc is Amys's husband. I visit 
there, sometimes. I used to. My sister&#8209;mother, Lian, is sister&#8209;wife to Amys."
Elayne exchanged confused glances with Egwene and Nynaeve. Once Elayne had 
thought she knew a good bit about Aiel, all learned from her teachers in 
Caemlyn, but she had discovered since .meeting Aviendha how little she did know. 
Customs and relationships all were a maze. First&#8209;sisters meant having the same 
mother; except that it was possible for friends to become first&#8209;sisters by 
making a pledge before Wise Ones. Second&#8209;sisters meant your mothers were 
sisters; if your fathers were brothers, you were father&#8209;sisters, and not 
considered as closely related as second&#8209;sisters. After that, it truly grew 
bewildering.
"What does 'sister&#8209;wife' mean?" she asked hesitantly.
"That you have the same husband." Aviendha frowned at the way Egwene gasped and 
Nynaeve's eyes opened as wide as they would go. Elayne had been half&#8209;expecting 
the answer, but she still found herself fussing with skirts that were perfectly 
straight. "This is not your custom?" the Aiel woman asked.
"No," Egwene said faintly. "No, it is not."
"But you and Elayne care for one another as first&#8209;sisters. What would you have 
done had one of you been unwilling to step aside for Rand al'Thor? Fight over 
him? Let a man damage the ties between you? Would it not have been better if you 
both had married him, then?"
Elayne looked at Egwene. The thought of . . . Could she have done such a thing? 
Even with Egwene? She knew her cheeks were red. Egwene merely looked startled.
"But I wanted to step aside," Egwene said.
Elayne knew the remark was as much for her as for Aviendha, but the thought 
would not go away. Had Min had a viewing? What would she do if Min had? If it's 
Berelain, I will strangle her, and him too! If it has to be someone, why 
couldn't it be Egwene? Light, what am I thinking? She knew she was becoming 
flustered, and to cover it, she made her voice light. "You sound as if the man 
has no choice in the matter."
"He can say no," Aviendha said as if it were obvious, "but if he wishes to marry 
one, he must marry both when they ask. Please take no offense, but I was shocked 
when I learned that in your lands a man can ask a woman to marry him. A man 
should make his interest known, then wait for the woman to speak. Of course, 
some women lead a man to see where his interest lies, but the right of the 
question is hers. I do not really know very much of these things. I have wanted 
to be Far Dareis Mai since I was a child. All I want in life is the spear and my 
spear&#8209;sisters," she finished quite fiercely.
"No one is going to try to make you marry," Egwene said soothingly. Aviendha 
gave her a startled look. 
Nynaeve cleared her throat loudly. Elayne wondered if she had been thinking 
about Lan; there were certainly hard spots of color in her cheeks. "I suppose, 
Egwene," Nynaeve said in a slightly too energetic voice, "that you did not find 
what you were looking for, or you would have said something by now."
"I found nothing," Egwene replied regretfully. "But Amys said . . . . Aviendha, 
what sort of woman is Amys?"
The Aiel woman had taken up a study of the carpet. "Amys is hard as the 
mountains and pitiless as the sun," she said without looking up. "She is a 
dreamwalker. She can teach you. Once she lays her hands on you, she will drag 
you by the hair toward what she wants. Rhuarc is the only one who can stand up 
to her. Even the other Wise Ones step carefully when Amys speaks. But she can 
teach you."
Egwene shook her head. "I meant would being in a strange place unsettle her, 
make her nervous? Being in a city? Would she see things that weren't there?"
Aviendha's laugh was a short, sharp sound. "Nervous? Waking to find a lion in 
her bed would not make Amys nervous. She was a Maiden, Egwene, and she has grown 
no softer, you can be sure of it."
"What did this woman see?" Nynaeve asked.
"It wasn't something she saw, exactly," Egwene said slowly. "I think not seeing. 
She said Tanchico had an evil in it. Worse than men could make, she said. That 
could be the Black Ajah. Don't argue with me, Nynaeve," she added in a firmer 
voice. "Dreams have to be interpreted. It very well could be."
Nynaeve had begun frowning as soon as Egwene mentioned evil in Tanchico, and her 
frown turned to a heated glare when Egwene told her not to argue. Some­times 
Elayne wanted to shake both women. She stepped in quickly, before the older 
woman could erupt. "It very well could be, Egwene. You did find something. More 
than Nynaeve or I thought you could. Didn't she, Nynaeve? Don't you think so?"
"It could be," Nynaeve said grudgingly.
"It could be." Egwene did not sound happy about it. She took a deep breath. 
"Nynaeve is right. I have to learn what I'm doing. If I knew what I should, I 
would not have had to be told about the evil. If I knew what I should, I could 
have found the very room Liandrin is staying in, wherever she is. Amys can teach 
me. That is why. . . . That is why I have to go to her."
"Go to her?" Nynaeve sounded appalled. "Into the Waste?"
"Aviendha can take me right to this Cold Rocks Hold." Egwene's look, 
half&#8209;defiant, half&#8209;anxious, darted between Elayne and Nynaeve. "If I was certain 
they were in Tanchico, I wouldn't let you go alone. If you decide to. But with 
Amys to help me, maybe I can find out where they are. Maybe I can . . . . That 
is just it; I do not even know what I'll be able to do, only that I am certain 
it will be far more than I can now. It isn't as if I will be abandoning you. You 
can take the ring with you. You know the Stone well enough to come back here in 
Tel'aran'rhiod. I can come to you in Tanchico. Whatever I learn from Amys, I can 
teach you. Please say you understand. I can learn so much from Amys, and then I 
can use it to help you. It will be as if all three of us had been trained by 
her. A dreamwalker; a woman who knows! Liandrin and the rest of them will be 
like children; they won't know a quarter of what we do." She chewed her lip, one 
pensive bite. "You don't believe I am running out on you, do you? If you do, I 
won't go."
"Of course you must go," Elayne told her. "I will miss you, but no one promised 
us we could stay together until this was done."
"But the two of you . . . going alone . . . I should go with you. If they really 
are in Tanchico, I should be with you."
"Nonsense," Nynaeve said briskly. "Training is what you need. That will do us 
far more good in the long run than your company to Tanchico. It isn't even as if 
we know any of them are in Tanchico. If they are, Elayne and I will do very well 
together, but we could arrive and find that this evil is no more than the war 
after all. The Light knows, war should be evil enough for anyone. We may be back 
in the Tower before you are. You must be careful in the Waste," she added in a 
practical tone. "It is a dangerous place. Aviendha, you will look after her?"
Before the Aiel woman could open her mouth, there was a knock at the door, 
followed immediately by Moiraine. The Aes Sedai took them in with one sweeping 
look that weighed, measured and considered them and what they had been doing, 
all without the twitch of an eyelid to suggest her conclusions. "Joiya and Amico 
are dead," she announced.
"Was that the reason for the attack, then?" Nynaeve said. "All that to kill 
them? Or perhaps to kill them if they could not be freed. I've been sure Joiya 
was so confident because she expected rescue. She must have been lying after 
all. I never trusted her repentance."
"Not the main purpose, perhaps," Moiraine replied. "The captain very wisely kept 
his men to their posts in the dungeons during the attack. They never saw a 
single Trolloc or Myrddraal. But they found the pair dead, after. Each with her 
throat rather messily cut. After her tongue had been nailed to her cell door." 
She might as well have been speaking of having a dress mended.
Elayne's stomach heaved leadenly at the detached description. "I would not have 
wanted that for them. Not like that. The Light illumine their souls."
"They sold their souls to the Shadow long ago," Egwene said roughly. She had 
both hands pressed to her stomach, though. "How. . . . How was it done? Gray 
Men?"
"I doubt even Gray Men could have managed that," Moiraine said dryly. "The 
Shadow has resources beyond what we know, it seems."
"Yes." Egwene smoothed her dress, and her voice. "If there was no attempt at 
rescue, it must mean they were both telling the truth. They were killed because 
they talked."
"Or to stop them from it," Nynaeve added grimly. "We can hope they do not know 
that those two told us anything. Perhaps Joiya did repent, but I'll not believe 
it. "
Elayne swallowed, thinking of being in a cell, having your face pressed to the 
door so your tongue could be pulled out and . . . . She shivered, but made 
herself say, "They might have been killed simply to punish them for being 
captured." She left out her thought that the killing might have been to make 
them believe whatever Joiya and Amico had said; they had enough doubts about 
what to do as it was. "Three possibilities, and only one says the Black Ajah 
knows they revealed a word. Since all three are equal, the chances are that they 
do not know."
Egwene and Nynaeve looked shocked. "To punish them?" Nynaeve said 
incredu­lously.
They were both tougher than she in many ways &#8209; she admired them for it &#8209; but 
they had not grown up watching the maneuverings at court in Caemlyn, hearing 
tales of the cruel way Cairhienin and Tairens played the Game of Houses.
"I think the Black Ajah might be less than gentle with failure of any kind," she 
told them. "I can imagine Liandrin ordering it. Joiya surely could have done it 
easily." Moiraine eyed her briefly, a reassessing look.
"Liandrin," Egwene said, her tone absolutely flat. "Yes, I can imagine Liandrin 
or Joiya giving that command."
"You did not have much longer to question them in any case," Moiraine said. 
"They would have been ship-bound by midday tomorrow." A hint of anger touched 
her voice; Elayne realized Moiraine must see the Black sisters' deaths as an 
escape from justice. "I hope you reach some decision soon. Tanchico or the 
Tower."
Elayne met Nynaeve's eyes and gave a slight nod.
Nynaeve nodded back, more assertively, before turning to the Aes Sedai. "Elayne 
and I will be going to Tanchico as soon as we can find a ship. A fast ship, I 
hope. Egwene and Aviendha will be going to Cold Rocks Hold, in the Aiel Waste." 
She gave no reasons, and Moiraine's eyebrows rose.
"Jolien can take her," Aviendha said into the momentary silence. She avoided 
looking at Egwene. "Or Sefela, or Bain and Chiad. I. . . . I have a thought to 
go with Elayne and Nynaeve. If there is war in this Tanchico, they have need of 
a sister to watch their backs."
"If that is what you want, Aviendha," Egwene said slowly.
She looked surprised and hurt, but no more surprised than Elayne. She had 
thought the two of them were becoming friends. "I am glad you want to help us, 
Aviendha, but you should be the one to take Egwene to Cold Rocks Hold."
"She is going neither to Tanchico nor Cold Rocks Hold," Moiraine said, taking a 
letter from her pouch and unfolding the pages. "This was placed in my hand an 
hour gone. The young Aielman who brought it told me it was given to him a month 
ago, before any of us reached Tear, yet it is addressed to me by name, at the 
Stone of Tear." She glanced at the last sheet. "Aviendha, do you know Amys, of 
the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel; Bair, of the Haido sept of the 
Shaarad Aiel; Melaine, of the Jhirad sept of the Goshien Aiel; and Seana; of the 
Black Cliff sept of the Nakai Aiel? They signed it."
"They are all Wise Ones, Aes Sedai. All dreamwalkers." Aviendha's stance had 
shifted to wariness, though she did not seem aware of it. She looked ready to 
fight or flee.
"Dreamwalkers," Moiraine mused. "Perhaps that explains it. I have heard of 
dreamwalkers." She turned to the second page of the letter. "Here is what they 
say about you. What they said perhaps before you had even decided to come to 
Tear. 'There is among the Maidens of the Spear in the Stone of Tear a willful 
girl called Aviendha, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel. She must now 
come to us. There can be no more waiting or excuses. We will await her on the 
slopes of Chaendaer, above Rhuidean.' There is more about you, but mainly 
telling me that I must see you come to them without delay. They issue commands 
like the Amyrlin, these Wise Ones of yours." She made a vexed sound, which 
brought Elayne to wonder if the Wise Ones had tried issuing commands to the Aes 
Sedai, too. Not very likely. And unlikely to be successful if tried. Still, 
something about that letter irritated the Aes Sedai.
"I am Far Dareis Mai," Aviendha said angrily. "I do not go running like a child 
when someone calls my name. I will go to Tanchico if I wish."
Elayne pursed her lips thoughtfully. This was something new from the Aiel woman. 
Not the anger &#8209; she had seen Aviendha angry before, if not quite to this degree 
&#8209; but the undertone. She could call it nothing but sulkiness. That seemed as 
unlikely as Lan being sulky, but there it was.
Egwene heard it, too. She patted Aviendha's arm. "It's all right. If you want to 
go to Tanchico, I'll be pleased that you are protecting Elayne and Nynaeve." 
Aviendha gave her a truly miserable look.
Moiraine shook her head, only slightly, but still deliberate. "I showed this to 
Rhuarc." Aviendha opened her mouth, her face irate, but the Aes Sedai raised her 
voice and went on smoothly. "As the letter asks me to. Only the part concerning 
you, of course. He seems quite determined that you will do as the letter asks. 
As it orders. I think it wisest to do as Rhuarc and the Wise Ones wish, 
Aviendha. Do you not agree?"
Aviendha stared around the room wildly, as at a trap. "I am Far Dareis Mai," she 
muttered, and strode for the door without another word.
Egwene took a step, half&#8209;raising a hand to stop her, then let it fall as the 
door banged shut. "What do they want with her?" she demanded of Moiraine. "You 
always know more than you let on. What are you holding back this time?"
"Whatever the Wise Ones' reason," Moiraine said coolly, "it is surely a matter 
between Aviendha and them. If she wished you to know, she would have told you."
"You cannot stop trying to maneuver people," Nynaeve said bitterly. "You're 
maneuvering Aviendha into something now, aren't you?"
"Not I. The Wise Ones. And Rhuarc." Moiraine folded the letter, returning it to 
her belt pouch with a touch of acerbity in her manner. "She can always say no to 
him. A clan chief is not the same as a king, as I understand Aiel ways."
"Can she?" Elayne asked. Rhuarc reminded her of Gareth Bryne. The 
Captain-­General of her mother's Royal Guards had seldom put his foot down, but 
when he did, not even Morgase could bring him around, short of a royal command. 
There would be no command from the throne this time &#8209; not that Morgase had ever 
issued one to Gareth Bryne when he had decided he was right, now that Elayne 
thought of it &#8209; and without one, she expected that Aviendha was going to the 
slopes of Chaendaer, above Rhuidean. "At least she can journey with you, Egwene. 
Amys can hardly meet you at Cold Rocks Hold if she plans to wait for Aviendha at 
Rhuidean. You can go to Amys together."
"But I do not want her to," Egwene said sadly. "Not if she doesn't want to."
"Whatever anyone wants," Nynaeve said, "we have work to do. You will need many 
things for a trip into the Waste, Egwene. Lan will tell me what. And Elayne and 
I must make preparations to sail for Tanchico. I suppose we can find a ship 
tomorrow, but that means deciding what to pack tonight."
"There is a ship of the Atha'an Miere at the docks in the Maule," Moiraine told 
them. "A raker. There are no ships faster. You did want a fast ship." Nynaeve 
gave a grudging nod.
"Moiraine," Elayne said, "what is Rand going to do now? After this attack . . . 
. Will he start the war you want?"
"I do not want a war," the Aes Sedai replied. "I want what will see him alive to 
fight Tarmon Gai'don. He says he will tell us all what he means to do tomorrow."
The smallest frown creased her smooth forehead. "Tomorrow, we will all know more 
than we do tonight." Her departure was abrupt.
Tomorrow, Elayne thought. What will he do when I tell him. What will he say! He 
has to understand. Determinedly, she joined the other two to discuss their 
preparations.
 
CHAPTER
13
 
Rumors
 
The tavern's business rocked along like any in the Maule, a wagonload of geese 
and crockery careering downhill through the night. The babble of voices fought 
with the musicians' offerings on three assorted drums, two ham­mered dulcimers, 
and a bulbous semseer that produced whining trills. The serving maids in dark, 
ankle&#8209;length dresses with necks up to the chin and short white aprons hustled 
between crowded tables, holding dusters of pottery mugs overhead so they could 
squeeze through. Barefoot leather&#8209;vested dockmen mixed with fellows in coats 
tight to the waist and bare&#8209;chested men with broad, colorful sashes to hold up 
their baggy breeches. So dose to the docks, vestments of outlanders were 
everywhere among the crowd; high collars from the north and long collars from 
the west, silver chains on coats and bells on vests, knee&#8209;high boots and 
thigh-high boots, necklaces or earrings on men, lace on coats or shirts. One man 
with wide shoulders and a big belly had a forked yellow beard, and another had 
smeared something on his mustaches to make them glisten in the lamplight and 
curl up on either side of his narrow face. Dice rolled and tumbled in three 
corners of the room and on a number of tabletops, silver changing hands briskly 
to shouts and laugh­ter.
Mat sat alone with his back to the wall where he could see all the doors, though 
mostly he peered into a still untouched mug of dark wine. He did not go near the 
dice games, and he never glanced at the serving girls' ankles. With the tavern 
so crowded, men occasionally thought to share his table, but a good look at his 
face made them sheer away and crowd onto a bench elsewhere.
Dipping a finger in his wine, he sketched aimlessly on the tabletop. These fools 
had no idea what had happened in the Stone tonight. He had heard a few Tairens 
mention some kind of trouble, quick words that trailed off into nervous 
laughter. They did not know and did not want to. He almost wished he did not 
know himself. No, he wished he had a better idea of what had happened. The 
images kept flashing in his head, flashing through the holes in his memory, 
making no real sense.
The din of fighting somewhere in the distance echoed down the corridor, dulled 
by the wall hangings. He retrieved his knife from the Gray Man's corpse with a 
shaking hand. A Gray Man, and hunting him. It had to have been after him. Gray 
Men did not wander about killing at random; they had targets as surely as an 
arrow. He turned to run, and there was a Myrddraal striding toward him like a 
black snake on legs, its party faced, eyeless stare sending shivers into his 
bones. At thirty pacer he hurled the knife straight at where an eye should have 
been; at that distance he could hit a knothole no larger than an eye four times 
in five.
The Fade's black sword blurred as it knocked the dagger away, almost casually; 
it did not even break stride. "Time to die, Hornsounder." Its voice was a red 
adder's dry hiss, warning of death.
Mat backed away. He had a knife in either hand, now, though he did not remember 
drawing them. Not that knives would be much good against a sword, but running 
meant that black blade in his back as sure as five sixes beat four threes. He 
wished he had a good quarterstaff. Or a bow; he would like to see this thing try 
to deflect a shaft from a Two Rivers longbow. He wished he were somewhere else. 
He was going to die here.
Suddenly a dozen Trollocs roared out of a side hallway, piling onto the Fade in 
a frenzy of chopping axes and stabbing swords. Mat stared in amazed disbelief. 
The Halfman fought like a black&#8209;armored whirlwind. More than half the Trollocs 
were dead or dying before the Fade lay in a twitching heap; one arm flexed and 
thrashed like a dying snake three paces away from the body, still with that 
black sword in its fist.
A ram&#8209;horned Trolloc peered toward Mat, snout lifted to sniff the air. It 
snarled at him, then whined and began licking a long gash that had laid open 
mail and hairy forearm. The others finished cutting the throats of their 
wounded, and one barked a few harsh, guttural words. Without another glance at 
Mat, they turned and trotted away, hooves and boots making hollow sounds on the 
stone floor.
Away from him. Mat shivered. Trollocs to the rescue. What had Rand gotten him 
into now? He saw what he had drawn with the wine &#8209; an open door &#8209; and scrubbed 
it out angrily. He had to get away from here. He had to. And he could also feel 
that urge in the back of his head, that it was time to go back to the Stone. He 
pushed it away angrily, but it kept buzzing at him.
He caught a snatch of talk from the table to his right, where the lean&#8209;faced 
fellow with the curling mustaches was holding forth in a heavy Lugarder accent. 
"Now this Dragon of yours is a great man no doubt, I'll not be denying it, but 
he's not a patch on Logain. Why, Logain had all of Ghealdan at war, and half of 
Amadicia and Altara, as well. He made the earth swallow whole towns that 
resisted him, he did. Buildings, people and all entire. And the one up in 
Saldaea, Maseem? Why, they say he made the sun stand still till he defeated the 
Lord of Bashere's army. 'Tis a fact, they do say."
Mat shook his head. The Stone fallen and Callandor in Rand's hand, and this 
idiot still thought he was another false Dragon. He had sketched that doorway 
again. Rubbing a hand through it, he grabbed up the mug of wine, then stopped w 
it halfway to his mouth. Through the commotion his ear had picked out a familiar 
name spoken at a nearby table. Scraping back his bench, he made his way to that 
table, mug in hand.
The people around it were the sort of odd mixture made in taverns in the Maule. 
Two barefoot sailors wearing oiled coats over bare chests, one with a thick gold 
chain close around his neck. A once fat man with sagging jowls, in a dark 
Cairhienin coat with slashes of red and gold and green across his chest which 
might have indicated that he was a noble, though one sleeve was torn at the 
shoulder; a good many Cairhienin refugees had come down far in the world. A 
gray&#8209;haired woman all in subdued dark blue, with a hard face and a sharp eye and 
heavy gold rings on her fingers. And the speaker, the fork&#8209;bearded fellow, with 
a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg in his ear. The three silver chains looped 
across the straining chest of his dark, reddish coat named him a Kandori master 
merchant. They had a guild for merchants in Kandor.
The talk ceased and all eyes swung to Mat when he stopped at their table. "I 
heard you mention the Two Rivers."
Forkbeard ran a quick eye over him, the unbrushed hair, the tight expression on 
his face and the wine in his fist, the gleaming black boots, the green coat with 
its gold scrollwork, open to the waist to reveal a snowy linen shirt, but both 
coat and shirt heavily wrinkled. In short, the very image of a young noble 
sporting himself among the commoners. "I did, my Lord," he said heartily. "I was 
saying there'll be no tabac out of there this year, I'll wager. I have twenty 
casks of the finest Two Rivers leaf, though, than which there is none finer. 
Fetch an excellent price later in the year. If my Lord wishes a cask for his own 
stock . . ." He tugged one point of his yellow beard and laid a finger alongside 
his nose. ". . . I am certain I could manage to &#8209; "
"You'll wager that, will you?" Mat said softly, cutting him short. "Why would 
there be no tabac out of the Two Rivers?"
"Why, the Whitecloaks, my Lord. The Children of the Light."
"What about Whitecloaks?"
The master merchant peered around the table for help; there was a dangerous note 
in that quiet tone. The sailors looked as if they would leave if they dared. The 
Cairhienin was glaring at Mat, sitting up too straight and smoothing his worn 
coat as he swayed; the empty mug in front of him was obviously not his first. 
The gray&#8209;haired woman had her mug to her mouth, her sharp eyes watching Mat over 
the rim in a calculating way.
Managing a seated bow, the merchant put on an ingratiating tone. "The rumor is, 
my Lord, that the Whitecloaks have gone into the Two Rivers. Hunting the Dragon 
Reborn, it's said. Though of course, that cannot be, since the Lord Dragon is 
here in Tear." He eyed Mat to see how that had been taken; Mat's face did not 
change. "These rumors can run very wild, my Lord. Perhaps it's only wind in a 
bucket. The same rumor claims the Whitecloaks are after some Darkfriend with 
yellow eyes, too. Did you ever hear of a man with yellow eyes, my Lord? No more 
have I. Wind in a bucket."
Mat set his mug on the table and leaned closer to the man. "Who else are they 
hunting? According to this rumor. The Dragon Reborn. A man with yellow eyes. Who 
else?"
Beads of sweat formed on the merchant's face. "No one, my Lord. No one that I 
heard. Only rumor, my Lord. Straws in the wind; no more. A puff of smoke, soon 
vanished. If I might have the honor of presenting my Lord a cask of Two Rivers 
tabac? A gesture of appreciation . . . the honor of . . . to express my. . . ."
Mat tossed an Andoran gold crown onto the table. "Buy your drink on me till that 
runs out."
As he turned away he heard mutters from the table. "I thought he'd cut my 
throat. You know these lordlings when they're full of wine." That from the 
fork&#8209;bearded merchant. "An odd young man," the woman said. "Dangerous. Do not 
try your ploys on that kind, Paetram." "I do not think he is a lord at all," 
another man said petulantly. The Cairhienin, Mat supposed. His lip curled. A 
lord? He would not be a lord if it was offered to him. Whitecloaks in the Two 
Rivers. Light! Light help us!
Plowing his way to the door, he pulled a pair of wooden clogs from the pile 
against the wall. He had no idea whether they were the ones he had worn in &#8209; 
they all looked alike &#8209; and did not care. They fit his boots.
It had started raining outside, a light fall that made the darkness that much 
deeper. Turning up his collar, he splashed along the muddy streets of the Maule 
in an awkward trot, past blaring taverns and well&#8209;lit inns and dark&#8209;windowed 
houses. When mud gave way to paving stones at the wall marking the inner city, 
he kicked the clogs off and left them lying as he ran on. The Defenders guarding 
the nearest gate into the Stone let him pass without a word; they knew who he 
was. He ran all the way to Perrin's room and flung open the door, barely 
noticing the splintered split in the wood. Perrin's saddlebags lay on the bed, 
and Perrin was stuffing shirts and stockings into them. There was only one 
candle lit, but he did not seem to notice the gloom.
"You've heard, then," Mat said.
Perrin went on with what he was doing. "About home? Yes. I went down to sniff 
out a rumor for Faile. After tonight, more than ever, I have to get her . . . ." 
The growl, deep in his throat, made Mat's hackles rise; it sounded like an angry 
wolf. "No matter. I heard. Maybe this will do as well."
As well as what? Mat wondered. "You believe it?"
For a moment Perrin looked up; his eyes gathered the light of the candle, 
shining a burnished golden yellow. "There doesn't seem to be much doubt, to me. 
It's all too close to the truth."
Mat shifted uncomfortably. "Does Rand know?" Perrin only nodded and went back to 
his packing. "Well, what does he say?"
Perrin paused, staring at the folded cloak in his hands. "He started muttering 
to himself. 'He said he'd do it. He said he would. I should have believed him.' 
Like that. It made no sense. Then he grabbed me by the collar and said he had to 
do 'what they don't expect.' He wanted to me to understand, but I'm not certain 
he does himself. He didn't seem to care whether I leave or stay. No, I take that 
back. I think he was relieved I'm leaving."
"Boil it down, and he's not going to do anything," Mat said. "Light, with 
Callandor he could blast a thousand Whitecloaks! You saw what he did to those 
bloody Trollocs. You're going, are you? Back to the Two Rivers? Alone?"
"Unless you are coming, too." Perrin stuffed the cloak into the saddlebags. "Are 
you?"
Instead of answering, Mat paced back and forth, his face in half&#8209;light and 
shadow by turns. His mother and father were in Emond's Field, and his sisters. 
Whitecloaks had no reason to hurt them. If he went home, he had the feeling he 
would never leave again, that his mother would marry him off before he could sit 
down. But if he did not go, if the Whitecloaks harmed them . . . . All it took 
was rumor, for Whitecloaks, so he had heard. But why should there be any rumor 
about them? Even the Coplins, liars and troublemakers to a man, liked his 
father. Everyone liked Abell Cauthon.
"You don't have to," Perrin said quietly. "Nothing I heard mentioned you. Only 
Rand, and me."
"Burn me, I will g &#8209; " He could not say it. Thinking of going was easy enough, 
but saying he would? His throat tightened up to strangle the words. "Is it easy 
for you, Perrin? Going, I mean? Don't you . . . feel anything? Trying to hold 
you back? Telling you reasons you shouldn't go?"
"A hundred of them, Mat, but I know it comes down to Rand, and ta'veren. You 
won't admit that, will you? A hundred reasons to stay, but the one reason to go 
outweighs them. The Whitecloaks are in the Two Rivers, and they'll hurt people 
trying to find me. I can stop it, if I go."
"Why should the Whitecloaks want you enough to hurt anybody? Light, if they go 
asking for somebody with yellow eyes, nobody in Emond's Field will know who 
they're talking about! And how can you stop anything? One more pair of hands 
won't do much good. Aaah! The Whitecloaks have bitten a mouthful of leather if 
they think they can push Two Rivers folk around."
"They know my name," Perrin said softly. His gaze swung to where his axe hung on 
the wall, the belt tied around the haft and the wall hook. Or maybe it was his 
hammer he was staring at, standing propped against the wall beneath the axe; Mat 
could not be sure. "They can find my family. As for why, they have their 
reasons, Mat. Just as I have mine. Who can say who. has the better?"
"Burn me, Perrin. Burn me! I want to g&#8209;g&#8209; See? I can't even say it, now. Like my 
head knows I'll do it if I say it. I can't even get it out in my mind!"
"Different paths. We've been sent down different paths before."
"Different paths be bloodied," Mat grunted. "I've had all I want of Rand, and 
Aes Sedai, shoving me down their bloody paths. I want to go where I want for a 
change, do what I want!" He turned for the door, but Perrin's voice halted him.
"I hope your path is a happy one, Mat. The Light send you pretty girls and fools 
who want to gamble."
"Oh, burn me, Perrin. The Light send you what you want, too."
"I expect it will." He did not sound happy at the prospect.
"Will you tell my da I'm all right? And my mother? She always did worry. And 
look after my sisters. They used to spy on me and tell Mother everything, but I 
wouldn't want anything to happen to them."
"I promise, Mat."
Closing the door behind him, Mat wandered down the hallways aimlessly. His 
sisters. Eldrin and Bodewhin had always been ready to run shouting "Mama, Mat's 
in trouble again, Mat's doing what he shouldn't, Mama." Especially Bode. They 
would be sixteen and seventeen, now. Probably thinking of marriage before too 
much longer, already with some dull farmer picked out whether the fellow knew it 
or not. Had he really been gone so long? It did not seem so, sometimes. 
Sometimes he felt as if he had left Emond's Field just a week or two past. Other 
times it seemed years gone, only dimly remembered at all. He could remember 
Eldrin and Bode smirking when he had been switched, but their faces were no 
longer sharp. His own sisters' faces. These bloody holes in his memory, like 
holes in his life.
He saw Berelain coming toward him and grinned in spite of himself. For all her 
airs, she was a fine figure of a woman. That clinging white silk was thin enough 
for a handkerchief, not to mention being scooped low enough at the top to expose 
a considerable amount of excellent pale bosom.
He swept her his best bow, elegant and formal. "A good evening to you, my Lady." 
She started to sweep by without a glance, and he straightened angrily. "Are you 
deaf as well as blind, woman? I'm not a carpet to walk over, and I distinctly 
heard myself speak. If I pinch your bottom, you can slap my face, but until I 
do, I expect a civil word for a civil word!"
The First stopped dead, eyeing him in that way women had. She could have sewn 
him a shirt and told his weight, not to mention when he had his last bath, from 
that look. Then she turned away, murmuring something to herself. All he caught 
was "too much like me."
He stared after her in amazement. Not a word to him! That face, that walk, and 
her nose so far in the air it was a wonder her feet touched the ground. That was 
what he got, speaking to the likes of Berelain and Elayne. Nobles who thought 
you were dirt unless you had a palace and bloodlines back to Artur Hawkwing. 
Well, he knew a plump cook's helper &#8209; just plump enough &#8209; who did not think he 
was dirt. Dara had a way of nibbling his ears that . . . .
His thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. He had been considering seeing 
whether Data was awake and up for a cuddle. He had even considered flirting with 
Berelain. Berelain! And the last words he had said to Perrin. Look after my 
sisters. As if he had already decided, already knew what to do. Only he had not. 
He would not, not so easily, just sliding into it. There was a way, perhaps.
Digging a gold coin from his pocket, he flipped it into the air and snatched it 
onto the back of his other hand. A Tar Valon mark, he saw for the first time, 
and he was staring at the Flame of Tar Valon, stylized like a teardrop. "Burn 
all Aes Sedai!" he announced loudly. "And burn Rand al'Thor for getting me into 
this!"
A black&#8209;and&#8209;gold liveried servant stopped in mid-stride, staring at him 
worriedly. The man's silver tray was piled high with rolled bandages and jars of 
ointment. As soon as he realized Mat had seen him, he gave a jump.
Mat tossed the gold mark onto the man's tray. "From the biggest fool in the 
world. Mind you spend it well, on women and wine."
"T&#8209;thank you, my Lord," the man stammered as if stunned.
Mat left him standing there. The biggest fool in the world. Aren't I just!
 
CHAPTER
14
 
Customs of Mayene
 
Perrin shook his head as the door closed behind Mat. Mat would as soon hit 
himself on the head with a hammer as go back to the Two Rivers. Not unless he 
must. Perrin wished there was some way he could avoid going home, too. But there 
was no way; it was a fact as hard as iron and less forgiving. The difference 
between Mat and himself was that he was willing to accept that, even when he did 
not want to.
Easing his shirt off made him grunt, careful as he could be. A large bruise, 
already faded to browns and yellows, stained his entire left shoulder. A Trolloc 
had slipped past his axe, and only Faile's quick work with a knife had kept it 
from being more than it was. The shoulder made washing painful, but at least 
there was no worry about cold water in Tear.
He was packed and ready, only a change of clothes for the morning remaining out 
of his saddlebags. As soon as the sun rose, he would go find Loial. No point in 
bothering the Ogier tonight. He was probably already abed, where Perrin meant to 
be shortly. Faile was the only problem he had not figured out how to deal with. 
Even staying in Tear would be better for her than going with him.
The door opened, surprising him. Perfume wafted in to him as soon as the door 
cracked; it made him think of climbing flowers on a hot summer night. A 
tantalizing scent, not heavy, not to anyone but him, but nothing Faile would 
wear. Still, he was even more surprised when Berelain stepped into his room.
Holding the edge of the door, she blinked, making him realize how dim the light 
must be for her. "You are going somewhere?" she said hesitantly. With the light 
of the hallway's lamps behind her, it was difficult not to stare.
"Yes, my Lady." He bowed; not smoothly, but as well as he could. Faile could 
give all the sharp sniffs she wanted, but he saw no reason not to be polite. "In 
the morning."
"So am I." She closed the door and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. He 
looked away, watching her from the corner of his eye, so she would not think he 
was goggling. She went on without noticing his reaction. The single candle flame 
was reflected in her dark eyes. "After tonight . . . . Tomorrow I will leave by 
carriage for Godan, and from there take ship for Mayene. I should have gone days 
ago, but I thought there must be some way to work matters out. Only, there 
wasn't, of course. I should have seen that sooner. Tonight convinced me. The way 
he.... All that lightning, flowing down the halls. I will leave tomorrow."
"My Lady," Perrin said in confusion, "why are you telling me?"
The way she tossed her head reminded him of a mare he had sometimes shoed in 
Emond's Field; that mare would try to take a bite out of you. "So you can tell 
the Lord Dragon, of course."
That made no more sense to him. "You can tell him yourself," he said with more 
than a little exasperation. "I've no time for carrying messages before I go."
"I . . . do not think he would wish to see me."
Any man would want to see her, and she was beautiful to look at; she knew both 
things. He thought she had started to say something else. Could she have been 
that frightened by what had happened that night in Rand's bedchamber? Or the 
attack and the way Rand had ended it? Perhaps, but this was not a woman to 
frighten easily, not from the cool way she was eyeing him. "Give your message to 
a servant. I doubt I'll see Rand again. Not before I leave. Any servant will 
take a note to him."
"It would come better from you, a friend of the Lord - "
"Give it to a servant. Or one of the Aiel."
"You will not do as I ask?" she asked incredulously.
"No. Haven't you been listening to me?"
She tossed her head again, but there was a difference this time, though he could 
not have said what. Studying him thoughtfully, she murmured half to herself, 
"Such striking eyes."
"What?" Suddenly he realized he was standing there naked to the waist. Her 
intense scrutiny abruptly seemed like the study of a horse before purchase. Next 
thing, she would be feeling his ankles and inspecting his teeth. He snatched the 
shirt meant for morning from the bed and pulled it over his head. "Give your 
message to a servant. I want to go to bed now. I mean to be up early. Before 
sunrise."
"Where are you going tomorrow?"
"Home. The Two Rivers. It is late. If you are leaving tomorrow, too, I suppose 
you want to get some sleep. I know I'm tired." He yawned as widely as he could.
She still made no move toward the door. "You are a blacksmith? I have need of a 
blacksmith in Mayene. Making ornamental ironwork. A short stay before returning 
to the Two Rivers? You would find Mayene . . . entertaining."
"I am going home," he told her firmly, "and you are going back to your own 
rooms."
Her small shrug made him look away again hastily. "Perhaps another day. I always 
get what I want in the end. And I think I want . . ." 5he paused, eyeing him up 
and down. ". . . ornamental ironwork. For the windows of my bedchamber." She 
smiled so innocently that he felt alarm gongs sounding his head.
The door opened again, and Faile came in. "Perrin, I went into the city looking 
for you, and I heard a rumor &#8209;" She stopped stock still, her eyes hard on 
Berelain.
The First ignored her. Stepping close to Perrin, she ran a hand up his arm, 
across his shoulder. For an instant he thought she meant to try pulling his head 
down for a kiss&#8209;she certainly lifted her face as if for one&#8209;but she only trailed 
her hand along the side of his neck in a quick caress and stepped back. It was 
over and done before he could move to stop her. "Remember," she said softly, as 
if they were alone, "I always get what I want." And she swept past Faile and out 
of the room.
He waited for an explosion from Faile, but she glanced at his stuffed saddlebags 
on the bed and said, "I see you've heard the rumor already. It is only a rumor, 
Perrin."
"Yellow eyes make it more than that." She should have been erupting like a 
bundle of dry twigs tossed on a fire. Why was she so cool? "Very well. Moiraine 
is the next problem, then. Will she try to stop you?"
"Not if she doesn't know. If she tries, I will go anyway. I have family and 
friends, Faile; I won't leave them to Whitecloaks. But I hope to keep it from 
her until I am well out of the city." Even her eyes were calm, like dark pools 
in the forest. It made his hackles rise.
"But it had to take weeks for that rumor to reach Tear, and it will take weeks 
more to ride to the Two Rivers. The Whitecloaks could be gone by then. Well, I 
have been wanting you to leave here. I should not complain. I just want you to 
know what to expect."
"It won't take weeks by the Ways," he told her. "Two days, maybe three." Two 
days. He supposed there was no means to make it faster.
"You are as mad as Rand al'Thor," she said disbelievingly. Dropping on the foot 
of his bed, she folded her legs crosswise and addressed him in a voice suitable 
for lecturing children. "Go into the Ways, and you come out hopelessly mad. If 
you come out at all, which it is most likely you will not. The Ways are tainted, 
Perrin. They have been dark for&#8209;what?&#8209;three hundred years? Four hundred? Ask 
Loial. He could tell you. It was Ogiers built the Ways, or grew them, or 
whatever it was. Not even they use the Ways. Why, even if you managed to make it 
through them unscathed, the Light alone knows where you would come out."
"I have traveled them, Faile." And a frightening trip it had been, too. "Loial 
can guide me. He can read the guideposts; that's how we went before. He will do 
it for me again when he knows how important it is." Loial was eager to be away 
from Tear, too; he seemed to be afraid that his mother knew where he was. Perrin 
was sure he would help.
"Well," she said, rubbing her hands together briskly. "Well. I wanted adventure, 
and this is certainly it. Leaving the Stone of Tear and the Dragon Reborn, 
traveling the Ways to fight Whitecloaks. I wonder whether we can persuade Thom 
Merrilin to come along. If we cannot have a bard, a gleeman will do. He could 
compose the story, and you and I the heart of it. No Dragon Reborn or Aes Sedai 
about to swallow up the tale. When do we leave? In the morning?"
He took a deep breath to steady his voice. "I will be going alone, Faile. Just 
Loial and me."
"We will need a packhorse," she said as if he had not spoken. "Two, I think. The 
Ways are dark. We will need lanterns, and plenty of oil. Your Two Rivers people. 
Farmers? Will they fight Whitecloaks?"
"Faile, I said &#8209; "
"I heard what you said," she snapped. Shadows gave her a dangerous look, with 
her tilted eyes and high cheekbones. "I heard, and it makes no sense. What if 
these farmers won't fight? Or don't know how? Who is going to teach them? You? 
Alone?"
"I will do what has to be done," he said patiently. "Without you."
She bounced to her feet so fast he thought she was coming for his throat. "Do 
you think Berelain will go with you? Will she guard your back? Or perhaps you 
prefer her to sit on your lap and squeal? Tuck your shirt in, you hairy oaf! 
Does it have to be so dark in here? Berelain likes dim light, does she? Much 
good she will do you against the Children of the Light!"
Perrin opened his mouth to protest, and changed what he had been going to say. 
"She looks a pleasant armful, Berelain. What man wouldn't want her on his lap?" 
The hurt on her face banded his chest with iron, but he made himself go on. 
"When I am done at home, I may go to Mayene. She asked me to come, and I might."
Faile said not a word. She stared at him with a face like stone, then whirled 
and ran out, slamming the door behind her with a crash.
In spite of himself he started to follow, then stopped with his hands gripping 
the doorframe till his fingers hurt. Staring at the splintered gash his axe had 
made in the door, he found himself telling it what he could not tell her. "I 
killed Whitecloaks. They would have killed me if I hadn't, but they still call 
it murder. I'm going home to die, Faile. That's the only way I can stop them 
hurting my people. Let them hang me. I cannot let you see that. I can't. You 
might even try to stop it, and then they'd . . . ."
His head dropped against the door. She would not be sorry to see the last of him 
now; that was what was important. She would go find her adventure somewhere 
else, safe from Whitecloaks and ta'veren and bubbles of evil. That was all that 
was important. He wished he did not want to howl with grief.
 
Faile strode through the halls at a near run, oblivious of who she passed or who 
had to scramble out of her way. Perrin. Berelain. Perrin. Berelain. He wants a 
milk faced vixen who runs about half&#8209;naked, does he? He doesn't know what he 
wants. Hairy lummox! Wooden&#8209;headed buffoon! Blacksmith! And that sneaking sow, 
Berelain. That prancing she&#8209;goat!
She did not realize where she was going until she saw Berelain ahead of her, 
gliding along in that dress that left nothing to the imagination, swaying along 
as if that walk of hers was not deliberately calculated to make male eyes pop. 
Before Faile knew what she was doing, she had darted ahead of Berelain and 
turned to face her where two corridors met.
"Perrin Aybara belongs to me," she snapped. "You keep your hands and your smiles 
away from him!" She flushed to her hairline when she heard what she had said. 
She had promised herself she would never do this, never fight over a man like a 
farmgirl rolling in the dirt at harvest.
Berelain arched a cool eyebrow. "Belongs to you? Strange, I saw no collar on 
him. You serving girls &#8209; or are you a farmer's daughter? &#8209; you have the most 
peculiar ideas."
"Serving girl? Serving girl! I am &#8209; " Faile bit her tongue to stop the furious 
words. The First of Mayene, indeed. There were estates in Saldaea larger than 
Mayene. She would not last a week in the courts of Saldaea. Could she recite 
poetry while hawking?
Could she ride in the hunt all day, then play the bittern at night while 
discussing how to counter Trolloc raids? She thought she knew men, did she? Did 
she know the language of fans? Could she tell a man to come or go or stay, and a 
hundred things more, all with the twist of a wrist and the placement of a lace 
fan? Light shine on me, what am I thinking? I swore I would never even hold a 
fan again! But there were other Saldaean customs. She was surprised to see the 
knife in her hand; she had been taught not to draw a knife unless she meant to 
use it. "Farm girls in Saldaea have a way of dealing with women who poach 
others' men. If you do not swear to forget Perrin Aybara, I will shave your head 
as bald as an egg. Perhaps the boys who tend the chickens will pant after you, 
then!"
She was not sure exactly how Berelain gripped her wrist, but suddenly she was 
flying through the air. The floor crashing into her back drove all the air from 
her lungs.
Berelain stood smiling, tapping the blade of Faile's knife on her palm. "A 
custom of Mayene. The Tairens do like to use assassins, and the guards cannot 
always be dose at hand. I despise being attacked, farmgirl, so this is what I 
will do. I will take the blacksmith away from you and keep him as a pet for as 
long as he amuses me. Ogier's oath on it, farmgirl. He is quite ravishing, 
really &#8209; those shoulders, those arms; not to mention those eyes of his &#8209; and if 
he is a bit uncultured, I can have that remedied. My courtiers can teach him how 
to dress, and rid him of that awful beard. Wherever he goes, I will find him and 
make him mine. You can have him when I am finished. If he still wants you, of 
course."
Finally managing to draw a breath, Faile struggled to her feet, pulling a second 
knife. "I will drag you to him, after I cut off those clothes you are almost 
wearing, and make you tell him you are nothing but a sow!" Light help me, I am 
behaving like a farmgirl, and talking like one! The worst part was that she 
meant it.
Berelain set herself warily. She meant to use her hands, obviously, not the 
knife. She held it like a fan. Faile advanced on the balls of her feet.
Suddenly Rhuarc was there between them, towering over them, snatching the knives 
away before either woman was really aware of him. "Have you not seen enough 
blood already tonight?" he said coldly. "Of all those I thought I might find 
breaking the peace, the two of you would be the last named."
Faile gaped at him. With no warning, she pivoted, driving her fist toward 
Rhuarc's short ribs. The toughest man would feel it there.
He seemed to move without looking at her, caught her hand, forced her arm 
straight to her side, twisted. Abruptly she was standing very straight and 
hoping he did not push her arm right up out of her shoulder.
As if nothing had happened, he addressed Berelain. "You will go to your room, 
and you will not come out until the sun is above the horizon. I will see that no 
breakfast is brought to you. A little hunger will remind you that there is a 
time and place for fighting."
Berelain drew herself up indignantly. "I am the First of Mayene. I will not be 
ordered about like &#8209; "
"You will go to your rooms. Now," Rhuarc told her flatly. Faile wondered if she 
could kick him; she must have tensed, because as soon as she thought of it, he 
increased the pressure on her wrist, and she was up on her tiptoes. "If you do 
not," he went on to Berelain, "we will repeat our first talk together, you and 
I. Right here."
Berelain's face went white and red by turns. "Very well," she said stiffly. "If 
you insist, I will perhaps &#8209; "
"I did not propose a discussion. If I can still see you when I have counted 
three . . . . One."
With a gasp, Berelain hiked her skirts and ran. She even managed to sway doing 
that.
Faile stared after her in amazement. It was almost worth having her arm nearly 
disjointed. Rhuarc was watching Berelain go, too, a small appreciative smile on 
his lips.
"Do you mean to hold me all night?" she demanded. He released her &#8209; and tucked 
her knives into his belt. "Those are mine!"
"Forfeit," he said. "Berelain's punishment for fighting was to have you see her 
sent to bed like a willful child. Yours is to lose these knives you prize. I 
know you have others. If you argue, I might take those, too. I will not have the 
peace broken."
She glared at him, but she suspected he meant just what he said. Those knives 
had been made for her by a man who knew what he was doing; the balance was just 
right. "What 'first talk' did you have with her? Why did she run like that?"
"That is between her and me. You will not go near her again, Faile. I do not 
believe she started this; that one's weapons are not knives. If either of you 
makes trouble again, I will put both of you to carrying offal. Some of the 
Tairens thought they could keep on fighting their duels after I had declared 
peace on this place, but the smell of the refuse carts soon taught them their 
mistake. Be sure you do not have to learn it the same way."
She waited until he had gone before nursing her shoulder. He reminded her of her 
father. Not that her father had ever twisted her arm, but he had small patience 
with those who made trouble, whatever their position, and no one ever caught him 
by surprise. She wondered if she could bait Berelain into something, just to see 
the First of Mayene sweating among the refuse carts. But Rhuarc had said both of 
them. Her father meant what he said, too. Berelain. Something Berelain had said 
was tickling the back of her mind. Ogier's oath. That was it. An Ogier never 
broke an oath. To say "Ogier oathbreaker" was like saying "brave coward," or 
"wise fool."
She could not help laughing aloud. "You will take him from me, you silly peahen? 
By the time you see him again, if you ever do, he'll be mine once more." 
Chuckling to herself, and occasionally rubbing her shoulder, she walked on with 
a light heart.
 
CHAPTER
15
 
Into the Doorway
 
Holding the glass&#8209;mantled lamp high, Mat peered down the narrow corridor, deep 
in the belly of the Stone. Not unless my life depended on it. That's what I 
promised. Well, burn me if it doesn't!
Before doubt could seize him again, he hurried on, past doors dry&#8209;rotted and 
hanging aslant, past others only shreds of wood clinging to rusted hinges. The 
floor had been swept recently, but the air still smelled of old dust and mold. 
Something skittered in the darkness, and he had a knife out before he realized 
it was just a rat, running from him, no doubt running toward some escape hole it 
knew.
"Show me the way out," he whispered after it, "and I'll come with you." Why am I 
whispering? There's nobody down here to hear me. It seemed a place for quiet, 
though. He could feel the whole weight of the Stone over his head, pressing 
down.
The last door, she had said. That one hung askew, too. He kicked it open, and it 
fell apart. The room was littered with dim shapes, with crates and barrels and 
things stacked high against the walls and out into the floor. Dust, too. The 
Great Hold! It looks like the basement of an abandoned farmhouse, only worse. He 
was surprised that Egwene and Nynaeve had not dusted and tidied while they were 
down here. Women were always dusting and straightening, even things that did not 
need it. Footprints crisscrossed the floor, some of them from boots, but no 
doubt they had had men to shift the heavier items about for them. Nynaeve liked 
finding ways to make a man work; likely she had deliberately hunted out some 
fellows enjoying themselves.
What he sought stood out among the jumble. A tall redstone doorframe, looming 
oddly in the shadows cast by his lamp. When he came closer, it still looked odd. 
Twisted, somehow. His eye did not want to follow it around; the corners did not 
join right. The tall hollow rectangle seemed likely to fall over at a breath, 
but when he gave it an experimental push, it stood steady. He pushed a bit 
harder, not sure he did not want to heave the thing over, and that side of it 
scraped through the dust. Goose bumps ran down his arms. There might as well 
have been a wire fastened to the top, suspending it from the ceiling. He held 
the lamp up to see. There was no wire. At least it won't topple while I'm 
inside. Light, I am going inside, aren't I?
A clutter of figurines and small things wrapped in rotting cloth occupied the 
top of a tall, upended barrel near him. He pushed the jumble to one side so he 
could set the lamp there, and studied the doorway. The ter'angreal. If Egwene 
knew what she was talking about. She probably did; no doubt she had learned all 
sorts of strange things in the Tower, however much she denied. She would deny 
things, wouldn't she now. Learning to be Aes Sedai. She didn't deny this though, 
now did she? If he squinted, it just looked like a stone doorframe, dully 
polished and the duller for dust. Just a plain doorframe. Well, not entirely 
plain. Three sinuous lines carved deep in the stone ran down each upright from 
top to bottom. He had seen fancier on farmhouses. He would probably step through 
and find himself still in this dusty room.
Won't know till I try, will I? Luck! Taking a deep breath &#8209; and coughing from 
the dust &#8209; he put his foot through.
He seemed to be stepping through a sheet of brilliant white light, infinitely 
bright, infinitely thick. For a moment that lasted forever, he was blind; a 
roaring filled his ears, all the sounds of the world gathered together at once. 
For just the length of one measureless step.
Stumbling another pace, he stared around in amazement. The ter'angreal was still 
there, but this was certainly not where he had started. The twisted stone 
doorframe stood in the center of a round hall with a ceiling so high it was lost 
in shadows, surrounded by strange spiraled yellow columns snaking up into the 
gloom, like huge vines twining 'round poles that had been taken away. A soft 
light came from glowing spheres atop coiled stands of some white metal. Not 
silver; the shine was too dull for that. And no hint of what made the glow; it 
did not look like flame; the spheres simply shone. The floor tiles spiraled out 
in white and yellow stripes from the ter'angreal. There was a heavy scent in the 
air, sharp and dry and not particularly pleasant. He almost turned around and 
went back on the spot.
"A long time."
He jumped, a knife coming into his hand, and peered among the columns for the 
source of the breathy voice that pronounced those words so harshly.
"A long time, yet the seekers come again for answers. The questioners come once 
more." A shape moved, back among the columns; a man, Mat thought. "Good. You 
have brought no lamps, no torches, as the agreement was, and is, and ever will 
be. You have no iron? No instruments of music?"
The figure stepped out, tall, barefoot, arms and legs and body wound about in 
layers of yellow cloth, and Mat was suddenly not so sure if it was a man. Or 
human. It looked human, at first glance, though perhaps too graceful, but it 
seemed far too thin for its height, with a narrow, elongated face. Its skin, and 
even its straight black hair, caught the pale light in a way that reminded him 
of a snake's scales. And those eyes, the pupils just black, vertical slits. No, 
not human.
"Iron. Instruments of music. You have none?"
Mat wondered what it thought the knife was; it certainly did not seem concerned 
over it. Well, the blade was good steel, not iron. "No. No iron, and no 
instruments of - Why &#8209; ?" He cut off sharply. Three questions, Egwene had said. 
He was not about to waste one on "iron" or "instruments of music." Why should he 
care if I have a dozen musicians in my pocket and a smithy on my back? "I have 
come here for true answers. If you are not the one to give them, take me to who 
can."
The man &#8209; it was male at least, Mat decided &#8209; smiled slightly. He did not show 
any teeth. "According to the agreement. Come." He beckoned with one 
long-­fingered hand. "Follow."
Mat made the knife disappear up his sleeve. "Lead, and I will follow." Just you 
keep ahead of me and in plain right. This place makes my skin crawl.
There was not a straight line to be seen anywhere except for the floor itself, 
as he trailed the strange man. Even the ceiling was always arched, and the walls 
bowed out. The halls were continuously curved, the doorways rounded, the windows 
perfect circles. Tilework made spirals and sinuous lines, and what seemed to be 
bronze metalwork set in the ceiling at intervals was all complicated scrolls. 
There were no pictures of anything, no wall hangings or paintings. Only 
patterns, and always curves.
He saw no one except his silent guide; he could have believed the place empty 
except for the two of them. From somewhere he had a dim memory of walking halls 
that had not known a human foot in hundreds of years, and this felt the same. 
Yet sometimes he caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. Only, 
however quickly he turned, there was never anyone there. He pretended to rub his 
forearms, checking the knives up his coatsleeves for reassurance.
What he saw through those round windows was even worse. Tall wispy trees with 
only a drooping umbrella of branches at the top, and others like huge fans of 
lacy leaves, a tangle of growth equal to the heart of any briar&#8209;choked thicket, 
all under a dim, overcast light, though there did not seem to be a cloud in the 
sky. There were always windows, always along just one side of the curving 
corridor, but sometimes the side changed, and what surely should have been 
looking into courtyard or rooms instead gave out into that forest. He never 
caught as much as a glimpse of any other part of this palace, or whatever it 
was, through those windows, or any other building, except . . . .
Through one circular window he saw three tall silvery spires, curving in toward 
each other so their points all aimed at the same spot. They were not visible 
from the next window, three paces away, but a few minutes later, after he and 
his guide had rounded enough curves that he had to be looking in another 
direction, he saw them again. He tried telling himself these were three 
different spires, but between them and him was one of those fan&#8209;shaped trees 
with a dangling broken branch, a tree that had been in the same spot the first 
time. After his third sight of the spires and the strange tree with the broken 
branch, this time ten paces farther on but on the other side of the hallway, he 
tried to stop looking at what lay outside at all.
The walk seemed interminable.
"When &#8209; ? Are &#8209; ?" Mat ground his teeth. Three questions. It was hard to learn 
anything without asking questions. "I hope you are taking me to those who can 
answer my questions. Burn my bones, I do. For my sake and yours, the Light know 
it true."
"Here," the peculiar, yellow&#8209;wrapped fellow said, gesturing with one of those 
thin hands to a rounded doorway twice as large as any Mat had seen before. His 
strange eyes studied Mat intently. His mouth gaped open, and he inhaled, long 
and slow. Mat frowned at him, and the stranger gave a writhing hitch of his 
shoulders. "Here your answers may be found. Enter. Enter and ask."
Mat drew a deep breath of his own, then grimaced and scrubbed at his nose. That 
sharp, heavy smell was a rank nuisance. He took a hesitant step toward the tall 
doorway, and looked around for his guide again. The fellow was gone. Light! I 
don't know why anything in this place surprises me now. Well, I will be burned 
if I'll turn back now. Trying not to think of whether he could find the 
ter'angreal again on his own, he went in.
It was another round room, with spiraling floor tiles in red and white under a 
domed ceiling. It had no columns, or furnishings of any kind, except for three 
thick, coiled pedestals around the heart of the floor's spirals. Mat could see 
no way to reach the top of them except by climbing the twists, yet a man like 
his guide sat cross&#8209;legged atop each, only wrapped in layers of red. Not all 
men, he decided at a second look; two of those long faces with the odd eyes had 
a definite feminine cast. They stared at him, intense penetrating stares, and 
breathed deeply, almost panting. He wondered if he made them nervous in some 
way. Not much bloody chance of that. But they're certainly getting under my 
coat.
"It has been long," the woman on the right said.
"Very long," the woman on the left added.
The man nodded. "Yet they come again."
All three had the breathy voice of the guide &#8209; almost indistinguishable from it, 
in fact &#8209; and the harsh way of pronouncing words. They spoke in unison, and the 
words might as well have come from one mouth. "Enter and ask, according to the 
agreement of old."
If Mat had thought his skin crawled before, now he was sure it was writhing. He 
made himself go closer. Carefully &#8209; careful to say nothing that even sounded 
like a question &#8209; he laid the situation before them. The Whitecloaks, certainly 
in his home village, surely hunting friends of his, maybe hunting him. One of 
his friends going to face the Whitecloaks, another not. His family, not likely 
in danger, but with the bloody Children of the bloody Light around . . . . A 
ta'veren pulling at him so he could hardly move. He saw no reason to give names, 
or mention that Rand was the Dragon Reborn. His first question &#8209; and the other 
two, for that matter &#8209; he had worked out before going down to the Great Hold. 
"Should I go home to help my people?" he asked finally.
Three sets of slitted eyes lifted from him &#8209; reluctantly, it seemed &#8209; and 
studied the air above his head. Finally the woman on the left said, "You must go 
to Rhuidean."
As soon as she spoke their eyes all dropped to him again, and they leaned 
forward, breathing deeply again, but at that moment a bell tolled, a sonorous 
brazen sound that rolled through the room. They swayed upright, staring at one 
another, then at the air over Mat's head again.
"He is another," the woman on the left whispered. "The strain. The strain."
"The savor," the man said. "It has been long."
"There is yet time," the other woman told them. She sounded calm &#8209; they all did 
&#8209; but there was a sharpness to her voice when she turned back to Mat. "Ask. 
Ask."
Mat glared up at them furiously. Rhuidean? Light! That was somewhere out in the 
Waste, the Light and the Aiel knew where. That was about as much as he knew. In 
the Waste! Anger drove questions about how to get away from Aes Sedai and how to 
recover the lost parts of his memory right out his head. "Rhuidean!" he barked. 
"The Light burn my bones to ash if I want to go Rhuidean! And my blood on the 
ground if I will! Why should I? You are not answering my questions. You are 
supposed to answer, not hand me riddles!"
"If you do not go to Rhuidean," the woman on the right said, "you will die."
The bell tolled again, louder this time; Mat felt its tremor through his boots. 
The looks the three shared were plainly anxious. He opened his mouth, but they 
were only concerned with each other.
"The strain," one of the women said hurriedly. "It is too great."
"The savor of him," the other woman said on her heels. "It has been so very 
long."
Before she was done the man spoke. "The strain is too great. Too great. Ask. 
Ask!"
"Burn your soul for a craven heart," Mat growled, "I will that! Why will I die 
if I do not go to Rhuidean? I very likely will die if I try. It makes no &#8209; "
The man cut him off and spoke hurriedly. "You will have sidestepped the thread 
of fate, left your fate to drift on the winds of time, and you will be killed by 
those who do not want that fate fulfilled. Now, go. You must go! Quickly!"
The yellow&#8209;clad guide was suddenly there at Mat's side, tugging at his sleeve 
with those too&#8209;long hands.
Mat shook him off. "No! I will not go! You have led me from the questions I 
wanted to ask and given me senseless answers. You will not leave it there. What 
fate are you talking about? I will have one dear answer out of you, at least!"
A third time the bell sounded mournfully, and the entire room trembled.
"Go!" the man shouted. "You have had your answers. You must go before it is too 
late!"
Abruptly a dozen of the yellow&#8209;dad men were around Mat, seeming to appear out of 
the air, trying to pull him toward the door. He fought with fists, elbows, 
knees. "What fate? Burn your hearts, what fate?" It was the room itself that 
pealed, the walls and floor quivering, nearly taking Mat and his attackers off 
their feet. "What fate?"
The three were on their feet atop the pedestals, and he could not tell which 
shrieked which answer.
"To marry the Daughter of the Nine Moons!"
"To die and live again, and live once more a part of what was!"
"To give up half the light of the world to save the world!"
Together they howled like steam escaping under pressure. "Go to Rhuidean, son of 
battles! Go to Rhuidean, trickster! Go, gambler! Go!"
Mat's assailants snatched him into the air by his arms and legs and ran, holding 
him over their heads. "Unhand me, you white&#8209;livered sons of goats!" he shouted, 
struggling. "Burn your eyes! The Shadow take your souls, loose me! I will have 
your guts for a saddle girth!" But writhe and curse as he would, those long 
fingers gripped like iron.
Twice more the bell tolled, or the palace did. Everything shook as in an 
earthquake; the, walls rang with deafening reverberations, each louder than the 
last. Mat's captors stumbled on, nearly falling but never stopping their 
pell&#8209;mell race. He did not even see where they were taking him until they 
suddenly stopped short, heaving him into the air. Then he saw the twisted 
doorway, the ter'angreal, as he flew toward it.
White light blinded him; the roar filled his head till it drove thought away.
He fell heavily onto a dusty floor in dim light and rolled up against the barrel 
holding his lamp in the Great Hold. The barrel rocked, packets and figurines 
toppling to the floor in a crash of breaking stone and ivory and porcelain. 
Bounding to his feet, he threw himself back at the stone doorframe. "Burn you, 
you can't throw me &#8209; !"
He hurtled through - and stumbled against the crates and barrels on the other 
side. Without a pause, he turned and leaped at it again. With the same result. 
This time he caught himself on the barrel holding his lamp, which nearly fell 
onto the already shattered things littering the floor under his boots. He 
grabbed it in time, burning his hand, and fumbled it back to a steadier perch.
Burn me if I want to be down here in the dark, he thought, sucking his fingers. 
Light, the way my luck is running, it probably would have started a fire and I'd 
have burned to death!
He glared at the ter'angreal. Why was it not working? Maybe the folk on the 
other side had shut it off somehow. He understood practically nothing of what 
had happened. That bell, and their panic. You would have thought they were 
afraid the roof would come down on their heads. Come to think of it, it very 
nearly had: And Rhuidean, and all the rest of it. The Waste was bad enough, but 
they said he was fated to marry somebody called the Daughter of the Nine Moons. 
Marry! And to a noblewoman, by the sound of it. He would sooner marry a pig than 
a noblewoman. And that business about dying and living again. Nice of them to 
add the last bit! If some black&#8209;veiled Aielman killed him on the way to 
Rhuidean, he would find out how true it was. It was all nonsense, and he did not 
believe a word of it. Only. . . . The bloody doorway had taken him somewhere, 
and they had only wanted to answer three questions, just the way Egwene had 
said.
"I won't marry any bloody noblewoman!" he told the ter'angreal. "I'll marry when 
I'm too old to have any fun, that's what! Rhuidean my bloody &#8209; !"
A boot appeared, backing out of the twisted stone doorway, followed by the rest 
of Rand, with that fiery sword in his hands. The blade vanished as he stepped 
clear, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Even in the dim light, Mat could see he 
was troubled, though. He gave a start when he saw Mat. "Just poking around, Mat? 
Or did you go through, too?"
Mat eyed him warily for a moment. At least that sword was gone. He did not seem 
to be channeling&#8209;though how was anybody to tell?&#8209;and he did not look 
particularly like a madman. In fact, he looked very much as Mat remembered. He 
had to remind himself they were not back home any longer, and Rand was not what 
he remembered. "Oh, I went through, all right. A bunch of bloody liars, if you 
ask me! What are they? Made me think of snakes."
"Not liars, I think." Rand sounded as if he wished they were. "No, not that. 
They were afraid of me, right from the first. And when that tolling started . . 
. . The sword kept them back; they wouldn't even look at it. Shied away. Hid 
their eyes. Did you get your answers?"
"Nothing that makes sense," Mat muttered. "What about you?"
Suddenly Moiraine appeared from the ter'angreal, seeming to step gracefully out 
of thin air, flowing out. She would be a fine one to dance with if she were not 
Aes Sedai. Her mouth tightened at the sight of them.
"You! You were both in there. That is why . . . !" She made a vexed hiss. "One 
of you would have been bad enough, but two ta'veren at once &#8209; you might have tom 
the connection entirely and been trapped there. Wretched boys playing with 
things you do not know the danger of. Perrin! Is Perrin in there, too? Did he 
share your . . . exploit?"
"The last I saw of Perrin," Mat said, "he was getting ready to go bed." Maybe 
Perrin would give him the lie by being the next to step out of the thing, but he 
might as well deflect the Aes Sedai's anger if he could. No need for Perrin to 
face it, too. Maybe he'll make it clear of her, at least, if he gets away before 
.she knows what he's doing. Bloody woman! I'll wager she was noble born.
That Moraine was angry there was no doubt. The blood had drained out of her 
cheeks, and her eyes were dark augers boring into Rand. "At least you escaped 
with your lives. Who told you of this? Which one of them? I will make her wish I 
had peeled off her hide like a glove."
"A book told me," Rand said calmly. He sat down back on the edge of a crate that 
creaked alarmingly under his weight and crossed his arms. All very cool; Mat 
wished he could emulate it. "A pair of books, in fact. Treasures of the Stone 
and Dealings with the Territory of Mayene. Surprising what you can dig out of 
books if you read long enough, isn't it?"
"And you?" She shifted that drilling gaze to Mat. "Did you read it in a book, 
too? You?"
"I do read sometimes," he said dryly. He would not have been averse to a little 
hide&#8209;peeling for Egwene and Nynaeve after what they had done to make him tell 
where he had hidden the Amyrlin's letter &#8209; tying him up with the Power was bad 
enough, but the rest! &#8209; yet it was more fun to tweak Moiraine's nose. 
"Treasures. Dealings. Lots of things in books." Luckily, she did not insist that 
he repeat the titles; he had not paid attention once Rand brought up books.
Instead she swung back to Rand. "And your answers?"
"Are mine," Rand replied, then frowned. "It wasn't easy, though. They brought a 
. . . woman . . . to interpret, but she talked like an old book. I could hardly 
understand some of the words. I never considered they might speak another 
language."
"The Old Tongue," Moiraine  told him. "They use the Old Tongue &#8209; a rather harsh 
dialect of it &#8209; for their dealings with men. And you, Mat? Was your interpreter 
easily understood?"
He had to work moisture back into his mouth. "The Old Tongue? Is that what it 
was? They didn't give me one. In fact, I never got to ask any questions. That 
bell started shaking the walls down, and they hustled me out like I was tracking 
cow manure on the rugs." She was still staring, her eyes still digging into his 
head. She knew about the Old Tongue slipping out of him, sometimes. "I . . . 
almost understood a word here and there, but not to know it. You and Rand got 
answers. What do they get out of it? The snakes with legs. We aren't going 
upstairs to find ten years gone, are we, like Bili in the story?"
"Sensations," Moiraine replied with a grimace. "Sensations, emotions, 
experi­ences. They rummage through them; you can feel them doing it, making your 
skin crawl. Perhaps they feed on them in some manner. The Aes Sedai who studied 
this ter'angreal when it was in Mayene wrote of a strong desire to bathe 
afterward. I certainly intend to."
"But their answers are true?" Rand said as she started to turn away. "You are 
sure of it? The books implied as much, but can they really give true answers 
about the future?"
"The answers are true," Moiraine said slowly, "so long as they are in regard to 
your own future. That much is certain." She watched Rand, and himself, weighing 
the effect of her words. "As to how, though, there is only speculation. That 
world is . . . folded . . . in strange ways. I cannot be dearer. It may be that 
that allows them to read the thread of a human life, read the various ways it 
may yet be woven into the Pattern. Or perhaps it is a talent of the people. The 
answers are often obscure, however. If you need help working out what yours 
mean, I offer my services." Her eyes flickered from one of them to the other, 
and Mat nearly swore. She did not believe him about no answers. Unless it was 
simply general Aes Sedai suspicion.
Rand gave her a slow smile. "And will you tell me what you asked, and what they 
answered?"
For answer, she returned a level, searching look, then started for the door. A 
small ball of light, as bright as a lantern, was suddenly floating ahead of her, 
illuminating her way.
Mat knew he should leave it alone, now. Just let her go and hope she forgot he 
had ever been down here. But a knot of anger still burned inside him. All those 
ridiculous things they had said. Well, maybe they were true, if Moiraine said 
so, but he wanted to grab those fellows by the collar, or whatever passed for a 
collar in those wrappings, and make them explain a few things.
"Why can't you go there twice, Moiraine?" he called after her. "Why not?" He 
very nearly asked why they worried about iron and musical instruments, too, and 
bit his tongue. He could not know about those if he had not understood what they 
were saying.
She paused at the door to the hall, and it was impossible to see if she was 
looking at the ter'angreal or at Rand. "If I knew everything, Matrim, I would 
not need to ask questions." She peered into the room a moment longer &#8209; she was 
staring at Rand &#8209; then glided away without another word.
For a time Mat and Rand looked at each other in silence.
"Did you find out what you wanted?" Rand asked finally.
"Did you?"
A bright flame leaped into existence, balanced above Rand's palm. Not the smooth 
glowing sphere of the Aes Sedai, but a rough blaze like a torch. As Rand moved 
to leave, Mat added another question. "Are you really going to just let the 
Whitecloaks do whatever they want back home? You know they're heading for 
Emond's Field. If they are not there already. Yellow eyes, the bloody Dragon 
Reborn. It's too much, otherwise."
"Perrin will do . . . what he has to do to save Emond's Field," Rand replied in 
a pained voice. "And I must do what I have to, or more than Emond's Field will 
fall, and to worse than Whitecloaks."
Mat stood watching the light of that flame fade away down the hall, until he 
remembered where he was. Then he snatched up his lamp and hurried out. Rhuidean! 
Light, what am I going to do?
 
CHAPTER
16
 
Leavetakings
 
Lying on sweat&#8209;soaked sheets, staring at the ceiling, Perrin realized that the 
darkness was turning to gray. Soon the sun would be edging above the horizon. 
Morning. A time for new hopes; a time to be up and doing. New hopes. He almost 
laughed. How long had he been awake? An hour or more, surely, this time. 
Scratching his curly beard, he winced. His bruised shoulder had stiffened, and 
he sat up slowly; sweat poured out on his face as he worked the arm. He kept at 
it methodically, though, suppressing groans and now and again biting back a 
curse, until he could move the arm freely, if not comfortably.
Such sleep as he had managed had been broken and fitful. When he was awake he 
had seen Faile's face, her dark eyes accusing him, the hurt he had put there 
making him cringe inside. When he slept, he dreamed of mounting a gallows, and 
Faile watching, or worse, trying to stop it, trying to fight Whitecloaks with 
their lances and swords, and he was screaming while they fitted the noose around 
his neck, screaming because the Whitecloaks were killing Faile. Sometimes she 
watched them hang him with a smile of angry satisfaction. Small wonder such 
dreams wakened him with a jerk. Once he had dreamed of wolves running out of the 
forest to save both Faile and him &#8209; only to be spitted on Whitecloak lances, 
shot down by their arrows. It had not been a restful night. Washing and dressing 
as hurriedly as he could, he left the room as if hoping to leave memories of his 
dreams behind.
Little outward evidence remained of the night's attack, here a sword&#8209;slashed 
tapestry, there a chest with a comer splintered by an axe or a lighter patch on 
the stone&#8209;tiled floor where a bloodstained rug had been removed. The majhere had 
her liveried army of servants out in force, though many wore bandages, sweeping, 
mopping, clearing away and replacing. She limped about leaning on a stick, a 
broad woman with her gray hair pushed up like a round cap by the dressing wound 
around her head, calling her orders in a firm voice, with the clear intention of 
removing every sign of the Stone's second violation. She saw Perrin and gave him 
an infinitesimal curtsy. Even the High Lords did not get much more from her, 
even when she was well. Despite all the cleaning and scrubbing, under the smell 
of waxes and polishes and cleaning fluids Perrin could still catch the faint 
scent of blood, sharply metallic human blood, fetid Trolloc blood, acrid 
Myrddraal blood with its stink that burned his nostrils. He would be glad to be 
away from here.
The door to Loial's room was a span across and more than two spans high, with an 
overlarge door handle in the shape of entwined vines level with Perrin's head. 
The Stone had a number of rarely used Ogier guest rooms; the Stone of Tear 
predated even the age of great Ogier stoneworks, but it was a point of prestige 
to use Ogier stonemasons, at least from time to time. Perrin knocked and at the 
call of "Come in," in a voice like a slow avalanche, lifted the handle and 
complied.
The room was on a scale with the door in every dimension, yet Loial, standing in 
the middle of the leaf&#8209;patterned carpet in his shirtsleeves, a long pipe in his 
teeth, reduced it all to seemingly normal size. The Ogier stood taller than a 
Trolloc in his wide&#8209;toed, thigh&#8209;high boots, if not so broad as one. His dark 
green coat, buttoned to the waist, then flaring to his boot tops like a kilt 
over baggy trousers, no longer looked odd to Perrin, but one look was enough to 
tell this was not an ordinary man in an ordinary room. The Ogier's nose was so 
broad as to seem a snout, and eyebrows like long mustaches dangled beside eyes 
the size of teacups. Tufted ears poked up through shaggy black hair that hung 
nearly to his shoulders. When he grinned around his pipestem at the sight of 
Perrin, it split his face in half.
"Good morning, Perrin," he rumbled, removing the pipe. "You slept well? Not 
easy, after such a night as that. Myself, I have been up half the night, writing 
down what happened." He had a pen in his other hand, and ink stains on his 
sausage&#8209;thick fingers.
Books lay everywhere, on Ogier&#8209;sized chairs and the huge bed and the table that 
stood as high as Perrin's chest. That was no surprise, but what was a little 
startling was the flowers. Flowers of every sort, in every color. Vases of 
flowers, baskets of them, posies tied with ribbon or even string, great woven 
banks of flowers standing about like lengths of garden wall. Perrin had 
certainly never seen the like inside a room. Their scent filled the air. Yet 
what really caught his eye was the swollen knot on Loial's head, the size of a 
man's fist, and the heavy limp in Loial's walk. It Loial had been hurt too badly 
to travel . . . . He felt ashamed at thinking of it that way &#8209; the Ogier was a 
friend &#8209; but he had to.
"You were injured, Loial? Moiraine could Heal you. I'm sure she will."
"Oh, I can get around with no trouble. And there were so many who truly needed 
her help. I would not want to bother her. It certainly is not enough to hamper 
me in my work." Loial glanced at the table where a large cloth&#8209;bound book &#8209; 
large for Perrin, but it would fit in one of the Ogier's coat pockets &#8209; lay open 
beside an uncorked ink bottle. "I hope I wrote it all down correctly. I did not 
see very much last night until it was done."
"Loial," Faile said, standing up from behind one of the banks of flowers with a 
book in her hands, "is a hero."
Perrin jumped; the flowers had masked her scent completely. Loial made shushing 
noises, his ears twitching with embarrassment, and waved his big hands at her, 
but she went on, her voice cool but her eyes hot on Perrin's face.
"He gathered as many children as he could&#8209;and some of their mothers&#8209;into a large 
room, and held the door alone against Trollocs and Myrddraal through the entire 
fight. These flowers are from the women of the Stone, tokens to honor his 
steadfast courage, his faithfulness." She made "steadfast" and "faithfulness" 
crack like whips.
Perrin managed not to flinch, but only just. What he had done was right, but he 
could not expect her to see it. Even if she knew why, she would not see it. It 
was the right thing. It was. He only wished he felt better about the entire 
matter. It was hardly fair that he could be right and still feel in the wrong.
"It was nothing." Loial's ears twitched wildly. "It is just that the children 
could not defend themselves. That's all. Not a hero. No."
"Nonsense." Faile marked her place in the book with a finger and moved closer to 
the Ogier. She did not come up to his chest. "There is not a woman in the Stone 
who would not marry you, if you were human, and some would anyway. Loial well 
named, for your nature is loyalty. Any woman could love that."
The Ogier's ears went stiff with shock, and Perrin grinned. She had obviously 
been feeding Loial honey and butter all morning in hope the Ogier would agree to 
take her along no matter what Perrin wanted, but in trying to prick him she had 
just fed Loial a stone without knowing it. "Have you heard from your mother, 
Loial?" he asked.
"No." Loial managed to sound relieved and worried at the same time. "But I saw 
Laefar in the city yesterday. He was as surprised to see me as I to see him; we 
are not a common sight in Tear. He came from Stedding Shangtai to negotiate 
repairs on some Ogier stonework in one of the palaces. I have no doubt the first 
words out of his mouth when he returns to the stedding will be 'Loial is in 
Tear.' "
"That is worrying," Perrin said, and Loial nodded dejectedly.
"Laefar says the Elders have named me a runaway and my other has promised to 
have me married and settled. She even has someone chosen. Laefar did not know 
who.
At least he said he did not. He thinks such things are funny. She could be here 
in a month's time."
Faile's face was a picture of confusion that almost made Perrin grin again. She 
thought she knew so much more than he did about the world &#8209; well, she did, in 
truth &#8209; but she did not know Loial. Stedding Shangtai was Loial's home, in the 
Spine of the World, and since he was barely past ninety, he was not old enough 
to have left on, his own. Ogier lived a very long time; by their standards, 
Loial was no older than Perrin, maybe younger. But Loial had gone anyway, to see 
the world, and his greatest fear was that his mother would find him and drag 
back to the stedding to marry, never to leave again.
While Faile was trying to figure out what was going on, Perrin stepped into the 
silence. "I need to go back to the Two Rivers, Loial. Your mother won't find you 
there."
"Yes. That is true." The Ogier gave an uncomfortable shrug. "But my book. Rand's 
story. And yours, and Mat's. I have so many notes already, but . . . ." He moved 
around behind the table, peering down at the open book, the pages filled with 
his neat script. "I will be the one to write the true story of the Dragon 
Reborn, Perrin. The only book by someone who traveled with him, who actually saw 
it unfold. The Dragon Reborn, by Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, of Stedding 
Shangtai." Frowning, he bent over the book, dipping his pen in the ink bottle. 
"That is not quite right. It was more &#8209; "
Perrin put a hand on the page where Loial was going to write. "You'll write no 
book if your mother finds you. Not about Rand, at least. And I need you, Loial."
"Need, Perrin? I do not understand."
"There are Whitecloaks in the Two Rivers. Hunting me."
"Hunting you? But why?" Loial looked almost as confused as Faile had. Faile, on 
the other hand, had donned a complacent smugness that was worrisome. Perrin went 
on anyway.
"The reasons don't matter. The fact is that they are. They may hurt people, my 
family, looking for me. Knowing Whitecloaks, they will. I can stop it, if I can 
get there quickly, but it must be quickly. The Light only knows what they've 
done already. I need you to take me there, Loial, by the Ways. You told me once 
there was a Waygate here, and I know there was one at Manetheren. It must still 
be there, in the mountains above Emond's Field. Nothing can destroy a Waygate, 
you said. I need you, Loial."
"Well, of course I will help," Loial said. "The Ways." He exhaled noisily, and 
his ears wilted a bit. "I want to write of adventures, not have them. But I 
suppose one more time will not hurt. The Light send it so," he finished 
fervently.
Faile cleared her throat delicately. "Are you not forgetting something, Loial? 
You promised to take me into the Ways whenever I asked, and before you took 
anyone else."
"I did promise you a look at a Waygate," Loial said, "and what it is like 
inside. You can have that when Perrin and I go. You could come with us, I 
suppose, but the Ways are not traveled lightly, Faile. I would not enter them 
myself if Perrin did not have need."
"Faile will not be coming," Perrin said firmly. "Just you and me, Loial."
Ignoring him, Faile smiled up at Loial as if he were teasing her. "You promised 
more than a look, Loial. To take me wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and 
before anyone else. You swore to it."
"I did," Loial protested, "but only because you refused to believe I would show 
you. You said you would not believe unless I swore. I will do as I promised, but 
surely you do not want to step ahead of Perrin's need."
"You swore," Faile said calmly. "By your mother, and your mother's mother, and 
your mother's mother's mother."
"Yes, I did, Faile, but Perrin &#8209; "
"You swore, Loial. Do you mean to break your oath?"
The Ogier looked like misery stacked on misery. His shoulders slumped and his 
ears drooped, the corners of his wide mouth turned down and the ends of his long 
eyebrows draggled onto his cheeks.
"She tricked you, Loial." Perrin wondered if they could hear his teeth grinding. 
"She deliberately tricked you."
Red stained Faile's cheeks, but she still had the nerve to say, "Only because I 
had to, Loial. Only because a fool man thinks he can order my life to suit 
himself. I'd not have done it, otherwise. You must believe that."
"Doesn't it make any difference that she tricked you?" Perrin demanded, and 
Loial shook his massive head sadly.
"Ogier keep their word," Faile said. "And Loial is going to take me to the Two
Rivers. Or to the Waygate at Manetheren, at least. I have a wish to see the Two 
Rivers."
Loial stood up straight, "But that means I can help Perrin after all. Faile, why 
did you drag this out? Even Faelar would not think this funny." There was a 
touch of anger in his voice; it took a good bit to make an Ogier angry.
"If he asks," she said determinedly. "That was part of it, Loial. No one but you 
and me, unless they asked me. He has to ask me."
"No," Perrin told her while Loial was still opening his mouth. "No, I won't ask. 
I will ride to Emond's Field first. I'll walk! So you might as well give up this 
foolishness. Tricking Loial. Trying to force yourself in where . . . where you 
aren't wanted."
Her calm dropped away in anger. "And by the time you reach there, Loial and I 
will have done for the Whitecloaks. It will all be over. Ask, you anvil&#8209;headed 
blacksmith. Just ask and you can come with us."
Perrin took hold of himself. There was no way to argue her around to his way of 
thinking, but he would not ask. She was right &#8209; he would need weeks to reach the 
Two Rivers on his horse; they could be there in two days, perhaps, through the 
Ways &#8209; but he would not ask. Not after she tricked Loial and tried to bully me! 
"Then I'll travel the Ways to Manetheren alone. I'll follow you two. If I stay 
far enough back not to be part of your party, I won't be breaking Loial's oath. 
You can't stop me following."
"That is dangerous, Perrin," Loial said worriedly. "The Ways are dark. If you 
miss a turning, or take the wrong bridge by accident, you could be lost forever. 
Or until Machin Shin catches you. Ask her, Perrin. She said you can come if you 
de. Ask her."
The Ogier's deep voice trembled speaking the name of Machin Shin, and a shiver 
ran down Perrin's back, too. Machin Shin. The Black Wind. Not even Aes Sedai 
knew whether it was Shadowspawn or something that had grown out of the Ways' 
corruption. Machin Shin was why traveling the Ways meant risking death; that was 
what Aes Sedai said. The Black Wind ate souls; that Perrin knew for truth. But 
he kept his voice steady and his face straight. I'll be burned if I let her 
think I am weakening. "I can't, Loial. Or anyway, I won't."
Loial grimaced. "Faile, it will be dangerous for him, trying to follow us. 
Please relent and let him - " She cut him off sharply.
"No. If he is too stiff&#8209;necked to ask, why should I? Why should I even care if 
he does get lost?" She turned to Perrin. "You can travel close to us. As close 
as you need to, so long as it's plain you are following. You will trail after me 
like a puppy until you ask. Why won't you just ask?"
"Stubborn humans," the Ogier muttered. "Hasty and stubborn, even when haste 
lands you in a homer nest."
"I would like to leave today, Loial," Perrin said, not looking at Faile.
"Best to go quickly," Loial agreed with a regretful look at the book on the 
table. "I can tidy my notes on the journey, I suppose. The Light knows what I 
will miss, being away from Rand."
"Did you hear me, Perrin?" Faile demanded.
"I will get my horse and a few supplies, Loial. We can be on our way by 
midmorning."
"Burn you, Perrin Aybara, answer me!"
Loial eyed her worriedly. "Perrin, are you certain you could not &#8209; "
"No," Perrin interrupted gently. "She is mule-headed, and she likes playing 
tricks. I won't dance so she can laugh." He ignored the sound coming from deep 
in Faile's throat, like a cat staring at a strange dog and ready to attack. "I 
will let you know as soon as I am ready." He started for the door, and she 
called after him furiously.
" 'When' is my decision, Perrin Aybara. Mine and Loial's. Do you hear me? You 
had better be ready in two hours, or we'll leave you behind. You can meet us at 
the Dragonwall Gate stable, if you're coming. Do you hear me?"
He sensed her moving and shut the door behind him just as something thumped into 
it heavily. A book, he thought. Loial would give her fits about that. Better to 
hit Loial on the head than harm one of his books.
For a moment he leaned against the door, despairing. All he had done, all he had 
gone through, making her hate him, and she was going to be there to see him die 
anyway. The best thing he could say was that she might enjoy it now. Stubborn, 
mule-headed woman!
When he turned to go, one of the Aiel was approaching, a tall man with reddish 
hair and green eyes who could have been Rand's older cousin, or a young uncle. 
He knew the man, and liked him, if only because Gaul had never given even a 
flicker of notice to his yellow eyes. "May you find shade this morning, Perrin. 
The majhere told me you had come this way, though I think she itched to put a 
broom in my hands. As hard as a Wise One, that woman."
"May you find shade this morning, Gaul. Women are all hardheaded, if you ask 
me."
"Perhaps so, if you do not know how to get 'round them. I hear you are 
journeying to the Two Rivers."
"Light!" Perrin growled before the Aiel could say more. "Does the whole Stone 
know?" If Moiraine knew &#8209;
Gaul shook his head. "Rand al'Thor took me aside and spoke to me, asking me to 
tell no one. I think he spoke to others, too, but I do not know how many will 
want to go with you. We have been on this side of the Dragonwall for a long 
time, and many ache for the Three&#8209;fold Land."
"Come with me?" Perrin felt stunned. If he had Aiel with him . . . . There were 
possibilities he had not dared consider before. "Rand asked you to come with me? 
To the Two Rivers?"
Gaul shook his head again. "He said only that you were going, and that there 
were men who might try to kill you. I mean to accompany you, though, if you will 
have me. "
"Will I?" Perrin almost laughed. "I will that. We will be into the Ways in a few 
hours."
"The Ways?" Gaul's expression did not change, but he blinked.
"Does that make a difference?"
"Death comes for all men, Perrin." It was hardly a comforting answer.
 
"I cannot believe Rand is that cruel," Egwene said, and Nynaeve added, "At least 
he did not try to stop you." Seated on Nynaeve's bed, they were finishing the 
division of the gold Moiraine had provided. Four fat purses apiece to be carried 
in pockets sewn under Elayne's and Nynaeve's skirts, and another each, not so 
large as to attract unwanted attention, to carry at the belt. Egwene had taken a 
lesser amount, there being less use for gold in the Waste.
Elayne frowned at the two neatly tied bundles and the leather script lying 
beside the door. They held all of her clothes and other things. Cased knife and 
fork, hairbrush and comb, needles, pins, thread, thimble, scissors. A tinder box 
and a second knife, smaller than the one at her belt. Soap and bath powder and . 
. . . It was ridiculous to go over the list again. Egwene's stone ring was snug 
in her pouch. She was ready to go. There was nothing to hold her back.
"No, he did not." Elayne was proud of how calm and collected she sounded. He 
seemed almost relieved! Relieved! And I had to give him that letter, laying my 
heart open like a stone&#8209;blind fool. At least he won't open it until 1 am gone. 
She jumped at the touch of Nynaeve's hand on her shoulder.
"Did you want him to ask you to stay? You know what your answer would have been. 
You do, don't you?"
Elayne compressed her lips. "Of course I do. But he did not have to look happy 
about it." She had not meant to say that.
Nynaeve gave her an understanding look. "Men are difficult at the best."
"I still cannot believe he would be so . . . so . . ." Egwene began in an angry 
mutter. Elayne never learned what she meant to say, for at that moment the door 
crashed open so hard that it bounced off the all.
Elayne embraced saidar before she had stopped flinching, then felt a moment of 
embarrassment when the rebounding door slapped hard against Lan's outstretched 
hand. A moment more, and she decided to hold on to the Source a while longer. 
The Warder filled the doorway with his broad shoulders, his face a thunderhead; 
if his blue eyes could really have given off the thunderbolts they threatened, 
they would have blasted Nynaeve. The glow of saidar surrounded Egwene, too, and 
did not fade.
Lan did not appear to see anyone but Nynaeve. "You let me believe you were 
returning to Tar Valon," he rasped at her.
"You may have believed it," she said calmly, "but I never said it."
"Never said it? Never said it! You spoke of leaving today, and always linked 
your leaving with &#8209; those Darkfriends being sent to Tar Valon. Always! What did 
you mean me to think?"
"But I never said - "
"Light, woman!" he roared. "Do not bandy words with me!"
Elayne exchanged worried looks with Egwene. This man had an iron self&#8209;control, 
but he was at a breaking point now. Nynaeve was one who often let her emotions 
rage, yet she faced him coolly, head high and eyes serene, hands still on her 
green silk skirts.
Lan took hold of himself with an obvious effort. He appeared as stone&#8209;faced as 
ever, as much in control of himself &#8209; and Elayne was sure it was all on the 
surface. "I'd not have known where you were off to if I had not heard that you 
had ordered a carriage. To take you to a ship bound for Tanchico. I do not know 
why the Amyrlin allowed you to leave the Tower in the first place, or why 
Moiraine involved you in questioning Black sisters, but you three are Accepted. 
Accepted, not Aes Sedai. Tanchico now is no place for anyone except a full Aes 
Sedai with a Warder to watch her back. I'll not let you go into that!"
"So," Nynaeve said lightly. "You question Moiraine's decisions, and those of the 
Amyrlin Seat as well. Perhaps I've misunderstood Warders all along. I thought 
you swore to accept and obey, among other things. Lan, I do understand your 
concern, and I am grateful &#8209; more than grateful &#8209; but we all have tasks to 
perform. We are going; you must resign yourself to the fact."
"Why? For the love of the Light, at least tell me why! Tanchico!"
"If Moiraine has not told you," Nynaeve said gently, "perhaps she has her 
reasons. We must do our tasks, as you must do yours."
Lan trembled &#8209; actually trembled! &#8209; and damped his jaw shut angrily. When he 
spoke, he was strangely hesitant. "You will need someone to help you in 
Tanchico. Someone to keep a Taraboner street thief from slipping a knife into 
your back for your purse. Tanchico was that sort of city before the war began, 
and everything I've heard says it is worse now. I could. . . . I could protect 
you, Nynaeve."
Elayne's eyebrows shot up. He could not be suggesting . . . . He just could not 
be.
Nynaeve gave no sign that he had said anything out of the ordinary. "Your place 
is with Moiraine."
"Moiraine." Sweat beaded on the Warder's hard face, and he struggled with the 
words. "I can . . . . I must . . . . Nynaeve, I . . . I . . ."
"You will remain with Moiraine," Nynaeve said sharply, "until she releases you 
from your bond. You will do as I say." Pulling a carefully folded paper from her 
pouch, she thrust it into his hands. He frowned, read, then blinked and read 
again.
Elayne knew what it said.
 
What the bearer does is done at my order and by my authority. Obey, and keep 
silent, at my command.
 
Siuan Sanche
Watcher of the Seals
Flame of Tar Valon
The Amyrlin Seat
 
The other like it rested in Egwene's pouch, though none of them were sure what 
good it would do where she was going.
"But this allows you to do anything you please," Lan protested. "You can speak 
in the Amyrlin's name. Why would she give this to an Accepted?"
"Ask no questions I cannot answer," Nynaeve said, then added with a hint of a 
grin, "Just count yourself lucky I do not tell you to dance for me."
Elayne suppressed a smile of her own. Egwene made a choking sound of swallowed 
laughter. It was what Nynaeve had said when the Amyrlin first handed them the 
letters. With this I could make a Warder dance. Neither of them had had any 
doubt which Warder she had meant.
"Do you not? You dispose of me very neatly. My bond, and my oaths. This letter." 
Lan had a dangerous gleam in his eye, which Nynaeve seemed not to notice as she 
took back the letter and replaced it in the pouch on her belt.
"You are very full of yourself, al'Lan Mandragoran. We do as we must, as you 
will."
"Full of myself, Nynaeve al'Meara. I am full of myself?" Lan moved so quickly 
toward Nynaeve that Elayne very nearly wrapped him in flows of Air before she 
could think. One moment Nynaeve was standing there, with just time to gape at 
the tall man sweeping toward her; the next her shoes were dangling a foot off 
the floor and she was being quite thoroughly kissed. At first she kicked his 
shins and hammered him with her fists and made sounds of frantic, furious 
protest, but her kicks slowed and stopped, and then she was holding on to his 
shoulders and not protesting at all.
Egwene dropped her eyes with embarrassment, but Elayne watched interestedly. Was 
that how she had looked when Rand . . . . No! I will not think about him. She 
wondered if there was time to write him another letter, taking back everything 
she had said in the first, letting him know she was not to be trifled with. But 
did she want to?
After a while Lan set Nynaeve back on her feet. She swayed a bit as she 
straightened her dress and patted her hair furiously. "You have no right . . ." 
she began in a breathless voice, then stopped to swallow. "I will not be 
manhandled in that fashion for the whole world to see. I will not!"
"Not the whole world," he replied. "But if they can see, they can hear as well. 
You have made a place in my heart where I thought there was no room for anything 
else. You have made flowers grow where I cultivated dust and stones. Remember 
this, on this journey you insist on making. If you die, I will not survive you 
long." He gave Nynaeve one of his rare smiles. If it did not exactly soften his 
face, at least it made it less hard. "And remember also, I am not always so 
easily commanded, even with letters from the Amyrlin." He made an elegant bow; 
for a moment Elayne thought he actually meant to kneel and kiss Nynaeve's Great 
Serpent ring. "As you command," he murmured, "so do I obey." It was difficult to 
tell whether he meant to be mocking or not.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Nynaeve sank onto the edge of her bed as 
if letting her knees give way at last. She stared at the door with a pensive 
frown.
" 'Poke the meekest dog too often,' " Elayne quoted, " 'and he will bite.' Not 
that Lan is very meek." She got a sharp look and a sniff from Nynaeve.
"He is insufferable," Egwene said. "Sometimes he is. Nynaeve, why did you do 
that? He was ready to go with you. I know you want nothing more than to break 
him free of Moiraine. Do not try to deny it."
Nynaeve did not try. Instead she fussed with her dress, and smoothed the 
coverlet on the bed. "Not like that," she said finally. "I mean him to be mine. 
All of him. I will not have him remembering a broken oath to Moiraine. I will 
not have that between us. For him, as well as myself."
"But will it be any different if you bring him to ask Moiraine to release him 
from his bond?" Egwene asked. "Lan is the kind of man who would see it as much 
the same thing. All that leaves is to somehow make her let him go of her own 
accord. How can you manage that?"
"I do not know." Nynaeve firmed her voice. "Yet what must be done, can be done. 
There is always a way. That is for another time. Work to be done, and we sit 
here fretting over men. Are you sure you have everything you need for the Waste, 
Egwene?"
"Aviendha is readying everything," Egwene said. "She still seems unhappy, but 
she says we can reach Rhuidean in little more than a month, if we are lucky. You 
will be in Tanchico by then."
"Perhaps sooner," Elayne told her, "if what they say about Sea Folk rakers is 
true. You will be careful, Egwene? Even with Aviendha for a guide, the Waste 
cannot be safe."
"I will. You be careful. Both of you. Tanchico is not much safer than the Waste 
now."
Abruptly they were all hugging one another, repeating cautions to take care, 
making sure they all remembered the schedule for meeting in Tel'aran'rhiod's 
Stone.
Elayne wiped tears from her cheeks. "As well Lan left." She laughed tremulously. 
"He would think we were all being foolish."
"No, he would not," Nynaeve said, pulling up her skirts to settle a purse of 
gold into its pocket. "He may be a man, but he is not a complete dolt."
There had to be time between here and the carriage to locate paper and pen, 
Elayne decided. She would find time. Nynaeve had the right of it. Men needed a 
firm hand. Rand would find he could not get away from her so easily. And he 
would not find it easy to worm his way back into her good graces.
 
CHAPTER
17
 
Deceptions
 
Favoring his stiff right leg, Thom bowed with a flourish of his gleeman's cloak 
that set the colorful patches fluttering. His eyes felt grainy, but he made 
himself speak lightly. "A good morning to you." Straightening, he knuckled his 
long white mustaches grandly.
The black&#8209;and&#8209;gold&#8209;clad servants looked surprised. The two muscular lads 
straightened from the gold&#8209;studded red lacquer chest, with a shattered lid, that 
they had been about to lift, and the three women stilled their mops in front of 
them. The hallway was empty along here except for them, and any excuse to break 
their labor was good, especially at this hour. They looked as tired as Thom 
felt, with slumping shoulders and dark circles under their eyes.
"A good morning to you, gleeman," the oldest he women said. A bit plump and 
plain&#8209;faced, perhaps, she had a nice smile, weary as she was. "Can we help you?"
Thom produced four colored balls from a capacious coatsleeve and began to 
juggle. "I am just going about trying to raise spirits. A gleeman must do what 
he can." He would have used more than four, but he was fatigued enough to make 
even that many an exercise in concentration. How long since he had nearly 
dropped a fifth ball? Two hours? He stifled a yawn, turned it into a reassuring 
smile. "A terrible night, and spirits need lifting."
"The Lord Dragon saved us," one of the younger women said. She was pretty and 
slim, but with a predatory gleam in her dark, shadowed eyes that warned him to 
temper his smile, Of course, she might be useful if she was both greedy and 
honest, meaning that she would stay bought once he paid her. It was always good 
to find another set of hands to place a note, a tongue that would tell him what 
was heard and say what he wanted where he wanted. Old fool! You have enough 
hands and ears, so stop thinking of a fine bosom and remember the look in her 
eye! The interesting thing was that she sounded as if she meant what she said, 
and one of the young fellows nodded agreement to her words.
"Yes," Thom said. "I wonder which High Lord had charge of the docks yesterday?" 
He nearly fumbled the balls in irritation at himself. Bringing it right out like 
that. He was too tired; he should be in his bed. He should have been there hours 
ago.
"The docks are the Defenders' responsibility," the oldest woman told him. "You'd 
not know that, of course. The High Lords would not concern themselves."
Thom knew it very well. "Is that so? Well, I am not Tairen, of course." He 
changed the balls from a simple circle to a double loop; it looked more 
difficult than it was, and the girl with the predatory look clapped her hands. 
Now that he was into it, he might as well go on. After this, though, he would 
call it a night. A night? The sun was rising already. "Still, it is a shame no 
one asked why those barges were at the docks. With their hatches down, hiding 
all those Trollocs. Not that I am saying anyone knew the Trollocs were there." 
The double loop wobbled, and he quickly went back to a circle. Light, he was 
exhausted. "You'd think one of the High Lords would have asked, though."
The two young men frowned thoughtfully at one another, and Thom smiled to 
himself. Another seed planted, just that easily, if clumsily as well. Another 
rumor started, whatever they knew for a fact about who had charge of the docks. 
And rumors spread &#8209; a rumor like this would not stop short of the city &#8209; so it 
was another small wedge of suspicion driven between commoners and nobles. Who 
would the commoners turn to, except the man they knew the nobles hated? The man 
who had saved the Stone from Shadowspawn. Rand al'Thor. The Lord Dragon.
It was time to leave what he had sown. If the roots had taken hold here, nothing 
he said now could pull them loose, and he had scattered other seeds this night. 
But it would not do for anyone to discover he was the one doing the planting. 
"They fought bravely last night, the High Lords did. Why, I saw. . . ." He 
trailed off as the women leaped to their mopping and the men grabbed up the 
chest and hurried away.
"I can find work for gleemen, too," the majhere's voice said behind him. "Idle 
hands are idle hands."
He turned gracefully, considering his leg, and swept her a deep bow. The top of 
her head was below his shoulder, but she probably weighed half again what he 
did. She had a face like an, anvil &#8209; not improved by the bandage around her 
temples &#8209; an extra chin, and deep&#8209;set eyes like chips of black flint. "A good 
morning to you, gracious lady. A small token of this fresh, new day."
He gestured with a flurry of hands and tucked a golden yellow sunburst blossom, 
only a little bedraggled for its time up his sleeve, into the gray hair above 
her bandage. She snatched the flower right out again, of course, and eyed it 
suspiciously, but that was just as he wanted. He put three limping strides into 
her moment of hesitation, and when she shouted something after him, he neither 
listened nor slowed.
Horrible woman, he thought. If we had turned her loose on the Trollocs, she'd 
have had them all sweeping and mopping.
He yawned behind a hand, jaws creaking. He was too old for this. He was tired, 
and his knee was a knot of pain. Nights with no sleep, battles, plotting. Too 
old. He should be living quietly on a farm somewhere. With chickens. Farms 
always had chickens. And sheep. They must not be difficult to look after; 
shepherds seemed to loll about and play the pipes all the time. He would play 
the harp, of course, not pipes. Or his flute; weather was not good for the harp. 
And there would be a town nearby, with an inn where he could amaze the patrons 
in the common room. He flourished his cloak as he passed two servants. The only 
point in wearing it in this heat was to let people know he was a gleeman. They 
perked up at the sight of him, of course, hoping he might pause to entertain for 
a moment. Most gratifying. Yes, a farm had its virtues. A quiet place. No people 
to bother him. As long as there was a town close by.
Pushing open the door to his room, he stopped in his tracks. Moiraine 
straightened as if she had a perfect right to be going through the papers 
scattered on his table and calmly arranged her skirts as she sat on the stool. 
Now there was a beautiful woman, with every grace a man could want, including 
laughing at his quips. Fool! Old fool! She's Aes Sedai, and you're too tired to 
think straight.
"A good morning to you, Moiraine Sedai," he said, hanging his cloak on a peg. He 
avoided looking at his writing case, still sitting under the table where he had 
left it. No point in letting her know it was important. Probably no point in 
checking after she went, for that matter; she could have channeled the lock open 
and dosed again, and he would never be able to tell. Weary as he was, he could 
not even remember whether he had left anything incriminating in the case. Or 
anywhere else, for that matter. Everything he could see in the room was right 
where it belonged. He did not think he could have been foolish enough to leave 
anything out. Doors in the servants' quarters had no locks or latches. "I would 
offer you a refreshing drink, but I fear I have nothing but water."
"I am not thirsty," she said in a pleasant, melodious voice. She leaned forward, 
and the room was small enough for her to place a hand on his right knee. A chill 
tingle rippled through him. "I wish a good Healer had been near when this 
happened. It is too late now, I regret."
"A dozen Healers would not have been enough," he told her. "A Halfman did it."
"I know."
What else does she know? he wondered. Turning to pull his lone chair out from 
behind the table, he bit back an oath. He felt as if he had had a good night's 
sleep, and the pain was gone from his knee. His limp remained, but the joint was 
more limber than it had been since he was injured. The woman didn't even ask if 
I wanted it. Burn me, what is she after? He refused to flex the leg. If she 
would not ask, he would not acknowledge her gift.
"An interesting day, yesterday," she said as he sat down.
"I'd not call Trollocs and Halfmen interesting," he said dryly.
"I did not mean them. Earlier. The High Lord Carleon dead in a hunting accident. 
His good friend Tedosian apparently mistook him for a boar. Or perhaps a deer."
"I hadn't heard." He kept his voice calm. Even if she had found the note, she 
could not have traced it to him. Carleon himself would have thought it by his 
own hand. He did not think she could have, but he reminded himself again that 
she was Aes Sedai. As if he needed any reminding, with that smooth pretty face 
across from him, those serene dark eyes watching him full of all Aes Sedai's 
secrets. "The servants' quarters are full of gossip, but I seldom listen."
"Do you not?" she murmured mildly. "Then you will not have heard that Tedosian 
fell ill not an hour after returning to the Stone, directly after his wife gave 
him a goblet of wine to wash away the dust of the hunt. It is said he wept when 
he learned that she means to tend him herself, and feed him with her own hands. 
No doubt tears of joy at her love. I hear she has vowed not to leave his side 
until he can rise again. Or until he dies."
She knew. How, he could not say, but she knew. But why was she revealing it to 
him? "A tragedy," he said, matching her bland tone. "Rand will need all the 
loyal High Lords he can find, I suppose."
"Carleon and Tedosian were hardly loyal. Even to each other, it seems. They led 
the faction that want to kill Rand and try to forget he ever lived."
"Do you say so? I pay little attention to such things. The works of the mighty 
are not for a simple gleeman."
Her smile was just short of laughter, but she spoke as if reading from a page. 
"Thomdril Merrilin. Called the Gray Fox, once, by some who knew him, or knew of 
him. Court&#8209;bard at the Royal Palace of Andor in Caemlyn. Morgase's lover for a 
time, after Taringail died. Fortunate for Morgase, Taringail's death. I do not 
suppose she ever learned he meant her to die and himself to be Andor's first 
king. But we were speaking of Thom Merrilin, a man who, it was said, could play 
the Game of Houses in his sleep. It is a shame that such a man calls himself a 
simple gleeman. But such arrogance to keep the same name."
Thom masked his shock with an effort. How much did she know? Too much if she 
knew not another word. But she was not the only one with knowledge. "Speaking of 
names," he said levelly, "it is remarkable how much can be puzzled out from a 
name. Moiraine Damodred. The Lady Moiraine of House Damodred, in Cairhien. 
Taringail's youngest half&#8209;sister. King Laman's niece. And Aes Sedai, let us not 
forget. An Aes Sedai aiding the Dragon Reborn since before she could have known 
that he was more than just another poor fool who could channel. An Aes Sedai 
with connections high in the White Tower, I would say, else she'd not risk what 
she has. Someone in the Hall of the Tower? More than one, I'd say; it would have 
to be. News of that would shake the world. But why should there be trouble? 
Perhaps it's best to leave an old gleeman tucked away in his hole in the 
servants' quarters. Just an old gleeman playing his harp and telling his tales. 
Tales that harm no one."
If he had managed to stagger her even a fraction, she did not show it. 
"Speculation without facts is always dangerous," she said calmly. "I do not use 
my House name, by choice. House Damodred had a deservedly unpleasant reputation 
before Laman cut down Avendoraldera and lost the throne and his life for it. 
Since the Aiel War, it has grown worse, also deservedly."
Would nothing shake the woman? "What do you want of me?" he demanded irritably.
She did not as much as blink. "Elayne and Nynaeve take ship for Tanchico today. 
A dangerous city, Tanchico. Your knowledge and skills might keep them alive."
So that was it. She wanted to separate him from Rand, leave the boy naked to her 
manipulations. "As you say, Tanchico is dangerous now, but then it always was. I 
wish the young women well, yet I've no wish to stick my head into a vipers' 
nest. I am too old for that sort of thing. I have been thinking of taking up 
farming. A quiet life. Safe."
"A quiet life would kill you, I think." Sounding distinctly amused, she busied 
herself rearranging the folds of her skirt with small, slender hands. He had the 
impression she was hiding a smile. "Tanchico will not, however. I guarantee 
that, and by the First Oath, you know it for truth."
He frowned at her despite his best efforts to keep his face straight. She had 
said it, and she could not lie, yet how could she know? He was sure she could 
not Foretell; he was certain he had heard her disavow the Talent. But she had 
said it. Burn the woman! "Why should I go to Tanchico?" She could do without 
titles.
"To protect Elayne? Morgase's daughter?"
"I have not seen Morgase in fifteen years. Elayne was an infant when I left 
Caemlyn."
She hesitated, but when she spoke her voice was unrelentingly firm. "And your 
reason for leaving Andor? A nephew named Owyn, I believe. One of those poor 
fools you spoke of who can channel. The Red sisters were supposed to bring him 
to Tar Valon, as any such man is, but instead they gentled him on the spot and 
abandoned him to the . . . mercies of his neighbors."
Thom knocked his chair over standing up, then had to hold on to the table 
because his knees were shaking. Owyn had not lived long after being gentled, 
driven from his home by supposed friends who could not bear to let even a man 
who could no longer channel live among them. Nothing Thom did could stop Owyn 
not want­ing to live, or stop his young wife from following him to the grave 
inside the month.
"Why . . . ?" He cleared his throat roughly, tried to make his voice less husky. 
"Why are you telling me this?"
There was sympathy on Moiraine's face. And could it be regret? Surely not. Not 
from an Aes Sedai. The sympathy had to be false as well. "I would not have done, 
had you been willing to go simply to help Elayne and Nynaeve."
"Why, burn you! Why?"
"If you go with Elayne and Nynaeve, I will tell you the names of those Red 
sisters when I see you next, as well as the name of the one who gave them their 
orders. They did not act on their own. And I will see you again. You will 
survive Tarabon."
He drew an uneven breath. "What good will their names do me?" he asked in a flat 
voice. "Aes Sedai names, wrapped in all the power of the White Tower."
"A skilled and dangerous player of the Game of Houses might find a use for 
them," she replied quietly. "They should not have done what they did. They 
should not have been excused for it."
"Will you leave me, please?"
"I will teach you that not all Aes Sedai are like those Reds, Thom. You must 
learn that."
"Please?"
He stood leaning on the table until she was gone, unwilling to let her see him 
sink awkwardly to his knees, see the tears trickling down his weathered face. 
Oh, Light, Owyn. He had buried it all as deeply as he could. I couldn't get 
there in time. I war too busy. Too busy with the bloody Game of Houses. He 
scrubbed at his face testily. Moiraine could play the Game with the best. 
Wrenching him around this way, tugging every string he had thought perfectly 
hidden. Owyn. Elayne. Morgase's daughter. Only fondness remained for Morgase, 
perhaps a little more than that, but it was hard to walk away from a child you 
had bounced on your knee. That girl in Tanchico? That city would eat her alive 
even without a war. It must be a pit of rabid wolves, now. And Moiraine will 
give me the names. All he had to do was leave Rand in Aes Sedai hands. Just as 
he had left Owyn. She had him like a snake in a deft stick, damned however he 
writhed. Burn the woman!
 
Looping the embroidery basket's handle over her arm, Min gathered her skirts 
with her other hand and strolled out of the dining hall after breakfast in a 
gliding pace, her back straight. She could have balanced a full goblet of wine 
on her head without spilling a drop. Partly that was because she could not take 
a proper stride in her dress, all pale blue silk with a snug bodice and sleeves 
and a full skirt that would drag its embroidered hem on the ground if she did 
not hold it up. It was also partly because she was sure she could feel Laras's 
eyes on her.
A glance back proved her right. The Mistress of the Kitchens, a winecask on 
legs, was beaming after her approvingly from the dining hall doorway. Who would 
have thought the woman had been a beauty in her youth, or would have a place in 
her heart for pretty, flirtatious girls? "Lively," she called them. Who would 
have suspected she would decide to take "Elmindreda" under her stout wing? It 
was hardly a comfortable position. Laras kept a protective eye on Min, an eye 
that seemed to find her anywhere in the Tower grounds. Min smiled back and 
patted her hair, now a round black cap of curls. Burn the woman! Doesn't she 
have something to cook, or some scullion to yell at?
Laras waved to her, and she waved in return. She could not afford to offend 
someone who watched her so closely, not when she had no idea how many mistakes 
she might be making. Laras knew every trick of "lively" women, and expected to 
teach Min any she did not already know.
One real mistake, Min reflected as she took a seat on a marble bench beneath a 
tall willow, had been the embroidery. Not from Laras's point of view, but her 
own. Pulling her embroidery hoop from the basket, she ruefully examined 
yesterday's work, a number of lopsided yellow oxeyes and something she had meant 
to be a pale yellow rosebud, though no one would know unless she told them. With 
a sigh she set to picking the stitches out. Leane was right, she supposed; a 
woman could sit for hours with an embroidery hoop, watching everyone and 
everything, and nobody thought it strange. It would have helped, though, if she 
had any skill at all.
At least it was a perfect morning for being out&#8209;of&#8209;doors. A golden sun had just 
cleared the horizon in a sky where the few fluffy white clouds seemed arrayed to 
emphasize the perfection. A light breeze caught the scent of roses and ruffled 
tall calma bushes with their big red or white blossoms. Soon enough the 
gravel&#8209;covered paths near the tree would be full of people on one errand or 
another, everyone from Aes Sedai to stablemen. A perfect morning, and a perfect 
place from which to watch unobserved. Perhaps today she would have a useful 
viewing.
"Elmindreda?"
Min jumped, and stuck her pricked finger in her mouth. Twisting 'round on the 
bench, she prepared to assail Gawyn for sneaking up on her, but the words froze 
in her throat. Galad was with him. Taller than Gawyn, with long legs, he moved 
with a dancer's grace and a lean, sinewy strength. His hands were long, too, 
elegant yet strong. And his face . . . . He was, quite simply, the most 
beautiful man she had ever seen.
"Stop sucking your finger," Gawyn said with a grin. "We know you are a pretty 
little girl; you do not need to prove it to us."
Blushing, she hastily pulled her hand down, and barely restrained herself from a 
furious glare that would not have been at all in keeping with Elmindreda. He had 
needed no threats or commands from the Amyrlin to keep her secret, only her 
asking, but he did take any opportunity to tease that presented itself.
"It is not right to mock, Gawyn," Galad said. "He did not mean to offend, 
Mistress Elmindreda. Your pardon, but can it be we have met before? When you 
frowned at Gawyn so fiercely just then, I almost thought I knew you."
Min dropped her eyes demurely. "Oh, I could never forget meeting you, my Lord 
Galad," she said in her best foolish&#8209;girl voice. The simpering tone, and anger 
at her own slip, sent a tide of heat to her hairline, improving her disguise.
She did not look anything like herself, and the dress and the hair were only a 
part of it. Leane had acquired creams and powders and an incredible assortment 
of mysterious scented things in the city and drilled her until she could have 
used them in her sleep. She had cheekbones, now, and more color in her lips than 
nature had put there. A dark cream lining her eyelids and a fine powder that 
emphasized her lashes made her eyes seem larger. Not at all like herself. Some 
of the novices had told her admiringly how beautiful she was, and even a few Aes 
Sedai had called her "a very pretty child." She hated it. The dress was quite 
pretty, she admitted, but she hated the rest of it. Yet there was no point in 
donning a disguise if she did not keep it up.
"I am sure you would remember," Gawyn said dryly. "I did not mean to interrupt 
you at your embroidery &#8209; swallows, are they? Yellow swallows?" Min thrust the 
hoop back into the basket. "But I wanted to ask you to comment on this." He 
pushed a small, leather&#8209;bound book, old and tattered, into her hands, and 
suddenly his voice was serious. "Tell my brother this is nonsense. Perhaps he 
will listen to you."
She examined the book. The Way of the Light, by Lothair Mantelar. Opening it, 
she read at random. "Therefore abjure all pleasure, for goodness is a pure 
abstract, a perfect crystalline ideal which is obscured by base emotion. Pamper 
not the flesh. Flesh is weak but spirit is strong; flesh is useless where spirit 
is strong. Right thought is drowned in sensation, and right action hindered by 
passions. Take all joy from rightness, and rightness only." It seemed to be dry 
nonsense.
Min smiled at Gawyn, and even managed a titter. "So many words. I fear I know 
little of books, my Lord Gawyn. I always mean to read one &#8209; I do." She sighed. 
"But there is so little time. Why, just fixing my hair properly takes hours. Do 
you think it is, pretty?" The outraged startlement on his face nearly made her 
laugh, but she changed it to a giggle. It was a pleasure to turn the tables on 
him for a change; she would have to see if she could do it more often. There 
were possibilities in this disguise she had not considered. This stay in the 
Tower had turned out to be all boredom and irritation. She deserved some 
amusement.
"Lothair Mantelar," Gawyn said in a tight voice, "founded the Whitecloaks. The 
Whitecloaks!"
"He was a great man," Galad said firmly. "A philosopher of noble ideals. If the 
Children of the Light have sometimes been . . . excessive . . . since his day, 
it does not change that."
"Oh, my. Whitecloaks," Min said breathlessly, and added a little shudder. "They 
are such rough men, I hear. I cannot imagine a Whitecloak dancing. Do you think 
there is any chance of a dance here? Aes Sedai do not seem to care for dancing 
either, and I do so love to dance." The frustration in Gawyn's eyes was 
delightful.
"I do not think so," Galad said, taking the book from her. "Aes Sedai are too 
busy with . . . with their own affairs. If I hear of a suitable dance in the 
city, I will escort you, if you wish it. You need have no fear of being annoyed 
by those two louts." He smiled at her, unconscious of what he was doing, and she 
suddenly found herself breathless in truth. Men should not be allowed smiles 
like that.
It actually took her a moment to remember what two louts he was talking about. 
The two men who had supposedly asked for Elmindreda's hand in marriage, nearly 
fighting each other because she could not make up her mind, pressing her to the 
point of seeking sanctuary in the Tower because she could not stop encouraging 
them both. Just the entire excuse for her being there. It's this dress, she told 
herself. I could think straight if 1 had on my proper clothes.
"I've noticed the Amyrlin speaks to you every day,". Gawyn said suddenly. "Has 
she mentioned our sister Elayne? Or Egwene al'Vere? Has she said anything of 
where they are?"
Min wished she could black his eye. He did not know why she was pretending to be 
someone else, of course, but he had agreed to help her be accepted as 
Elmindreda, and now he was linking her to women too many in the Tower knew were 
friends of Min. "Oh, the Amyrlin Seat is such a wonderful woman," she said 
sweetly, baring her teeth in a smile. "She always asks how I am passing the 
time, and compliments my dress. I suppose she hopes I'll make a decision soon 
between Darvan and Goemal, but I just cannot." She widened her eyes, hoping it 
made her look helpless and confused. "They are both so sweet. Who did you say? 
Your sister, my Lord Gawyn? The Daughter&#8209;Heir herself? I do not think I've ever 
heard the Amyrlin Seat mention her. What was the other name?" She could hear 
Gawyn grinding his teeth.
"We should not bother Mistress Elmindreda with that," Galad said. "It is our 
problem, Gawyn. It is up to us to find the lie and deal with it."
She barely heard him, because suddenly she was staring at a big man with long 
dark hair curling around slumped shoulders, wandering aimlessly down one of the 
graveled paths through the trees, under the watchful eyes of an Accepted. She 
had seen Logain before, a sad&#8209;faced, once&#8209;hearty man, always with an Accepted 
for companion. The woman was meant to keep him from killing himself as much as 
to prevent his escape; despite his size, he truly did not seem up to anything of 
the latter sort. But she had never before seen a flaring halo around his head, 
radiant in gold and blue. It was only there for a moment, but that was enough.
Logain had proclaimed himself the Dragon Reborn, had been captured and gentled. 
Whatever glory he might have had as a false Dragon was far behind him now. All 
that remained for him was the despair of the gentled, like a man who had been 
robbed of sight and hearing and taste, wanting to die, waiting for the death 
that inevitably came to such men in a few years. He glanced at her, perhaps not 
seeing her; his eyes looked hopelessly inward. So why had he worn a halo that 
shouted of glory and power to come? This was something she had to tell the 
Amyrlin.
"Poor fellow," Gawyn muttered. "I cannot help pitying him. Light, it would be a 
mercy to let him end it. Why do they make him keep on living?"
"He deserves no pity," Galad pronounced. "Have you forgotten what he was, what 
he did? How many thousands died before he was taken? How many towns were burned? 
Let him live on as a warning to others."
Gawyn nodded, but reluctantly. "Yet men followed him. Some of those towns were 
burned after they declared for him."
"I have to go," Min said, getting to her feet, and Galad was instantly all 
solicitude.
"Forgive us, Mistress Elmindreda. We did not mean to frighten you. Logain cannot 
harm you. I give you my assurance."
"I. . . . Yes, he's made me feel faint. Do excuse me. I really must go lie 
down."
Gawyn looked extremely skeptical, but he scooped up her basket before she could 
touch it. "Let me see you part of the way, at least," he said, his voice oozing 
false concern. "This basket must be too heavy for you, dizzy as you are. I'd not 
want you to swoon. "
She wanted to snatch the basket and hit him with it, but that was not how 
Elmindreda would react. "Oh, thank you, my Lord Gawyn. You are so kind. So kind. 
No, no, my Lord Galad. Do not let me encumber both of you. Do sit down here and 
read your book. Do say you will. I just could not bear it, otherwise." She even 
fluttered her eyelashes.
Somehow she managed to ensconce Galad on the marble bench and get away, though 
with Gawyn right beside her. Her skirts were an irritant; she wanted to pull 
them up to her knees and run, but Elmindreda would never run, and never expose 
so much of her legs except when dancing. Laras had lectured her severely on that 
very point; one time running, and she would nearly destroy the image of 
Elmindreda completely. And Gawyn . . . !
"Give me that basket, you muscle&#8209;brained cretin," she snarled as soon as they 
were out of Galad's sight, and pulled it away from him before he could comply. 
"What do you mean by asking me about Elayne and Egwene in front of him? 
Elmindreda never met them. Elmindreda does not care about them. Elmindreda 
doesn't want to be mentioned in the same sentence with them! Can't you 
understand that?"
"No," he said. "Not since you won't explain. But I am sorry." There was hardly 
enough repentance in his voice to suit her. "It is just that I am worried. Where 
are they? This news coming upriver about False Dragon in Tear makes me no easier 
in my mind. They are out there, somewhere, the Light knows where, and I keep 
asking myself, what if they are in the middle of the sort of bonfire Logain made 
out of Ghealdan?"
"What if he isn't a false Dragon?" she asked cautiously.
"You mean because the stories in the streets say he's taken the Stone of Tear? 
Rumor has a way of magnifying events. I will believe that when I see it, and in 
any case, it will take more to convince me. Even the Stone could fall. Light, I 
don't really believe Elayne and Egwene are in Tear, but the not knowing eats at 
my belly like acid. If she is hurt. . . ."
Min did not know which "she" he meant, and suspected he did not either. In spite 
of his teasing, her heart went out to him, Where was nothing she could do. "If 
you could only do as I say and &#8209; "
"I know. Trust the Amyrlin. Trust!" He exhaled a long breath. "Do you know Galad 
has been drinking in the taverns with Whitecloaks? Anyone can cross the bridges 
if they come in peace, even Children of the bloody Light."
"Galad?" she said incredulously. "In taverns? Drinking?"
"No more than a cup or two, I'm sure. He would not unbend more than that, not 
for his own nameday." Gawyn frowned as if unsure whether that might be a 
criticism of Galad. "The point is that he is talking with Whitecloaks. And now 
this book. According to the inscription, Eamon Valda himself gave it to him. 'In 
the hope you will find the way.' Valda, Min. The man commanding the Whitecloaks 
on the other side of the bridges. Not knowing is eating Galad up, too. Listening 
to Whitecloaks. If anything happens to our sister, or to Egwene . . ." He shook 
his head. "Do you know where they are, Min? Would you tell me if you did? Why 
are you hiding?"
"Because I drove two men mad with my beauty and cannot make up my mind," she 
told him acidly.
He gave a bitter half&#8209;laugh, then masked it with a grin. "Well, that at least I 
can believe." He chuckled, and stroked under her chin with a finger. "You are a 
very pretty girl, Elmindreda. A pretty, clever little girl."
She doubled a fist and tried to punch him in the eye, but he danced back, and 
she stumbled over her skirts and nearly fell. "You bloody ox of a 
thimble&#8209;brained man!" she growled.
"Such grace of movement, Elmindreda," he laughed. "Such a dulcet voice, as a 
nightingale, or a cooing dove of the evening. What man would not grow 
starry&#8209;eyed at the sight of Elmindreda?" The mirth slid away, and he faced her 
soberly. "If you learn anything, please tell me. Please? I will beg on my knees, 
Min."
"I will tell you," she said. If I can. If it's safe for them. Light, but I hate 
this place. Why can't I just go back to Rand?
She left Gawyn there and entered the Tower proper by herself, keeping an eye out 
for Aes Sedai or Accepted who might question why she was above the ground floor 
and where she was going. The news of Logain was too important to wait until the 
Amyrlin encountered her, seemingly by accident, some time in the late afternoon 
as usual. At least, that was what she told herself. Impatience threatened to pop 
out through her skin.
She only saw a few Aes Sedai, turning a corner ahead of her or entering a room 
in the distance, which was all to the good. No one simply dropped in on the 
Amyrlin Seat. The handful of servants she passed, all bustling about their work, 
did not question her, of course, or even look at her twice except to drop quick 
curtsies almost without pausing.
Pushing open the door to the Amyrlin's study, she had a simpering tale ready in 
case anyone was with Leane, but the antechamber was empty. She hurried to the 
inner door and put her head in. The Amyrlin and the Keeper were seated on either 
side of Siuan's table, which was littered with small strips of thin paper. Their 
heads swiveled toward her sharply, a stare like four nails.
"What are you doing here?" the Amyrlin snapped. "You are supposed to be a silly 
girl claiming sanctuary, not a friend of my childhood. There is to be no contact 
between us except the most casual, in passing. If necessary, I'll name Laras to 
watch over you like a nurse over a child. She would enjoy that, I think, but I 
doubt you would."
Min shivered at the thought. Suddenly Logain did not seem so urgent; it was 
hardly likely he could achieve any glory in the next few days. He was not really 
why she had come, though, only an excuse, and she would not turn back now. 
Closing the door behind her, she stammered out what she had seen and what it 
meant. She still felt uncomfortable doing so in front of Leane.
Siuan shook her head wearily. "Another thing to worry about. Starvation in 
Cairhien. A sister missing in Tarabon. Trolloc raids increasing in the 
Borderlands again. This fool who calls himself the Prophet, stirring up riots in 
Ghealdan. He's apparently preaching that the Dragon has been Reborn as a 
Shienaran lord," she said incredulously. "Even the small things are bad. The war 
in Arad Doman has stopped trade from Saldaea, and the pinch is making unrest in 
Maradon. Tenobia may even be forced off the throne by it. The only good news I 
have heard is that the Blight has retreated for some reason. Two miles or more 
of green beyond the borderstones, without a hint of corruption or pestilence, 
all the way from Saldaea to Shienar. The first time in memory it has done that. 
But I suppose good news has to be balanced by bad. When a boat has one leak it 
is sure to have others. I only wish it was a balance. Leane, have the watch on 
Logain increased. I can't see what trouble he could cause now, but I do not want 
to find out." She turned those piercing blue eyes on Min. "Why did you come 
flapping up here with this like a startled gull? Logain could have waited. The 
man is hardly likely to find power and glory before sunset."
The near echo of her own thoughts made Min shift uncomfortably. "I know," she 
said. Leane's eyebrows rose warningly, and she added a hasty, "Mother." The 
Keeper nodded approvingly.
"That does not tell me why, child," Siuan said.
Min steeled herself. "Mother, nothing I've viewed since the first day has been 
very important. I certainly have not seen anything that points to the Black 
Ajah." That name still gave her a chill. "I've told you everything I know about 
whatever disaster you Aes Sedai are going to face, and the rest of it is just 
useless." She had to stop and swallow, with that penetrating gaze on her. 
"Mother, there is no reason I should not go. There's reason I should. Perhaps 
Rand could make real use of what I can do. If he has taken the Scone . . . . 
Mother, he may heed me." At least I need him, burn me for a fool!
The Keeper shuddered openly at the mention of Rand's name. Siuan, on the other 
hand, snorted loudly. "Your viewings have been very useful. It's important to 
know about Logain. You found the groom who was stealing before suspicion could 
land on anyone else. And &#8209; that fire&#8209;haired novice who was going to get herself 
with child . . . ! Sheriam cut that short &#8209; the girl won't even think of men 
until she's finished her training &#8209; but we'd not have known until it was too 
late, without you. No, you cannot go. Sooner or later your viewings will draw me 
a chart to the Black Ajah, and until they do, they still more than pay their 
passage."
      Min sighed, and not only because the Amyrlin meant to hold on to her. The 
last time she had seen that redheaded novice, the girl had been sneaking off to 
a wooded part of the grounds with a muscular guard. They would be married, maybe 
before the end of summer; Min had known that as soon as she saw them together, 
though the Tower never let a novice leave until the Tower was ready, even one 
who could not go any further in her training. There was a farm in that pair's 
future, and a swarm of children, but it was pointless to tell the Amyrlin that.
"Could you at least let Gawyn and Galad know that Egwene and their sister are 
all right, Mother?" Asking irked her, and her tone of voice did, too. A child 
denied a slice of cake begging for a cookie instead. "At least tell them 
something besides that ridiculous tale about doing penance on a farm."
"I have told you that is none of your concern. Do not make me tell you again."
"They don't believe it any more than I do," Min got out before the Amyrlin's dry 
smile quieted her. It was not an amused smile.
"So you suggest I change where they are supposed to be? After letting everyone 
think them on a farm? Do you suppose that might raise a few eyebrows? Everyone 
but those boys accepts it. And you. Well, Coulin Gaidin will just have to work 
them that much harder. Sore muscles and enough sweat will take most men's minds 
off other troubles. Women's minds, too. You ask many more questions, and I'll 
see what a few days scrubbing pots will do for you. Better to lose your services 
for two or three days than have you poking your nose where it does not belong."
"You don't even know if they are in trouble, do you? Or Moiraine." It was not 
Moiraine she meant.
"Girl," Leane said warningly, but Min was not to be stopped now.
"Why haven't we heard? Rumors reached here two days ago. Two days! Why doesn't 
one of those slips on your desk contain a message from her? Doesn't she have 
pigeons? I thought you Aes Sedai had people with messenger pigeons everywhere. 
If there isn't one in Tear, there should be. A man on horseback could have 
reached Tar Valon before now. Why&#8209;?"
The flat crack of Siuan's palm on the table cut her off. "You obey remarkably 
well," she said wryly. "Child, until we hear something to the contrary, assume 
the young man is well. Pray that he is." Leane shivered again. "There's a saying 
in the Maule, child," the Amyrlin went on. " 'Do not trouble trouble till 
trouble troubles you.' Mark it well, child."
There was a timid knock at the door.
The Amyrlin and the Keeper exchanged glances; then two sets of eyes shifted to 
Min. Her presence was a problem. There was certainly nowhere to hide; even the 
balcony was dearly visible from the room in its entirety.
"A reason for you to be here," Siuan muttered, "that doesn't make you any more 
than the fool girl you're supposed to be. Leane, stand ready at the door." She 
and the Keeper were on their feet together, Siuan coming around the table while 
Leane moved to the door. "Take Leane's seat, girl. Move your feet, child; move 
your feet. Now look sulky. Not angry, sulky! Stick your lower lip out and stare 
at the floor. I may make you wear ribbons in your hair, huge red bows. That's 
it. Leane." The Amyrlin put her fists on her hips and raised her voice. "And if 
you ever walk in on me unannounced again, child, I will . . . ."
Leane pulled the door open to reveal a dark novice who flinched at Siuan's 
continuing tirade, then dropped a deep curtsy. "Messages for the Amyrlin, Aes 
Sedai," the girl squeaked. "Two pigeons arrived at the loft." She was one of 
those who had told Min she was beautiful, and she tried to stare past the Keeper 
with wide eyes.
"This does not concern you, child," Leane said briskly, taking the tiny 
cylinders of bone out of the girl's hand. "Back to the loft with you." Before 
the novice finished rising, Leane shut the door, then leaned against it with a 
sigh. "I have jumped at every unexpected sound since you told me . . . ." 
Straightening, she came back to the table. "Two more messages, Mother. Shall I . 
. . ?"
"Yes. Open them," the Amyrlin said. "No doubt Morgase has decided to invade 
Cairhien after all. Or Trollocs have overrun the Borderlands. It would be of a 
piece with everything else." Min kept her seat; Siuan had sounded all too 
realistic with some of those threats.
Leane examined the red wax seal on the end of one of the small cylinders, no 
larger than her own finger joint, then broke it open with a thumbnail when she 
was satisfied it had not been tampered with. The rolled paper inside she 
extracted with a slim ivory pick. "Nearly as bad as Trollocs, Mother," she said 
almost as soon as she began reading. "Mazrim Taim has escaped."
"Light!" Siuan barked. "How?"
"This only says he was taken away by stealth in the night, Mother. Two sisters 
are dead."
"The Light illumine their souls. But we've little time to mourn the dead while 
the likes of Taim are alive and ungentled. Where, Leane?"
"Denhuir, Mother. A village east of the Black Hills on the Maradon Road, above 
the headwaters of the Antaeo and the Luan."
"It had to be some of his followers. Fools. Why won't they know when they are 
beaten? Choose out a dozen reliable sisters, Leane . . . ." The Amyrlin 
grimaced. "Reliable," she muttered. "If I knew who was more reliable than a 
silverpike, I'd not have the problems I do. Do the best you can, Leane. A dozen 
sisters. And five hundred of the guards. No, a full thousand."
"Mother," the Keeper said worriedly. "The Whitecloaks &#8209; "
" &#8209; would not try to cross the bridges if I left them unwatched entirely. They 
would be afraid of a trap. There is no telling what is going on up there, Leane. 
I want whoever I send to be ready for anything. And Leane . . . Mazrim Taim is 
to be gentled as soon as he is taken again."
Leane's eyes opened wide with shock. "The law."
"I know the law as well as you, but I will not risk having him freed again 
ungentled. I'll not risk another Guaire Amalasan, not on top of every thing 
else."
"Yes, Mother," Leane said faintly.
The Amyrlin picked up the second bone cylinder and snapped it in two with a 
sharp crack to get the message out. "Good news at last," she breathed, a smile 
blooming on her face. "Good news. 'The sling has been used. The shepherd holds 
the sword.' "
"Rand?" Min asked, and Siuan nodded.
"Of course, girl. The Stone has fallen. Rand al'Thor, the shepherd, has 
Callandor. Now I can move. Leane, I want the Hall of the Tower convened this 
afternoon. No, this morning."
"I don't understand," Min said. "You knew the rumors were about Rand. Why are 
you calling the Hall now? What can you do that you could not before?"
Siuan laughed like a girl. "What I can do now is tell them right out that I have 
received word from an Aes Sedai that the Stone of Tear has fallen and a man has 
drawn Callandor. Prophecy fulfilled &#8209; Enough of it for my purpose, at least. The 
Dragon is Reborn. They'll flinch, they'll argue, but none can oppose my 
pronouncement that the Tower must guide this man. At last I can involve myself 
with him openly. Openly for the most part."
"Are we doing the right thing, Mother?" Leane said abruptly. "I know. . . . If 
he has Callandor, he must be the Dragon Reborn, but he can channel, Mother. A 
man who can channel. I only saw him once, but even then there was something 
strange about him. Something more than being ta'veren. Mother, is he so very 
different from Taim when it comes down to it?"
"The difference is that he is the Dragon Reborn, daughter," the Amyrlin said 
quietly. "Taim is a wolf, and maybe rabid. Rand al'Thor is the wolfhound we will 
use to defeat the Shadow. Keep his name to yourself, Leane. Best not to reveal 
too much too soon."
"As you say, Mother," the Keeper said, but she still sounded uneasy.
"Off with you now. I want the Hall assembled in an hour." Siuan thoughtfully 
watched the taller woman go. "There may be more resistance than I would wish," 
she said when the door clicked shut.
Min looked at her sharply. "You don't mean . . . ."
"Oh, nothing serious, child. Not as long as they don't know how long I have been 
involved with the al'Thor boy." She looked at the slip of paper again, then 
dropped it onto the table. "I could wish Moiraine had told me more."
"Why didn't she say more? And why have we not heard from her before this?"
"More questions with you. That one you must ask Moiraine. She has always gone 
her own way. Ask Moiraine, child."
Sahra Covenry worked the hoe in desultory fashion, frowning at the tiny sprouts 
of threadleaf and hensfoot poking up in the rows of cabbages and beets. It was 
not that Mistress Elward was a harsh  taskmistress &#8209; she was no more stern than 
Sahra's mother, and certainly easier that Sheriam &#8209; but Sahra had not gone to 
the White Tower to end up back on a farm hoeing vegetables with the sun barely 
up. Her white novice dresses were packed away; she wore brown wool her mother 
might have sewn, the skirt tied up to her knees to keep it out of the dirt. It 
was all so unfair. She had not done anything.
Wriggling her bare toes in the turned soil, she glared at a stubborn hensfoot 
and channeled, meaning to burn it out of the ground. Sparks flashed around the 
leafy sprout, and it wilted. Hurriedly she sliced the thing out of the dirt and 
her mind. If there was any fairness in the world, Lord Galad would come to the 
farm while out hunting.
Leaning on the hoe, she lost herself in a daydream of Healing Galad's injuries, 
received in a fall from his horse &#8209; not his fault, of course; he was a wonderful 
horseman &#8209; and him lifting her up in front of him on his saddle, declaring he 
would be her Warder &#8209; she would be Green Ajah, of course &#8209; and . . . .
"Sahra Covenry?"
Sahra jumped at the sharp voice, but it was not Mistress Elward. She curtsied as 
best she could, with her skirts gathered up. "The day's greeting, Aes Sedai. 
Have you come to take me back to the Tower?"
The Aes Sedai moved closer, not caring that her skirts dragged through the dirt 
of the vegetable patch. Despite the summer warmth of the morning, she wore a 
cloak, the hood pulled up to shadow her face. "Just before you left the Tower, 
you took a woman to the Amyrlin Seat. A woman calling herself Elmindreda."
"Yes, Aes Sedai," Sahra said, a slight question in her voice. She did not like 
the way the Aes Sedai had said that, as if she had left the Tower for good.
"Tell me everything that you heard or saw, girl, from the moment you took the 
woman in charge. Everything."
"But I heard nothing, Aes Sedai. The Keeper sent me away as soon as &#8209; " Pain 
racked her, digging her toes into the dirt, arching her back; the spasm lasted 
only moments, but it seemed eternal. Struggling for breath, she realized her 
cheek was pressed to the ground, and her still trembling fingers dug into the 
soil. She did not remember falling. She could see Mistress Elward's laundry 
basket lying on its side near the stone farmhouse, damp linens spilled out in a 
heap. Dazed, she thought that that was odd; Moria Elward would never leave her 
washing lying like that.
"Everything, girl," the Aes Sedai said coldly. She was standing over Sahra now, 
making no move to help her. She had hurt her; it was not supposed to be that 
way. "Every person this Elmindreda spoke to, every word she said, every nuance 
and expression."
"She spoke to Lord Gawyn, Aes Sedai," Sahra sobbed into the earth. "That is all 
I know, Aes Sedai. All." She began to weep in earnest, sure that was not enough 
to satisfy this woman. She was right. She did not stop screaming for a long 
time, and when the Aes Sedai left there was not a sound around the farmhouse 
except for the chickens, not even breathing.
 
CHAPTER
18
 
Into the Ways
 
Buttoning up his coat, Perrin paused, looking at the axe, still secured on the 
wall as he had left it since drawing it out of the door. He did not like the 
idea of carrying the weapon again, but he untied the belt from the peg and 
buckled it around his waist anyway. The hammer he tied to his already stuffed 
saddlebags. Draping saddlebags and blanket roll over his shoulder, he gathered a 
filled quiver and his unstrung longbow from the corner.
The rising sun poured heat and light through the narrow windows. The rumpled bed 
was the only proof that anyone had stayed here. Already the room had lost the 
feel of him; it even seemed to smell empty, despite his own scent on the sheets. 
He never stayed anywhere long enough to make that feel cling past his readiness 
to leave. Never long enough to put down roots, make it any kind of home. Well, 
I'm going home now.
Turning his back on the already unoccupied room, he went out.
Gaul rose easily from where he had been squatting against the wall beneath a 
tapestry of men on horseback hunting lions. He bore all of his weapons, with two 
leather water bottles, and a rolled blanket and a small cookpot were strapped 
beside the worked&#8209;leather bow case on his back. He was alone.
"The others?" Perrin asked, and Gaul shook his head.
"Too long away from the Three&#8209;fold Land. I warned you of that, Perrin. These 
lands of yours are too wet; the air is like breathing water. There are too many 
people, too close together. They have seen more than they want of strange 
places."
"I understand," Perrin said, though what he understood was that there would be 
no rescue after all, no company of Aiel to drive the Whitecloaks out of the Two 
Rivers. He kept his disappointment inside. It was sharp after thinking he had 
escaped his fate, but he could not say he had not prepared himself for the 
alternative. No point in crying when the iron split; you just reforged it. "Did 
you have any trouble doing what I asked?"
"None. I told one Tairen to take each thing you want to the Dragonwall Gate 
stable and tell no one of it; they will have seen one another there, but they 
will think the things are for me, and they will keep silent. The Dragonwall 
Gate. You would think the Spine of the World was just over the horizon, instead 
of a hundred leagues or more off." The Aiel hesitated. "The girl and the Ogier 
make no secret of their preparations, Perrin. She has been trying to find the 
gleeman, and telling everyone she means to travel the Ways."
Scratching his beard, Perrin breathed heavily, close to a growl. "If she gives 
me away to Moiraine, I vow she'll not sit down for a week."
"She is very handy with those knives," Gaul said in a neutral tone.
"Not handy enough. Not if she's given me away." Perrin hesitated. No company of 
Aiel. The gallows still waited. "Gaul, if anything happens to me, if I give you 
the word, take Faile away. She might not want to go, but take her anyway. See 
her safely out of the Two Rivers. Will you promise me that?"
"I will do what I can, Perrin. For the blood debt I owe you, I will." Gaul 
sounded doubtful, but Perrin did not think Faile's knives would be enough to 
stop him.
They took back passages as much as possible, and narrow stairs meant to carry 
servants unobtrusively. Perrin thought it too bad the Tairens had not given 
servants their own corridors, as well. Still, they saw few people even in the 
broad hallways with their gilded lamp stands and ornate hangings, and no nobles 
at all.
He commented on the absence, and Gaul said, "Rand al'Thor has called them to the 
Heart of the Stone."
Perrin only grunted, but he hoped Moiraine had been among those summoned. He 
wondered whether this was Rand's way of helping him escape her. Whatever the 
reason, he was glad enough to take advantage of it.
They stepped out of the last cramped stairway onto the ground floor of the 
Stone, where cavernous hallways as wide as roads led to all the outer gates. 
There were no wall hangings here. Black iron lamps in iron brackets high on the 
walls lit the windowless passages, and the floor was paved with broad, rough 
stones able to stand long wear from horses' shod hooves. Perrin picked his pace 
up to a trot. The stables lay just in sight ahead down the great tunnel, the 
wide Dragonwall Gate itself standing open beyond and only a handful of Defenders 
for guard. Moiraine could not intercept them now, not without the Dark One's own 
luck.
The stable's open doorway was an arch fifteen paces across. Perrin took one step 
inside and stopped.
The air was heavy with the smell of straw and hay, underlaid with grain and 
oats, leather and horse manure. Stalls filled with fine Tairen horses, prized 
everywhere, lined the walls, with more in rows across the wide floor. Dozens of 
grooms were at work, currying and combing, mucking out, mending tack. Without 
pausing, one or another sometimes glanced at where Faile and Loial stood, booted 
and ready for travel. And beside them, Bain and Chiad, accoutered like Gaul with 
weapons and blankets, water bottles and cooking pot.
"Are they why you only said you would try?" Perrin asked quietly.
Gaul shrugged. "I will do what I can, but they will take her side. Chiad is 
Goshien."
"Her clan makes a difference?"
"Her clan and mine have blood feud, Perrin, and I am no spear&#8209;sister to her. But 
perhaps the water oaths will hold her. I will not dance spears with her unless 
she offers."
Perrin shook his head. A strange people. What were water oaths? What he said, 
though, was "Why are they with her?"
"Bain says they wish to see more of your lands, but I think it is the argument 
between you and Faile which fascinates them. They like her, and when they heard 
of this journey, they decided to go with her instead of you."
"Well, as long as they keep her out of trouble." He was surprised when Gaul 
threw back his head and laughed. It made him scratch his beard worriedly.
Loial came toward them, long eyebrows sagging anxiously. His coat pockets 
bulged, as was usual when he was traveling, mainly with the angular shapes of 
books. At least his limp seemed better. "Faile is becoming impatient, Perrin. I 
think she might insist on leaving any minute. Please hurry. You could not even 
find the Waygate without me. Not that you should try, certainly. You humans make 
me leap about so I can hardly find my own head. Please hurry."
"I will not leave him," Faile called. "Not even if he is yet too stubborn and 
foolish to ask a simple favor. Should that be the case, he may still follow me 
like a lost puppy. I promise to scratch his ears and take care of him." The Aiel 
women doubled over laughing.
Gaul leaped straight up suddenly, kicking higher, two paces or more above the 
floor, while twirling one of his spears. "We will follow like stalking 
ridgecats," he shouted, "like hunting wolves." He landed easily, lightly. Loial 
stared at him in amazement.
Bain, on the other hand, lazily combed her short, fiery hair with her fingers. 
"I have a fine wolfskin with my bedding in the hold," she told Chiad in a bored 
voice. "Wolves are easily taken."
A growl rose in Perrin's throat, pulling both women's eyes to him. For a moment 
Bain looked on the point of saying something more, but she frowned at his yellow 
stare and held her peace, not afraid, but suddenly wary.
"This puppy is not well housebroken yet," Faile confided to the Aiel women.
Perrin refused to look at her. Instead he went to the stall that held his dun 
stallion, as tall as any of the Tairen animals but heavier in shoulder and 
haunch. Waving away a groom, he bridled Stepper and led him out himself. The 
grooms had walked the horse, of course, but he had been confined enough to frisk 
in the quick steps that had made Perrin give him his name. Perrin soothed him 
with the sure confidence of a man who had shoed many horses. It was no trouble 
at all putting his high&#8209;cantled saddle on and lashing his saddlebags and blanket 
roll behind.
Gaul watched with no expression. He would not ride a horse unless he had to, and 
then not a step farther than absolutely necessary. None of the Aiel would. 
Perrin did not understand why. Pride, perhaps, in their ability to run for long 
distances. The Aiel made it seem more than that, but he suspected none of them 
could have explained.
The packhorse had to be readied too, of course, but that was quickly done, since 
everything Gaul had ordered was waiting in a neat pile. Food and waterskins. 
Oats and grain for the horses. None of that would be available in the Ways. A 
few other things, like hobbles, some horse medicines just in case, spare 
tinderbox and such.
Most of the space in the wicker hampers went for leather bottles like those the 
Aiel used for water, only larger and filled with lamp oil. Once the lanterns, on 
long poles, were strapped atop the rest, it was done.
Thrusting his unstrung bow under the saddle girth, he swung up into Stepper's 
saddle with the pack animal's lead in hand. And then had to wait, seething.
Loial was already mounted, on a huge, hairy&#8209;fetlocked horse, taller than any 
other in the stable by hands yet reduced nearly to pony size by the Ogier's long 
legs hanging down. There had been a time when the Ogier was almost as unwilling 
a rider as the Aiel, but he was at home on a horse now. It was Faile who took 
her time, examining her mount almost as if she had never seen the glossy black 
mare before, though Perrin knew she had put the horse through her paces before 
buying, soon after they came to the Stone. The horse, Swallow by name, was a 
fine animal of Tairen breeding, with slender ankles and an arched neck, a 
prancer with the look of speed and endurance both, though shod too lightly for 
Perrin's taste. Those shoes would not last. It was all another effort to put him 
in his place, whatever she thought that was.
When Faile finally mounted, in her narrow divided skirts, she reined closer to 
Perrin. She rode well, woman and horse moving as one. "Why can you not ask, 
Perrin?" she said softly. "You tried to keep me away from where I belong, so now 
you have to ask. Can such a simple thing be so difficult?"
The Stone rang like a monstrous bell, the stable floor leaping, the ceiling 
quivering on the point of coming down. Stepper leaped, too, screaming, head 
flailing; it was all Perrin could do to keep his seat. Grooms scrambled off the 
floor where they had fallen and ran desperately to quiet horses rearing, 
shrieking, attempting to climb out of their stalls. Loial dung to the neck of 
his huge mount, but Faile sat Swallow surely as the mare danced and squealed 
wildly.
Rand. Perrin knew it was him. The pull of ta'veren dragged at him, two 
whirlpools in a stream drawing one another. Coughing in the falling dust, he 
shook his head as hard as he could, straining not to dismount and run back up 
into the Stone. "We ride!" he shouted while tremors still shook the fortress. 
"We ride now, Loial! Now!"
Faile seemed to see no more point to delay; she heeled her mare out of the 
stable beside Loial's taller horse, their two pack animals pulled along, all 
galloping before they reached the Dragonwall Gate. The Defenders took one look 
and scattered, some still on hands and knees; it was their duty to keep people 
out of the Stone, and they had no orders to keep these in. Not that they would 
necessarily have been able to think straight enough to do so if they had had 
orders, not with the tremors just subsiding and the Stone still groaning above 
them.
Perrin was right behind with his own packhorse, wishing the Ogier's animal could 
run faster, wishing he could leave Loial's lumbering mount behind and outrun the 
suction trying to draw him back, that pull of ta'veren to ta'veren. They 
galloped together through the streets of Tear, toward the rising sun, barely 
slowing to avoid carts and carriages. Men in tight coats and women with layered 
aprons, still shaken by the upheaval, stared at them, dazed, sometimes barely 
leaping out of the way.
At the walls of the inner city paving stones gave way to dirt, shoes and coats 
to bare feet and bare chests above baggy breeches held up by broad sashes. The 
folk here dodged no less assiduously, though, for Perrin would not let Stepper 
slow until they had galloped past the city's outer wall, past the simple stone 
houses and shops that clustered outside the city proper, into a countryside of 
scattered farms and thickets and beyond the pull of ta'veren. Only then, 
breathing almost as hard as his lathered horse, he reined Stepper to a walk.
Loial's ears were stiff with shock. Faile licked her lips and, stared from the 
Ogier to Perrin, white&#8209;faced. "What happened? Was that . . . him?"
"I don't know," Perrin lied. I have to go, Rand. You know that. You looked me in 
the face when 1 told you, and said I had to do what I thought I must.
"Where are Bain and Chiad?" Faile said. "It will take them an hour to catch up 
now. I wish they would ride. I offered to buy them horses, and they looked 
offended. Well, we need to walk the horses anyway after that, to let them cool 
down."
Perrin held back from telling her she did not know as much of Aid as she thought 
she did. He could see the city walls behind them, and the Stone rearing above 
like a mountain. He could even make out the sinuous shape on the banner waving 
over the fortress, and the displaced birds swirling about; neither of the others 
could have. It was no difficulty at all to see three people running toward them 
in long, ground&#8209;eating strides, their flowing ease belying the pace. He did not 
think he could have run that fast, not for long, but the Aid had to have 
maintained their speed from the Stone to be this close behind.
"We'll not have to wait that long," he said.
Faile frowned back toward the city. "Is that them? Are you certain?" Abruptly 
the frown shifted to him for a moment, daring him to answer. Asking him had been 
too much like admitting he was part of her party, of course. "He is very 
boastful of his eyesight," she told Loial, "but his memory is not very good. At 
times I think he would forget to light a candle at night if I did not remind 
him. I expect he's seen some poor family running from what they think is an 
earthquake, don't you?"
Loial shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, sighing heavily, and muttered 
something about humans that Perrin doubted was complimentary. Faile did not 
notice, of course.
Not too many minutes later, Faile stared at Perrin as the three Aiel drew close 
enough for her to make out, but she said nothing. In this mood, she was not 
about to admit he had been right about anything, not if he said the sky was 
blue. The Aiel were not even breathing hard when they slowed to a halt beside 
the horses.
"It is too bad it was not a longer run." Bain shared a smile with Chiad, and 
both gave Gaul a sly look.
"Else we could have run this Stone Dog into the ground," Chiad said as if 
finishing the other woman's sentence. "That is why Stone Dogs take their vows 
not to retreat. Stone bones and stone heads make them too heavy to run."
Gaul took no offense, though Perrin noticed he stood where he could keep an eye 
on Chiad. "Do you know why Maidens are so often used as scouts, Perrin? Because 
they can run so far. And that comes from being afraid some man might want to 
marry them. A Maiden will run a hundred miles to avoid that."
"Very wise of them," Faile said tartly. "Do you need to rest?" she asked the 
Aiel women, and looked surprised when they denied it. She turned to Loial 
anyway. "Are you ready to go on? Good. Find me this Waygate, Loial. We have 
stayed here too long. If you let a stray puppy stay close to you, it begins to 
think you will take care of it, and that will never do."
"Faile," Loial protested, "are you not carrying this too far?"
"I will carry it as far as I must, Loial. The Waygate?"
Ears sagging, Loial puffed out a heavy breath and turned his horse eastward 
again. Perrin let him and Faile get a dozen paces ahead before he and Gaul 
followed. He must play by her rules, but he would play them at least as well as 
she.
The farms, cramped little places with rough stone houses Perrin would not have 
used to shelter animals, grew more scattered the farther east they rode, and the 
thickets smaller, until there were neither farms nor thickets, only a rolling, 
hilly grassland. Grass as far as the eye could see, unbroken except for patches 
of bush here and there on a hill.
Horses dotted the green slopes, too, in dumps of a dozen or herds of a hundred, 
the famed Tairen stock. Large or small, each gathering of horses was under the 
eyes of a shoeless boy or two, mounted bareback. The boys carried long&#8209;handled 
whips that they used to keep the horses together, or turn them, cracking the 
whips expertly to turn a stray without ever coming close to the animal's hide. 
They kept their charges dear of the strangers, moving them back if necessary, 
but they watched the passage of this odd company &#8209; two humans and an Ogier 
mounted, plus three of the fierce Aid that stories said had taken the Stone &#8209; 
with the bold curiosity of the young.
It was all a pleasing sight to Perrin. He liked horses. Part of the reason he 
had asked to be. apprenticed to Master Luhhan had been the chance to work with 
horses, not that there were so many as this in Emond's Field, nor so fine.
Not so Loial. The Ogier began muttering to himself, louder the farther they rode 
across the grassy hills, until at last he burst out in a deep bass rumble. 
"Gone! All gone, and for what? Grass. Once this was an Ogier grove. We did no 
great works here, not to compare with Manetheren, or the city you call Caemlyn, 
but enough that a grove was planted. Trees of every kind, from every land and 
place. The Great Trees, towering a hundred spans into the sky. All tended 
devotedly, to remind my people of the stedding they had left to build things for 
men. Men think it is the stonework we prize, but that is a trifling thing, 
learned during the Long Exile, after the Breaking. It is the trees we love. Men 
thought Manetheren my people's greatest triumph, but we knew it to be the grove 
there. Gone, now. Like this. Gone, and it will not come again. "
Loial stared at the hills, bare save for grass and horses, with a hard face, his 
ears drawn back tight to his head. He smelled of . . . fury. . . Peaceful, most 
stories called Ogier, almost as pacific as the Traveling People, but some, a 
few, named them implacable enemies. Perrin had only seen Loial angry once 
before. Perhaps he had been angry last night, defending those children. Looking 
at Loial's face, an old saying came back to him. "To anger the Ogier and pull 
the mountains down on your head." Everyone took its meaning as to try to do 
something that was impossible. Perrin thought maybe the meaning had changed with 
the years. Maybe in the beginning, it had been "Anger the Ogier, and you pull 
the mountains down on your head." Difficult to do, but deadly if accomplished. 
He did not think he would ever want Loial &#8209; gentle, fumbling Loial with his 
broad nose always in a book &#8209; to become angry with him.
It was Loial who took the lead once they reached the site of the vanished Ogier 
grove, bending their path a little southward. There were no landmarks, but he 
was sure of his direction, surer with every pace of the horses. Ogier could feel 
a Waygate, sense it somehow, find it as certainly as a bee could find the hive. 
When Loial finally dismounted, the grass was little more than knee&#8209;high on him. 
There was only a thick clump of brush to be seen, taller than most, leafy shrubs 
as tall as the Ogier. He ripped it all away almost regretfully, stacking it to 
one side. "Perhaps the boys with the horses can use it for firewood when it 
dries."
And there was the Waygate.
Rearing against the side of the hill, it appeared more a length of gray wall 
than a gate, and the wall of a palace at that, thickly carved in leaves and 
vines so finely done that they seemed almost as alive as the bushes had been. 
Three thousand years at least it had stood there, but not a trace of weathering 
marred its surface. Those leaves could have rippled with the next breeze.
For a moment they all stared at it silently, until Loial took a deep breath and 
put his hand on the one leaf that was different from any other on the Waygate. 
The trefoil leaf of Avendesora, the fabled Tree of Life. Until the moment his 
huge hand touched it, it seemed as much a part of the carving as all the rest, 
but it came away easily.
Faile gasped loudly, and even the Aiel murmured. The air was full of the smell 
of unease; there was no saying who it came from. All of them, perhaps.
The stone leaves did seem to stir from an unfelt breeze now; they took a tinge 
of green, of life. Slowly a split appeared down the middle, and the halves of 
the Waygate opened out, revealing not the hill behind, but a dull shimmering 
that faintly reflected their images.
"Once, it is said," Loial murmured, "the Waygates shone like mirrors, and those 
who walked the Ways walked through the sun and the sky. Gone, now. Like this 
grove."
Hastily pulling one of the filled pole&#8209;lanterns from his packhorse, Perrin got 
it alight. "It is too hot out here," he said. "A little shade would be good." He 
booted Stepper toward the Waygate. He thought he heard Faile gasp again.
The dun stallion balked, approaching his own dim reflection, but Perrin heeled 
him onward. Slowly, he remembered. It should be done slowly. The horse's nose 
touched its image hesitantly, then merged in as though walking into a mirror. 
Perrin moved closer to himself, touched . . . . Icy cold slid along his skin, 
enveloping him hair by hair; time stretched out.
The cold vanished like a pricked bubble, and he was in the midst of endless 
blackness, the light of his pole&#8209;lantern a crushed pool around him. Stepper and 
the packhorse whickered nervously.
Gaul stepped through calmly and began preparing another lantern. Behind him was 
what seemed like a sheet of smoked glass. The others were visible out there, 
Loial getting back on his horse, Faile gathering her reins, all of them 
creeping, barely moving. Time was different inside the Ways.
"Faile is upset with you," Gaul said once he had his lantern alight. It did not 
add much illumination. The darkness drank in light, swallowed it. "She seems to 
think you have broken some sort of agreement. Bain and Chiad . . . . Do not let 
them get you alone. They mean to teach you a lesson, for Faile's sake, and you 
will not sit on that animal so easily if they manage what they plan."
"I agreed to nothing, Gaul. I do what she's forced me to do through trickery. We 
will have to follow Loial as she wants soon enough, but I mean to take the lead 
for as long as I can." He pointed to a thick white line under Stepper's hooves. 
Broken and heavily pitted, it led off ahead, vanishing in the blackness only a 
few feet away. "That leads to the first guidepost. We will need to wait there 
for Loial to read it and decide which bridge to take, but Faile can follow us 
that far."
"Bridge," Gaul murmured thoughtfully. "I know that word. There is water in 
here?"
"No. It isn't exactly that kind of bridge. They look the same, sort of, but . . 
. . Maybe Loial can explain it."
The Aielman scratched his head. "Do you know what you are doing, Perrin?"
"No," Perrin admitted, "but there's no reason for Faile to know that."
Gaul laughed. "It is fun to be so young, is it not, Perrin?"
Frowning, uncertain whether the man was laughing at him, Perrin heeled Stepper 
on, drawing the packhorse behind. The lantern light would not be visible at all 
in here twenty or thirty paces from its edge. He wanted to be completely out of 
sight before Faile came through. Let her think he had decided to go on without 
her. If she worried for a few minutes, until she found him at the guidepost, it 
was the least she deserved.
 
CHAPTER
19
 
The Wavedancer
 
With the golden sun barely over the horizon, the shiny black&#8209;lacquered carriage 
rocked to a halt at the foot of the wharf behind a team of four matched grays, 
and the lanky dark&#8209;haired driver in his black&#8209;and&#8209;gold striped coat leaped down 
to open the door. No sigil adorned the door panel, of course; Tairen nobles gave 
aid to Aes Sedai only under duress, no matter how effusive the smiles, and none 
wanted their names or houses linked to the Tower.
Elayne got down gratefully without waiting for Nynaeve, straightening her blue 
linen summer traveling cloak; the streets of the Maule were rutted by carts and 
wagons, and the carriage's leather springs had not been very good. A breeze 
slanting across the Erinin actually seemed cool after the heat of the Stone. She 
had intended to show no effects of the rough ride, but once upright she could 
not help knuckling the small of her back. At least last night's rain still holds 
the dust down, she thought. She suspected that they had been given a carriage 
without curtains on purpose.
North and south of her, more docks like wide stone fingers stretched into the 
river. The air smelled of tar and rope, fish and spices and olive oil, of 
nameless things rotting in the stagnant water between the piers and peculiar 
long yellow&#8209;green fruits in huge bunches heaped in front of the stone warehouse 
behind her. Despite the early hour, men wearing leather vests on shirtless 
shoulders scurried about, toting large bundles on bent backs or pushing 
handcarts piled with barrels or crates. None spared her more than a passing 
sullen glance, dark eyes falling quickly, forelock touched grudgingly; most did 
not raise their heads at all. She was sad to see it.
These Tairen nobles had handled their people badly. Mishandled them was more 
like it. In Andor she could have expected cheerful smiles and a respectful word 
of greeting, freely given by straight&#8209;backed men who knew their worth as well as 
hers. It was almost enough to make her regret leaving. She had been raised to 
lead and one day govern a proud people, and she felt the urge to teach these 
folk dignity. But that was Rand's job, not hers. And if he doesn't do it 
properly, I will give him a piece of my mind. A bigger piece. At least he had 
begun, by following her advice. And she had to admit he knew how to treat his 
people. It would be interesting to see what he had done by the time she 
returned. If there's a point to coming back.
A dozen ships were dearly visible from where she stood, and more beyond, but 
one, moored across the end of the dock she faced, sharp bow upriver, filled her 
eyes. The Sea Folk raker was easily a hundred paces long, half again as large as 
the next vessel in sight, with three great towering masts amidships, and one 
shorter on the raised deck at the stern. She had been on ships before, but never 
one so big, and never on one going to sea. Just the name of the ship's owners 
spoke of distant lands and strange ports. The Atha'an Miere. The Sea Folk. 
Stories meant to be exotic always contained the Sea Folk, unless they were about 
the Aiel.
Nynaeve climbed out of the carriage behind her, tying a green traveling cloak at 
her neck and grumbling to herself and to the driver. "Tumbled about like a hen 
in a windstorm! Thumped like a dusty rug! How did you manage to find every last 
rut and hole between here and the Stone, goodman? That took true skill. A pity 
none of it goes into handling horses." He tried to hand her down, his narrow 
face sullen, but she refused his aid.
Sighing, Elayne doubled the number of silver pennies she was taking from her 
purse. "Thank you for bringing us safely and swiftly." She smiled as she pressed 
the coins into his hand. "We told you to go fast, and you did as we asked. The 
streets are not your fault, and you did an excellent job under poor conditions."
Without looking at the coins, the fellow gave her a deep bow, a grateful look, 
and a murmured "Thank you, my Lady," as much for the words as the money, she was 
sure. She had found that a kind word and a little praise were usually received 
as well as silver was, if not better. Though the silver itself was seldom 
unappreciated, to be sure.
"The Light send you a safe journey, my Lady," he added. The merest flicker of 
his eyes toward Nynaeve said that wish was for Elayne alone. Nynaeve had to 
learn how to make allowances and give consideration; truly she did.
When the driver had handed their bundles and belongings out of the carriage, 
turned his team and started away, Nynaeve said grudgingly, "I shouldn't have 
snapped at the man, I suppose. A bird could not make an easy way over those 
streets. Not in a carriage, at any rate. But after bouncing about all the way 
here, I feel as if I'd been on horseback a week."
"It isn't his fault you have a sore . . . back," Elayne said, with a smile to 
take away any sting, as she took up her things.
Nynaeve barked a wry laugh. "I said that, didn't I? You will not expect me to go 
running after him to apologize, I hope. That handful of silver you gave him 
should soothe any wounds short of mortal. You really must learn to be more 
careful with money, Elayne. We do not have the Realm of Andor's resources for 
our own use. A family could live comfortably for a month on what you hand out to 
everyone who does the work they've been paid to do for you." Elayne gave her a 
quietly indignant look &#8209; Nynaeve always seemed to think they should live worse 
than servants unless there was reason not to, instead of the other way around, 
as made sense &#8209; but the older woman did not appear to notice the expression that 
always put Royal Guardsmen on their toes. Instead, Nynaeve hoisted her bundles 
and sturdy cloth bags and turned down the dock. "At least this ship will be a 
smoother ride than that. I do hope smooth. Shall we go aboard?"
As they picked their way down the pier, between working men and stacked barrels 
and carts full of goods, Elayne said, "Nynaeve, the Sea Folk can be touchy until 
they know you, or so I was taught. Do you think you might try to be a little . . 
. ?"
"A little what?"
"Tactful, Nynaeve." Elayne skipped a step as someone spat on the dock in front 
of her. There was no telling which fellow had done it; when she looked around 
they all had their heads down and were hard at work. Mishandling by the High 
Lords or no, she would have said a few quietly sharp words that the culprit 
would not have soon forgotten if she could have found him. "You might try to be 
a little tactful for once."
"Of course." Nynaeve started up the raker's rope&#8209;railed gangway. "As long as 
they do not bounce me about."
Elayne's first thought on reaching the deck was that the raker appeared very 
narrow for its length; she did not know a great deal about ships, in truth, but 
to her it seemed a huge splinter. Oh, Light, this thing will toss worse than the 
carriage, however big it is. Her second was for the crew. She had heard stories 
about the Atha'an Miere, but had never seen one before. Even the stories told 
little, really. A secretive people who kept to themselves, almost as mysterious 
as the Aiel. Only the lands beyond the Waste could possibly be more strange, and 
all anyone knew of them was that the Sea Folk brought ivory and silk from there.
These Atha'an Miere were dark, barefoot and bare&#8209;chested men, all cleanly 
shaven, with straight black hair and tattooed hands, moving with the sureness of 
those who knew their tasks well enough to do them with half a mind but were 
putting their whole minds to it. There was a rolling grace to their movements, 
as though, with the ship still, they yet felt the motions of the sea. Most wore 
gold or silver chains abound their necks, and rings in their ears, sometimes two 
or three in each, and some with polished stones.
There were women among the crew, too, as many as the men, hauling ropes and 
coiling lines right with the men, with the same tattooed hands, in the same 
baggy breeches of some dark, oiled cloth, held by colorful narrow sashes and 
hanging open at the ankle. But the women wore loose colorful blouses, too, all 
brilliant reds and blues and greens, and they had at least as many chains and 
earrings as the men. Including, Elayne noticed with a small shock, two or three 
women with rings in one side of their noses.
The grace of the women outshone even that of the men, and put Elayne in mind of 
some stories she had heard as a child by listening where she was not supposed 
to. Women of the Atha'an Miere were, in those tales, the epitome of alluring 
beauty and temptation, pursued by all men. The women on this ship were no more 
beautiful than any others, really, but watching them move, she could believe 
those tales.
Two of the women, on the raised deck at the stern, were obviously not ordinary 
crew. They were barefoot, too, and their garb of the same cut, but one was 
clothed entirely in brocaded blue silks, the other in green. The older of the 
pair, the one in green, wore four small gold rings in each ear and one in the 
left side of her nose, all worked so they sparkled in the morning sunlight. A 
fine chain ran from her tiny nose ring to one earring, supporting a row of tiny 
dangling gold medallions, and one of the chains around her neck held a pierced 
golden box, like ornate gold lace, that she lifted to sniff from time to time. 
The other woman, the taller, had only six earrings in total, and fewer 
medallions. The pierced box she sniffed at was just as finely wrought gold, 
though. Exotic, indeed. Elayne winced just thinking about the nose rings. And 
that chain!
Something odd about the sterndeck itself caught her eye, but at first she could 
not tell what. Then she saw. There was no tiller for the rudder. Some sort of 
spoked wheel stood behind the women, lashed down so it could not turn, but no 
tiller. How do they steer? The smallest riverboat she had seen had had a tiller. 
There had been tillers on all the others ships lining the nearby docks. More and 
more mysterious, these Sea Folk.
"Remember what Moiraine told you," she cautioned as they approached the 
sterndeck. That had not been much; even Aes Sedai knew little about the Atha'an 
Miere. Moiraine had imparted the proper phrasings, though; the things that had 
to be said for good manners. "And remember tact," she added in a firm whisper.
"I will remember," Nynaeve replied sharply. "I can be tactful." Elayne truly 
hoped she would.
The two Sea Folk women waited for them at the top of the stairs &#8209; ladder, Elayne 
remembered, even when they were stairs. She did not understand why ships had to 
have different names for common things. A floor was a floor, in a barn or an inn 
or a palace. Why not on a ship? A cloud of perfume surrounded the two, a 
slightly musky scent, wafting from the lacy gold boxes. The tattoos on their 
hands were stars and seabirds surrounded by the curls and whirls of stylized 
waves.
Nynaeve inclined her head. "I am Nynaeve al'Meara, Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah. 
I seek the Sailmistress of this vessel, and passage, if it pleases the Light. 
This is my companion and friend, Elayne Trakand, also Aes Sedai of the Green 
Ajah. The Light illumine you and your vessel, and send the winds to speed you." 
That was almost exactly the way Moiraine had instructed them to speak. Not about 
Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah &#8209; Moiraine had seemed resigned to that more than 
anything else, and amused at their choice of Ajah &#8209; but the rest.
The older woman, with gray touches in her black hair and fine wrinkles at the 
corners of her large brown eyes, inclined her head just as formally. 
Nevertheless, she seemed to be taking them in from head to foot, especially the 
Great Serpent ring each wore on her right hand. "I am Coine din Jubai Wild 
Winds, Sailmistress of Wavedancer. This is Jorin din Jubai White Wing, my sister 
of the blood and Windfinder of Wavedancer. There may be passage available, if it 
pleases the Light. The Light illumine you, and see you safe to your journey's 
end."
It was a surprise that the two were sisters. Elayne could see the resemblance, 
but Jorin looked much younger. She wished the Windfinder were the one they had 
to deal with; both women had the same reserve, but something about the 
Windfinder reminded her of Aviendha. It was absurd, of course. These women were 
no taller than she herself, their coloring could not have been more different 
from the Aiel woman's, and the only weapon either had in sight was the stout 
knife tucked in her sash, looking very workmanlike despite carvings and 
gold&#8209;wire inlays on the handle. But Elayne could not help feeling some 
similarity, between Jorin and Aviendha, anyway.
"Let us talk then, Sailmistress, if it pleases you," Nynaeve said, following 
Moiraine's formula, "of sailings and ports, and the gift of passage." The Sea 
Folk did not charge for passage, according to Moiraine; it was a gift, which 
just coincidentally would be exchanged for a gift of equal value.
Coine glanced away, then, astern toward the Stone and the white banner rippling 
over it. "We will talk in my cabin, Aes Sedai, if it pleases you." She motioned 
toward an open hatch behind that strange wheel. "The welcome of my ship to you, 
and the grace of the Light be upon you until you leave his decks."
Another narrow ladder - staircase -  led down into a neat room, larger and 
taller than Elayne had expected from her experiences on smaller vessels, with 
windows across the stem and gimbaled lamps on the walls. Almost everything 
seemed to have been built into the room except for a few lacquered chests of 
various sizes. The bed was large and low, right under the sternwindows, and a 
narrow table surrounded by armchairs stood across the middle of the room.
There was very little clutter. Rolled charts lay on the table, a few ivory 
carvings of strange animals stood on railed shelves, and half a dozen 
bare&#8209;bladed swords of different shapes, some that Elayne had never seen before, 
rested on hooks on the walls. An oddly worked square brass gong hung from a beam 
over the bed, while right before the sternwindows, as if in a place of honor, a 
helmet sat on a featureless wooden head carved for the purpose, a helmet like 
the head of some monstrous insect, lacquered in red and green, with a narrow 
white plume to either side, one broken.
The helmet Elayne recognized. "Seanchan," she gasped before thinking. Nynaeve 
gave her a vexed look, and deservedly; they had agreed it would make more sense, 
and ring more true, if Nynaeve, as the older, took the lead and did most of the 
talking.
Coine and Jorin exchanged unreadable glances. "You know of them?" the 
Sailmistress said. "Of course. One must expect Aes Sedai to know these things. 
This far east we hear a score of stories, the truest less than half&#8209;true."
Elayne knew she should leave it at that, but curiosity tickled her tongue. "How 
did you come by the helmet? If I may ask."
"Wavedancer encountered a Seanchan ship last year," Coine replied. "They wished 
to take him, but I did not wish to give him up." She shrugged slightly. "I have 
the helmet to remind me, and the sea took the Seanchan, the Light be merciful to 
all who sail. I will not go close to a vessel with ribbed sails again."
"You were lucky," Nynaeve said curtly. "The Seanchan hold captive women who can 
channel, and make them channel as a weapon. If they had had one on that ship, 
you would be regretting ever having seen it."
Elayne grimaced at her, though it was too late. She could not tell whether the 
Sea Folk women were offended by Nynaeve's tone. The pair kept the same neutral 
expressions, but Elayne was beginning to realize they did not show very much on 
their faces, not to strangers, anyway.
"Let us speak of passage," Coine said. "If it pleases the Light, we may call 
where you wish to go. All things are possible, in the Light. Let us sit."
The chairs around the table did not slide back; they and the table were fastened 
to the floor&#8209;deck. Instead the arms swung out like gates and latched in place 
once you had sat. The arrangement seemed to bear out Elayne's dire predictions 
of heaving and pitching. She did very well with it herself, of course, but too 
much rolling on a riverboat set Nynaeve's stomach jumping. It must be worse on 
the ocean than on a river, however fierce the wind, and the worse Nynaeve's 
stomach, the worse her temper. Nynaeve sicking up and in a bad choler at the 
same time: there were few things more dreadful, in Elayne's experience.
She and Nynaeve were placed together on one side of the table, with the 
Sailmistress and the Windfinder at the ends. At first it seemed strange, until 
she realized they would both look at whichever of the two was talking, allowing 
the other to watch them unobserved. Do they always deal with passengers this 
way, or is it because we're Aes Sedai? Well, because they think we are. It was a 
caution that everything might not be as simple as they hoped with these people. 
She hoped Nynaeve was taking notice.
Elayne had not seen any order passed, but a slender young woman with only one 
ring in each ear appeared, bearing a tray with a square white brass&#8209;handled 
teapot and large handle-less cups, not of Sea Folk porcelain as might have been 
expected, but thick pottery. Less likely to be broken in heavy weather, she 
decided bleakly. It was the young woman who took her attention, though, and 
nearly brought a gasp. She was bare to the waist, just like the men above. 
Elayne hid her shock very well, she thought, but Nynaeve sniffed loudly.
The Sailmistress waited until the girl had poured tea brewed to blackness, then 
said, "Have we sailed, Dorele, when I did not see? Is there no land in sight?"
The slender woman blushed furiously. "There is land, Sailmistress." It was a 
miserable whisper.
Coine nodded. "Until there is no land in sight, and has been none for one full 
day, you will work at cleaning the bilges, where garments are a hindrance. You 
may leave."
"Yes, Sailmistress," the girl said, even more woefully. She turned away, undoing 
her red sash dejectedly as she went through the door at the far end of the room.
"Share this tea, if it please you," the Sailmistress said, "that we may talk in 
peace." She sipped at her own and continued while Elayne and Nynaeve were 
tasting theirs. "I ask that you forgive any offense, Aes Sedai. This is Dorele's 
first voyage except between the islands. The young often forget the ways of the 
shorebound. I will punish her further, if you are affronted."
"There is no need," Elayne said hastily, taking the excuse to set her cup down. 
The tea was even stronger than it looked, very hot, unsweetened and quite 
bitter. "Truly, we were not offended. There are different ways among different 
peoples." The Light send not too many more as different as that! Light, what if 
they don't wear any clothes at all once they get out to sea? Light! "Only a fool 
takes offense at customs different from her own. "
Nynaeve gave her a level look, bland enough for the Aes Sedai they were 
pretending to be, and took a deep swallow from her cup. All she said was "Please 
think no more of it." It was not possible to tell if she meant it for Elayne or 
the Sea folk women.
"Then we will speak of passage, if it pleases you," Coine said. "To what port do 
you wish to sail?"
"Tanchico," Nynaeve said, a bit more briskly than she should have. "I know you 
may not mean to sail there, but we need to go quickly, as quickly as only a 
raker can, and without stopping, if that is possible. I offer this small gift, 
for the inconvenience." She took a paper from her belt pouch and unfolded it, 
pushing it down the table to the Sailmistress.
Moiraine had given that to them, and another like it, letters&#8209;of&#8209;rights. Each 
allowed the bearer to draw up to three thousand gold crowns from bankers and 
moneylenders in various cities, though it was not likely any of those men and 
women knew it was White Tower money they held. Elayne had goggled at the amount, 
­Nynaeve had gaped openly &#8209; but Moiraine said it might be needed to make the 
Sailmistress forsake her intended ports of call.
Coine touched the letter&#8209;of&#8209;rights with one finger, read. "A vast sum for the 
gift of passage; she murmured, "even counting that you ask me to alter my 
sailing plans. I am more surprised now than before. You know that we very seldom 
carry Aes Sedai on our ships. Very seldom. Of all who ask passage, only Aes 
Sedai may be refused, and almost always are, as from the first day of the first 
sailing. Aes Sedai know this, and so almost never ask." She was looking into her 
teacup, not at them, but Elayne glanced the other way and caught the Windfinder 
studying their hands lying on the table. No, their rings.
Moiraine had not said anything about this. She had pointed out the raker as the 
swiftest ship available and encouraged them to make use of it. Then again, she 
had given them these letters&#8209;of&#8209;rights, very likely sufficient to buy a fleet of 
ships like this one. Well, several ships, at the least. Because she knew it 
would take that much to bribe them to carry us? But why had she kept secrets? A 
foolish question; Moiraine always kept secrets. But why waste their time?
"Do you mean to refuse us passage?" Nynaeve had abandoned tact for bluntness. 
"If you do not carry Aes Sedai, why did you bring us down here? Why not tell us 
up above and be done with it?"
The Sailmistress unlatched one arm of her chair, rose and went to peer out of 
the sternwindows at the Stone. Her earrings and the medallions across her left 
cheek glittered in the light of the rising sun. "He can wield the One Power, so 
I have heard, and he holds the Sword That Cannot Be Touched. The Aiel have come 
over the Dragonwall to his call; I have seen several in the streets, and it is 
said they fill the Stone. The Stone of Tear has fallen, and war breaks over the 
nations of the land. Those who once ruled have returned, and been driven back 
for the first time. Prophecy is being fulfilled."
Nynaeve looked as confounded as Elayne felt at this change of subject. "The 
Prophecies of the Dragon?" Elayne said after a moment. "Yes, they are being 
fulfilled. He is the Dragon Reborn, Sailmistress." He's a stubborn man who hides 
his feelings so deeply I cannot find them, that is what he is!
Coine turned. "Not the Prophecies of the Dragon, Aes Sedai. The Jendai Prophecy, 
the prophecy of the Coramoor. Not the one you wait for and dread; the one we 
seek, herald of a new Age. At the Breaking of the World our ancestors fled to 
the safety of the sea while the land heaved and broke as storm waves do. It is 
said they knew nothing of the ships they took to flee, but the Light was with 
them, and they survived. They did not see the land again until it was still once 
more, and by then, much had changed. All - everything &#8209; the world &#8209; drifted on 
the water and the wind. It was in the years after that the Jendai Prophecy was 
first spoken. We must wander the waters until the Coramoor returns, and serve 
him at his coming.
"We are bound to the sea; the salt water courses in our veins. Most of us set no 
foot on the land except to await another ship, another sailing. Strong men weep 
when they must serve ashore. Women ashore go onto a ship to bear their children 
&#8209; into a rowboat if no more is at hand &#8209; for we must be born on the water, as we 
must die on it, and be given to it in death.
"The Prophecy is being fulfilled. He is the Coramoor. Aes Sedai serve him. You 
are proof of that, that you are here in this city. That is in the Prophecy as 
well. 'The White Tower shall be broken by his name, and Aes Sedai shall kneel to 
wash his feet and dry them with their hair.' "
"You will have a long wait if you expect to see me wash any man's feet," Nynaeve 
said wryly. "What does this have to do with our passage? Will you take us, or 
not?"
Elayne cringed, but the Sailmistress came back just as directly. "Why do you 
wish to journey to Tanchico? It is an unpleasant port of call now. I docked 
there last winter. Shorefolk nearly swarmed my vessel seeking passage out, to 
anywhere. They did not care, so long as it was away from Tanchico. I cannot 
believe conditions are any better now."
"Do you always question your passengers so?" Nynaeve said. "I've offered you 
enough to buy a village. Two villages! If you want more, name your price."
"Not a price," Elayne hissed in her ear. "A gift!"
If Coine was offended, or even had heard, she gave no sign. "Why?"
Nynaeve took a tight grip on her braid, but Elayne laid a hand on her arm. They 
had planned to keep a few secrets themselves, but surely they had learned enough 
since sitting down to alter any plan. There was a time for secrecy and a time 
for truth. "We hunt the Black Ajah, Sailmistress. We believe some of them are in 
Tanchico." She met Nynaeve's angry stare calmly. "We must find them, else they 
may harm . . . the Dragon Reborn. The Coramoor."
"The Light see us safe to docking," the Windfinder breathed. It was the first 
time she had spoken, and Elayne stared at her in surprise. Jorin was frowning, 
and not looking at anyone, but she spoke to the Sailmistress. "We can take them, 
my sister. We must." Coine nodded.
Elayne exchanged looks with Nynaeve and saw her own questions mirrored in the 
other woman's eyes. Why was it the Windfinder who decided? Why not the 
Sailmistress? She was the captain, whatever her title. At least they were going 
to get passage after all. For how much? Elayne wondered. How large a 'gift'? She 
wished Nynaeve had not revealed that they had more than was in that one 
letter&#8209;of&#8209;rights. And she accuses me of tossing gold about.
The door opened and a heavy&#8209;shouldered gray&#8209;haired man in loose green silk 
breeches and sash came in, ruffling through a sheaf of papers. Four gold rings 
decorated each ear, and three heavy gold chains hung at his neck, including one 
with a perfume box. A long puckered scar down his cheek, and two curved knives 
tucked in his sash, gave him something of a dangerous air. He was fastening a 
peculiar wire framework over his ears to hold clear lenses in front of his eyes. 
The Sea Folk made the best looking glasses and burning lenses and the like, of 
course, somewhere on their islands, but Elayne had never seen anything like this 
device. He peered through the lenses at the papers and began talking without 
looking up.
"Coine, this fool is willing to trade me five hundred snowfox pelts from Kandor 
for those three small barrels of Two Rivers tabac I got in Ebou Dar. Five 
hundred! He can have them here by midday." His eyes rose, and he gave a start. 
"Forgive me, my wife. I did not know you had guests. The Light be with you all."
"By midday, my husband," Coine said, "I will be falling downriver. By nightfall 
I will be at sea."
He stiffened. "Am I still Cargomaster, wife, or has my place been taken while I 
did not see?"
"You are Cargomaster, husband, but the trading must stop now and preparations 
begin for getting under way. We sail for Tanchico."
"Tanchico!" The papers crumpled in his fist, and he brought himself under 
control with an effort. "Wife &#8209; No! Sailmistress, you told me our next port was 
Mayene, and then eastward to Shara. I have traded with that in mind. Shara, 
Sailmistress, not Tarabon. What I have in my holds will bring little in 
Tanchico. Perhaps nothing! May I ask why my trade is to be ruined and Wavedancer 
impoverished?"
Coine hesitated, but when she spoke her voice was still formal. "I am 
Sailmistress, my husband. Wavedancer sails when and where and I say. It must be 
enough, for now. "
"As you say, Sailmistress," he rasped, "so it is." He touched his heart &#8209; Elayne 
thought Coine flinched &#8209; and padded out with his back stiff as one of the ship's 
masts.
"I must make this up to him," Coine murmured softly, staring at the door. "Of 
course, it is pleasant making up with him. Usually. He saluted me like a 
deckboy, sister."
"We regret being a cause of trouble, Sailmistress," Elayne said carefully. "And 
we regret having witnessed this. If we have caused any embarrassment, to anyone, 
please accept our apologies."
"Embarrassment?" Coine sounded startled. "Aes Sedai, I am Sailmistress. I doubt 
your presence embarrassed Toram, and I would not apologize to him for that if it 
did. Trade is his, but I am Sailmistress. I must make up to him &#8209; and it will 
not be easy, since I must keep the reason secret still &#8209; because he is right, 
and I could not think quickly enough to give him a reason beyond what I would 
give a raw hand. That scar on his face he earned clearing the Seanchan from 
Wavedancer's decks. He has older scars earned defending my ship, and I have only 
to put out my hand to have gold placed in it because of his trading. It is the 
things I cannot tell him I must make up to him, because he deserves to know."
"I do not understand," Nynaeve said. "We would ask you to keep the Black Ajah 
secret . . ." &#8209; she shot a hard look at Elayne, one that promised hard words 
once they were alone; Elayne intended a few words of her own, about the meaning 
of tact &#8209; ". . . but surely three thousand crowns is reason enough to take us to 
Tanchico."
"I must keep you secret, Aes Sedai. What you are, and why you travel. Many among 
my crew consider Aes Sedai bad luck. If they knew they not only carried Aes 
Sedai, but toward a port where other Aes Sedai may serve the Father of Storms . 
. . . The grace of the Light shone on us that none was close enough to hear me 
call you so above. Will it offend if I ask you to keep below as much as 
possible, and not to wear your rings when on deck?"
For answer, Nynaeve plucked her Great Serpent ring off and dropped it into her 
pouch. Elayne did the same, a bit more reluctantly; she rather enjoyed having 
people see her ring. Not quite trusting Nynaeve's remaining store of diplomacy 
at this point, she spoke up before the other woman could. "Sailmistress, we have 
offered you a gift of passage, if it pleases you. If it does not, may I ask what 
would?"
Coine came back to the table to look at the letter&#8209;of&#8209;rights again, then pushed 
it back to Nynaeve. "I do this for the Coramoor. I will see you safe ashore 
where you wish, if it pleases the Light. It shall be done." She touched the 
fingers of her right hand to her lips. "It is agreed, under the Light."
Jorin made a strangled sound. "My sister, has a Cargomaster ever mutinied 
against his Sailmistress?"
Coine gave her a flat&#8209;eyed stare. "I will put in the gift of passage from my own 
chest. And if Toram ever hears of it, my sister, I will put you in the bilges 
with Dorele. For ballast, perhaps."
That the two Sea Folk women had dropped formality was confirmed when the 
Windfinder laughed aloud. "And then your next port would be in Chachin, my 
sister, or Caemlyn, for you could not find the water without me."
The Sailmistress addressed Elayne and Nynaeve regretfully. "Properly, Aes Sedai, 
since you serve the Coramoor, I should honor you as I would Sailmistress and 
Windfinder of another ship. We should bathe together and drink honeyed wine and 
tell each other stories to make ourselves laugh and weep. But I must make ready 
to sail, and - "
Wavedancer rose like his name, leaping, pounding against the dock. Elayne 
whipped back and forth in her chair, wondering as it continued whether this was 
really better than being thrown to the deck.
Then, finally, it was over, the leaps slowing, growing smaller. Coine scrambled 
to her feet and raced for the ladder, Jorin at her heels, already shouting 
orders to look for damage to the hull.
 
CHAPTER
20
 
Winds Rising
 
Elayne struggled to open the latch on an arm of her chair and darted after them, 
almost colliding with Nynaeve at the ladder. The ship still rocked, if not as 
violently as before. Uncertain whether they were sinking, she pushed Nynaeve 
ahead of her, prodding her to climb faster.
On the deck the crew dashed about, checking the rigging or peering over the side 
to inspect the hull, shouting about earthquakes. The same shouts were rising 
from the dockmen, too, but Elayne knew better, despite the tumbled things on the 
piers and the ships yet pitching at their moorings.
She stared toward the Stone. The huge fortress was still except for masses of 
startled birds swirling about and that pale banner waving, almost lazily, in an 
isolated breeze. No sign that anything had ever touched the mountainous mass. 
That had been Rand, though. She was sure of it.
She turned to find Nynaeve looking at her, and for a long moment their eyes met. 
"A fine pickling; if he's damaged the ship," Elayne said finally. "How are we 
supposed to get to Tanchico if he goes tossing all the ships about?" Light, he 
has to be all right. 1 can do nothing if he isn't. He a all right. He u.
Nynaeve touched her arm reassuringly. "No doubt that second letter of yours 
touched a nerve. Men always overreact when they let their emotions go; it's the 
price for holding them in the way they do. He may be the Dragon Reborn, but he 
must learn, man to woman, that&#8209;What are they doing here?"
"They" were two men standing amid the bustling Sea Folk on the deck. One was 
Thom Merrilin, in his gleeman's cloak, with leather&#8209;cased harp and flute on his 
back and a bundle lying at his feet beside a battered wooden box with a lock. 
The other was a lean handsome Tairen in his middle years, a hard dark man 
wearing a flat conical straw hat and one of those commoner's coats that fit 
snugly to the waist, then
flared like a short skirt. A notched sword&#8209;breaker hung at a belt worn over his 
coat, and he leaned on a pale staff of nobbly, jointed wood exactly his own 
height and no thicker than his thumb. A square&#8209;tied parcel dangled by a loop 
from his shoulder. Elayne knew him: his name was Juilin Sandar.
It was obvious the two men were strangers despite standing almost side by side; 
they held themselves with stiff reticence. Their attentions were directed the 
same way, though, split between following the Sailmistress's progress toward the 
sterndeck and peering at Elayne and Nynaeve, plainly uncertain and masking it 
behind a brisk show of confidence. Thom grinned and stroked his long white 
mustaches and nod­ded every time he looked up at the two of them; Sandar made 
solemn, self&#8209;assured bows.
"He is not damaged," Coine said, climbing the ladder. "I can sail within the 
hour, if it pleases you. Well within, if a Tairen pilot can be found. I will 
sail without him, if not, though it means never returning to Tear." She followed 
their gaze to the two men. "They ask passage, the gleeman to Tanchico, and the 
thief&#8209;catcher to wherever you travel. I cannot refuse them, and yet . . . ." Her 
dark eyes came back to Elayne and Nynaeve. "I will do so, if you ask it." 
Reluctance to break custom battled in her voice with . . . . Desire to help 
them? To serve the Coramoor? "The thief&#8209;catcher is a good man, even considering 
that he is shorebound. No offense to you, under the Light. The gleeman I do not 
know, yet a gleeman can enliven a voyage and lighten tired hours."
"You know Master Sandar?" Nynaeve said.
"Twice he has found those who pilfered from us, and found them quickly. Another 
shoreman would have taken longer so he might ask more for the work. It is 
obvious that you know him, as well. Do you wish me to refuse passage?" Her 
reluctance was still there.
"Let us see why they are here first," Nynaeve said in a flat voice that did not 
bode well for either man.
"Perhaps I should do the talking," Elayne suggested, gently but firmly. "That 
way, you can watch to see if they are hiding anything." She did not say that 
that way Nynaeve's temper would not get the better of her, but the wry smile the 
other woman gave her said she had heard it anyway.
"Very well, Elayne. I will watch them. Perhaps you might study how I keep calm. 
You know .how you are when you become overwrought."
Elayne had to laugh.
The two men straightened as she and Nynaeve approached. Around them the crew 
bustled, swarming into the rigging, hauling ropes, lashing some things down and 
unlashing others, to orders relayed from the Sailmistress. They moved around the 
four shorepeople with barely a glance.
Elayne frowned at Thom Merrilin thoughtfully. She was sure she had never seen 
the gleeman before his appearance in the Stone, yet even then she had been 
struck by something familiar about him. Not that that was likely. Gleemen were 
village performers, in the main; her mother had certainly never had one at the 
palace in Caemlyn. The only gleemen Elayne could remember seeing had been in the 
villages near her mother's country estates, and this white&#8209;haired hawk of a man 
had surely never been there.
She decided to speak to the thief&#8209;catcher first. He insisted on that, she 
remembered; what was a thief&#8209;taker elsewhere was a thief&#8209;catcher in Tear, and 
the distinction seemed important to him.
"Master Sandar," she said gravely. "You may not remember us. I am Elayne 
Trakand, and this is my friend, Nynaeve al'Meara. I understand that you wish to 
travel to the same destination as we. Might I ask why? The last time we saw you, 
you had not served us very well."
The man did not blink at the suggestion he might not remember them. His eyes 
flickered across their hands, noting the absence of rings. Those dark eyes noted 
everything, and recorded it indelibly. "I do remember, Mistress Trakand, and 
well. But, if you will forgive me, the last time I served you was in the company 
of Mat Cauthon, when we pulled you both out of the water before the silverpike 
could get you."
Nynaeve harrumphed, but not loudly. It had been a cell, not the water, and the 
Black Ajah, not silverpike. Nynaeve in particular did not like being reminded 
that they had needed help that time. Of course, they would not have been in that 
cell without Juilin Sandar. No, that was not entirely fair. True, but not 
completely fair.
"That is all very well," Elayne said briskly, "but you still haven't said why 
you want to go to Tanchico."
He drew a deep breath and eyed Nynaeve warily. Elayne was not sure that she 
liked him being more careful of the other woman than of her. "I was rousted out 
of my house no more than half an hour gone," he said carefully, "by a man you 
know, I think. A tall, stone&#8209;faced man calling himself Lan." Nynaeve's eyebrows 
rose slightly. "He came on behalf of another man you know. A . . . shepherd, I 
was told. I was given a great quantity of gold and told to accompany you. Both 
of you. I was told that if you do not return safely from this journey . . . . 
Shall we just say it would be better to drown myself than come back? Lan was 
emphatic, and the . . . shepherd no less so in his message. The Sailmistress 
tells me I cannot have passage unless you agree. I am not without certain skills 
that can be useful." The staff whirled in his hands, a whistling blur, and was 
still. His fingers touched the sword&#8209;breaker on his hip, like a short sword but 
unsharpened, its slots meant to catch a blade.
"Men will find ways to get 'round what you tell them to do," Nynaeve murmured, 
sounding not unpleased.
Elayne only frowned vexedly. Rand had sent him? He must not have read the second 
letter before he did. Burn him! Why does be leap about so? No time to send 
another letter, and it would probably only confuse him more if I did. And make 
me look a bigger fool. Burn him!
"And you, Master Merrilin?" Nynaeve said. "Did the shepherd send a gleeman after 
us, too? Or the other man? To keep us amused with your juggling and fire&#8209;eating, 
perhaps."
Thom had been scrutinizing Sandar closely, but he shifted his attentions 
smoothly and made an elegant bow, only spoiling it with a too&#8209;elaborate flourish 
of that patch&#8209;covered cloak. "Not the shepherd, Mistress al'Meara. A lady of our 
mutual acquaintance asked - asked &#8209; me to accompany you. The lady who found you 
and the shepherd in Emond's Field."
"Why?" Nynaeve said suspiciously.
"I, too, have useful skills," Thom told her with a glance at the thief&#8209;catcher. 
"Other than juggling, that is. And I have been to Tanchico several times. I know 
the city well. I can tell you where to find a good inn, and what districts are 
dangerous in daylight as well as after dark, and who must be bribed so the Civil 
Watch does not take too dose an interest in your doings. They are keen on 
watching outlanders. I can help you with a good many things."
That familiarity tickled at Elayne's mind again. Before she realized what she 
was doing, she reached up and tugged at one of his long white mustaches. He gave 
a start, and she dapped both hands to her mouth, flushing crimson. "Forgive me. 
I . . . I seemed to remember doing that before. I mean. . . . I am sorry." 
Light, why did I do that? He must think me an imbecile.
"I . . . would remember," he said, very stiffly.
She hoped he was not affronted. It was hard to tell from his expression. Men 
could be offended when they should be amused, and amused when they should be 
offended. If they were going to be traveling together . . . . That was the first 
time she realized that she had decided they could come. "Nynaeve?" she said.
The other woman understood the unspoken question, of course. She studied the two 
men thoroughly, then nodded. "They may come. As long as they agree to do as they 
are told. I'll not have some wool&#8209;brained man going his own way and endangering 
us."
"As you command, Mistress al'Meara," Sandar said immediately, with a bow, but 
Thom said, "A gleeman is a free soul, Nynaeve, but I can promise I will not 
endanger you. Far from it."
"As you are told," Nynaeve said pointedly. "Your word on it, or you will watch 
this ship sail from the dock."
"The Atha'an Miere do not refuse passage to anyone, Nynaeve."
"Do you think not? Was the thief&#8209;taker" &#8209; Sandar winced &#8209; "the only one told he 
needed our permission? As you are told, Master Merrilin."
Thom tossed his white head like a fractious horse and breathed heavily, but 
finally he nodded. "My word on it, Mistress al'Meara."
"Very well then," Nynaeve said in a bracing voice. "It is settled. You two find 
the Sailmistress now, and tell her I said to find the pair of you a cubbyhole 
somewhere if she can, out of our way. Off with you, now. Quickly."
Sandar bowed again and left; Thom quivered visibly before joining him, 
stiff&#8209;backed.
"Are you not being too hard on them?" Elayne said as soon as they were out of 
earshot. That was not far, with all the hurly&#8209;burly on deck. "We do have to 
travel together, after all. 'Smooth words make smooth companions."'
"Best to begin as we mean to go on. Elayne, Thom Merrilin knows very well we are 
not full Aes Sedai." She lowered her voice and glanced around as she said it. 
None of the crew was even looking at them, except for the Sailmistress, back 
near the sterndeck where she was listening to the tall gleeman and the 
thief&#8209;catcher. "Men talk &#8209; they always do &#8209; so Sandar will know it soon enough, 
as well. They'd present no trouble to Aes Sedai, but two Accepted . . . ? Given 
half a chance, they would both be doing things they thought for the best no 
matter what we said. I do not mean to give them even that half&#8209;chance."
"Perhaps you are right. Do you think they know why we are going to Tanchico?"
Nynaeve sniffed. "No, or they'd not be so sanguine, I think. And I would rather 
not tell them until we must." She gave Elayne a meaningful look; there was no 
need for her to say she would not have told the Sailmistress, either, had it 
been left to her. "Here is a saying for you. 'Borrow trouble, and you repay 
tenfold.' "
"You speak as if you don't trust them, Nynaeve." She would have said the other 
woman was behaving like Moiraine, but Nynaeve would not appreciate the 
comparison.
"Can we? Juilin Sandar betrayed us once before. Yes, yes, I know no man could 
have avoided it, but there it is just the same. And Liandrin and the others know 
his face. We will have to put him in different clothes. Perhaps make him let his 
hair grow longer. Perhaps a mustache, like that thing infesting the gleeman's 
face. It might do."
"And Thom Merrilin?" Elayne asked. "I think we can trust him. I don't know why, 
but I do."
"He admitted being sent by Moiraine," Nynaeve said wearily. "What has he not 
admitted, though? What did she tell him that he hasn't told us? Is he meant to 
help us, or something else? Moiraine plays her own game so often, I trust her 
this much more than I do Liandrin." She held her thumb and forefinger half an 
inch apart. "She will use us &#8209; you and me both &#8209; use us up, if it helps Rand. Or 
rather, if it helps whatever she has planned for Rand. She would leash him for a 
lapdog if she could."
"Moiraine knows what has to be done, Nynaeve." For once she was reluctant to 
admit that. What Moiraine knew had to be done might well speed Rand on his way 
toward Tarmon Gai'don that much faster. On his way toward death, perhaps. Rand 
balanced against the world. It was silly &#8209; foolish and childish &#8209; that those 
scales should tremble so evenly for her. Yet she did not dare make them swing, 
even in her mind, because she was not sure which way she would send them. "She 
knows it better than he does," she said, making her voice firm. "Better than 
we."
"Perhaps." Nynaeve sighed. "But I do not have to like it."
Ropes were cast off at the bow, where triangular sails suddenly broke out, and 
Wavedancer heeled away from the dock. More sails appeared, great white squares 
and triangles, the sternlines were cast off, and the ship curled out into the 
river in a great arc through the anchored ships awaiting their turn at the 
docks, a smooth curve that ended heading south, downriver. The Sea Folk handled 
their ship as a master horseman would a fine steed. That peculiar spoked wheel 
worked the rudder, somehow, as one of the bare&#8209;chested crewmen turned it. A man, 
Elayne was relieved to see. Sailmistress and Windfinder stood to one side of the 
wheel, Coine issuing occasional orders, sometimes after a murmured consultation 
with her sister. Toram watched for a time, with a face that might, have been 
carved from a deck plank, then stalked below.
There was a Tairen on the sterndeck, a plump, dejected&#8209;looking man in a dull 
yellow coat with puffy gray sleeves, rubbing his hands nervously. He had been 
hustled aboard just as the gangway was being hauled up, a pilot who was supposed 
to guide Wavedancer downriver; according to Tairen law, no ship could pass 
through the Fingers of the Dragon without a Tairen pilot aboard. His dejection 
certainly came from doing nothing, for if he gave any directions, the Sea Folk 
paid them no heed.
Muttering about seeing what their cabin was like, Nynaeve went downstairs­ - 
below &#8209; but Elayne was enjoying the breeze across the deck and the feel of 
starting out. To travel, to see places she had not seen before, was a joy in 
itself. She had never expected to, not like this. The Daughter&#8209;Heir of Andor 
might make a few state visits, and she would make more once she succeeded to the 
throne, but they would be bounded about with ceremony and propriety. Not like 
this at all. Barefoot Sea Folk and a ship headed to sea.
The riverbank slid by quite quickly as the sun climbed, an occasional duster of 
huddled stone farmhouses and barns, bleak and lonely, appearing and vanishing 
behind. No villages, though. Tear would not allow the smallest village on the 
river between the city and the sea, for even the tiniest might one day become 
competition for the capital. The High Lords controlled the size of villages and 
towns throughout the country with a buildings tax that grew heavier the more 
buildings there were. Elayne was sure they would never have allowed Godan to 
thrive, on the Bay of Remara, if not for the supposed necessity of a strong 
presence overlooking Mayene. In a way it was a relief to be leaving such foolish 
people behind. If only she did not have to leave one foolish man behind as well.
The number of fishing boats, most small and all surrounded by clouds of hopeful 
gulls and fisher&#8209;birds, increased the farther south Wavedancer went, especially 
once the vessel entered the maze of waterways called the Fingers of the Dragon. 
Often the birds overhead and the long poles that held the nets were all that was 
visible besides plains of reeds and knifegrass rippling in the breezes, dotted 
with low islands where odd, twisted trees grew with spidery tangles of roots 
exposed to the air. Many boats worked right in the reeds, though not with nets. 
Once Elayne saw some of them dose to dear water, men and women dropping hooked 
lines into the watery growth and pulling up wriggling, dark&#8209;striped fish as long 
as a man's arm.
The Tairen pilot began to pace anxiously once they were in the delta, with the 
sun overhead, turning up his nose at an offered bowl of thick spicy fish stew 
and bread. Elayne ate hers hungrily, wiping her pottery bowl with the last scrap 
of bread, though she shared his unease. Passages broad and narrow ran in every 
direction. Some ended abruptly, in plain sight, against a wall of reeds. There 
was no way to tell which of the others might not vanish just as suddenly around 
the next bend. Coine did not slow Wavedancer, regardless, or hesitate at 
choosing a way. Obviously she knew the channels to take, or the Windfinder did, 
but the pilot still muttered to himself as if he expected to run aground any 
moment.
It was late afternoon when the river mouth suddenly appeared ahead, and the 
endless stretch of the Sea of Storms beyond. The Sea Folk did something with the 
sails, and the ship shuddered softly to a dead halt. It was only then that 
Elayne noticed a large rowboat skittering like a many&#8209;legged waterbug out from 
an island where a few forlorn stone buildings stood around the base of a tall 
narrow tower where men stood small at the top beneath the banner of Tear, three 
white crescents on a field of red and gold. The pilot took the purse Coine 
proffered without a word and scrambled down a rope ladder to the boat. As soon 
as he was aboard, the sails were swung about again, and Wavedancer breasted the 
first rollers of open sea, rising slightly, slicing through. Sea Folk scampered 
through the rigging, setting more sails, as the ship sped south and west, away 
from the land.
When the last thin strip of land dropped below the horizon, the Sea Folk women 
doffed their blouses. All of them, even the Sailmistress and the Windfinder. 
Elayne did not know where to look. All those women walking about half&#8209;dressed 
and completely unconcerned by the men all around them. Juilin Sandar seemed to 
be having as hard a time as she was, alternating between staring at the women 
wide&#8209;eyed and staring at his feet until he finally all but ran below. Elayne 
would not let herself be routed that way. She opted for staring over the side at 
the sea, instead.
Different customs, she reminded herself. As long they don't expect me to do the 
same. The very thought nearly made her laugh hysterically. Somehow, the Black 
Ajah was easier to contemplate than that. Different customs. Light!
The sky grew purple, with a dull golden sun on the horizon. Scores of dolphins 
escorted the vessel, rolling and arching alongside, and farther out some sort of 
sparkling silver&#8209;blue fish rose above the surface in schools, gliding on 
outstretched fins a span across for fifty paces or more before plunging back 
into the swelling gray&#8209;green water. Elayne watched in amazement for a dozen 
flights before they did not appear again.
But the dolphins, great sleek shapes, were wondrous enough, a guard of honor 
taking Wavedancer back where he belonged. Those she recognized from descriptions 
in books; it was said if they found you drowning, they would push you to shore. 
She was not sure she believed it, but it was a pretty story. She followed them 
along the side of the ship, to the bow, where they frolicked in the bow wave, 
rolling on their sides to look up at her without losing an inch.
She was almost in the narrowest point of the bow before she realized Thom 
Merrilin was there before her, smiling down at the dolphins a bit sadly, his 
cloak catching the wind like the cloud of sails above. He had rid himself of his 
belongings. He did seem familiar; truly he did. "Are you not happy, Master 
Merrilin?"
He glanced at her sideways. "Please, call me Thom, my Lady."
"Thom, then. But not my Lady. I am only Mistress Trakand here."
"As you say, Mistress Trakand," he said with a hint of a smile.
"How can you look at these dolphins and be unhappy, Thom?"
"They are free," he murmured, in such a tone that she was not sure he was 
answering her. "They have no decisions to make, no prices to pay. Not a worry in 
the world, except finding fish to eat. And sharks, I suppose. And lionfish. And 
likely a hundred more things I don't know. Perhaps it is not such an enviable 
life at that."
"Do you envy them?" He did not answer, but that was the wrong question anyway. 
She needed to make him smile again. No, laugh. For some reason she was sure if 
she could make him laugh, she would remember where she had seen him before. She 
chose another topic, one that should be nearer his heart. "Do you mean to 
compose the epic of Rand, Thom?" Epics were for bards, not gleemen, but there 
could be no harm in a little flattery. "The epic of the Dragon Reborn. Loial 
means to write a book, you know."
"Perhaps I will, Mistress Trakand. Perhaps. But neither my composing nor the 
Ogier's book will make much difference in the long run. Our stories will not 
survive, in the long run. When the next Age comes &#8209; " He grimaced, and tugged 
one of his mustaches. "Come to think of it, that may be no more than a year or 
two off. How is the end of an Age marked? It cannot always be a cataclysm on the 
order of the Breaking. But then, if the Prophecies are to be believed, this one 
will be. That is the trouble with prophecy. The original is always in the Old 
Tongue, and maybe High Chant as well: if you don't know what a thing means 
beforehand, there's no way to puzzle it out. Does it mean what it says, or is it 
a flowery way of saying something entirely different?"
"You were talking of your epic," she said, trying to guide him back, but he 
shook his shaggy white head.
"I was talking of change. My epic, if I compose it &#8209; and Loial's book &#8209; will be 
no more than seed, if we are both lucky. Those who know the truth will die, and 
their grandchildren's grandchildren will remember something different. And their 
grand­children's grandchildren something else again. Two dozen generations, and 
you may be the hero of it, not Rand."
"Me?" she laughed.
"Or maybe Mat, or Lan. Or even myself." He grinned at her, warming his weathered 
face. "Thom Merrilin. Not a gleeman &#8209; but what? Who can say? Not eating fire, 
but breathing it. Hurling it about like an Aes Sedai." He flourished his cloak. 
"Thom Merrilin, the mysterious hero, toppling mountains and raising up kings." 
The grin became a rich belly laugh. "Rand al'Thor may be lucky if the next Age 
remembers his name correctly."
She was right; it was not just a feeling. That face, that mirth&#8209;filled laugh; 
she did remember them. But from where? She had to keep him talking. "Does it 
always happen that way? I do not think anyone doubts, say, that Artur Hawkwing 
conquered an empire. The whole world, or near enough."
"Hawkwing, young Mistress? He made an empire, all right, but do you think he did 
everything the books and stories and epics say he did? The way they say he did 
it? Killed the hundred best men of an opposing army, one by one? The two armies 
just stood there while one of the generals &#8209; a king &#8209; fought a hundred duels?"
"The books say he did."
"There isn't time between sunrise and sunset for one man to fight a hundred 
duels, girl." She almost stopped him short - girl? She was Daughter&#8209;Heir of 
Andor, not girl &#8209; but he had the bit in his teeth. "And that is only a thousand 
years back. Go back further, back to the oldest tales I know, from the Age 
before the Age of Legends. Did Mosk and Merk really fight with spears of fire, 
and were they even giants? Was Elsbet really queen of the whole world, and was 
Anla really her sister? Was Anla truly the Wise Counselor, or was it someone 
else? As well ask what sort of animal ivory comes from, or what kind of plant 
grows silk. Unless that comes from an animal, too."
"I do not know about those other questions," Elayne said a bit stiffly; being 
called girl still rankled, "but you could ask the Sea Folk about ivory and 
silk."
He laughed again &#8209; as she had hoped, though it still did no more than drive home 
the certainty that she knew him &#8209; but instead of calling her foolish, as she 
half&#8209;expected and was prepared for, he said, "Practical and to the point, just 
like your mother. Both feet on the earth and few flights of fancy."
She lifted her chin a little, made her face cooler. She might be passing herself 
off as simple Mistress Trakand, but this was something else. He was an amiable 
old man, and she did want to reason out the puzzle of him, but he was a gleeman 
after all, and he should not speak of a queen in such familiar tones. Oddly, 
infuriatingly, he appeared amused. Amused!
"The Atha'an Miere do not know, either," he said. "They see no more of the lands 
beyond the Aiel Waste than a few miles around the handful of harbors where they 
are permitted to land. Those places are walled high, and the walls guarded so 
they cannot even climb up to see what is on the other side. If one of their 
ships makes landfall anywhere else &#8209; or any ship not theirs; only the Sea Folk 
are allowed to come there &#8209; that ship and its crew are never seen again. And 
that is almost as much as I can tell you after more years of asking than I like 
to think of. The Atha'an Miere keep their secrets, but I do not believe they 
know much to keep here. From what I have been able to learn, the Cairhienin were 
treated the same, when they still had the right to travel the Silk Path across 
the Waste. Cairhienin traders never saw anything but one walled town, and those 
who wandered from it vanished."
Elayne found herself studying him much as she had the dolphins. What kind of man 
was this? Twice now he might have laughed at her &#8209; he bad been amused just then, 
as much as she hated to admit it &#8209; but instead he talked to her as seriously as 
. . . . Well, as father to daughter. "You might find a few answers on this ship, 
Thom. They were bound east until we convinced the Sailmistress to take us to 
Tanchico. To Shara, the Cargomaster said, east of Mayene; that must mean beyond 
the Waste."
He stared at her for a moment. "Shara, you say? I have never heard any such name 
before. Is Shara city or nation or both? Perhaps I will learn a little more."
What did I say? she wondered. I said something to make him think. Light! 1 told 
him we convinced Coine to change her plans. It could not make any difference, 
but she scolded herself severely. A careless word to this nice old man might do 
no harm, but the same might kill her in Tanchico, and Nynaeve, too, not to 
mention the thief&#8209;catcher and Thom himself. If he was such a nice old man. 
"Thom, why did you come with us? Just because Moiraine asked?"
His shoulders shook; she realized he was laughing at himself. "As to that, who 
can say? Aes Sedai asking favors are not easily resisted. Perhaps it was the 
prospect of your pleasant company for the voyage. Or perhaps I decided Rand is 
old enough to look after himself for a while."
He laughed out loud, and she had to laugh with him. The idea of this 
white&#8209;haired old fellow looking after Rand. The feeling that she could trust him 
came back, stronger than ever, as he looked at her. Not because he could laugh 
at himself, or not only that. She could not have given a reason beyond the fact 
that, looking up into those blue eyes, she could not make herself believe this 
man would ever do anything to harm her.
The urge to pull one of his mustaches again was almost overwhelming, but she 
schooled her hands to stillness. She was not a child, after all. A child. She 
opened her mouth &#8209; and suddenly everything went out of her head.
"Please excuse me, Thom," she said hurriedly. "I must. . . . Excuse me." She 
started toward the stern quickly, not waiting for a reply. He probably thought 
the ship's motion had upset her stomach. Wavedancer was pitching more rapidly, 
moving faster through the great sea swells as the wind freshened.
Two men stood at the wheel on the sterndeck, the muscle of both needed to hold 
the vessel on course. The Sailmistress was not on deck, but the Windfinder was, 
standing at the rail beyond the wheelmen, bare to the waist like the men, 
studying the sky where billowing clouds rolled more fiercely than the ocean. For 
once it was not Jorin's state of dress &#8209; or undress &#8209; that bothered Elayne. The 
glow of a woman embracing saidar surrounded her, dearly visible despite the 
lurid light. That was what she had felt, what had drawn her. A woman channeling.
Elayne stopped short of the sterndeck to study what she was doing. The flows of 
Air and Water the Windfinder handled were cable&#8209;thick, yet her weaving was 
intricate, almost delicate, and it reached as far as the eye could see across 
the waters, a web drawn across the sky. The wind rose higher, higher; the 
wheelmen strained, and Wavedancer flew through the sea. The weaving stopped, the 
glow of saidar vanished, and Jorin slumped at the rail, leaning on her hands.
Elayne climbed the ladder quietly, yet the Sea Folk woman spoke in a soft voice 
without turning her head as soon as she was near enough to hear. "In the middle 
as I worked, I thought that you were watching me. I could not stop then; there 
might have been a storm even Wavedancer could not survive. The Sea of Storms is 
well named; it will throw up bad winds enough without my help. I meant not to do 
this at all, but Coine said we must go quickly. For you, and for the Coramoor." 
She raised her eyes to peer at the sky. "This wind will hold until morning, if 
it pleases the Light."
"This is why the Sea Folk do not carry Aes Sedai?" Elayne said, taking a place 
beside her at the rail. "So the Tower won't learn Windfinders can channel. That 
is why it was your decision to let us aboard, not your sister's. Jorin, the 
Tower will not try to stop you. There is no law in the Tower to stop any woman 
channeling, even if she is not Aes Sedai."
"Your White Tower will interfere. It will try to reach onto our ships, where we 
are free of the land and landsmen. It will try to tie us to itself, binding us 
away from the sea." She sighed heavily. "The wave that has passed cannot be 
called back."
Elayne wished she could tell her it was not so, but the Tower did seek out women 
and girls who could learn to channel, both to bolster the numbers of Aes Sedai, 
dwindling now compared to what they once had been, and because of the danger of 
learning unguided. In truth, a woman who could be taught to touch the True 
Source usually found herself in the Tower whatever she wanted, at least until 
she was trained enough not to kill herself or others by accident.
After a moment Jorin went on. "It is not all of us. Only some. We send a few 
girls to Tar Valon so Aes Sedai will not come looking among us. No ship will 
carry Aes Sedai whose Windfinder can weave the winds. When you first named 
yourselves, I thought you must know me, but you did not speak, and you asked 
passage, and I hoped perhaps you were not Aes Sedai despite your rings. A 
foolish hope. I could feel the strength of you both. And now the White Tower 
will know."
"I cannot promise to keep your secret, but I will do what I can." The woman 
deserved more. "Jorin, I swear by the honor of House Trakand of Andor that I 
will do my best to keep your secret from any who would harm you or your people, 
and that if I must reveal it to anyone, I will do all in my ability to protect 
your people from interference. House Trakand is not without influence, even in 
the Tower." And I will make mother use it, if need be. Somehow.
"If it pleases the Light," Jorin said fatalistically, "all will be well. All 
will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of thing will be well, if it 
pleases the Light."
"There was a damane on that Seanchan ship, wasn't there?" The Windfinder gave 
her a quizzical look. "One of the captive women who can channel."
"You see deeply for one so young. That is why I first thought you might not be 
Aes Sedai, because you are so young; I have daughters older than you, I think. I 
did not know she was a captive; that makes me wish we could have saved her. 
Wavedancer outran the Seanchan vessel easily at first &#8209; we had heard of the 
Seanchan and their vessels with ribbed sails, that they demanded strange oaths 
and punished those who would not give them &#8209; but then the &#8209; damane? &#8209; broke two 
of his masts, and they boarded him with swords. I managed to start fires on the 
Seanchan vessel &#8209; weaving Fire is difficult for me beyond lighting a lamp, but 
it pleased the Light to make it enough &#8209; and Toram led the crew to fight the 
Seanchan back to their own decks. We cut loose the boarding hooks, and their 
ship drifted away, burning. They were too occupied with trying to save him to 
bother us as we limped away. I regretted seeing him burn and sink, then; he was 
a fine ship, I think, for heavy seas. Now I regret it because we might have 
saved the woman, the damane. Even if she damaged him, perhaps she would not 
have, free. The Light illumine her soul, and the waters take her peacefully."
Telling the story had saddened her. She needed to be distracted. "Jorin, why do 
the Atha'an Miere call ships 'he'? Everyone else I've ever met calls them 'she.' 
I don't suppose it makes any difference, but why?"
"The men will give you a different answer," the Windfinder said, smiling, 
"speaking of strength and grandness and the like as men will, but this is the 
truth. A ship is alive, and he is like a man, with a true man's heart." She 
rubbed the rail fondly, as if stroking something alive, something that could 
feel her caress. "Treat him well and care for him properly, and he will fight 
for you against the worst sea. He will fight to keep you alive even after the 
sea has long since given him his own deathstroke. Neglect him, though, ignore 
the small warnings he gives of danger, and he will drown you in a flat sea 
beneath a cloudless sky."
Elayne hoped Rand was not as fickle as that. Then why does he hop about, glad to 
see me go one minute and sending Juilin Sandar after me the next? She told 
herself to stop thinking about him. He was a long way away. There was nothing to 
be done about him now.
She glanced over her shoulder toward the bow. Thom was gone. She was sure she 
had found the key to his puzzle, just before she had felt the Windfinder 
channeling. Something to do with his smile. It was gone, whatever it was. Well, 
she meant to find it again before they reached Tanchico, if she had to sit on 
him. But he would still be there in the morning. "Jorin, how long before we 
reach Tanchico? I have been told rakers are the fastest ships in the world, but 
how fast?"
"To Tanchico? To serve the Coramoor, we will not stop at any port between. 
Perhaps ten days, if I can weave the winds well enough, if it pleases the Light 
that I find the proper currents. Perhaps as few as seven or eight, with the 
grace of the Light."
"Ten days?" Elayne gasped. "It cannot be possible." She had seen maps, after 
all.
The other woman's smile was half pride, half indulgence. "As you yourself said, 
the fastest ships in the world. The next quickest take half again as long over 
any stretch, and most more than twice as long. Coasting craft that hug the shore 
and anchor in the shallows each night . . ." She sniffed contemptuously. ". . . 
require ten times as much."
"Jorin, would you teach me to do what you were just doing?"
The Windfinder stared, her dark eyes wide and shining in the fading light. 
"Teach you? But you are Aes Sedai."
"Jorin, I have never woven a flow half as thick as those you were handling. And 
the scope of it! I am astounded, Jorin."
The Windfinder stared a moment more, no longer in amazement, but as if trying to 
fix Elayne's face in her mind. Finally she kissed the fingers of her right hand 
and pressed them to Elayne's lips. "If it pleases the Light, we both shall 
learn."
 
CHAPTER
21
 
Into the Heart
 
Tairen nobility filled the great vaulted chamber with its huge polished redstone 
columns, ten feet thick, rising into shadowed heights above golden lamps hanging 
on golden chains. The High Lords and Ladies were arrayed in a thick hollow 
circle under the great dome at the chamber's heart with the lesser nobles ranked 
behind, row on row back into the forest of columns, all in their best velvets 
and silks and laces, wide sleeves and ruffed collars and peaked hats, all 
murmuring uneasily so the towering ceiling echoed the sounds of nervous geese. 
Only the High Lords themselves had ever before been bidden to this place, called 
the Heart of the Stone, and they had come only four times a year, at the twin 
demands of law and custom. They came now, all who were not out in the 
countryside somewhere, at the summons of their new lord, the maker of law and 
breaker of custom.
The packed crowd gave way before Moiraine as soon as they saw who she was, so 
she and Egwene moved in a pocket of open space. Lan's absence irritated 
Moiraine. It was not like the man to vanish when she might need him; his way 
usually was to watch over her as if she could not fend for herself without a 
guardian. Had she not been able to feel the bond linking them and known he could 
not be very far from the Stone, she might have worried.
He fought the strings Nynaeve was tying to him as hard as he had ever fought 
Trollocs in the Blight, but much as he might deny it, that young woman had bound 
him as tightly as she herself did, though in other ways. He might as well try 
tearing steel with his hands as those ties. She was not jealous, exactly, but 
Lan had been her sword arm, her shield and companion for too many years for her 
to give him up lightly. I have done what had to be done, there. She will have 
him if I die, and not before. Where is the man? What it he doing?
One red&#8209;gowned lace&#8209;ruffed woman, a horse&#8209;faced Lady of the Land called Leitha, 
drew her skirts away a bit too assiduously, and Moiraine looked at her. Merely 
looked, without slowing her step, but the woman shuddered and dropped her eyes. 
Moiraine nodded to herself. She could accept that these people hated Aes Sedai, 
but she would not endure open rudeness on top of veiled slights. Besides, the 
rest shied back another step after seeing Leitha faced down.
"Are you certain he said nothing of what he means to announce?" she asked 
quietly. In this gabble, no one three paces away could have made out a word. The 
Tairens kept about that distance now. She did not like being overheard.
"Nothing," Egwene said just as softly. She sounded as irritated as Moiraine 
felt.
"There have been rumors."
"Rumors? What sort of rumors?"
The girl was not that good at controlling her face and voice; dearly she had not 
heard the tales of doings in the Two Rivers. Betting that Rand had not, though, 
might be putting her horse at a ten&#8209;foot fence. "You should bring him to confide 
in you. He needs an attentive ear. It will help him, to talk out his troubles 
with someone he can trust." Egwene gave her a sidelong glance. She was becoming 
too sophisticated for such simple methods. Still, Moiraine had spoken unadorned 
truth &#8209; the boy did need someone to listen and by listening lighten his burdens 
&#8209; and it might work.
"He will not confide in anyone, Moiraine. He hides his pains, and hopes he can 
deal with them before anyone notices." Anger flashed across Egwene's face. "The 
wool&#8209;brained mule!"
Moiraine felt a momentary sympathy. The girl could not be expected to accept 
Rand's strolling about arm in arm with Elayne, kissing in corners where they 
thought themselves unseen. And Egwene did not know the half, yet. Commiseration 
did not last. There was too much of importance to deal with for the girl to be 
fretting over what she could not have in any case.
Elayne and Nynaeve should be aboard the raker by now, out of the way. Their 
voyage might eventually tell her if her suspicions about the Windfinders were 
correct. That was a minor point, though. At worst the pair had enough gold to 
buy a ship and hire a crew &#8209; which might be necessary given the rumors of 
Tanchico &#8209; with enough left for the bribes so often necessary with Taraboner 
officials. Thom Merrilin's room was empty, and her informants had reported him 
muttering about Tanchico on his way out of the Stone; he would see they got a 
good crew and found the right officials. The purported plan with Mazrim Taim was 
much the more likely of the two, but her messages to the Amyrlin should have 
taken care of that. The two young women could handle the much less likely 
eventuality of a mysterious danger hidden in Tanchico, and they were out of her 
hair and away from Rand. She only regretted that Egwene had refused to go with 
them. Tar Valon would have been best for all three, but Tanchico would do.
"Speaking of wool&#8209;brained, do you mean to continue with this plan to go into the 
Waste?"
"I do," the girl said firmly. She needed to be back in the Tower, training her 
strength. What was Siuan thinking of? She will probably give me one of those 
sayings about boats and fish, when I can ask her.
At least Egwene would be out of the way, too, and the Aiel girl would look after 
her. Perhaps the Wise Ones really could teach her something of Dreaming. That 
had been the most astounding letter from them, not that she could afford to heed 
most of it. Egwene's journey into the Waste might be useful in the long run.
The last line of Tairens gave way, making a little hollow, and she and Egwene 
faced the open area under the vast dome. The nobles' ill ease was most evident 
here; many studied their feet like sulky children, and others stared at nothing, 
looking at anything but where they were. Here was where Callandor had been kept 
before Rand took it. Here beneath this dome, untouched by any hand for more than 
three thousand years, untouchable by any hand but that of the Dragon Reborn. 
Tairens did not like admitting that the Heart of the Stone existed.
"Poor woman," Egwene murmured.
Moiraine followed the girl's gaze. The High Lady Alteima, already gowned and 
ruffed and capped in shimmering white as Tairen widows were though her husband 
still lingered, was perhaps the most composed of all the nobles. She was a 
slender, lovely woman, made more so by her small sad smile, with large brown 
eyes and long black hair hanging halfway to her waist. A tall woman, though 
Moiraine admitted she did tend to judge such things by her own height, and 
rather too full&#8209;bosomed. Cairhienin were not a tall people, and she had been 
considered short even among them.
"Yes, a poor woman," she said, but she did not mean it for sympathy. It was good 
to see Egwene had not yet grown sophisticated enough to see beneath the surface 
all the time. The girl was already far less malleable than she should have been 
for years yet. She needed to be shaped before she was hardened.
Thom had missed, with Alteima. Or perhaps he had not wanted to see; he seemed to 
have a strange reluctance to move against women. The High Lady Alteima was far 
more dangerous than her husband or her lover, both of whom she had manipu­lated 
without either knowing it. Perhaps more dangerous than anyone else in Tear, man 
or woman. She would find others to use soon enough. It was Alteima's style to 
re­main in the background and pull strings. Something would have to be done 
about her.
Moiraine shifted her gaze along the rows of High Lords and Ladies, until she 
found Estanda, in brocaded yellow silks with a large ivory lace ruff and a tiny 
matching cap. A certain sternness marred the beauty of her face, and the 
occasional glances she gave Alteima were iron hard. Feelings between the two 
went beyond mere rivalry; had they been men, one would have shed the other's 
blood in a duel years since. If that antagonism could be sharpened, Alteima 
would be too busy to make trouble for Rand.
For an instant she regretted sending Thom away. She did not like having to waste 
her time with these petty affairs. But he had too much influence with Rand; the 
boy had to depend on her counsel. Hers, and hers alone. The Light knew he was 
difficult enough without interference. Thom had been settling the boy down to 
rule Tear when he needed to be moving on to greater things. But that was dealt 
with for now. The problem of bringing Thom Merrilin to heel could be managed 
later. Rand was the dilemma now. What did he mean to announce?
"Where is he? He has learned the first art of kings, it seems. Making people 
wait."
She did not realize she had spoken aloud until Egwene gave her a startled look. 
She smoothed the irritation from her face immediately. Rand would appear 
eventually, and she would learn what he meant to do. Learn along with everyone 
else. She nearly ground her teeth. That blind fool of a boy, running headlong 
through the night with never a care for cliffs, never thinking he could carry 
the world over as well as himself.
If only she could keep him from rushing back to save his village. He would want 
to, but he could not afford to do so now. Perhaps he did not know; it could be 
hoped.
Mat stood across from them, uncombed and slouching with his hands in the pockets 
of his high&#8209;collared green coat. It was half&#8209;unbuttoned, as usual, and his boots 
were scuffed, in sharp contrast to the precise elegance around him. He shifted 
nervously as he saw her looking at him, then gave one of his rudely defiant 
grins. At least he was here, under her eye. Mat Cauthon was an exhausting young 
man to keep track of, avoiding her spies with ease; he never gave any sign that 
he knew they were there, but her eyes&#8209;and&#8209;ears reported that he seemed to slide 
out of sight whenever they got too dose.
"I think he sleeps in his coats," Egwene said disapprovingly. "On purpose. I 
wonder where Perrin is." She went on tiptoes, trying to search over the heads of 
the assemblage. "I don't see him."
Frowning, Moiraine scanned the crowd, not that she could make out much beyond 
the front row. Lan could have been back among the columns. She would not strain, 
though, or jump up on her toes like an anxious child. Lan was due a talking&#8209;to 
he would not soon forget when she laid hands on him. With Nynaeve tugging at him 
one way and ta'veren &#8209; Rand, at least &#8209; seemingly pulling another, she sometimes 
wondered how well their bond still held. At least his time with Rand was useful; 
it gave her another string to the young man.
"Perhaps he is with Faile," Egwene said. "He won't have run away, Moiraine. 
Perrin has a strong sense of duty."
Almost as strong as a Warder's, Moiraine knew, which was why she did not keep 
eyes&#8209;and&#8209;ears on him as she tried to with Mat. "Faile has been trying to talk 
him into leaving, girl." Quite possibly he was with her; he usually was. "Do not 
look so surprised. They often talk &#8209; and argue &#8209; where they can be overheard."
"I am not surprised you know," Egwene said dryly, "only that Faile would try to 
talk him out of what he knows he has to do."
"Perhaps she does not believe it as he does." Moiraine had not believed it 
herself, at first, had not seen it. Three ta'veren, all the same age, coming out 
of one village; she must have been blind not to realize they had to be 
connected. Everything had become much more complicated with that knowledge. Like 
trying to juggle three of Thom's colored balls one&#8209;handed and blindfolded; she 
had seen Thom do that, but she would not want to try. There was no guide to how 
they were connected, or what they were supposed to do; the Prophecies never 
mentioned companions.
"I like her," Egwene said. "She is good for him, just what he needs. And she 
cares for him deeply."
"I suppose she does." If Faile became too troublesome, Moiraine would have to 
have a talk with her, about the secrets Faile had been keeping from Perrin. Or 
have one of her eyes&#8209;and&#8209;ears do it. That should settle her down.
"You say it as if you don't believe it. They love each other, Moiraine. Can't 
you see that? Can't you even recognize a human emotion when you see one?"
Moiraine gave her a firm look, one that settled her on her heels in a 
satisfactory manner. The girl knew so little and thought she knew so much. 
Moiraine was about to tell her so in withering fashion when startled, even 
fearful, gasps rose from among the Tairens.
The crowd gave way hurriedly, more than eagerly, those in front ruthlessly 
forcing those behind farther back, opening a wide passage to the space beneath 
the dome. Rand strode down that corridor, looking straight ahead, imperious in a 
red coat embroidered with golden scrolls up his sleeves, cradling Callandor in 
his right arm like a scepter. It was not only he that made the Tairens give way, 
though. Behind him came perhaps a hundred Aiel, spears and arrow&#8209;nocked bows in 
hand, shoufa wrapped around their heads, black veils hiding everything but their 
eyes. Moiraine thought she recognized Rhuarc at the front, just behind Rand, but 
only by the way he moved. They were anonymous. Ready for killing. Plainly, 
whatever he meant to say, Rand intended to quell any resistance before it had a 
chance to coalesce.
The Aiel halted, but Rand kept on until he stood centered under the dome, then 
ran his eye around the gathering. He seemed surprised, and perhaps upset, at the 
sight of Egwene, but he gave Moiraine an infuriating smile, and Mat one that 
made the pair of them look like boys when Mat returned it. The Tairens were 
white&#8209;faced, not knowing whether to stare at Rand and Callandor or the veiled 
Aiel; either could be death in their midst.
"The High Lord Sunamon," Rand said suddenly, and loudly, making that plump 
fellow jump, "has guaranteed me a treaty with Mayene, strictly following lines I 
gave him. He has guaranteed this with his life." He laughed as if he had made a 
joke, and most of the nobles laughed with him. Not Sunamon, who looked 
distinctly ill. "If he fails," Rand announced, "he has agreed to be hanged, and 
he will be obliged." The laughter stopped. Sunamon's face took on a sickly tinge 
of green. Egwene gave Moiraine a troubled glance; she was gripping her skirt 
with both hands. Moiraine only waited; he had not brought every noble within ten 
miles together to tell them of a treaty or threaten a fat fool. She made her 
hands let go of her own skirts.
Rand turned in a circle, weighing the faces he saw. "Because of this treaty, 
ships will soon be available to carry Tairen grain west, to find new markets." 
There were a few appreciative murmurs at that, quickly stifled. "But there is 
more. The armies of Tear are to march."
A cheer rose, tumultuous shouts ringing from the ceilings. Men capered, even the 
High Lords, and shook their fists over their heads, and tossed up peaked velvet 
hats. Women, smiling as rapturously as the men, bestowed kisses on the cheeks of 
those who would go to war, and delicately sniffed the tiny porcelain bottles of 
smelling salts no Tairen noblewoman would be without, pretending to be made 
faint by the news. "Illian shall fall!" someone cried, and hundreds of voices 
seized it like thunder. "Illian shall fall! Illian shall fall! Illian shall 
fall!"
Moiraine saw Egwene's lips moving, the words crushed beneath the jubilation. She 
could read them, though. "No, Rand. Please, no. Please don't." On the far side 
of Rand, Mat was frowning in disapproving silence. They and she were the only 
ones not celebrating, aside from the ever&#8209;watchful Aiel and Rand himself. Rand's 
smile was twisted contemptuously, and never touched his eyes. There was fresh 
sweat on his face. She met his sardonic stare and waited. There would be more, 
and not, she suspected, to her liking.
Rand raised his left hand. Slowly quiet fell, those in front anxiously shushing 
those behind. He waited for absolute silence. "The armies will move north, into 
Cairhien. The High Lord Meilan will command, and under him, the High Lords 
Gueyam, Aracome, Hearne, Maraconn and Simaan. The armies will be generously 
financed by the High Lord Torean, the wealthiest of you, who will accompany the 
armies to see that his money is spent wisely."
Dead silence greeted this pronouncement. No one moved, though plain&#8209;faced Torean 
seemed to be having trouble standing.
Moiraine had to give Rand a mental bow for his choices. Sending those seven out 
of Tear neatly eviscerated the seven most dangerous plots against him, and none 
of those men trusted each other enough to scheme among themselves. Thom Merrilin 
had given him good advice; obviously her spies had missed some of the notes he 
had had slipped into Rand's pockets. But the rest? It was madness. He could have 
not have had this for an answer on the other side of that ter'angreal. It was 
not possible, surely.
Meilan obviously agreed with her, if not for the same reasons. He stepped 
forward hesitantly, a lean hard man but so frightened that the whites of his 
eyes showed all the way around. "My Lord Dragon . . . ." He stopped, swallowed, 
and began again in a marginally stronger voice. "My Lord Dragon, intervening in 
a civil war is stepping into a bog. A dozen factions contend for the Sun Throne, 
with as many shifting alliances, each one betrayed every day. Besides that, 
bandits infest Cairhien as fleas on a wild boar. Starving peasants have stripped 
the land bare. I am reliably informed that they eat bark and leaves. My Lord 
Dragon, 'a quagmire' barely begins to describe &#8209; "
Rand cut him off. "You do not want to extend Tear's sway all the way to 
Kinslayer's Dagger, Meilan? That is all right. I know who I mean to sit on the 
Sun Throne. You do not go to conquer, Meilan, but to restore order, and peace. 
And to feed the hungry. There is more grain in the granaries now than Tear could 
sell, and the farmers will harvest as much more this year, unless you disobey 
me. Wagons will carry it north behind the armies, and those peasants . . . . 
Those peasants will not have to eat bark any longer, my Lord Meilan." The tall 
High Lord opened his mouth again, and Rand swung Callandor down, grounding its 
crystal point in front of him. "You have a question, Meilan?" Shaking his head, 
Meilan backed into the crowd as though trying to hide.
"I knew he would not start a war," Egwene said fiercely. "I knew it."
"You think there will be less killing in this?" Moiraine muttered. What was the 
boy up to? At least he was not running off to save his village while the 
Forsaken had their way with the rest of the world. "The corpses will be piled as 
high, girl. You will not know the difference between this and a war."
Attacking Illian and Sammael would have gained him time even if it grew into a 
stalemate. Time to learn his power, and perhaps to bring down one of his 
strongest enemies, to cow the rest. What did he gain by this? Peace for the land 
of her birth, starving Cairhienin fed; she would have applauded another time. It 
was laudably humane &#8209; and utterly senseless, now. Useless bloodshed, rather than 
confronting an enemy who would destroy him given the slightest opening. Why? 
Lanfear. What had Lanfear said to him? What had she done? The possibilities 
chilled Moiraine's heart. Rand would take closer watching than ever now. She 
would not allow him to turn to the Shadow.
"Ah, yes," Rand said as if just remembering something. "Soldiers don't know much 
about feeding hungry people, do they? For that, I think a kind, woman's heart is 
needed. My Lady Alteima, I regret intruding on your grief, but will you 
undertake to oversee distributing the food? You will have a nation to feed."
And power to gain, Moiraine thought. This was his first slip. Aside from 
deciding on Cairhien over Illian, of course. Alteima would certainly return to 
Tear on an equal footing with Meilan or Gueyam, ready for more plotting. She 
would have Rand assassinated before that, if he was not careful. Perhaps an 
accident could be arranged in Cairhien.
Alteima swept a graceful curtsy, spreading her full white skirts, only a touch 
of her surprise showing. "As my Lord Dragon commands, so do I obey. It will 
please me greatly to serve the Lord Dragon."
"I was sure it would," Rand said wryly. "As much as you love your husband, 
you'll not want him with you in Cairhien. Conditions will be hard, for a sick 
man. I took the liberty of having him moved to the High Lady Estanda's 
apartments. She will care for him while you are away, and send him to meet you 
in Cairhien when he is well." Estanda smiled, a tight smile of triumph. 
Alteima's eyes rolled back in her head, and she crumpled in a heap.
Moiraine shook her head slightly. He truly was harder than he had been. More 
dangerous. Egwene started toward the fallen woman, but Moiraine put a hand on 
her arm. "I think she was only overcome by emotion. I can recognize it, you see. 
The ladies are tending her." Several of them had clustered around, patting 
Alteima's wrists and passing smelling salts under her nose. She coughed and 
opened her eyes, and looked ready to faint again when she saw Estanda standing 
over her.
"Rand just did something very clever, I think," Egwene said in a flat voice. 
"And very cruel. He has a right to look ashamed."
Rand did look it at that, grimacing at the floorstones under his boots. Perhaps 
he was not as hard as he was trying to be.
"Not undeserved, however," Moiraine observed. The girl showed promise, picking 
up on what she did not understand. But she still needed to learn to control her 
emotions, to see what had to be done as well as she saw what she wished could be 
done. "Let us hope he is finished with being clever for today."
Very few in the great chamber understood exactly what had happened, only that 
Alteima's fainting had upset the Lord Dragon. A few in the back raised shouts of 
"Cairhien shall fall!" but the cry did not take hold.
"With you to lead us, my Lord Dragon, we shall conquer the world!" a lumpy&#8209;faced 
young man shouted, half&#8209;supporting Torean. Estean, Torean's eldest son; the 
lumpy&#8209;faced resemblance was clear, though the father was still mumbling to 
himself.
Jerking his head up, Rand appeared startled. Or perhaps angry. "I will not be 
with you. I am . . . going away for a time." That certainly brought silence 
again. Every eye was on him, but his attentions were all on Callandor. The crowd 
flinched as he lifted the crystal blade before his face. Sweat rolled down his 
face, much more sweat than before. "The Stone held Callandor before I came. The 
Stone should hold it again, until I return."
Suddenly the transparent sword blazed in his hands. Whirling it hilt uppermost, 
he drove it down. Into the stone floor. Bluish lightning arced wildly toward the 
dome above. The stone rumbled loudly, and the Stone shook, dancing, heaving 
screaming people from their feet.
Moiraine pushed Egwene off of her while tremors still reverberated through the 
chamber, and scrambled erect. What had he done? And why? Going away? It was the 
worst of all her nightmares.
The Aiel had already regained their feet. Everyone else lay stunned or huddled 
on hands and knees. Except for Rand. He was on one knee, both hands holding 
Callandor's hilt, with the blade driven halfway into the floorstones. The sword 
was dear crystal again. Sweat glistened on his face. He pried his hands away one 
finger at a time, held them cupped around the hilt yet not touching it. For a 
moment Moiraine thought he was going to take hold of it again, but instead he 
forced himself to his feet. He did have to force himself; she was certain of it.
"Look at this while I am gone." His voice was lighter, more the way it had been 
when she first found him in his village, but no less sure or firm than it had 
been moments before. "Look at it, and remember me. Remember I will come back for 
it. If anyone wants to take my place, all they have to do is pull it out." He 
waggled a finger at them, grinning almost mischievously. "But remember the price 
of failure."
Turning on his heel, he marched out of the chamber, the Aiel falling in behind 
him. Staring at the sword rising out of the floor of the Heart, the Tairens got 
to their feet more slowly. Most looked ready to run, but too frightened to.
"That man!" Egwene grumbled, dusting off her green linen dress. "Is he mad?" She 
dapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, Moiraine, he isn't, is he? Is he? Not yet."
"The Light send he is not," Moiraine muttered. She could not take her eyes from 
the sword any more than the Tairens could. The Light take the boy. Why could he 
not have remained the amenable youngling she had found in Emond's Field? She 
made herself start after Rand. "But I will find out."
Half&#8209;running, they caught up quickly in a broad, tapestry&#8209;lined hallway. The 
Aiel, veils hanging loose now but easily raised if needed, moved aside without 
slowing. They glanced at her, and at Egwene, hard faces unchanging but eyes 
touched by the wariness Aiel always had around Aes Sedai.
How they could be uneasy at her while calmly following Rand, she did not 
understand. Learning more than fragments about them was difficult. They answered 
questions freely&#8209;about anything that was of no interest to her. Her informants 
and her own eavesdropping overheard nothing, and her network of eyes&#8209;and&#8209;ears 
would no longer try. Not since one woman had been left bound and gagged, hanging 
by her ankles from battlements and staring wild&#8209;eyed at the four&#8209;hundred&#8209;foot 
drop beneath her, and not since the man who had simply disappeared. The man was 
just gone; the woman, refusing to go higher than the ground floor, had been a 
constant reminder until Moiraine sent her into the country.
Rand did not slow down any more than the Aiel when she and Egwene fell in on 
either side of him. His glance was wary, too, but in a different way, and 
touched with exasperated anger. "I thought you were gone," he said to Egwene. "I 
thought you went with Elayne and Nynaeve. You should have. Even Tanchico is . . 
. . Why did you stay?"
"I won't be staying much longer," Egwene said. "I am going to the Waste with 
Aviendha, to Rhuidean, to study with the Wise Ones."
He missed a step as the girl mentioned the Waste, glancing at her uncertainly, 
then strode on. He seemed composed now, too much so, a boiling teakettle with 
the lid strapped down and the spout plugged. "Do you remember swimming in the 
Waterwood?" he said quietly. "I used to float on my back in a pool and think the 
hardest thing I'd ever have to do was plow a field, unless maybe it was shearing 
sheep. Shearing from sunup till bedtime, hardly stopping to eat until the clip 
was in."
"Spinning," Egwene said. "I hated it worse than scrubbing floors. Twisting the 
threads makes your fingers so sore."
"Why did you do it?" Moiraine demanded before they could go on with this 
childhood reminiscing.
He gave her a sidelong look, and a smile mocking enough to belong to Mat. "Could 
I really have hung her, for trying to kill a man who was plotting to kill me? 
Would there be more justice in that than in what I did?" The grin slid from his 
face. "Is there justice in anything I do? Sunamon will hang if he fails. Because 
I said so. He'll deserve it after the way he's tried to take advantage, with 
never a care if his own people starved, but he'll not go to the gallows for 
that. He will hang because I said he would. Because I said it."
Egwene laid a hand on his arm, but Moiraine would not allow him to sidestep. 
"You know that is not what I mean."
He nodded; this time his smile had a frightening, rictus quality. "Callandor. 
With that in my hands, I can do anything. Anything. I know I can do anything. 
But now, it's a weight off my shoulders. You don't understand, do you?" She did 
not, though it nettled her that he saw it. She kept silent, and he went on. 
"Perhaps it will help if you know it comes from the Prophecies.
 
"Into the heart he thrusts his sword,
into the heart, to hold their hearts.
Who draws it out .shall follow after,
What hand can grasp that fearful blade?
 
"You see? Straight from the Prophecies."
"You forget one thing," she told him tightly. "You drew Callandor in fulfillment 
of prophecy. The safeguards that held it awaiting you for three thousand years 
and more are gone. It is the Sword That Cannot Be Touched no longer. I could 
channel it free myself. Worse, any of the Forsaken could. What if Lanfear 
returns? She could use Callandor no more than I, but she could take it." He did 
not react to the name. Because he did not fear her &#8209; in which case he was a fool 
&#8209; or for another reason? "If Sammael or Rahvin or any male Forsaken puts his 
hand on Callandor, he can wield it as well as you. Think of facing the power you 
give up so casually. Think of that power in the hands of the Shadow."
"I almost hope they'll try." A threatening light shone in his eyes; they seemed 
gray storm clouds. "There is a surprise awaiting anyone who tries to channel 
Callandor out of the Stone, Moiraine. Do not think of taking it to the Tower for 
safekeeping; I could not make the trap pick and choose. The Power is all it 
needs to spring and reset, ready to trap again. I am not giving Callandor up 
forever. Just until I. . . ." He took a deep breath. "Callandor will stay there 
until I come back for it. By being there, reminding them of who I am and what I 
am, it makes sure I can come back without an army. A haven of sorts, with the 
likes of Alteima and Sunamon to welcome me home. If Alteima survives the justice 
her husband and Estanda will mete out, and Sunamon survives mine. Light, what a 
wretched tangle."
He could not make it selective, or would not? She was determined not to 
underrate what he might be capable of. Callandor belonged in the Tower, if he 
would not wield it as he should, in the Tower till he would wield it. "Just 
until" what? He had been intending to say something other than "until I come 
back." But what?
"And where are you going? Or do you mean to keep it a mystery?" She was quietly 
vowing not to let him escape again, to turn him somehow if he meant to go 
running off to the Two Rivers, when he surprised her.
"Not a mystery, Moiraine. Not from you and Egwene, anyway." He looked at Egwene 
and said one word. "Rhuidean."
Wide&#8209;eyed, the girl appeared as astounded as if she had never heard the name 
before. For that matter, Moiraine felt scarcely less. There was a murmur among 
the Aiel, but when she glanced back they were striding along with no expression 
whatsoever. She wished she could make them leave, but they would not go at her 
command, and she would not ask Rand to send them away. It would not help her 
with him to ask favors, especially when he might well refuse.
"You are not an Aiel clan chief, Rand," she said firmly, "and have no need to be 
one. Your struggle is on this side of the Dragonwall. Unless.... Does this come 
from your answers in the ter'angreal? Cairhien, and Callandor, and Rhuidean? I 
told you those answers can be cryptic. You could be misunderstanding them, and 
that could prove fatal. To more than you."
"You must trust me, Moiraine. As I have so often had to trust you." His face 
might as well have belonged to an Aiel for all she could read in it.
"I will trust you for now. Just do not wait to seek my guidance until it is too 
late."
I will not let you go to the Shadow. I have worked too long to allow that. 
Whatever it takes.
 
CHAPTER
22
 
Out of the Stone
 
It was a strange procession Rand led out of the Stone and eastward, with white 
clouds shading the midday sun and a breath of air stirring across the city. By 
his order there had been no announcement, no proclamation, but slowly word 
spread of .something: citizens stopped whatever they were doing and ran for 
vantage points. The Aiel were marching through the city, marching out of the 
city. People who had not seen them come in the night, who had only half&#8209;believed 
they were in the Stone at all, increasingly lined the streets along the route, 
filled the windows, even climbed onto slate rooftops, straddling roof peaks and 
upturned corners. Murmurs ran as they counted the Aiel. These few hundred could 
never have taken the Stone. The Dragon banner still flew above the fortress. 
There must yet be thousands of Aiel in there. And the Lord Dragon.
Rand rode easily in his shirtsleeves, sure none of the onlookers could take him 
for anyone out of the ordinary. An outlander, rich enough to ride &#8209; and on a 
superb dappled stallion, best of the Tairen bloodstock &#8209; a rich man traveling in 
the oddest of odd company, but surely just another man for that. Not even the 
leader of this strange company; that title was surely assigned to Lan or 
Moiraine despite the fact that they rode some little distance behind him, 
directly ahead of the Aiel. The soft awed susurration that accompanied his 
passing certainly rose for the Aiel, not him. These Tairen folk might even take 
him for a groom, riding his master's horse. Well, no, not that; not out in front 
as he was. It was a fine day, anyway. Not sweltering, merely warm. No one 
expected him to mete out justice, or rule a nation. He could simply enjoy riding 
in anonymity, enjoy the rare breeze. For a time he could forget the feel of his 
heron&#8209;branded palms on the reins. For a little longer anyway, he thought. A 
little longer.
"Rand," Egwene said, "do you really think it was right to let the Aiel take all 
those things?" He looked around as she heeled her gray mare, Mist, up beside 
him. From
somewhere she had gotten a dark green dress with narrow divided skirts, and a 
green velvet band held her hair at the nape of her neck.
Moiraine and Lan still hung back half a dozen strides, she on her white mare in 
a full&#8209;skirted blue silk riding dress slashed with green, her dark hair caught 
in a golden net, he astride his great black warhorse, in a color&#8209;shifting 
Warder's cloak that probably brought as many oohs and aahr as the Aiel. When the 
breeze stirred the cloak, shades of green and brown and gray rippled across it; 
when it hung still it somehow seemed to fade into whatever was beyond it, so the 
eye appeared to be seeing through parts of Lan and his mount. It was not 
comfortable to look at.
Mat was there, too, slumped in his saddle and looking resigned, trying to keep 
apart from the Warder and Aes Sedai. He had chosen a nondescript brown gelding, 
an animal he called Pips; it took a good eye to notice the deep chest and strong 
withers that promised blunt&#8209;nosed Pips could likely match Rand's stallion or 
Lan's for speed and endurance. Mat's decision to come had been a surprise; Rand 
still did not know why. Friendship, maybe, and then again, maybe not. Mat could 
be odd in what he did and why.
"Didn't your friend Aviendha explain to you about 'the fifth'?" he asked.
"She mentioned something, but . . . . Rand, you don't think she . . . took . . . 
things, too?"
Behind Moiraine and Lan, behind Mat, behind Rhuarc at their head, the Aiel 
walked in long lines to either side of loaded pack mules, rank on rank four 
abreast. When Aiel took one of the holds of an enemy clan in the Waste, by 
custom &#8209; or maybe law; Rand did not understand it exactly &#8209; they carried away 
one fifth of all it contained, excepting only food. They had seen no reason not 
to treat the Stone the same. Not that the mules held more than the barest 
fraction of a fraction of a fifth of the Stone's treasures. Rhuarc said greed 
had killed more men than steel. The wickerwork pack hampers, topped with rolled 
carpets and wall hangings, were lightly laden. Ahead lay an eventual hard 
crossing of the Spine of the World, and then a far harder trek across the Waste.
When do I tell them? he wondered. Soon, now; it has to be soon. Moiraine would 
doubtless think it daring, a bold stroke; she might even approve. Maybe. She 
thought she knew his whole plan, now, and made no bones of disapproving that; no 
doubt she wanted it over and done as soon as possible. But the Aiel. . . . What 
if they refuse? Well, if they refuse, they refuse. I have to do it. As for the 
fifth . . . . He did not think it would have been possible to stop the Aiel from 
taking it even had he wanted to, and he had not; they had earned their rewards, 
and he had no care to help Tairen lords keep what they had wrung from their 
people over generations.
"I saw her showing Rhuarc a silver bowl," he said aloud. "From the way her sack 
clinked when she stuffed the bowl in, there was more silver in there. Or maybe 
gold. Do you disapprove?"
"No." She drew the word out slowly, with a touch of doubt, but then her voice 
firmed. "I just hadn't thought of her . . . . The Tairens would not have stopped 
at a fifth if the positions had been reversed. They'd have carted away whatever 
wasn't part of the stonework, and stolen all the carts to haul it. Just because 
a people's ways are different doesn't mean they are wrong, Rand. You should know 
that."
He laughed softly. This was almost like old times, he ready to explain why and 
how she was wrong, and she snatching his position and tossing his own unvoiced 
explanation at him. His stallion danced a few steps, catching his mood. He 
patted the dapple's arched neck. A good day.
"That's a fine horse," she said. "What have you named him?"
"Jeade'en," he said cautiously, losing some of his good spirits. He was a little 
ashamed of the name, of his reasons for choosing it. One of his favorite books 
had always been The Travels of Jain Farstrider, and that great traveler had 
named his horse Jeade'en &#8209; True Finder, in the Old Tongue &#8209; because the animal 
had always been able to find the way home. It would have been nice to think 
Jeade'en might carry him home one day. Nice, but not likely, and he did not want 
anyone suspecting the cause for the name. Boyish fancies had no place in his 
life now. There was not much room for anything but what he had to do.
"A fine name," she said absently. He knew she had read the book, too, and 
half&#8209;expected her to recognize the name, but she seemed to be mulling over 
something else, chewing her lower lip pensively.
He was content with silence. The last dregs of the city gave way to country and 
pitiful scattered farms. Not even a Congar or a Coplin, Two River folk notorious 
for laziness among other things, would keep a place as run&#8209;down and ramshackle 
as these rough stone houses, walls slanting as if about to topple over on the 
chickens scratching in the dirt. Sagging beams leaned against laurels or 
spicewoods. Roofs of cracked and broken slates all looked as if they leaked. 
Goats bleated disconsolately in stone pens that might have been thrown together 
hastily that morning. Barefoot men and women hoed stoop&#8209;shouldered in unfenced 
fields, not looking up even when the large party was passing. Redbeaks and 
thrushes warbling in the small thickets were not enough to lighten the feel of 
oppressive gloom.
I have to do something about this. I. . . . No, not now. First things first. 
I've done what I could for them in a few weeks. I can't do anything more now. He 
tried not to look at the tumbledown farms. Were the olive groves in the south as 
bad? The people who worked those did not even own the land; it all belonged to 
High Lords. No. The breeze. Nice, the way it cuts the heat. I can enjoy it a bit 
longer. I have to tell them, soon now.
"Rand," Egwene said abruptly, "I want to talk to you." Something serious by her 
expression; those big dark eyes, fixed on him, held a light reminiscent of 
Nynaeve's when she was about to lecture. "I want to talk about Elayne."
"What about her?" he asked warily. He touched his pouch, where two letters 
crinkled against a small hard object. If they had not both been in the same 
elegantly flowing hand, he would not have believed they came from the same 
woman. And after all that kissing and snuggling. The High Lords were easier to 
understand than women.
"Why did you let her go in that way?"
Puzzled, he stared at her. "She wanted to go. I'd have had to tie her up to stop 
her. Besides, she'll be safer in Tanchico than near me &#8209; or Mat &#8209; if we are 
going to attract bubbles of evil the way Moiraine says. You would be, too."
"That isn't what I mean at all. Of course she wanted to go. And you had no right 
to stop her. But why didn't you tell her you wished she would stay?"
"She wanted to go," he repeated, and grew more confused when she rolled her eyes 
as if he were speaking gibberish. If he had no right to stop Elayne, and she 
wanted to go, why was he supposed to try to talk her out of it? Especially when 
she was safer gone.
Moiraine spoke, right behind him. "Are you ready to tell me the next secret? It 
has been clear you were keeping something from me. At the least I might be able 
to tell you if you are leading us over a diff."
Rand sighed. He had not heard her and Lan closing up on him. And Mat as well, 
although still holding a distance between himself and the Aes Sedai. Mat's face 
was a study, doubt and reluctance and grim determination all running across it 
by turns, especially when he glanced at Moiraine. He never looked at her 
directly, only from the edge of his eye.
"Are you sure you want to come, Mat?" Rand asked.
Mat shrugged and affected a grin, not a very confident one. "Who could pass up a 
chance to see bloody Rhuidean?" Egwene raised her eyebrows at him. "Oh, pardon 
my language, Aes Sedai. I've heard you say as bad, and for less cause, I'll 
wager." Egwene stared at him indignantly, but spots of color in her cheeks said 
he had scored a hit.
"Be glad Mat is here," Moiraine said to Rand, her voice cool, and not pleased. 
"You made a grave error letting Perrin run off, hiding his going from me. The 
world rests on your shoulders, but they must both support you or you will fall, 
and the world with you." Mat flinched, and Rand thought he very nearly turned 
his gelding and rode away on the spot.
"I know my duty," he told her. And I know my fate, he thought, but he did not 
say that aloud; he was not asking sympathy. "One of us had to go back, Moiraine, 
and Perrin wanted to. You're willing to let anything go to save the world. I. . 
. . I do what I have to." The Warder nodded, though he said nothing; Lan would 
not disagree with Moiraine in front of others.
"And the next secret?" she said insistently. She would not give up until she had 
ferreted it out, and he had no reason to keep it secret any longer. Not this 
part of it.
"Portal Stones," he said simply. "If we are lucky."
"Oh, Light!" Mat groaned. "Bloody flaming Light! Don't grimace at me, Egwene! 
Lucky? Isn't once enough, Rand? You almost killed us, remember? No, worse than 
killed. I would rather ride back to one of those farms and ask for a job 
slopping pigs the rest of my life."
"You can go your own way if you want, Mat," Rand told him. Moiraine's calm face 
was a mask over fury, but he ignored the icy stare that tried to still his 
tongue. Even Lan looked disapproving, for all his hard face did not change very 
much; the Warder believed in duty before anything else. Rand would do his duty, 
but his friends .... He did not like making people do things; he would not do it 
to his friends. That much he could avoid, surely. "You've no reason to come to 
the Waste."
"Oh, yes I do. At least. . . . Oh, burn me! I've one life to give away, don't I? 
Why not like this?" Mat laughed nervously, and a bit wildly. "Bloody Portal 
Stones! Light!"
Rand frowned; he was the one they all said was supposed to go mad, but Mat was 
the one who seemed on the edge of it now.
Egwene blinked at Mat worriedly, but it was Rand she leaned toward. "Rand, Verin 
Sedai told me a little about Portal Stones. She told me about the . . . journey 
you took. Do you really mean to do this?"
"It's what I have to do, Egwene." He had to move quickly, and there was no 
quicker way than Portal Stones. Remnants of an Age older than the Age of 
Legends; even Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends had not understood them, it 
seemed. But there was no quicker way. If it worked the way he hoped.
Moiraine had listened to the exchange patiently. Especially to Mat's part of it, 
though Rand could not see why. Now she said, "Verin also told me of your journey 
using Portal Stones. That was only a few people and horses, not hundreds, and if 
you did not almost kill everyone as Mat says, it yet sounded an experience no 
one would wish to repeat. Nor did it turn out as you expected. It also required 
a great deal of the Power; almost enough to kill you at least, Verin said. Even 
if you leave most of the Aiel behind, do you dare risk the attempt?"
"I have to," he said, feeling at his belt pouch, at the small hard shape behind 
the letters, but she went right on as if he had not spoken.
"Are you even certain there is a Portal Stone in the Waste? Verin certainly 
knows more of them than I, but I have never heard of one. If there is, will it 
place us any closer to Rhuidean than we are right now?"
"Some six hundred or so years ago," he told her, "a peddler tried to get a look 
at Rhuidean." Another time it would have been a pleasure to be able to lecture 
her for a change. Not today. There was too much he did not know. "This fellow 
apparently didn't see anything of it; he claimed to have seen a golden city up 
in the clouds, drifting over the mountains."
"There are no cities in the Waste," Lan said, "in the clouds or on the ground. 
I've fought the Aiel. They have no cities."
Egwene nodded. "Aviendha told me she had never seen a city until she left the 
Waste."
"Maybe so," Rand said. "But the peddler also saw something sticking out of the 
side of one of those mountains. A Portal Stone. He described it perfectly. There 
isn't anything else like a Portal Stone. When I described one to the chief 
librarian in the Stone . . ." Without naming what he was after, he did not add. 
". . . he recognized it, even if he didn't know what it was, enough to show me 
four on an old map of Tear - "
"Four?" Moiraine sounded startled. "All in Tear? Portal Stones are not so common 
as that."
"Four," Rand said definitely. The bony old librarian had been certain, even 
digging out a tattered yellowed manuscript telling of efforts to move the 
"unknown artifacts of an earlier Age" to the Great Holding. Every attempt had 
failed, and the Tairens had finally given up. That was confirmation to Rand; 
Portal Stones resisted being moved. "One lies not an hour's ride from where we 
are," he continued. "The Aiel allowed the peddler to leave, since he was a 
peddler. With one of his mules and as much water as he could carry on his back. 
Somehow he made it as far as a stedding in the Spine of the World, where he met 
a man named Soran Milo, who was writing a book called The Killers of the Black 
Veil. The librarian brought me a battered copy when I asked for books on the 
Aiel. Milo apparently based it all on Aiel who came to trade at the stedding, 
and he got almost everything wrong anyway, according to Rhuarc, but a Portal 
Stone can't be anything but a Portal Stone." He had examined other maps and 
manuscripts, dozens of them, supposedly studying Tear and its history, learning 
the land; no one could have had a clue what he intended before a few minutes 
ago.
Moiraine sniffed, and her white mare, Aldieb, frisked a few steps, picking up 
her irritation. "A supposed story told by a supposed peddler who claimed to have 
seen a golden city floating in the clouds. Has Rhuarc seen this Portal Stone? He 
has actually been to Rhuidean. Even if this peddler did go into the Waste, and 
did see a Portal Stone, it could have been anywhere. A man telling a story 
usually tries to better what really happened. A city floating in the clouds?"
"How do you know it doesn't?" he said. Rhuarc had been willing to laugh at all 
the wrong things Milo had written about Aiel, but he had not been very 
forthcoming about Rhuidean. No, more than that; or less, rather. The Aielman had 
refused even to comment on the parts of the book supposedly about Rhuidean. 
Rhuidean, in the lands of the Jenn Aiel, the clan which is not; that was almost 
the extent of what Rhuarc would say about it. Rhuidean was not to be spoken of.
The Aes Sedai was not best pleased with his flippant remark, but he did not 
care. She had kept too many secrets herself, made him follow her on blind trust 
too often. Let it be her turn. She had to learn that he was not a puppet. I'll 
take her advice when I think it's right, but I won't dance on Tar Valon's 
strings again. He would die on his own terms.
Egwene moved her gray horse closer, riding almost knee&#8209;to&#8209;knee with him. "Rand, 
do you really mean to risk our lives on a . . . a chance? Rhuarc did not tell 
you anything, did he? When I ask Aviendha about Rhuidean, she shuts up tight as 
a hickory nut." Mat looked sick.
Rand kept his face still, not letting his flash of shame show. He had not meant 
to frighten his friends. "There is a Portal Stone there," he maintained. He 
rubbed the hard shape in his pouch again. This had to work.
The librarian's maps had been old, but in a way that was a help. The grasslands 
they rode now had been forest when those maps were drawn, but few trees 
remained, far&#8209;scattered scraggly copses of white oak and pine and maidenhair, 
tall solitary trees he did not recognize, with gnarled spindly trunks. He could 
make out the shape of the land easily, hills shrouded mainly in high grass now.
On the maps two tall bent ridges, one dose behind the other, had pointed to the 
duster of round hills where the Portal Stone was. If the maps had been well 
made. If the librarian really had recognized his description, and the green 
diamond mark actually meant ancient ruins as he claimed. Why would he lie? I'm 
getting too suspicious. No, I have to be suspicious. As trusting as a viper, and 
as cold. He did not like it, though.
To the north he could just make out hills with no trees at all, speckled with 
moving shapes that must be horses. The High Lords' herds, grazing across the 
site of the old Ogier grove. He hoped Perrin and Loial had gotten away safely. 
Help them, Perrin, he thought. Help them somehow, because I can't.
The Ogier grove meant the folded ridges must be dose, and soon he spotted them a 
little to the south, like two arrows one inside the other, a few trees along the 
top making a thin line against the sky. Beyond, low round hills like 
grass&#8209;covered bubbles ran into one another. More hills than on the old map. Too 
many, for all the patch encompassed less than a square mile. If they did not 
correspond to the map, which one held the Portal Stone on its side?
"The Aiel have numbers," Lan said quietly, "and sharp eyes."
With a nod of gratitude, Rand reined Jeade'en in, falling back to put the 
problem before Rhuarc. He only described the Portal Stone, not saying what it 
was; there would be time enough for that when it was found. He was good at 
keeping secrets now. Rhuarc probably had no idea what a Portal Stone was, 
anyway. Few did except for Aes Sedai. He had not known until someone told him.
Striding along beside the dapple stallion, the Aielman frowned slightly &#8209; as 
much as a worried grimace from most other men &#8209; then nodded. "We can find this 
thing." He raised his voice. "Aethan Dor! Far Aldazar Din! Duadhe Mahdi'in! Far 
Dareir Mai! Seia Doon! Sha'mad Conde!"
As he called out, members of the named warrior societies trotted forward, until 
a good quarter of the Aiel clustered around him and Rand. Red Shields. Brothers 
of the Eagle. Water Seekers. Maidens of the Spear. Black Eyes. Thunder Walkers.
Rand picked out Egwene's friend, Aviendha, a tall, pretty woman with a haughty 
unsmiling stare. Maidens had guarded his door, but he did not think he had seen 
her before the Aiel gathered to leave the Stone. She looked back at him, proud 
as a green&#8209;eyed hawk, then tossed her head and turned her attention to the clan 
chief.
Well, I wanted to be ordinary again, he thought, a touch ruefully. The Aiel 
certainly gave him that. They offered even the clan chief only a respectful 
hearing, without any of the elaborate deference a lord would exact, and 
obedience that seemed between equals. He could hardly expect more for himself.
Rhuarc gave instructions in few words, and the listening Aiel fanned out ahead 
into the patch of hills, running easily, some veiling themselves just in case. 
The rest waited, standing or squatting beside the loaded pack mules.
They represented almost every clan &#8209; except the Jenn Aiel, of course; Rand could 
not get it straight whether the Jenn really existed or not, since the way the 
Aiel mentioned them, which they seldom did, it could be either way&#8209;including 
some clans that had blood feuds, and others that often fought each other. He had 
learned that much about them. Not for the first time, he wondered what had held 
them together so far. Was it just their prophecies of the Stone falling, and the 
search for He Who Comes With the Dawn?
"More than that," Rhuarc said, and Rand realized he had spoken his thoughts 
aloud. "Prophecy brought us over the Dragonwall, and the name that is not spoken 
drew us to the Stone of Tear." The name he meant was "People of the Dragon," a 
secret name for the Aiel; only clan chiefs and Wise Ones knew or used it, 
apparently seldom and only with each other. "For the rest? No one may shed the 
blood of another of the same society, of course, yet mixing Shaarad with 
Goshien, Taardad and Nakai with Shaido . . . . Even I might have danced the 
spears with the Shaido, if the Wise Ones had not made everyone who crossed the 
Dragonwall swear water oath to treat any Aiel as of the same society on this 
side of the mountains. Even sneaking Shaido . . . ." He shrugged slightly. "You 
see? It is not easy, even for me."
"These Shaido are enemies of yours?" Rand fumbled the name; in the Stone, the 
Aiel had gone by societies, not clans.
"We have avoided blood feud," Rhuarc said, "but Taardad and Shaido have never 
been friendly; the septs sometimes raid each other, steal goats or cattle. But 
the oaths have held with us all against three blood feuds and a dozen old 
hatreds between clans or septs. It helps now that we journey toward Rhuidean, 
even if some will leave us before. None may shed the blood of one traveling to 
or from Rhuidean." The Aielman looked up at Rand, face completely 
expressionless. "It may be that soon no one of us will shed another's blood." It 
was impossible to say whether he found the prospect pleasing.
An ululating cry came from one of the Maidens, standing atop a hill and waving 
her arms over her head.
"They have found your stone column, it seems," Rhuarc said.
Gathering her reins, Moiraine gave Rand a level look as he rode past her, 
eagerly heeling Jeade'en to a gallop. Egwene reined her mare near to Mat, 
leaning from her saddle with a hand on the high pommel of his to engage him in 
close conversation. She seemed to be trying to make him tell her something, or 
admit something, and from the vehemence of Mat's gestures, he was either 
innocent as a babe or lying in his teeth.
Flinging himself out of the saddle, Rand hurriedly climbed up the gentle slope 
to examine what the Maiden &#8209; it was Aviendha &#8209; had found half&#8209;buried in the 
ground and obscured by long grass. A weathered gray stone column, at least three 
spans long and a pace thick. Strange symbols covered every exposed inch, each 
surrounded by a narrow line of markings he thought were writing. Even if he 
could have read the language &#8209; if it was one &#8209; the script &#8209; if that was what it 
was &#8209; had long since worn to illegibility. The symbols he could make out a 
little better. Some of them; many might as well have been the marks of rain and 
wind.
Pulling grass by the handful so he could see better, he glanced at Aviendha. She 
had dropped her shoufa around her shoulders, baring short reddish hair, and was 
watching him with a flat, hard expression. "You don't like me," he said. "Why?" 
There was one symbol he had to find, the only one he knew.
"Like you?" she said. "You may be He Who Comes With the Dawn, a man of destiny. 
Who can like or dislike such? Besides, you walk free, a wetlander despite your 
face, yet going to Rhuidean for honor, while I . . . ."
"While you what?" he asked when she stopped. He searched his way slowly upslope. 
Where was it? Two parallel wavy lines crossed at an angle by an odd squiggle. 
Light, if it's buried, it'll take us hours to turn this over. Abruptly he 
laughed. Not hours. He could channel and lift the thing out of the ground, or 
Moiraine could, or Egwene. A Portal Stone might resist being moved, but surely 
they could move it that much. Channeling would not help him find the wavy lines, 
though. Only feeling his way along the stone would do that.
Instead of answering, the Aiel woman squatted easily with her short spears 
across her knees. "You have treated Elayne badly. I would not care, but Elayne 
is near sister to Egwene, who is my friend. Yet Egwene likes you still, so for 
her sake I will try."
Still searching the thick column, he shook his head. Elayne again. Sometimes he 
thought women all belonged to a guild, the way craftsmen in cities did. Put a 
foot wrong with one, and the next ten you met knew of it, and disapproved.
His fingers stopped, returned to the bit he had just examined. It was weathered 
almost beyond making out, but he was sure it was the wavy lines. They 
represented a Portal Stone on Toman Head, not in the Waste, but they located 
what had been the base of the thing when it stood upright. Symbols at the top 
represented worlds; those at the bottom, Portal Stones. With a symbol from the 
top and one from the bottom, he could supposedly travel to a given Portal Stone 
in a given world. With just one from the bottom, he knew he could reach a Portal 
Stone in this world. The Portal Stone near Rhuidean, for instance. If he knew 
the symbol for it. Now was when he needed luck, needed that ta'veren tugging at 
chance to favor him.
A hand reached over his shoulder, and Rhuarc said in a reluctant voice, "These 
two are used for Rhuidean in old writings. Long ago, even the name was not 
written." He traced two triangles, each surrounding what appeared to be forked 
lightnings, one pointing left, one right.
"Do you know what this is?" Rand asked. The Aielman looked away. "Burn me, 
Rhuarc, I have to know. I know you don't want to talk of it, but you have to 
tell me. Tell me, Rhuarc. Have you ever seen its like before?"
The other man took a deep breath before answering. "I have seen its like." Each 
word came as if dragged. "When a man goes to Rhuidean, Wise Ones and clansmen 
wait on the slopes of Chaendaer near a stone like this." Aviendha stood up and 
walked away stiffly; Rhuarc glanced after her, frowning. "I know no more of it, 
Rand al'Thor. May I never know shade if I do."
Rand traced the unreadable script surrounding the triangles. Which one? Only one 
would take him where he wanted to go. The second might land him on the other 
side of the world, or the bottom of the ocean.
The rest of the Aiel had gathered at the foot of the hill with their pack mules. 
Moiraine and the others dismounted and climbed the easy slope, leading their 
horses. Mat had Jeade'en as well as his own brown gelding, keeping the stallion 
well away from Lan's Mandarb. The two stallions eyed one another fiercely now 
that they had no riders.
"You truly don't know what you are doing, do you?" Egwene protested. "Moiraine, 
stop him. We can ride to Rhuidean. Why are you letting him go on with this? Why 
don't you say something?"
"What would you suggest I do?" the Aes Sedai said dryly. "I can hardly drag him 
away by his ear. We may be about to see how useful Dreaming really is."
"Dreaming?" Egwene said sharply. "What does Dreaming have to do with this?"
"Will you two be quiet?" Rand made himself sound patient. "I am trying to 
decide." Egwene stared at him indignantly; Moiraine showed no emotion at all, 
but she watched intently.
"Do we have to do it this way?" Mat said. "What do you have against riding?" 
Rand only looked at him, and he shrugged uncomfortably. "Oh, burn me. If you're 
trying to decide . . . ." Taking both horses' reins in one hand, he dug a coin 
from his pocket, a gold Tar Valon mark, and sighed. "It would be the same coin, 
wouldn't it." He rolled the coin across the backs of his fingers. "I'm . . . 
lucky sometimes, Rand. Let my luck choose. Head, the one that points to your 
right; flame, the other. What do you say?"
"This is the most ridiculous," Egwene began, but Moiraine silenced her with a 
touch on the arm.
Rand nodded. "Why not?" Egwene muttered something; all he caught were "men" and 
"boys," but it did not sound a compliment.
The coin spun into the air off Mat's thumb, gleaming dully in the sun. At its 
peak, Mat snatched it back and slapped it down on the back of his other hand, 
then hesitated. "It's a bloody thing to be trusting to the toss of a coin, 
Rand."
Rand laid his palm on one of the symbols without looking. "This one," he said. 
"You chose this one."
Mat peeked at the coin and blinked. "You're right. How did you know?"
"It has to work for me sooner or later." None of them understood &#8209; he could see 
that &#8209; but it did not matter. Lifting his hand, he looked at what he and Mat had 
picked. The triangle pointed left. The sun had slid down from its apex. He had 
to do this right. A mistake, and they could lose time, not gain it. That had to 
be the worst outcome. It had to be.
Standing, he dug into his pouch and pulled out the small hard object, a carving 
of shiny dark green stone that fit easily into his hand, a round&#8209;faced 
round&#8209;bodied man sitting cross&#8209;legged with a sword across his knees. He rubbed a 
thumb over the figure's bald head. "Gather everyone close. Everyone. Rhuarc, 
have them bring those pack animals up here. Everyone has to be as close to me as 
possible."
"Why?" the Aielman asked.
"We're going to Rhuidean." Rand bounced the carving on his palm and bent to pat 
the Portal Stone. "To Rhuidean. Right now."
Rhuarc gave him a long flat look, then straightened, already calling to the 
other Aiel.
Moiraine took a step closer up the grassy slope. "What is that?" she asked 
curiously.
"An angreal," Rand said, turning it in his hand. "One that works for men. I 
found it in the Great Holding when I was hunting that doorway. It was the sword 
that made me pick it up, and then I knew. If you are wondering how I mean to 
channel enough of the Power to take us all &#8209; Aiel, pack mules, everybody and 
everything &#8209; this is it."
"Rand," Egwene said anxiously, "I am sure you think you are doing what is best, 
but are you certain? Are you certain that angreal is strong enough? I can't even 
be sure it is one. I believe you if you say it is, but angreal vary, Rand. At 
least, those that women can use do. Some are more potent than others, and size 
or shape is no guide."
"Of course I'm certain," he lied. There had been no way to test it, not for this 
purpose, not without letting half of Tear know he was up to something, but he 
thought it would do. Just. And as small as it was, no one would know it was gone 
from the Stone unless they decided to inventory the Holding. Not likely, that.
"You leave Callandor behind and bring this," Moiraine murmured. "You seem to 
have considerable knowledge of using Portal Stones. More than I would have 
thought."
"Verin told me a good bit," he said. Verin had, but it had been Lanfear who 
first explained them to him. He had known her as Selene, then, but he did not 
intend explaining that to Moiraine any more than he would tell her of the 
woman's offer of help. The Aes Sedai had taken the news of Lanfear's appearance 
too calmly, even for her. And she had that weighing look in her eyes, as if she 
had him on balance scales in her mind.
"Take a care, Rand al'Thor," she said in that icy, musical voice. "Any ta'veren 
shapes the Pattern to one degree or another, but a ta'veren such as you might 
rip the Age Lace for all of time."
He wished he knew what she was thinking. He wished he knew what she was 
planning.
The Aiel climbed the hill with their pack mules, covering the slope as they 
crowded dose around him and the Portal Stone, crowding in shoulder to shoulder 
on everyone but Moiraine and Egwene. Those two they left a little space. Rhuarc 
nodded at him as if saying, It is done, it is in your hands now.
Hefting the shiny green angreal, he thought of telling the Aiel to leave the 
animals, but there was the question of whether they would, and he wanted to 
arrive with all of them, with all feeling he had done well by them. Goodwill 
might be in short supply in the Waste. They watched him with imperturbable 
faces. Some had veiled themselves, though. Mat, nervously rolling that Tar Valon 
mark across the backs of his fingers over and over, and Egwene, sweat beading on 
her face, were the only ones who seemed anxious. There was no point in waiting 
any longer. He had to move faster than anyone thought he could.
He wrapped himself in the Void and reached out for the True Source, that sickly 
flickering light that was always there, just over his shoulder. The Power filled 
him, breath of life, wind to uproot oaks, summer wind sweetened with flowers, 
foul waftings from a midden heap. Floating in emptiness, he fixed the 
lightning&#8209;laced triangle before him and reached through the angreal, drew deeply 
at the raging torrent of saidin. He had to carry them all. It had to work. 
Holding that symbol, he pulled at the One Power, pulled it into him until he was 
sure he would burst. Pulled more. More.
The world seemed to wink out of existence.
 
CHAPTER
23
 
Beyond the Stone
 
Egwene stumbled, flinging her arms around Mist's neck as the ground tilted under 
her feet. All about her, Aiel contended with braying, sliding pack mules on a 
steep rocky slope where nothing grew. Heat remembered from Tel'aran'rhiod 
hammered her. The air shimmered before her eyes: the ground burned her feet 
through the soles of her shoes. Her skin prickled painfully for a moment, then 
sweat gushed from every pore. It only dampened her dress, and the sweat seemed 
to evaporate immediately.
The struggling mules and tall Aiel nearly hid the surroundings from her, but she 
saw a bit in flashes between them. A thick gray stone column angled out of the 
ground not three paces from her, scoured by windblown sand until there was no 
telling whether it had ever been twin to the Portal Stone in Tear. Rugged 
slab&#8209;sided mountains that looked carved by a mad giant's axe broiled beneath a 
blazing sun in a cloudless sky. Yet in the center of the long, barren valley far 
below, a mass of dense fog hung, billowing like clouds; that scalding sun should 
surely have burned it off in moments, but the fog rolled untouched. And out of 
that roiling gray stuck the tops of towers, some spired, some ending abruptly as 
though the masons still worked.
"He was right," she murmured to herself. "A city in clouds."
Clutching his gelding's bridle, Mat was staring around wide&#8209;eyed. "We made it!" 
He laughed at her. "We made it, Egwene, and without any . . . . Burn me, we made 
it!" He tugged open his shirt laces at the neck. "Light, it's hot. Burn me for 
true!"
Abruptly she realized Rand was on his knees, head down, supporting himself with 
one hand on the ground. Pulling her mare behind her, she pushed through the 
milling Aiel to him just as Lan helped him to his feet. Moiraine was already 
there, studying Rand with apparent calm &#8209; and the slight tightness at the 
corners of her mouth that meant she would like to box his ears.
"I did it," Rand panted, looking around. The Warder was all that was holding him 
upright; his face was drained and drawn, like a man on his deathbed.
"You came dose," Moiraine said coolly. Very coolly. "The angreal was not 
sufficient to the task. You must not do this again. If you take chances, they 
must be reasoned and for a strong purpose. They must be."
"I don't take chances, Moiraine. Mat's the fellow for chances." Rand forced his 
right hand open; the angreal, the fat little man, had driven the point of its 
sword into his flesh, right into the branded heron. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I 
did need one a little stronger. A little bit, maybe . . . ." He gave a huffing 
laugh. "It worked, Moiraine. That is what's important. I've outrun them all. It 
worked."
"That is what matters," Lan said, nodding.
Egwene made a vexed tsk. Men. One almost killed himself, then tried to make a 
joke of it, and another told him he had done the right thing. Did they never 
grow up?
"The fatigue of channeling is not like other tiredness," Moiraine said. "I 
cannot rid you of it completely, not when you have channeled as much as you did, 
but I will do what I can. Perhaps what remains will remind you to be more 
careful in future." She was angry; there was a definite hint of satisfaction in 
her voice.
The glow of saidar surrounded the Aes Sedai as she reached up to take Rand's 
head in her hands. A shuddering gasp burst out of him, and he shivered 
uncontrollably, then jerked back from her, pulling free of Lan as well.
"Ask, Moiraine," Rand said coldly, stuffing the angreal into his belt pouch. 
"Ask, first. I'm not your pet dog that you can do whatever you want to whenever 
you want." He scrubbed his hands together to rub away the tiny trickle of blood.
Egwene made that vexed sound again. Childish, and ungrateful to boot. He could 
stand by himself now, though his eyes still looked weary, and she did not have 
to see his palm to know the tiny puncture was gone as if it had never been. 
Purely ungrateful. Surprisingly, Lan did not call him down for speaking to 
Moiraine in that fashion.
It came to her that the Aiel had gone absolutely still now that they had the 
mules quieted. They stared outward warily, not toward the valley and the 
fog&#8209;shrouded city that must be Rhuidean, but at two camps, one to either side of 
them perhaps half a mile away. The two dusters of dozens upon dozens of low, 
open&#8209;sided tents, one twice as large as the other, clung to the mountain slope 
and very nearly disappeared against it, but the gray&#8209;brown Aiel in each camp 
were dearly visible, short spears and arrow&#8209;nocked horn bows in hand, veiling 
themselves if they were not already. They seemed poised on the balls of their 
feet, ready to attack.
"The peace of Rhuidean," a woman's voice called from upslope, and Egwene could 
feel the tension leaving the Aiel surrounding her. Those among the tents began 
lowering their veils, though they still watched cautiously.
There was a third, much smaller encampment farther up the mountain, she 
realized, a few of the low tents on a small level patch. Four women were walking 
down from that camp, sedate and dignified in dark bulky skirts and loose white 
blouses, with brown or gray shawls around their shoulders despite heat that was 
beginning to make Egwene feel light&#8209;headed, and many necklaces and bracelets of 
ivory and gold. Two had white hair, one hair the color of the sun, flowing down 
their backs to the waist and held back from their faces by folded kerchiefs tied 
around the forehead.
Egwene recognized one of the white&#8209;haired women: Amys, the Wise One she had met 
in Tel'aran'rhiod. Again she was struck by the contrast between Amys's 
sun&#8209;darkened features and her snowy hair; the Wise One just did not look old 
enough. The second white&#8209;haired woman had a creased grandmotherly face, and one 
of the others, with gray&#8209;streaked dark hair, seemed almost as old. She was sure 
all four were Wise Ones, very likely the same who had signed that letter to 
Moiraine.
The Aiel women stopped ten paces upslope from the gathering around the Portal 
Stone, and the grandmotherly woman spread her open hands, speaking in an aged 
yet powerful voice. "The peace of Rhuidean be on you. Who comes to Chaendaer may 
return to their holds in peace. There shall be no blood on the ground."
With that the Aiel from Tear began to separate, quickly apportioning the pack 
animals and the contents of the hampers. They were not dividing by societies 
now; Egwene saw Maidens going with several groups, some of which immediately 
began making their way around the mountain, avoiding each other and the camps, 
peace of Rhuidean or no. Others strode toward one or the other large duster of 
tents, where finally weapons were being put down.
Not everyone had been sure of the peace of Rhuidean. Lan released the hilt of 
his still&#8209;sheathed sword, although Egwene had not seen him put his hands on it, 
and Mat hastily slipped a pair of knives back into his sleeves. Rand stood with 
his thumbs tucked behind his belt, but there was dear relief in his eyes.
Egwene looked for Aviendha, to ask a few questions before she approached Amys. 
Surely the Aiel woman would be a little more forthcoming about the Wise Ones 
here, in her own land. She spotted the Maiden, carrying a large clinking jute 
sack, and two rolled wall hangings over her shoulder, as she started briskly for 
one of the big encampments.
"You will stay, Aviendha," the Wise One with gray streaks in her hair said 
loudly. Aviendha stopped in her tracks, not looking at anyone.
Egwene started to go to her, but Moiraine murmured, "Best not to interfere. I 
doubt she will want sympathy, or see anything else if you offer it."
Egwene nodded in spite of herself. Aviendha did look as if she wanted to be left 
alone. What did the Wise Ones want with her? Had she broken some rule, some law?
She herself would not have minded some more company. She felt very exposed 
standing there with no Aiel around her, and all those among the tents watching. 
The Aiel who had come from the Stone had been courteous even when not exactly 
friendly; the watchers looked neither. It was a temptation to embrace saidar. 
Only Moiraine, serene and cool as ever despite perspiration on her face, and 
Lan, as unperturbed as the rocks around them, kept her from it. They would know 
if there was danger. As long as they accepted the situation, she would. But she 
did wish those Aiel would stop staring.
Rhuarc climbed the slope with a smile. "I am come back, Amys, though not by the 
way you expected, I will wager."
"I knew you would be here today, shade of my heart." She reached up to touch his 
cheek, letting her brown shawl fall down onto her arms. "My sister&#8209;wife sends 
her heart to you."
"That's what you meant about Dreaming," Egwene said softly to Moiraine. Lan was 
the only other close enough to hear. "That's why you were willing to let Rand 
try to bring us here by Portal Stone. They knew about it, and told you in that 
letter. No, that doesn't make sense. If they had mentioned a Portal Stone, you 
wouldn't have tried talking him out of it. They knew we'd be here, though."
Moiraine nodded without taking her eyes from the Wise Ones. "They wrote that 
they would meet us here, on Chaendaer, today. I thought it . . . unlikely . . . 
until Rand mentioned the Stones. When he was sure &#8209; certain beyond my 
dissuading­ - that one existed here . . . . Let us just say it suddenly seemed 
very likely we would reach Chaendaer today."
Egwene took a deep breath of hot air. So that was one of the things Dreamers 
could do. She could not wait to start learning. She wanted to go after Rhuarc 
and introduce herself to Amys &#8209; reintroduce herself &#8209; but Rhuarc and Amys were 
looking into one another's eyes in a way that excluded intruders.
A man had come out from each of the camps, one tall and broad&#8209;shouldered, 
flame&#8209;haired and still short of his middle years, the other older and darker, no 
less tall but more slender. They stopped a few paces to either side of Rhuarc 
and the Wise Ones. The older, leathery&#8209;faced man carried no visible weapon 
except his heavy-­bladed belt knife, but the other carried spears and hide 
buckler, and held his head high with a fiercely prideful scowl directed at 
Rhuarc.
Rhuarc ignored him, turning to the older man. "I see you, Heirn. Has one of the 
sept chiefs decided I am already dead? Who seeks to take my place?"
"I see you, Rhuarc. No one of the Taardad has entered Rhuidean, or seeks to. 
Amys said she would come meet you here today, and these other Wise Ones traveled 
with her. I brought these men of the Jindo sept to see they arrived safely."
Rhuarc nodded solemnly. Egwene had the feeling something important had just been 
said, or hinted at. The Wise Ones did not look at the fiery&#8209;haired man, and 
neither did Rhuarc or Heim, but from the color rising in the fellow's cheeks, 
they might as well have been staring at him. She glanced at Moiraine and got a 
tiny shake of the head; the Aes Sedai did not understand either.
Lan leaned down between them, speaking quietly. "A Wise One can go anywhere 
safely, into any hold regardless of clan. I think not even blood feud touches a 
Wise One. This Heirn came to protect Rhuarc from whoever the other camp is, but 
it would not be honorable to say it." Moiraine lifted one eyebrow a trifle, and 
he added, "I don't know much of them, but I fought them often before I met you. 
You have never asked me about them."
"I will remedy that," the Aes Sedai said dryly.
Turning back to the Wise Ones and the three men made Egwene's head swim. Lan 
pushed an unstoppered leather water bottle into her hands, and she tilted her 
head back to drink gratefully. The water was lukewarm and smelled of leather, 
but in the heat it tasted fresh from the spring. She offered the half&#8209;empty 
bottle to Moiraine, who drank sparingly and handed it back. Egwene was glad to 
gulp down the rest, dosing her eyes; water splashed over her head, and she 
opened them again quickly. Lan was emptying another water bottle over her, and 
Moiraine's hair already dripped.
"This heat can kill if you are not used to it," the Warder explained as he wet 
down a pair of plain white linen scarves pulled from his coat. At his 
instructions, she and Moiraine tied the soaked cloths around their foreheads. 
Rand and Mat were doing the same. Lan left his own head unprotected to the sun; 
nothing seemed to faze the man.
The silence between Rhuarc and the Aielmen with him had stretched out, but the 
clan chief finally turned to the flame&#8209;haired man. "Do the Shaido lack a clan 
chief, then, Couladin?"
"Suladric is dead," the man answered. "Muradin has entered Rhuidean. Should he 
fail, I will enter."
"You have not asked, Couladin," the grandmotherly Wise One said in that reedy 
yet strong voice. "Should Muradin fail, ask then. We are four, enough to say yes 
or no. "
"It is my right, Bair," Couladin said angrily. He had the look of a man not used 
to being balked.
"It is your right to ask," the thin&#8209;voiced woman replied. "It is ours to answer. 
I do not think you will be allowed to enter, whatever happens to Muradin. You 
are flawed within, Couladin." She shifted her gray shawl, rewrapping it around 
her angular shoulders in a way that suggested she had said more than she 
considered necessary.
The flame&#8209;haired man's face grew red. "My first&#8209;brother will return marked as 
clan chief, and we will lead the Shaido to great honor! We mean to &#8209; !" He 
snapped his mouth shut, almost quivering.
Egwene thought she would keep an eye on him if he remained anywhere dose to her. 
He reminded her of the Congars and the Coplins back home, full of boasts and 
trouble. She had certainly never before seen any Aiel display so much raw 
emotion.
Amys seemed to have dismissed him already. "There is one who came with you, 
Rhuarc," she said. Egwene expected the woman to speak to her, but Amys's eyes 
swept straight to Rand. Moiraine was obviously not surprised. Egwene wondered 
what had been in that letter from these four Wise Ones that the Aes Sedai had 
not revealed.
Rand looked taken aback for a moment, hesitating, but then he strode up the 
slope to stand near Rhuarc at eye level to the women. Sweat plastered his white 
shirt to his body and made darker patches on his breeches. With a twisted white 
cloth tied around his head, he certainly did not look so grand as he had in the 
Heart of the Stone. He made an odd bow, left foot advanced, left hand on knee, 
right hand outstretched palm upward.
"By the right of blood," he said, "I ask leave to enter Rhuidean, for the honor 
of our ancestors and the memory of what was."
Amys blinked in evident surprise, and Bair murmured, "An ancient form, but the 
question has been asked. I answer yes."
"I also answer yes, Bair," Amys said. "Seana?"
"This man is no Aiel," Couladin broke in angrily. Egwene suspected he was very 
nearly always angry. "It is death for him to be on this ground! Why has Rhuarc 
brought him? Why &#8209; ?"
"Do you wish to be a Wise One, Couladin?" Bair asked, a frown deepening the 
creases on her face. "Put on a dress and come to me, and I will see if you can 
be trained. Until then, be silent when Wise Ones speak!"
"My mother was Aiel," Rand said in a strained voice.
Egwene stared at him. Kari al'Thor had died while Egwene was barely out of her 
cradle, but if Tam's wife had been Aiel, Egwene would certainly have heard of 
it. She glanced at Moiraine; the Aes Sedai was watching, smooth&#8209;faced, calm. 
Rand did look a great deal like the Aielmen, with his height and gray&#8209;blue eyes 
and reddish hair, but this was ridiculous.
"Not your mother," Amys said slowly. "Your father." Egwene shook her head. This 
approached madness. Rand opened his mouth, but Amys did not let him speak. 
"Seana, how do you say?"
"Yes," the woman with gray&#8209;streaked hair said. "Melaine?"
The last of the four, a handsome woman with golden&#8209;red hair, no more than ten or 
fifteen years older than Egwene, hesitated. "It must be done," she said finally, 
and unwillingly. "I answer yes."
"You have been answered," Amys told Rand. "You may go into Rhuidean, and &#8209; " She 
cut off as Mat scrambled up to copy Rand's bow awkwardly.
"I also ask to enter Rhuidean," he said shakily.
The four Wise Ones stared at him. Rand's head whipped around in surprise. Egwene 
thought no one could be more shocked than she was, but Couladin proved her 
wrong. Lifting one of his spears with a snarl, he stabbed at Mat's chest.
The glow of saidar surrounded Amys and Melaine, and flows of Air lifted the 
fiery&#8209;haired man and flung him back a dozen paces.
Egwene stared, wide&#8209;eyed. They could channel. At least, two of them could. 
Suddenly Amys's youthfully smooth features beneath that white hair leaped out at 
her for what they were, something very close to Aes Sedai agelessness. Moiraine 
was absolutely still. Egwene could almost hear her thoughts buzzing, though. 
This was plainly as much of a surprise to the Aes Sedai as to herself.
Couladin scrambled to his feet in a crouch. "You accept this outlander as one of 
us," he rasped, pointing at Rand with the spear he had attempted to use on Mat. 
"If you say it, then so be it. He is still a soft wetlander, and Rhuidean will 
kill him." The spear swung to Mat, who was trying to slip a knife back up his 
sleeve without being noticed. "But he &#8209; it is death for him to be here, and 
sacrilege for him to even ask to enter Rhuidean. None but those of the blood may 
enter. None!"
"Go back to your tents, Couladin," Melaine said coldly. "And you, Heirn. And 
you, as well, Rhuarc. This is business of Wise Ones, and none of men save those 
who have asked. Go!" Rhuarc and Heirn nodded and walked away toward the smaller 
set of tents, talking together. Couladin glared at Rand and Mat, and at the Wise 
Ones, before jerking around and stalking off toward the larger camp.
The Wise Ones exchanged glances. Troubled glances, Egwene would have said, 
though they were almost as good as Aes Sedai at keeping their faces blank when 
they wanted to.
"It is not permitted," Amys said finally. "Young man, you do not know what you 
have done. Go back with the others." Her eyes brushed across Egwene and Moiraine 
and Lan, standing alone now with the horses near the wind&#8209;scoured Portal Stone. 
Egwene could not find any recognition for her in that glance.
"I can't." Mat sounded desperate. "I've come this far, but this doesn't count, 
does it? I have to go to Rhuidean."
"It is not permitted," Melaine said sharply, her long red&#8209;gold hair swinging as 
she shook her head. "You have no Aiel blood in your veins."
Rand had been studying Mat all this time. "He comes with me," he said suddenly. 
"You gave me permission, and he can come with me whether you say he can or not." 
He stared back at the Wise Ones, not defiantly, merely determined, set in his 
mind. Egwene knew him like this; he would not back down whatever they said.
"It is not permitted," Melaine said firmly, addressing her sisters. She pulled 
her shawl up to cover her head. "The law is clear. No woman may go to Rhuidean 
more than twice, no man more than once, and none at all save they have the blood 
of Aiel."
Seana shook her head. "Much is changing, Melaine. The old ways. . . ."
"If he is the one," Bair said, "the Time of Change is upon us. Aes Sedai stand 
on Chaendaer, and Aan'allein with his shifting cloak. Can we hold to the old 
ways still? Knowing how much is to change?"
"We cannot hold," Amys said. "All stands on the edge of change, now. Melaine?" 
The golden&#8209;haired woman looked at the mountains around them, and the 
fog&#8209;shrouded city below, then sighed and nodded. "It is done," Amys said, 
turning to Rand and Mat. "You," she began, then paused. "By what name do you 
call yourself?"
"Rand al'Thor."
"Mat. Mat Cauthon."
Amys nodded. "You, Rand al'Thor, must go into the heart of Rhuidean, to the very 
center. If you wish to go with him, Mat Cauthon, so be it, but know that most 
men who enter Rhuidean's heart do not come back, and some return mad. You may 
carry neither food nor water, in remembrance of our wanderings after the 
Breaking. You must go to Rhuidean unarmed, save with your hands and your own 
heart, to honor the Jenn. If you have weapons, place them on the ground before 
us. They will be here for you when you return. If you return."
Rand unsheathed his belt knife and laid it at Amys's feet, then after a moment 
added the green stone carving of the round little man. "That is the best I can 
do," he said.
Mat began with his belt knife and kept right on, pulling knives from his sleeves 
and under his coat, even one from down the back of his neck, fashioning a pile 
that seemed to impress even the Aiel women. He made as if to stop, looked at the 
women, then took two more from each boot top. "I forgot them," he said with a 
grin and shrug. The Wise Ones' unblinking looks wiped his grin away.
"They are pledged to Rhuidean," Amys said formally, looking over the men's 
heads, and the other three responded together, "Rhuidean belongs to the dead."
"They may not speak to the living until they return," she intoned, and again the 
others answered. "The dead do not speak to the living."
"We do not see them, until they stand among the living once more." Amys drew her 
shawl across her eyes, and one by one the other three did the same. Faces 
hidden, they spoke in unison. "Begone from among the living, and do not haunt us 
with memories of what is lost. Speak not of what the dead see." Silent then, 
they stood there, holding their shawls up, waiting.
Rand and Mat looked at one another. Egwene wanted to go to them, to speak to 
them &#8209; they wore the fixed too &#8209; steady faces of men who did not want anyone to 
know they were uneasy or afraid &#8209; but that might break the ceremony.
Finally Mat barked a laugh. "Well, I suppose the dead can talk to each other, at 
least. I wonder if this counts for. . . No matter. Do you suppose it's all right 
if we ride?"
"I don't think so," Rand said. "I think we have to walk."
"Oh, burn my aching feet. We might as well get on with it then. It'll take half 
the afternoon just to get there. If we're lucky."
Rand gave Egwene a reassuring smile as they started down the mountain, as if to 
convince her there was no danger, nothing untoward. Mat's grin was the sort he 
wore when doing something particularly foolish, like trying to dance on the peak 
of a roof.
"You aren't going to do anything . . . crazy . . . are you?" Mat said. "I mean 
to come back alive."
"So do I," Rand replied. "So do I."
They passed from hearing, growing smaller and smaller as they descended. When 
they had dwindled to tiny shapes, barely distinguishable as people, the Wise 
Ones lowered their shawls.
Straightening her dress, and wishing she were not so sweaty, Egwene climbed the 
short distance to them leading Mist. "Amys? I am Egwene al'Vere. You said I 
should &#8209; "
Amys cut her off with a raised hand, and looked to where Lan was leading Mandarb 
and Pips and Jeade'en, behind Moiraine and Aldieb. "This is women's business, 
now, Aan'allein. You must stand aside. Go to the tents. Rhuarc will offer you 
water and shade."
Lan waited for Moiraine's slight nod before bowing and walking off in the 
direction Rhuarc had gone. The shifting cloak hanging down his back sometimes 
gave him the appearance of a disembodied head and arms floating across the 
ground ahead of the three horses.
"Why do you call him that?" Moiraine asked when he was out of earshot. "One Man. 
Do you know him?"
"We know of him, Aes Sedai." Amys made the title sound an address between 
equals. "The last of the Malkieri. The man who will not give up his war against 
the Shadow though his nation is long destroyed by it. There is much honor in 
him. I knew from the dream that if you came, it was almost certain Aan'allein 
would as well, but I did not know he obeyed you."
"He is my Warder," Moiraine said simply.
Egwene thought the Aes Sedai was troubled despite her tone, and she knew why. 
Almost certain Lan would come with Moiraine? Lan always followed Moiraine; he 
would follow her into the Pit of Doom without blinking. Nearly as interesting to 
Egwene was "if you came." Had the Wise Ones known they were coming or not? 
Perhaps interpreting the Dream was not as straightforward as she hoped. She was 
about to ask, when Bair spoke.
"Aviendha? Come here."
Aviendha had been squatting disconsolately off to one side, arms wrapped around 
her knees, staring at the ground. She stood slowly. If Egwene had not known 
better, she would have thought the other woman was afraid. Aviendha's feet 
dragged as she climbed to where the Wise Ones stood and set her bag and rolled 
wall hangings at her feet.
"It is time," Bair said, not ungently. Still, there was no compromise in her 
pale blue eyes. "You have run with the spears as long as you can. Longer than 
you should have."
Aviendha flung up her head defiantly. "I am a Maiden of the Spear. I do not want 
to be a Wise One. I will not be "
The Wise Ones' faces hardened. Egwene was reminded of the Women's Circle back 
home confronting a woman who was heading off into some foolishness.
"You have already been treated more gently than it was in my day," Amys said in 
a voice like stone. "I, too, refused when called. My spear sisters broke my 
spears before my eyes. They took me to Bair and Coedelin bound hand and foot and 
wearing only my skin."
"And a pretty little doll tucked under your arm," Bair said dryly, "to remind 
you how childish you were. As I remember, you ran away nine times in the first 
month."
Amys nodded grimly. "And was made to blubber like a child for each of them. I 
only ran away five times the second month. I thought I was as strong and hard as 
a woman could be. I was not smart, though; it took me half a year to learn you 
were stronger and harder than I could ever be, Bair. Eventually I learned my 
duty, my obligation to the people. As you will, Aviendha. Such as you and I, we 
have that obligation. You are not a child. It is time to put away dolls &#8209; and 
spears &#8209; and become the woman you are meant to be."
Abruptly, Egwene knew why she had felt such a kinship with Aviendha from the 
first, knew why Amys and the others meant her to be a Wise One. Aviendha could 
channel. Like herself, like Elayne and Nynaeve &#8209; and Moiraine, for that matter &#8209; 
she was one of those rare women who not only could be taught to channel, but who 
had the ability born in her, so she would touch the True Source eventually 
whether she knew what she was doing or not. Moiraine's face was still, calm, but 
Egwene saw confirmation in her eyes. The Aes Sedai had surely known from the 
first time she came within arm's reach of the Aiel woman. Egwene realized she 
could feel that same kinship with Amys and Melaine. Not with Bair or Seana, 
though. Only the first two could channel; she was sure of it. And now she could 
sense the same in Moiraine. It was the first time she had ever felt that. The 
Aes Sedai was a distant woman.
Some of the Wise Ones, at least, apparently saw more in Moiraine's face. "You 
meant to take her to your White Tower," Bair said, "to make her one of you. She 
is Aiel, Aes Sedai."
"She can be very strong if she is trained properly," Moiraine replied. "As 
strong as Egwene will be. In the Tower, she can reach that strength."
"We can teach her as well, Aes Sedai." Melaine's voice was smooth enough, but 
contempt tinged her unwavering green&#8209;eyed stare. "Better. I have spoken with Aes 
Sedai. You coddle women in the Tower. The Three&#8209;fold Land is no place for 
coddling. Aviendha will learn what she can do while you would still have her 
playing games."
Egwene gave Aviendha a concerned look; the other woman was staring at her feet, 
defiance gone. If they thought training in the Tower was coddling . . . . She 
had been worked harder and disciplined more strictly as a novice than ever 
before in her life. She felt a true pang of sympathy for the Aiel woman.
Amys held out her hands, and Aviendha reluctantly laid her spears and buckler in 
them, flinching when the Wise One threw them aside to clatter on the ground. 
Slowly Aviendha slid her cased bow from her back and surrendered it, unbuckled 
the belt holding her quiver and sheathed knife. Amys took each offering and 
tossed it away like rubbish; Aviendha gave a little jerk each time. A tear 
trembled at the corner of one blue&#8209;green eye.
"Do you have to treat her this way?" Egwene demanded angrily. Amys and the 
others turned flat stares on her, but she was not about to be intimidated. "You 
are treating things she cares about as trash"
"She must see them as trash," Seana said. "When she returns &#8209; if she returns &#8209; 
she will burn them and scatter the ashes. The metal she will give to a smith to 
make simple things. Not weapons. Not even a carving knife. Buckles, or pots, or 
puzzles for children. Things she will give away with her own hands when they are 
made."
"The Three&#8209;fold land is not soft, Aes Sedai," Bair said. "Soft things die, 
here."
"The cadin'sor, Aviendha." Amys gestured to the discarded weapons. "Your new 
clothes will await your return."
Mechanically, Aviendha stripped, tossing coat and breeches, soft boots, 
everything onto the pile. Naked, she stood without wriggling a toe, though 
Egwene thought her own feet would blister through her shoes. She remembered 
watching as the clothes she had worn to the White Tower were burned, a severing 
of ties to an earlier life, but it had not been like this. Not this stark.
When Aviendha started to add the sack and the wall hangings to the pile, Seana 
took them from her. "These you can have back. If you return. If not, they will 
go to your family, for remembrance."
Aviendha nodded. She did not seem afraid. Reluctant, angry, even sullen, but not 
afraid.
"In Rhuidean," Amys said, "you will find three rings, arranged so." She drew 
three lines in the air, joining together in the middle. "Step through any one. 
You will see your future laid before you, again and again, in variation. They 
will not guide you wholly, as is best, for they will fade together as do stories 
heard long ago, yet you will remember enough to know some things that must be, 
for you, despised as they may be, and some that must not, cherished hopes that 
they are. This is the beginning of being called wise. Some women never return 
from the rings; perhaps they could not face the future. Some who survive the 
rings do not survive their second trip to Rhuidean, to the heart. You are not 
giving up a hard and dangerous life for a softer, but for a harder and more 
dangerous."
A ter'angreal, Amys was describing a ter'angreal. What kind of place was this 
Rhuidean? Egwene found herself wanting to go down there herself, to find out. 
That was foolish. She was not here to take unnecessary risks with ter'angreal 
she knew nothing about.
Melaine cupped Aviendha's chin and turned the younger woman's face to her. "You 
have the strength," she said with quiet conviction. "A strong mind and a strong 
heart are your weapons now, but you hold them as surely as you ever held a 
spear. Remember them, use them, and they will see you through anything."
Egwene was surprised. Of the four, she would have picked the sun&#8209;haired woman 
last to show compassion.
Aviendha nodded, and even managed a smile. "I will beat those men to Rhuidean. 
They cannot run."
Each Wise One in turn kissed her lightly on each cheek, murmuring, "Come back to 
us."
Catching Aviendha's hand, Egwene squeezed it and got a squeeze in return. Then 
the Aid woman was running down the mountainside in leaps. It seemed she might 
well catch up to Rand and Mat. Egwene watched her go worriedly. This was 
something like being raised to Accepted, it seemed, but without any novice 
training first, without anyone to give small comfort afterward. What would it 
have been like to be raised Accepted on her first day in the Tower? She thought 
she might have gone mad. Nynaeve had been raised so, because of her strength; 
she thought at least some of Nynaeve's distaste for Aes Sedai came from what she 
had experienced then. Come back to us, she thought. Be steadfast.
When Aviendha passed out of sight, Egwene sighed and turned back to the Wise 
Ones. She had her own purpose here, and holding back from it would help no one. 
"Amys, in Tel'aran'rhiod you told me I should come to you to learn. I have."
"Haste," the white&#8209;haired woman said. "We have been hasty, because Aviendha 
struggled so long against her toh, because we feared the Shaido might don veils, 
even here, if we did not send Rand al'Thor into Rhuidean before they could 
think."
"You believe they'd have tried to kill him?" Egwene said. "But he's the one you 
sent people over the Dragonwall to find. He Who Comes With the Dawn."
Bair shifted her shawl. "Perhaps he is. We shall see. If he lives."
"He has his mother's eyes," Amys said, "and much of her in his face as well as 
something of his father, but Couladin could see only his clothes, and his horse. 
The other Shaido would have as well, and perhaps the Taardad, too. Outlanders 
are not allowed on this ground, and now there are five of you. No, four; Rand 
al'Thor is no outlander, wherever he was raised. But we have already allowed one 
to enter Rhuidean, which is also forbidden. Change comes like an avalanche 
whether we want it or not."
"It must come," Bair said, not sounding happy. "The Pattern plants us where it 
will. "
"You knew Rand's parents?" Egwene asked cautiously. Whatever they said, she 
still thought of Tam and Kari al'Thor as Rand's parents.
"That is his story," Amys said, "if he wants to hear it." By the firmness of her 
mouth, she would not say another word on the subject.
"Come," Bair said. "There is no need for haste, now. Come. We offer you water 
and shade."
Egwene's knees nearly buckled at the mention of shade. The once&#8209;sopping kerchief 
around her forehead was almost dry; the top of her head felt baked, and the rest 
of her scarcely less. Moiraine seemed just as grateful to follow the Wise Ones 
up to one of the small dusters of low, open&#8209;sided tents.
A tall man in sandals and hooded white robes took their horses' reins. His Aiel 
face looked odd in the deep soft cowl, with downcast eyes.
"Give the animals water," Bair said before ducking into the low, unwalled tent, 
and the man bowed to her back, touching his forehead.
Egwene hesitated over letting the man lead Mist away. He seemed confident, but 
what would an Aiel know of horses? Still, she did not think he would harm them, 
and it did look wonderfully darker inside the tent. It was, and delightfully 
cool compared to outside.
The roof of the tent rose to a peak around a hole, but even under that there was 
barely room to stand. As if to make up for the drab colors the Aid wore, large 
gold&#8209;tasseled red cushions lay scattered over brightly colored carpets layered 
thickly enough to pad the hard ground beneath. Egwene and Moiraine imitated the 
Wise Ones, sinking to the carpet and leaning on one elbow on a cushion. They 
were all in a circle, nearly close enough to touch the next woman.
Bair struck a small brass gong, and two young women entered with silver trays, 
bending gracefully, robed in white, with deep cowls and downturned eyes, like 
the man who had taken the horses. Kneeling in the middle of the tent, one filled 
a small silver cup with wine for each of the women reclining on a cushion, and 
the other poured larger cups of water. Without a word, they backed out bowing, 
leaving the gleaming trays and pitchers, beaded with condensation.
"Here is water and shade," Bair said, lifting her water, "freely given. Let 
there be no constraints between us. All here are welcome, as first&#8209;sisters are 
welcome."
"Let there be no constraints," Amys and the other two murmured. After one sip of 
water, the Aiel women named themselves formally. Bair, of the Haido sept of the 
Shaarad Aiel. Amys, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel. Melaine, of 
the Jhirad sept of the Goshien Aiel. Seana, of the Black Cliff sept of the Nakai 
Aiel.
Egwene and Moiraine followed the ritual, though Moiraine's mouth tightened when 
Egwene called herself an Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah.
As if the sharing of water and names had broken down a wall, the mood in the 
tent changed palpably. Smiles from the Aiel women, a subtle relaxation, and said 
formalities were done.
Egwene was more grateful for the water than for the wine. It might be cooler in 
the tent than outside, but just breathing still dried her throat. At Amys's 
gesture she eagerly poured a second cup.
The people in white had been surprise. It was foolish, but she realized she had 
been thinking that except for the Wise Ones Aiel were all like Rhuarc and 
Aviendha, warriors. Of course they had blacksmiths and weavers and other 
craftsmen; they must. Why not servants? Only, Aviendha had been disdainful of 
the servants in the Stone, not letting them do anything for her that she could 
avoid. These people with their humble demeanor did not act like Aiel at all. She 
did not recall seeing any white in the two large camps. "Is it only Wise Ones 
who have servants?" she asked.
Melaine choked on her wine. "Servants?" she gasped. "They are gai'shain, not 
servants." She sounded as if that should explain everything.
Moiraine frowned slightly over her winecup. "Gai'shain? How does that translate? 
'Those sworn to peace in battle'?"
"They are simply gai'shain," Amys said. She seemed to realize they did not 
understand. "Forgive me, but do you know of ji'e'toh?"
"Honor and obligation," Moiraine replied promptly. "Or perhaps honor and duty."
"Those are the words, yes. But the meaning. We live by ji'e'toh, Aes Sedai."
"Do not try to tell them all, Amys," Bair cautioned. "I once spent a month 
trying to explain ji'e'toh to a wetlander, and at the end she had more questions 
than at the beginning."
Amys nodded. "I will stay to the core. If you wish it explained, Moiraine."
Egwene would as soon have begun talk of Dreaming, and training, but to her 
irritation, the Aes Sedai said, "Yes, if you will."
With a nod to Moiraine, Amys began. "I will follow the line of gai'shain simply. 
In the dance of spears, the most ji, honor, is earned by touching an armed enemy 
without killing, or harming in any way."
"The most honor because it is so difficult," Seana said, bluish gray eyes 
crinkling wryly, "and thus so seldom done."
"The smallest honor comes from killing," Amys continued. "A child or a fool can 
kill. In between is the taking of a captive. I pare it down, you see. There are 
many degrees. Gai'shain are captives taken so, though a warrior who has been 
touched may sometimes demand to be taken gai'shain to reduce his enemy's honor 
and his own loss."
"Maidens of the Spear and Stone Dogs especially are known for this," Seana put 
in, bringing a sharp look from Amys.
"Do I tell this, or do you? To continue. Some may not be taken gai'shain, of 
course. A Wise One, a blacksmith, a child, a woman with child or one who has a 
child under the age of ten. A gai'shain has toh to his or her captor. For 
gai'shain, this is to serve one year and a day, obeying humbly, touching no 
weapon, doing no violence."
Egwene was interested in spite of herself. "Don't they try to escape? I 
certainly would." I'll never let anyone make me a prisoner again!
The Wise Ones looked shocked. "It has happened," Seana said stiffly, "but there 
is no honor in it. A gai'shain who ran away would be returned by his or her sept 
to begin the year and a day anew. The loss of honor is so great that a 
first&#8209;brother or first&#8209;sister might go as gai'shain as well to discharge the 
sept's toh. More than one, if they feel the loss of ii is great."
Moiraine seemed to be taking it all in calmly, sipping her water, but it was all 
Egwene could do not to shake her head. The Aiel were insane; that was all there 
was to it. It got worse.
"Some gai'shain now make an arrogance of humbleness," Melaine said 
disapprov­ingly. "They think they earn honor by it, taking obedience and 
meekness to the point of mockery. This is a new thing and foolish. It has no 
part in ji'e'toh."
Bair laughed, a startling rich sound compared to her reedy voice. "There have 
always been fools. When I was a girl, and the Shaarad and the Tomanelle were 
stealing each other's cattle and goats every night, Chenda, the roofmistress of 
Mainde Cut, was pushed aside by a young Haido Water Seeker during a raid. She 
came to Bent Valley and demanded the boy make her gai'shain; she would not allow 
him to gain the honor of having touched her because she had a carving knife in 
her hand when he did. A carving knife! It was a weapon, she claimed, as if she 
were a Maiden. The boy had no choice but to do as she demanded, for all the 
laughter when he did. One does not send a roofmistress barefoot back to her 
hold. Before the year and a day was done, the Haido sept and the Jenda sept 
exchanged spears, and the boy soon found himself married to Chenda's eldest 
daughter. With his second&#8209;mother still gai'shain to him. He tried to give her to 
his wife as part of his bride gift, and both women claimed he was trying to rob 
them of honor. He nearly had to take his own wife as gai'shain. It came close to 
raiding between Haido and Jenda again before the toh was discharged." The Aiel 
women almost fell over laughing, Amys and Melaine wiping their eyes.
Egwene understood little of the story &#8209; certainly not why it was funny &#8209; but she 
managed a polite laugh.
Moiraine set her water aside for the small silver cup of wine. "I have heard men 
speak of fighting the Aiel, but I have never heard of this before. Certainly not 
of an Aiel surrendering because he was touched."
"It is not surrender," Amys said pointedly. "It is ji'e'toh."
"No one would ask to be made gai'shain to a wetlander," Melaine said. 
"Outlanders do not know of ji'e'toh."
The Aiel women exchanged looks. They were uncomfortable. Why? Egwene wondered. 
Oh. To the Aiel, not to know ji'e'toh must be like not knowing manners, or not 
being honorable. "There are honorable men and women among us," Egwene said. 
"Most of us. We know right from wrong."
"Of course you do," Bair murmured in a tone that said that was not the same 
thing at all.
"You sent a letter to me in Tear," Moiraine said, "before I ever reached there. 
You said a great many things, some of which have proven true. Including that I 
would &#8209; must &#8209; meet you here today; you very nearly commanded me to be here. Yet 
earlier you said if I came. How much of what you wrote did you know to be true?"
Amys sighed and set aside her cup of wine, but it was Bair who spoke. "Much is 
uncertain, even to a dreamwalker. Amys and Melaine are the best of us, and even 
they do not see all that is, or all that can be."
"The present is much dearer than the future even in Tel'aran'rhiod," the 
sun&#8209;haired Wise One said. "What it happening or beginning is more easily seen 
than what will happen, or may. We did not see Egwene or Mat Cauthon at all. It 
was no more than an even chance that the young man who calls himself Rand 
al'Thor would come. If he did not, it was certain that he would die, and the 
Aiel too. Yet he has come, and if he survives Rhuidean, some of the Aiel at 
least will survive. This we know. If you had not come, he would have died. If 
Aan'allein had not come, you would have died. If you do not go through the rings 
&#8209; " She cut off as if she had bitten her tongue.
Egwene leaned forward intently. Moiraine had to enter Rhuidean? But the Aes 
Sedai appeared to give no notice, and Seana spoke up quickly to cover Melaine's 
slip.
"There is no one set path to the future. The Pattern makes the finest lace look 
coarse woven sacking, or tangled string. In Tel'aran'rhiod it is possible to see 
some ways the future may be woven. No more than that."
Moiraine took a sip of wine. "The Old Tongue is often difficult to translate." 
Egwene stared at her. The Old Tongue? What about the rings, the ter'angreal? But 
Moiraine went blithely on. "Tel'aran'rhiod means the World of Dreams, or perhaps 
the Unseen World. Neither is really exact; it is more complex than that. 
Aan'allein. One Man, but also The Man Who Is an Entire People, and two or three 
other ways to translate it as well. And the words we have taken for common use, 
and never think of their meanings in the Old Tongue. Warders are called 
'Gaidin,' which was 'brothers to battle.' Aes Sedai meant 'servant of all.' And 
'Aiel.' 'Dedicated,' in the Old Tongue. Stronger than that; it implies an oath 
written into your bones. I have often wondered what the Aiel are dedicated to." 
The Wise Ones' faces had gone to iron, but Moiraine continued. "And Jenn Aiel.' 
'The true dedicated,' but again stronger. Perhaps 'the only true dedicated.' The 
only true Aiel?" She looked at them questioningly, just as if they did not 
suddenly have eyes of stone. None of them spoke.
What was Moiraine doing? Egwene did not intend to allow the Aes Sedai to ruin 
her chances of learning whatever the Wise Ones could teach her. "Amys, could we 
talk of Dreaming now?"
"Tonight will be time enough," Amys said.
"But &#8209; "
"Tonight, Egwene. You may be Aes Sedai, but you must become a pupil again. You 
cannot even go to sleep when you wish yet, or sleep lightly enough to tell what 
you see before you wake. When the sun begins to set, I will begin to teach you."
Ducking her head, Egwene peered under the edge of the tent roof. From that deep 
shade, the light outside glared piercingly through heat shimmers in the air; the 
sun stood no more than halfway to the mountaintops.
Abruptly Moiraine rose to her knees; reaching behind her, she began undoing her 
dress. "I presume that I must go as Aviendha did," she said, not as a question.
Bair gave Melaine a hard stare that the younger woman met only for a moment 
before dropping her eyes. Seana said in a resigned voice, "You should not have 
been told. It is done, now. Change. One not of the blood has gone to Rhuidean, 
and now another."
Moiraine paused. "Does that make a difference, that I have been told?"
"Perhaps a great difference," Bair said reluctantly, "perhaps none. We often 
guide, but we do not tell. When we saw you go to the rings, each time it was you 
who brought up going, who demanded the right though you have none of the blood. 
Now one of us has mentioned it first. Already there are changes from anything we 
saw. Who can say what they are?"
"And what did you see if I do not go?"
Bair's wrinkled face was expressionless, but sympathy touched her pale blue 
eyes. "We have told too much already, Moiraine. What a dreamwalker sees is what 
is likely to happen, not what surely will. Those who move with too much 
knowledge of the future inevitably find disaster, whether from complacency at 
what they think must come or in their efforts to change it."
"It is the mercy of the rings that the memories fade," Amys said. "A woman knows 
some things &#8209; a few &#8209; that will happen; others she will not recognize until the 
decision is upon her, if then. Life is uncertainty and struggle, choice and 
change; one who knew how her life was woven into the Pattern as well as she knew 
how a thread was laid into a carpet would have the life of an animal. If she did 
not go mad. Humankind is made for uncertainty, struggle, choice and change."
Moiraine listened with no outward show of impatience, though Egwene suspected it 
was there; the Aes Sedai was used to lecturing, not being lectured. She was 
silent while Egwene helped her out of her dress, not speaking until she crouched 
naked at the edge of the carpets, peering down the mountainside toward the 
fog&#8209;shrouded city in the valley. Then she said, "Do not let Lan follow me. He 
will try, if he sees me."
"It will be as it will be," Bair replied. Her thin voice sounded cold and final.
After a moment, Moiraine gave a grudging nod and slipped out of the tent into 
the blazing sunlight. She began to run immediately, barefoot down the scorching 
slope.
Egwene grimaced. Rand and Mat, Aviendha, now Moiraine, all going into Rhuidean. 
"Will she . . . survive? If you dreamed of this, you must know."
"There are some places one cannot enter in Tel'aran'rhiod," Seana said. 
"Rhuidean. Ogier stedding. A few others. What happens there is shielded from a 
dreamwalker's eyes. "
That was not an answer &#8209; they could have seen whether she came out of Rhuidean &#8209; 
but it was obviously all she was going to get. "Very well. Should I go, too?" 
She did not relish the thought of experiencing the rings; it would be like being 
raised to Accepted again. But if everyone else was going . . . .
"Do not be foolish," Amys said vigorously.
"We saw nothing of this for you," Bair added in a milder tone. "We did not see 
you at all."
"And I would not say yes if you asked," Amys went on. "Four are required for 
permission, and I would say no. You are here to learn to dreamwalk."
"In that case," Egwene said, settling back on her cushion, "teach me. There must 
be something you can begin with before tonight."
Melaine frowned at her, but Bair chuckled dryly. "She is as eager and impatient 
as you were once you decided to learn, Amys."
Amys nodded. "I hope she can keep her eagerness and lose the impatience, for her 
sake. Hear me, Egwene. Though it will be hard, you must forget that you are Aes 
Sedai if you are to learn. You must listen, remember, and do as you are told. 
Above all, you must not enter Tel'aran'rhiod again until one of us says you may. 
Can you accept this?"
It would not be hard to forget she was Aes Sedai when she was not. For the rest, 
it sounded ominously like becoming a novice again. "I can accept it." She hoped 
she did not sound doubtful.
"Good," Bair said. "I will now tell you about dreamwalking and Tel'aran'rhiod, 
in a very general way. When I am done, you will repeat back to me what I have 
said. If you fail to touch all points, you will scrub the pots in place of the 
gai'shain tonight. If your memory is so poor that you cannot repeat what I say 
after a second hearing . . . . Well, we will discuss that when it happens. 
Attend.
"Almost anyone can touch Tel'aran'rhiod, but few can truly enter it. Of all the 
Wise Ones, we four alone can dreamwalk, and your Tower has not produced a 
dreamwalker in nearly five hundred years. It is not a thing of the One Power, 
though Aes Sedai believe it is. I cannot channel, nor can Seana, yet we 
dreamwalk as well as Amys or Melaine. Many people brush the World of Dreams in 
their sleep. Because they only brush against it, they wake with aches or pains 
where they should have broken bones or mortal hurts. A dreamwalker enters the 
dream fully, therefore her injuries are real on waking. For one who is fully in 
the dream, dreamwalker or not, death there is death here. To enter the dream too 
completely, though, is to lose touch with the flesh; there is no way back, and 
the flesh dies. It is said that once there were those who could enter the dream 
in the flesh, and no longer be in this world at all. This was an evil thing, for 
they did evil; it must never be attempted, even if you believe it possible for 
you, for each time you will lose some part of what makes you human. You must 
learn to enter Tel'aran'rhiod when you wish, to the degree you wish. You must 
learn to find what you need to find and read what you see, to enter the dreams 
of another dose by in order to aid healing, to recognize those who are in the 
dream fully enough to harm you, to . . . ."
Egwene listened intently. It fascinated her, hinting at things she had never 
suspected were possible, but beyond that she had no intention of ending up 
scrubbing pots. It did not seem fair, somehow. Whatever Rand and Mat and the 
others faced in Rhuidean, they were not going to be sent off to scrub pots. And 
I agreed to it! It just was not fair. But then, she doubted they could get any 
more out of Rhuidean than she would from these women.
 
CHAPTER
24
 
Rhuidean
 
The smooth pebble in Mat's mouth was not making moisture anymore, and had not 
been for some time. Spitting it out, he squatted beside Rand and stared at the 
billowing gray wall maybe thirty paces in front of them. Fog. He hoped at least 
it was cooler in there than out here. And some water would be appreciated. His 
lips were cracking. He pulled the scarf from around his head and wiped his face, 
but there was not much sweat to dampen the cloth. Not much sweat remained in him 
to come out. A place to sit down. His feet felt like cooked sausages inside his 
boots; he felt pretty well cooked all over, for that matter. The fog stretched 
left and right better than a mile and bulked over his head like a towering diff. 
A cliff of thick mist in the middle of a barren blistered valley. There had to 
be water in there.
Why doesn't it burn off? He did not like that part of it. Fooling with the Power 
had brought him here, and now it seemed he had to fool with it again. Light, I 
want free of the Power and Aes Sedai. Burn me, I do! Anything not to think of 
stepping into that fog, for just a minute more. "That was Egwene's Aiel friend I 
saw running," he croaked. Running! In this heat. Just thinking of it made his 
feet hurt worse. "Aviendha. Whatever her name is."
"If you say so," Rand said, studying the fog. He sounded as if he had a mouthful 
of dust, his face was sunburned, and he wavered unsteadily in his crouch. "But 
what would she be doing down here? And naked?"
Mat let it go. Rand had not seen her &#8209; he had hardly taken his eyes off the 
roiling mist since starting down the mountain &#8209; and he did not believe Mat had 
seen her either. Running like a madwoman and keeping wide of the two of them. 
Heading for this strange fog, it had seemed to him. Rand appeared no more eager 
to step into that than he was. He wondered whether he looked as bad as Rand did. 
Touching his cheek, he winced. He expected he did.
"Are we going to stay out here all night? This valley is pretty deep. It'll be 
dark down here in another couple of hours. Might be cooler then, but I don't 
think I would like to meet whatever runs around this place in the night. Lions, 
probably. I've heard there are lions in the Waste."
"Are you sure you want to do this, Mat? You heard what the Wise Ones said. You 
can die in there, or go mad. You can make it back to the tents. You left 
waterbottles and a waterbag on Pips's saddle."
He wished Rand had not reminded him. Best not to think about water. "Burn me, 
no, I don't want to. I have to. What about you? Isn't being the bloody Dragon 
Reborn enough for you? Do you have to be a flaming Aid clan chief, too? Why are 
you here?"
"I have to be, Mat. I have to be." Resignation came through the parch in his 
voice, but something else, too. A hint of eagerness. The man really was mad; he 
wanted to do this.
"Rand, maybe that's the answer they give everybody. Those snake people, I mean. 
Go to Rhuidean. Maybe we don't have to be here at all." He did not believe it, 
but with that fog staring him in the face . . . .
Rand turned his head to look at him, not speaking. Finally he said, "They never 
mentioned Rhuidean to me, Mat."
"Oh, bum me," he muttered. Somehow or other he meant to find a way back through 
that twisted doorway in Tear. Absently he pulled the gold Tar Valon mark from 
his coat pocket, rolled it across the backs of his fingers and thrust it back. 
Those snaky folk were going to give him a few more answers whether they wanted 
to or not. Somehow.
Without another word, Rand rose and started toward the fog in an unsteady 
stride, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Mat hurried after him. Burn me. Burn me. 
I do not want to do this.
Rand plunged right into the dense mist, but Mat hesitated a moment before 
following. It had to be the Power maintaining the fog, after all, with its edge 
boiling so but never advancing or retreating an inch. The bloody Power, and no 
bloody choice. That first step was a blessed relief, cool and damp; he opened 
his mouth to let the mist moisten his tongue. Three steps more and he began to 
worry. Beyond the tip of his nose was only featureless gray. He could not make 
out even a shadow that could be Rand.
"Rand?" The sound might as well not have come from his mouth; the murk seemed to 
swallow it before it reached his own eats. He was not even sure of his direction 
anymore, and he could always remember his way. Anything might be ahead of him. 
Or under his feet. He could not see his feet; the fog shrouded him completely 
below the waist. He picked up his pace regardless. And suddenly stepped out 
beside Rand into a peculiar shadowless light.
The fog made an enormous hollow dome hiding the sky, its bubbling inner surface 
glowing in a pale sharp blue. Rhuidean was not nearly so big as Tear or Caemlyn, 
but the empty streets were broad as any he had ever seen, with wide strips of 
bare dirt down their centers as if trees had grown there once, and great 
fountains with statues. Huge buildings flanked the streets, odd flat&#8209;sided 
palaces of marble and crystal and cut glass, ascending hundreds of feet in steps 
or sheer walls. There was not a small building to be seen, nothing that might 
have been a simple tavern or an inn or a stable. Only immense palaces, with 
gleaming columns fifty feet thick climbing a hundred paces in red or white or 
blue, and grand towers, fluted and spiraled, some piercing the glowing clouds 
above.
For all its grandeur, the city had never been finished. Many of those tremendous 
structures ended in the saw-teeth of abandoned construction. Colored glass made 
images in some huge windows: serenely majestic men and women thirty feet tall or 
more, sunrises and starry night skies; others gaped emptily. Unfinished and long 
deserted. No water splashed in any fountain. Silence covered the city as 
completely as the dome of fog. The air was cooler than outside, but just as 
arid. Dust grated under foot on pale smooth paving stones.
Mat trotted to the nearest fountain anyway, just on the off chance, and leaned 
on the waist&#8209;high white rim. Three unclothed women, twice as tall as he and 
supporting an odd wide&#8209;mouthed fish over their heads, peered down into a wide 
dusty basin no dryer than his mouth.
"Of course," Rand said behind him. "I should have thought of this before."
Mat looked over his shoulder. "Thought of what?" Rand was staring at the 
fountain, shaking with silent laughter. "Get hold of yourself, Rand. You didn't 
go crazy in the last minute. You should have thought of what?"
A hollow gurgling whipped Mat's eyes back to the fountain. Abruptly water gushed 
out of the fish's mouth, a stream as thick as his leg. He scrambled into the 
basin and ran to stand under the downpour, head back and mouth open. Cold sweet 
water, cold enough to make him shiver, sweeter than wine. It soaked his hair, 
his coat, his breeches. He drank until he thought he would drown, finally 
staggering over to lean panting against a woman's stone leg.
Rand was still standing there staring at the fountain, face red and lips 
cracked, laughing softly. "No water, Mat. They said we couldn't bring water, but 
they did not say anything about what was already here."
"Rand? Aren't you going to drink?"
Rand gave a start, then stepped into the now ankle&#8209;deep basin and splashed 
across to stand where Mat had been, drinking in the same way, eyes dosed and 
face tilted up to let the water pour over him.
Mat watched worriedly. Not mad, exactly; not yet. But how long would Rand have 
stood there laughing while thirst turned his throat to stone if he had not 
spoken? Mat left him there and climbed out of the fountain. Some of the water 
drenching his clothes had seeped down into his boots. He ignored the squish he 
made at every step; he was not sure he could get his boots back on if he pulled 
them off. Besides, it felt good.
Peering at the city, he wondered what he was doing there. Those people had said 
he would die, otherwise, but was just being in Rhuidean enough? Do I have to do 
something? What?
The empty streets and half&#8209;finished palaces, were shadowless in the pale azure 
light. A prickling grew between his shoulder blades. All those empty windows 
looking down on him, all those gap&#8209;toothed lines of forsaken stonework. Anything 
could be hiding in there, and in a place like this, anything could be . . . . 
Any bloody thing at all. He wished he still had his boot knives, at least. But 
those women, those Wise Ones, had stared at him as if they knew he was holding 
out on them. And they had channeled, one or all of them. It was not wise to step 
on the wrong side of women who could channel if you could avoid it. Burn me, if  
I could get shut of Aes Sedai, I'd never ask for another thing. Well, not for a 
good long while, anyway. Light, I wonder if anything is hiding in here.
"The heart has to be that way, Mat." Rand was climbing out of the basin, 
dripping wet.
"The heart?"
"The Wise Ones said I had to go to the heart. They must mean the center of the 
city." Rand looked back at the fountain and suddenly the flow dwindled to a 
trickle, then ceased. "There's an ocean of good water down there. Deep. So deep 
I nearly didn't find it. If I could bring it up . . . . No need to waste it, 
though. We can get another good drink when it's time to leave."
Mat shifted his feet uncomfortably. Fool! Where did you think it came from? Of 
course he bloody channeled. Did you think it just started flowing again after 
the Light knows how long? "Center of the city. Of course. Lead on."
They kept to the middle of the wide street, walking along the edge of the bare 
strips of dirt, past more dry fountains, some with only the stone basin and a 
marble base where the statues should have been. Nothing was broken in the city, 
only . . . incomplete. The palaces loomed to either side like cliffs. There had 
to be things inside. Furniture, maybe, if it had not rotted. Maybe gold. Knives. 
Knives would not rust away in this dry air no matter how long they had been 
there.
There could be a bloody Myrddraal in there for all you know. Light, why did 1 
have to think of that? If only he had thought to bring a quarterstaff with him 
when he left the Stone. Maybe he could have convinced the Wise Ones it was a 
walking staff. No use thinking of it, now. A tree would do, if he had a way to 
cut a good branch and trim it. If, again. He wondered whether whoever built this 
city had managed to grow any trees. He had worked on his father's farm too long 
not to know good dirt when he saw it. These long ribbons of exposed soil were 
poor, no good for growing anything besides weeds, and not many of those. None, 
now.
After they had walked a mile, the street suddenly ended at a great plaza, 
perhaps as far across as they had walked and surrounded by those palaces of 
marble and crystal. Startlingly, a tree stood in the huge square, a good hundred 
feet tall and spreading its thick, leafy limbs over a hide of dusty white paving 
stones, near what appeared to be concentric rings of dear, glittering glass 
columns, thin as needles compared to their height, nearly as much as the tree's. 
He would have wondered how a tree could grow here, without sunlight, if he had 
not been too busy staring at the astounding jumble filling the rest of the 
square.
A clear lane led from each street Mat could see, straight to the columned rings, 
but in the spaces between, statues stood haphazardly, life&#8209;sized down to half 
that, in stone or crystal or metal, set right down on the pavement. All among 
them were . . . . He did not know what to call them, at first. A flat silvery 
ring, ten feet across and thin as a blade. A tapering crystal plinth a pace tall 
that might have held one of the smaller statues. A shiny black metal spire, 
narrow as a spear and no longer, yet standing on end as if rooted. Hundreds of 
things, maybe thousands, in every shape imaginable, every material imaginable, 
dotting the huge plaza with no more than a dozen feet between any two.
It was the black metal spear, so unnaturally erect, that suddenly told him what 
they must be. Ter'angreal. Some sort of things to do with the Power, anyway. 
Some of them had to be. That twisted stone doorway in the Stone's Great Holding 
had resisted falling over, too.
He was ready to rum around and go back right then, but Rand continued on, barely 
looking at what lined his way. Once Rand paused, staring down at two figurines 
that hardly seemed to deserve a place with the other things. Two statuettes 
maybe a foot tall, a man and a woman, each holding a crystal sphere aloft in one 
hand. He half&#8209;bent as if to touch them, but straightened so quickly it could 
almost have been Mat's imagination.
After a minute, Mat followed, hurrying to catch up. The closer they came to the 
scintillating rings of columns, the more he tensed. Those things all around them 
had to do with the Power, and so did the columns. He just knew it. Those 
impossibly tall thin shafts sparkled in the bluish light, dazzling the eye. All 
they said was I had to come here. Well, I'm here. They didn't say anything about 
the bloody Power.
Rand stopped so suddenly that Mat went three strides nearer the columned rings 
before realizing it. Rand was staring at the tree, Mat saw. The tree. Mat found 
himself moving toward it as if drawn. No tree had those trefoil leaves. No tree 
but one; a tree of legend.
"Avendesora," Rand said softly. "The Tree of Life. It's here."
Under the spreading branches, Mat leaped to catch one of those leaves; his 
outstretched fingers fell a good pace short of the lowest. He satisfied himself 
with walking deeper beneath that leafy roof and leaning back against the thick 
bole. After a moment he slid down to sit against it. The old stories were true. 
He felt . . . . Contentment. Peace. Well&#8209;being. Even his feet did not bother him 
much.
Rand sat down cross&#8209;legged nearby. "I can believe the stories. Ghoetam, sitting 
beneath Avendesora for forty years to gain wisdom. Right now, I can believe."
Mat let his head fall back against the trunk. "I don't know that I'd trust birds 
to bring me food, though. You'd have to get up sometime." But an hour or so 
would not be bad. Even all day. "It doesn't make sense anyway. What kind of food 
could birds bring in here? What birds?"
"Maybe Rhuidean wasn't always like this, Mat. Maybe . . . . I don't know. Maybe 
Avendesora was somewhere else, then."
"Somewhere else," Mat murmured. "I would not mind being somewhere else." It 
feels . . . good . . . though.
"Somewhere else?" Rand twisted around to look at the tall thin columns, shining 
so dose. "Duty is heavier than a mountain," he sighed.
That was part of a saying he had picked up in the Borderlands. "Death is lighter 
than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain." It sounded like pure foolishness 
to Mat, but Rand was getting up. Mat copied him reluctantly. "What do you think 
we'll find in there?"
"I think I have to go on alone from here," Rand said slowly.
"What do you mean?" Mat demanded. "I've come this far, haven't I? I am not going 
to turn tail now." Wouldn't I just like to, though!
"It isn't that, Mat. If you go in there, you come out a clan chief, or you die. 
Or come out mad. I don't believe there's any other choice. Unless maybe the Wise 
Ones go in there."
Mat hesitated. To die and live again. That was what they had said. He had no 
intention of trying to be an Aiel clan chief, though; the Aiel would probably 
stick spears through him. "We'll leave it to luck," he said, pulling the Tar 
Valon mark from his pocket. "Getting to be my lucky coin. Flame, I go in with 
you; head, I stay out." He flipped the gold coin quickly, before Rand could 
object.
Somehow he missed grabbing it; the mark careened off his fingertips, clinked to 
the pavement, bounced twice . . . . And landed on edge.
He glared at Rand accusingly. "Do you do this sort of thing on purpose? Can't 
you control it?"
"No." The coin fell over, showing an ageless woman's face surrounded by stars. 
"It looks like you stay out here, Mat."
"Did you just . . . ?" He wished Rand would not channel around him. "Oh, burn 
me, if you want me to stay out here, I'll stay." Snatching the coin up, he 
stuffed it back into his pocket. "Listen, you go in, do whatever it is you have 
to, and get back out. I want to leave this place, and I am not going to stand 
here forever twiddling my thumbs waiting for you. And you needn't think I'll 
come in after you, either, so you had best be careful."
"I wouldn't think that of you, Mat," Rand said.
Mat stared at him suspiciously. What was he grinning at? "So long as you 
understand I won't. Aaah, go on and be a bloody Aiel chief. You have the face 
for it."
"Don't come in there, Mat. Whatever happens, don't." He waited until Mat nodded 
before turning away.
Mat stood, watching him walk in among the glittering columns. In the shifting 
dazzle he seemed to vanish almost immediately. A trick of the eye, Mat told 
himself. That was all it was. A bloody trick of the eye.
He started around the array, keeping well back, peering in in an effort to spot 
Rand again. "You look out what you're bloody doing," he shouted. "You leave me 
alone in the Waste with Moiraine and the bloody Aiel, and I'll strangle you, 
Dragon Reborn or no!" After a minute, he added, "I'm not coming in there after 
you if you get yourself in trouble! You hear me?" There was no answer. If he's 
not out of there in an hour . . . . "He's mad just going in there," he muttered. 
"Well, I'll not be the one to pull his bacon off the coals. He's the one who can 
channel. If he's put his head in a hornets' nest, he can bloody channel his way 
out of it." I'll give him an hour. And then he would leave, whether Rand was 
back or not. Just turn around and leave. Just go. That was what he would do. He 
would.
The way those thin shafts of glass caught the bluish light, refracting and 
reflecting, merely looking too hard was enough to give him a headache. He turned 
away, wandering back the way he had come, uneasily eyeing the ter'angreal &#8209; or 
whatever they were &#8209; filling the plaza. What was he doing there? Why?
Suddenly he stopped dead, staring at one of those strange objects. A large 
doorframe of polished redstone, twisted in some way he could not quite catch so 
his eye seemed to slip trying to follow it around. Slowly he made his way to it, 
between glittering faceted spires as tall as his head and low golden frames 
filled with what appeared to be sheets of glass, barely noticing them, never 
taking his eyes off the doorway.
It was the same. The same polished redstone, the same size, the same 
eye&#8209;wrenching corners. Along each upright ran three lines of triangles, points 
down. Had the one in Tear had those? He could not remember; he had not been 
trying to remember all the details last time. It war the same; it had to be. 
Maybe he could not step through the other again, but this one . . . ? Another 
chance to get at those snake people, make them answer a few more questions.
Squinting against the glitters, he peered back toward the columns. An hour, he 
had given Rand. In an hour, he could be through this thing and back with time to 
spare. Maybe it would not even work for him, since he had used its twin. They 
are the same. Then again, maybe it would. It just meant rubbing up against the 
Power one more time.
"Light," he muttered. "Ter'angreal. Portal Stones. Rhuidean. What difference can 
one more time make?"
He stepped through. Through a wall of blinding white light, through a roar so 
vast it annihilated sound.
Blinking, he looked around and bit back the vilest oath he knew. Wherever this 
was, it was not where he had gone before.
The twisted doorway stood in the middle of a huge chamber that appeared to be 
star&#8209;shaped, as near as he could make out through a forest of thick columns, 
each deeply fluted with eight ridges, the sharp edges yellow and glowing softly 
for light. Glossy black except for the glowing bits, they rose from a dull white 
floor into murky gloom far overhead where even the yellow stripes faded away. 
The columns and floor almost looked to be glass, but when he bent to rub a hand 
across the floor, it felt like stone. Dusty stone. He wiped his hand on his 
coat. The air had a musty smell, and his own footprints were the only marks in 
the dust. No one had been here in a very long time.
Disappointed, he turned back to the ter'angreal.
"A very long time."
Mat spun back, snatching at his coatsleeve for a knife that was lying back on 
the mountainside. The man standing among the columns looked nothing at all like 
the snaky folk. He made Mat regret giving up those last blades to the Wise Ones.
The fellow was tall, taller than an Aiel, and sinewy, but with shoulders too 
wide for his narrow waist, and skin as white as the finest paper. Pale leather 
straps studded with silver crisscrossed his arms and bare chest, and a black 
kilt hung to his knees. His eyes were too big and almost colorless, set deep in 
a narrow&#8209;jawed face. His short&#8209;cut, palely reddish hair stood up like a brush, 
and his ears, lying flat against his head, had a hint of a point at the top. He 
leaned toward Mat, inhaling, opening his mouth to pull in more air, flashing 
sharp teeth. The impression he gave was of a fox about to leap on a cornered 
chicken.
"A very long time," he said, straightening. His voice was rough, almost a growl. 
"Do you abide by the treaties and agreements? Do you carry iron, or instruments 
of music, or devices for making light?"
"I have none of those things," Mat replied slowly. This was not the same place, 
but this fellow asked the same questions. And he behaved the same, with all that 
smelling. Rummaging through my bloody experiences, was he? Well, let him. Maybe 
he'll jog some loose, so I can remember them, too. He wondered if he was 
speaking the Old Tongue again. It was uncomfortable, not knowing, not being able 
to tell. "If you can take me to where I can get a few questions answered, lead 
the way. If not, I will be going, with apologies for bothering you."
"No!" Those big colorless eyes blinked in agitation. "You must not go. Come. I 
will take you where you may find what you need. Come." He backed away, gesturing 
with both hands. "Come."
Glancing at the ter'angreal, Mat followed. He wished the man had not grinned at 
him just then. Maybe he meant to be reassuring, but those teeth . . . . Mat 
decided he would never give up all of his knives again, not for Wise Ones or the 
Amyrlin Seat herself. '
The large five&#8209;sided doorway looked more like a tunnel mouth, for the corridor 
beyond was exactly the same size and shape, with those softly glowing yellow 
strips running along the bends, edging floor and ceiling. It seemed to stretch 
ahead forever, fading into a murky distance, broken at intervals by more of the 
great five&#8209;sided doorways. The kilted man did not turn to lead until they were 
both in the hallway, and even then he kept glancing over a wide shoulder as if 
to make certain Mat was still there. The air was no longer musty; instead it 
held a faint hint of something unpleasant, something tickling familiarity but 
not strong enough to recognize.
At the first of the doorways, Mat glanced through in passing, and sighed. Beyond 
star&#8209;shaped black columns, a twisted redstone doorway stood on a dull glassy 
white floor where dust showed the marks of one set of boots coming from the 
ter'angreal, led toward the corridor by the prints of narrow bare feet. He 
looked over his shoulder. Instead of ending fifty paces back in another chamber 
like this, the hallway ran back as far as he could see, a mirror image of what 
lay ahead. His guide gave him a sharp&#8209;toothed smile; the fellow looked hungry.
He knew he should have expected something of the sort after what he had seen on 
the other side of the doorway in the Stone. Those spires moving from where they 
should be to where they could not, logically. If spires, why not rooms. I should 
have stayed out there waiting for Rand, is what l should have done. l should 
have done a lot of things. At least he would have no trouble finding the 
ter'angreal again, if all of the doorways ahead were the same.
He peered into the next and saw black columns, the redstone ter'angreal, his 
footprints and his guide's in the dust. When the narrow&#8209;jawed man looked over 
his shoulder again, Mat gave him a toothy grin. "Never think you have caught a 
babe in your snare. If you try to cheat me, I will have your hide for a 
saddlecloth."
The fellow started, pale eyes widening, then shrugged and adjusted the 
silver-­studded straps across his chest; his mocking smile seemed tailored to 
draw attention to what he was doing. Suddenly Mat found himself wondering where 
that pale leather came from. Surely not. . . . Oh, Light, I think it is. He 
managed to stop himself from swallowing, but only just. "Lead, you son of a 
goat. Your hide is not worth silver studding. Take me where I want to go."
With a snarl, the man hurried on, stiff&#8209;backed. Mat did not care if the fellow 
was offended. He did wish he had just one knife, though. I'll be burned if I'll 
let some fox-faced goat&#8209;brain make a harness out of my hide.
There was no way of telling how long they walked. The corridor never changed, 
with its bent walls and its glowing yellow strips. Every doorway showed the 
identical chamber, ter'angreal, footprints and all. The sameness made time slip 
into formlessness. Mat worried about how long he had been there. Surely longer 
than the hour he had given himself. His clothes were only damp now; his boots no 
longer made squishing noises. But he walked, staring at his guide's back, and 
walked.
Suddenly the corridor ended ahead in another doorway. Mat blinked. He could have 
sworn that a moment before the hall had stretched on as far as he could see. But 
he had been watching the sharp&#8209;toothed fellow more than what lay ahead. He 
looked back, and nearly swore. The corridor ran back until the glowing yellow 
strips seemed to come together in a point. And there was not an opening to be 
seen anywhere along it.
When he turned, he was alone in front of the big five&#8209;sided doorway. Burn me, I 
wish they wouldn't do that. Taking a deep breath, he walked through.
It was another white&#8209;floored star&#8209;shaped chamber, not so large as the one &#8209; or 
ones &#8209; with columns. An eight&#8209;pointed star with a glassy black pedestal standing 
in each point, like a two&#8209;span slice out of one of those columns. Glowing yellow 
strips ran up the sharp edges of room and pedestals. The unpleasant smell was 
stronger here; he recognized it now. The smell of a wild animal's lair. He 
hardly noticed it, though, because the chamber was empty except for him.
Turning slowly, he frowned at the pedestals. Surely someone should be up on 
them, whoever was supposed to answer his questions. He was being cheated. If he 
could come here, he should be able to get answers.
Suddenly he spun in a circle, searching not the pedestals but the smooth gray 
walls. The doorway was gone; there was no way out.
Yet before he completed a second turn there was someone standing on each 
pedestal, people like his guide, but dressed differently. Four were men, the 
others women, their stiff hair rising in a crest before spilling down their 
backs. All wore long white skirts that hid their feet. The women had on white 
blouses that fell below their hips, with high lace necks and pale ruffles at 
their wrists. The men wore even more straps than the guide, wider and studded 
with gold. Each harness supported a pair of bare&#8209;bladed knives on the wearer's 
chest. Bronze blades, Mat judged from the color, but he would have given all the 
gold in his possession for just one of them.
"Speak," one of the women said in that growling voice. "By the ancient treaty, 
here is agreement made. What is your need? Speak."
Mat hesitated. That was not what the snaky people had said. They were all 
staring at him like foxes staring at dinner. "Who is the Daughter of the Nine 
Moons and why do I have to marry her?" He hoped they would count that as one 
question.
No one answered. None of them spoke. They just continued to stare at him with 
those big pale eyes.
"You are supposed to answer," he said. Silence. "Burn your bones to ash, answer 
me! Who is the Daughter of the Nine Moons and why do I have to marry her? How 
will I die and live again? What does it mean that I have to give up half the 
light of the world? Those are my three questions. Say something!"
Dead silence. He could hear himself breathing, hear the blood throbbing in his 
ears.
"I have no intention of marrying. And I have no intention of dying, either, 
whether I am supposed to live again or not. I walk around with holes in my 
memory, holes in my life, and you stare at me like idiots. If I had my way, I 
would want those holes filled, but at least answers to my questions might fill 
some in my future. You have to answer &#8209; !"
"Done," one of the men growled, and Mat blinked.
Done? What was done? What did he mean? "Burn your eyes," he muttered.
"Burn your souls! You are as bad as Aes Sedai. Well, I want a way to be free of 
Aes Sedai and the Power, and I want to be away from you and back to Rhuidean, if 
you will not answer me. Open up a door, and let me &#8209; "
"Done," another man said, and one of the women echoed, "Done."
Mat scanned the walls, then glared, turning to take them all in, standing up 
there on their pedestals staring down at him. "Done? What is done? I see no 
door. You lying goat&#8209;fathered &#8209; "
"Fool," a woman said in a whispered growl, and others repeated it. Fool. Fool. 
Fool.
"Wise to ask leavetaking, when you set no price, no terms."
"Yet fool not to first agree on price."
"We will set the price."
They spoke so quickly he could not tell which said what.
"What was asked will be given."
"The price will be paid."
"Burn you," he shouted, "what are you talking &#8209; "
Utter darkness dosed around him. There was something around his throat. He could 
not breathe. Air. He could not. . . .
 
CHAPTER
25
 
The Road to the Spear
 
Not hesitating at the first row of columns, Rand made himself walk in among 
them. There could be no turning back now, no looking back. Light, what is 
supposed to happen in here? What does it really do?
Clear as the finest glass, perhaps a foot thick and standing three paces or more 
apart, the columns were a forest of dazzling light filled with cascading ripples 
and glares and odd rainbows. The air was cooler here, enough to make him wish he 
had a coat, but the same gritty dust covered the smooth white stone under his 
boots. Not a breeze stirred, yet something made each hair on his body shift, 
even under his shirt.
Ahead and to the right he could just see another man, in the grays and browns of 
Aiel, stiff and statue&#8209;still in the changing lights. That must be Muradin, 
Couladin's brother. Stiff and still; something was happening. Strangely, 
considering the brilliance, Rand could make out the Aiel's face dearly. Eyes 
wide and staring, face tight, mouth quivering on the brink of a snarl. Whatever 
he was seeing, he did not like it. But Muradin had survived that far, at least. 
If he could do it, Rand could. The man was six or seven paces ahead of him at 
best. Wondering why he and Mat had not seen Muradin go in, he took another step.
 
He rode behind a set of eyes, feeling but not controlling a body. The owner of 
those eyes crouched easily among boulders on a barren mountainside, beneath a 
sun&#8209;blasted sky, peering down at strange half&#8209;made stone structures &#8209; No! Less 
than half&#8209;made. That's Rhuidean, but without any fog, and only just begun &#8209; 
peering down contemptu­ously. He was Mandein, young for a sept chief at forty. 
Separateness faded; acceptance came. He was Mandein.
"You must agree," Sealdre said, but for the moment he ignored her.
The Jenn had made things to draw up water and spill it into great stone basins. 
He had fought battles over less water than one of those tanks held, with people 
walking by as though water was of no consequence. A strange forest of glass rose 
in the center of all their activity, glittering in the sun, and near it the 
tallest tree he had ever seen, at least three spans high. Their stone structures 
looked as if each was meant to contain an entire hold, an entire sept, when 
done. Madness. This Rhuidean could not be defended. Not that anyone would attack 
the Jenn, of course. Most avoided the Jenn as they avoided the accursed Lost 
Ones, who wandered searching for the songs they claimed would bring back lost 
days.
A procession snaked out of Rhuidean toward the mountain, a few dozen Jenn and 
two palanquins, each carried by eight men. There was enough wood in each of 
those palanquins for a dozen chief's chairs. He had heard there were still Aes 
Sedai among the Jenn.
"You must agree to whatever they ask, husband," Sealdre said.
He looked at her then, wanting for a moment to run his hands through her long 
golden hair, seeing the laughing girl who had laid the bridal wreath at his feet 
and asked him to marry her. She was serious now, though, intent and worried. 
"Will the others come?" he asked.
"Some. Most. I have talked to my sisters in the dream, and we have all dreamed 
the same dream. The chiefs who do not come, and those who do not agree . . . . 
Their septs will die, Mandein. Within three generations they will be dust, and 
their holds and cattle belong to other septs. Their names will be lost."
He did not like her talking to the Wise Ones of other septs, even in dreams. But 
the Wise Ones dreamed true. When they knew, it was true. "Stay here," he told 
her. "If I do not return, help our sons and daughters to hold the sept 
together."
She touched his cheek. "I will, shade of my life. But remember. You must agree."
Mandein motioned, and a hundred veiled shapes followed him down the slope, 
ghosting from boulder to boulder, bows and spears ready, grays and browns 
blending with the barren land, vanishing even to his eyes. They were all men; he 
had left all the women of the sept who carried the spear with the men around 
Sealdre. If anything went wrong and she decided on something senseless to save 
him, the men would probably follow her in it; the women would see her back to 
the hold whatever she wanted, to protect the hold and the sept. He hoped they 
would. Sometimes they could be fiercer than any man, and more foolish.
The procession from Rhuidean had stopped on the cracked clay flat by the time he 
reached the lower slope. He motioned his men to ground and went on alone, 
lowering his veil. He was aware of other men moving out from the mountain to his 
right and left, coming across the baked ground from other directions. How many? 
Fifty? Maybe a hundred? Some faces he had expected to see were missing. Sealdre 
was right as usual; some had not listened to their Wise Ones' dream. There were 
faces he had never seen before, and faces of men he had tried to kill, men who 
had tried to kill him. At least none were veiled. Killing in front of a Jenn was 
almost as bad as killing a Jenn. He hoped the others remembered that. Treachery 
from one, and the veils would be donned; the warriors each chief had brought 
would come down from the mountains, and this dry clay would be muddied with 
blood. He half&#8209;expected to feel a spear through his ribs any moment.
Even trying to watch a hundred possible sources of death, it was hard not to 
stare at the Aes Sedai as the bearers lowered their ornately carved chairs to 
the ground. Women with hair so white it almost seemed transparent. Ageless faces 
with skin that looked as if the wind might tear it. He had heard the years did 
not touch Aes Sedai. How old must these two be? What had they seen? Could they 
remember when his greatfather Comran first found Ogier stedding in the 
Dragonwall and began to trade with them? Or maybe even when Comran's greatfather 
Rhodric led the Aiel to kill the men in iron shirts who had crossed the 
Dragonwall? The Aes Sedai fumed their eyes on him &#8209; sharp blue and dark, dark 
brown, the first dark eyes he had ever seen &#8209; and seemed to see inside his 
skull, inside his thoughts. He knew himself chosen out, and did not know why. 
With an effort he pulled away from those twin gazes, which knew him better than 
he knew himself.
A gaunt white&#8209;haired man, tall if stooped, came forward from the Jenn flanked by 
two graying women who might have been sisters, with the same deep&#8209;set green eyes 
and the same way of tilting their heads when they looked at anything. The rest 
of the Jenn stared uneasily at the earth rather than at the Aiel, but not these 
three.
"I am Dermon," the man said in a deep strong voice, his blue&#8209;eyed scrutiny as 
steady as any Aiel's. "These are Mordaine and Narisse." He gestured to the women 
beside him in turn. "We speak for Rhuidean, and the Jenn Aiel."
A stir ran through the men around Mandein. Most of them liked the Jenn claiming 
to be Aiel no better than he did. "Why have you called us here?" he demanded, 
though it burned his tongue to admit being summoned.
Instead of answering, Dermon said, "Why do you not carry a sword?" That brought 
angry mutters.
"It is forbidden," Mandein growled. "Even Jenn should know that." He lifted his 
spears, touched the knife at his waist, the bow on his back. "These are weapons 
enough for a warrior." The mutters became approving, including some from men who 
had sworn to kill him. They still would, given the chance, but they approved of 
what he had said. And they seemed content to let him talk, with those Aes Sedai 
watching.
"You do not know why," Mordaine said, and Narisse added, "There is too much you 
do not know. Yet you must know."
"What do you want?" Mandein demanded.
"You." Dermon ran his eyes across the Aiel, making that one word fit them all. 
"Whoever would lead among you must come to Rhuidean and learn where we came 
from, and why you do not carry swords. Who cannot learn, will not live."
"Your Wise Ones have spoken to you," Mordaine said, "or you would not be here. 
You know the cost to those who refuse."
Charendin pushed his way to the front, alternately glaring at Mandein and the 
Jenn. Mandein had put that long puckered scar down his face; they had nearly 
killed each other three times. "Just come to you?" Charendin said. "Whichever of 
us comes to you will lead the Aiel?"
"No." The word came thin as a whisper, but strong enough to fill every ear. It 
came from the dark&#8209;eyed Aes Sedai sitting in her carved chair with a blanket 
across her legs as if she felt cold under the broiling sun. "That one will come 
later," she said. "The stone that never falls will fall to announce his coming. 
Of the blood, but not raised by the blood, he will come from Rhuidean at dawn, 
and tie you together with bonds you cannot break. He will take you back, and he 
will destroy you."
Some of the sept chiefs moved as if to leave, but none took more than a few 
steps. Each had listened to the Wise One of his sept. Agree, or we will be 
destroyed as if we never were. Agree, or we will destroy ourselves.
"This is some trick," Charendin shouted. Under Aes Sedai stares he lowered his 
voice, but it held anger yet. "You mean to gain control of the septs. Aiel bend 
knee to no man or woman." He jerked his head, avoiding the Aes Sedai's eyes. "To 
no one," he muttered.
"We seek no control," Narisse told them.
"Our days dwindle," Mordaine said. "A day will come when the Jenn are no more, 
and only you will remain to remember the Aiel. You must remain, or all is for 
nothing, and lost."
The flatness of her voice, the calm sureness, silenced Charendin, but Mandein 
had one more question. "Why? If you know your doom, why do this?" He gestured 
toward the structures rising in the distance.
"It is our purpose," Dermon replied calmly. "For long years we searched for this 
place, and now we prepare it, if not for the purpose we once thought. We do what 
we must, and keep faith."
Mandein studied the man's face. There was no fear in it. "You are Aiel," he 
said, and when some of the other chiefs gasped, he raised his voice. "I will go 
to the Jenn Aiel. "
"You may not come to Rhuidean armed," Dermon said.
Mandein laughed aloud at the temerity of the man. Asking an Aiel to go unarmed. 
Shedding his weapons, he stepped forward. "Take me to Rhuidean, Aiel. I will 
match your courage."
 
Rand blinked in the flickering lights. He had been Mandein; he could still feel 
contempt for the Jenn fading into admiration. Were the Jenn Aiel, or were they 
not? They had looked the same, tall, with light&#8209;colored eyes in sun&#8209;darkened 
faces, dressed in the same clothes except for lacking veils. But there had not 
been a weapon among them save for simple belt knives, suitable for work. There 
was no such thing as an Aiel without weapons.
He was farther into the columns than a single step could account for, and closer 
to Muradin than he had been. The Aiel's fixed stare had become a dire frown.
Gritty dust crunched under Rand's boots as he stepped forward.
 
His name was Rhodric, and he was nearly twenty. The sun was a golden blister in 
the sky, but he kept his veil up and his eyes alert. His spears were ready &#8209; one 
in his right hand, three held with his small bullhide buckler &#8209; and he was 
ready. Jeordam was down on the brown grass flat to the south of the hills, where 
most of the bushes were puny and withered. The old man's hair was white, like 
that thing called snow the old ones talked of, but his eyes were sharp, and 
watching the welldiggers haul up filled waterbags would not occupy all of his 
attention.
Mountains rose to the north and east, the northern range tall and sharp and 
white&#8209;tipped but dwarfed by the eastern monsters. Those looked as if the world 
was trying to touch the heavens, and perhaps did. Maybe that white was snow? He 
would not find out. Faced with this, the Jenn must decide to turn east. They had 
trailed north along that mountainous wall for long months, painfully dragging 
their wagons behind them, trying to deny the Aiel that followed them. At least 
there had been water when they crossed a river, even if not much. It had been 
years since Rhodric had seen a river he could not wade across; most were only 
cracked dry day away from the mountains. He hoped the rains would come again, 
and make things green once more. He remembered when the world was green.
He heard the horses before he saw them, three men riding across the brown hills 
in long leather shirts sewn all over with metal discs, two with lances. He knew 
the one on the lead, Garam, son of the chief of the town just out of sight back 
the way they came and not much older than himself. They were blind, these 
townsmen. They did not see the Aiel who stirred after they passed, then settled 
back to near invisibility in the sere land. Rhodric lowered his veil; there 
would be no killing unless the riders began it. He did not regret it &#8209; not 
exactly &#8209; but he could not make himself trust men who lived in houses and towns. 
There had been too many battles with that kind. The stories said it had always 
been so.
Garam drew rein, raising his right hand in salute. He was a slight dark&#8209;eyed 
man, like his two followers, but all three looked tough and competent. "Ho, 
Rhodric. Have your people finished filling their waterskins, yet?"
"I see you, Garam." He kept his voice level and expressionless. It made him 
uneasy, seeing men on horses, even more so than their carrying swords. The Aiel 
had pack animals, but there was something unnatural about sitting atop a horse. 
A man's legs were good enough. "We are close. Does your father withdraw his 
permission for us to take water on his lands?" No other town had ever given 
permission before. Water had to be fought for if men were near, just like 
everything else, and if there was water, then men were near. It would not be 
easy to take these three by himself. He shifted his feet in readiness to dance, 
and likely die.
"He does not," Garam said. He had not even noticed Rhodric's shift. "We have a 
strong spring in the town, and my father says that when you go, we will have the 
new wells you have dug until we go ourselves. But your grandfather seemed to 
want to know if the others started to move, and they have." He leaned an elbow 
on the front of his saddle. "Tell me, Rhodric, are they truly the same people as 
yourselves?"
"They are the Jenn Aiel; we, the Aiel. We are the same, yet not. I cannot 
explain it further, Garam." He did not really understand it himself.
"Which way do they move?" Jeordam asked.
Rhodric bowed to his greatfather calmly; he had heard a footfall, the sound of a 
soft boot, and had known it for an Aiel's. The townsmen had not noticed 
Jeordam's approach, though, and they jerked their reins in surprise. Only 
Garam's upflung hand stopped the other two from lowering their lances. Rhodric 
and his greatfather waited.
"East," Garam said when he had his horse under control again. "Across the Spine 
of the World." He gestured to the mountains that stabbed the sky.
Rhodric winced, but Jeordam said coolly, "What lies on the other side?"
"The end of the world, for all I know," Garam replied. "I am not sure there is a 
way across." He hesitated. "The Jenn have Aes Sedai with them. Dozens, I have 
heard. Does it not make you uneasy traveling close to Aes Sedai? I have heard 
the world was different once, but they destroyed it."
The Aes Sedai made Rhodric very nervous, though he kept his face blank. They 
were only four, not dozens, but enough to make him remember stories that the 
Aiel had failed the Aes Sedai in some way that no one knew. The Aes Sedai must 
know; they had seldom left the Jenn's wagons in the year since their arrival, 
but when they did, they looked at the Aiel with sad eyes. Rhodric was not the 
only one who tried to avoid them.
"We guard the Jenn," Jeordam said. "It is they who travel with Aes Sedai."
Garam nodded as if that made a difference, then leaned forward again, lowering 
his voice. "My father has an Aes Sedai advisor, though he tries to keep it from 
the town. She says we must leave these hills and move east. She says the dry 
rivers will run again, and we will build a great city beside one. She says many 
things. I hear the Aes Sedai plan to build a city &#8209; they have found Ogier to 
build it for them. Ogier!" He shook his head, pulling himself from legends back 
to reality. "Do you think they mean to rule the world once more? The Aes Sedai? 
I think we should kill them before they can destroy us again."
"You must do as you think best." Jeordam's voice gave no hint of his own 
thoughts. "I must ready my people to cross those mountains."
The dark&#8209;haired man straightened in his saddle, plainly disappointed. Rhodric 
suspected he had wanted Aiel help in killing Aes Sedai. "The Spine of the 
World," Garam said brusquely. "It has another name. Some call it the 
Dragonwall."
"A fitting name," Jeordam replied.
Rhodric stared at the towering mountains in the distance. A fitting name for 
Aiel. Their own secret name, told to no one, was People of the Dragon. He did 
not know why, only that it was not spoken aloud except when you received your 
spears. What lay beyond this Dragonwall? At least there would be people to 
fight. There always were. In the whole world there were only Aiel, Jenn, and 
enemies. Only that. Aiel, Jenn, and enemies.
 
Rand drew a deep breath that rasped as if he had not breathed for hours. 
Eye&#8209;splitting rings of light ran up the columns around him. The words still 
echoed in his mind. Aiel, Jenn, and enemies; that was the world. They had not 
been in the Waste, certainly. He had seen &#8209; lived &#8209; a time before the Aiel came 
to their Three&#8209;fold Land.
He was nearer still to Muradin. The Aiel's eyes shifted uneasily, and he seemed 
to struggle against taking another step.
Rand moved forward.
 
Squatting easily on the white&#8209;cloaked hillside, Jeordam ignored the cold as he 
watched five people tramp toward him. Three cloaked men, two women in bulky 
dresses, making hard work of the snow. Winter should have been over long since, 
according to the old ones, but then they told stories of the seasons changing 
from what they had always been. They claimed the earth used to shake, too, and 
mountains rose or sank like the water in a summer pond when you threw a rock in. 
Jeordam did not believe it. He was eighteen, born in the tents, and this was the 
only life he had ever known. The snow, the tents, and the duty to protect.
He lowered his veil and stood slowly, leaning on his long spear so as not to 
frighten the wagon folk, but they stopped abruptly anyway, staring at the spear, 
at the bow slung across his back and the quiver at his waist. None appeared any 
older than himself. "You have need of us, Jenn?" he called.
"You name us that to mock us," a tall, sharp&#8209;nosed fellow shouted back, "but it 
is true. We are the only true Aiel. You have given up the Way."
"That is a lie!" Jeordam snapped. "I have never held a sword!" He drew a deep 
breath to calm himself. He had not been put out here to grow angry with Jenn. 
"If you are lost, your wagons are that way." He pointed southward with his 
spear.
One woman placed a hand on sharp&#8209;nose's arm and spoke quietly. The others 
nodded, and finally sharp&#8209;nose did, too, if reluctantly. She was pretty, with 
yellow wisps of hair escaping the dark shawl wrapped around her head. Facing 
Jeordam, she said, "We are not lost." She peered at him suddenly, seeming to see 
him for the first time, and tightened her shawl around her.
He nodded; he had not thought they were. The Jenn usually managed to avoid 
anyone from the tents even when they needed help. The few who did not came only 
in desperation, for the help they could not find elsewhere. "Follow me."
It was a mile across the hills to his father's tents, low shapes partially 
covered by the last snowfall, dinging to the slopes. His own people watched the 
new arrivals cautiously, but did not stop what they were doing, whether cooking 
or tending weapons or tossing snowballs with a child. He was proud of his sept, 
nearly two hundred people, largest of the ten camps scattered north of the 
wagons. The Jenn did not seem much impressed, though. It irritated him that 
there were so many more Jenn than Aiel.
Lewin came out of his tent, a tall, graying man with a hard face; Lewin never 
smiled, they said, and Jeordam had certainly never seen it. Maybe he had before 
Jeordam's mother died of a fever, but Jeordam did not believe it.
The yellow&#8209;haired woman &#8209; her name was Morin &#8209; told a story much as Jeordam had 
expected. The Jenn had traded with a village, a place with a log wall, and then 
men from the village had come in the night, taking back what had been traded 
for, taking more. The Jenn always thought they could trust people who lived in 
houses, always thought the Way would protect them. The dead were listed &#8209; 
fathers, a mother, first&#8209;brothers. The captives &#8209; first&#8209;sisters, a 
sister&#8209;mother, a daughter. That last surprised Jeordam; it was Morin who spoke 
bitterly of a five&#8209;year&#8209;old daughter carried off to be raised by some other 
woman. Studying her more closely, he mentally added a few years to her age.
"We will bring them back," Lewin promised. He took a bundle of spears handed to 
him and thrust them point&#8209;down into the ground. "You may stay with us if you 
wish, so long as you are willing to defend yourselves and the rest of us. If you 
stay, you will never be allowed back among the wagons." The sharp&#8209;nosed fellow 
turned at that and hurried back the way they had come. Lewin went on; it was 
seldom that only one left at this point. "Those who wish to come with us to this 
village, take a spear. But remember, if you take the spear to use against men, 
you will have to stay with us." His voice and eyes were stone. "You will be dead 
as far the Jenn are concerned."
One of the remaining men hesitated, but each finally pulled a spear from the 
ground. So did Morin. Jeordam gaped at her, and even Lewin blinked.
"You do not have to take a spear just to stay," Lewin told her, "or for us to 
bring back your people. Taking the spear means a willingness to fight, not just 
to defend yourself. You can put it down; there is no shame."
"They have my daughter," Morin said. .
To Jeordam's shock, Lewin barely paused before nodding. "There is a first time 
for all things. For all things. So be it." He began tapping men on the shoulder, 
walking through the camps, naming them to visit this log&#8209;walled village. Jeordam 
was the first tapped; his father had always chosen him first since the day he 
was old enough to carry a spear. He would have had it no other way.
Morin was having problems with the spear, the haft tangling in her long skirts.
"You do not have to go," Jeordam told her. "No woman ever has before. We will 
bring your daughter to you."
"I mean to bring Kirin out of there myself," she said fiercely. "You will not 
stop me." A stubborn woman.
"In that case, you must dress like this." He gestured to his own gray&#8209;brown coat 
and breeches. "You cannot walk cross&#8209;country in the night in a dress." He took 
the spear away from her before she could react. "The spear is not easily 
learned." The two men who had come with her, awkwardly receiving instruction and 
nearly falling over their own feet, were proof of that. He found a hatchet and 
chopped a pace from the spear shaft, leaving four feet, counting nearly a foot 
of steel point. "Stab with it. No more than that. Just stab. The haft is used 
for blocking, too, but I will find you something to use as a shield in your 
other hand."
She looked at him strangely. "How old are you?" she asked, even more oddly. He 
told her, and she only nodded thoughtfully.
After a moment, he said, "Is one of those men your husband?" They were still 
tripping over their spears.
"My husband mourns Kirin already. He cares more for the trees than his own 
daughter."
"The trees?"
"The Trees of Life." When he still looked at her blankly, she shook her head. 
"Three little trees planted in barrels. They care for them almost as well as 
they do for themselves. When they find a place of safety, they mean to plant 
them; they say the old days will return, then. They. I said they. Very well. I 
am not Jenn anymore." She hefted the shortened spear. "This is my husband now." 
Eyeing him closely, she asked, "If someone stole your child, would you talk of 
the Way of the Leaf and suffering sent to test us?" He shook his head, and she 
said, "I thought not. You will make a fine father. Teach me to use this spear."
An odd woman, but pretty. He took the spear back and began to show her, working 
out what he was doing while he did. With the short haft, it was quick and agile.
Morin was watching him with that strange smile, but the spear had caught him up. 
"I saw your face in the dream," she said softly, but he did not really hear. 
With a spear like this, he could be quicker than a man with a sword. In his 
mind's eye he could see the Aiel defeating all the men with swords. No one would 
stand against them. No one.
 
Lights flashed through the glass columns, half&#8209;blinding Rand. Muradin was only a 
pace or two ahead, staring straight in front of him, teeth bared, snarling 
silently. The columns were taking them back, into the time&#8209;lost history of the 
Aiel. Rand's feet moved of their own accord. Forward. And back in time.
 
Lewin adjusted the dustveil across his face and peered down into the small camp 
where the coals of a dying fire still glowed beneath an iron cookpot. The wind 
brought him a smell of half&#8209;burned stew. Mounds of blankets surrounded the coals 
in the moonlight. There were no horses in sight. He wished he had brought some 
water, but only the children were allowed water except with meals. He vaguely 
remembered a time when there had been more water, when the days were not so hot 
and dusty and the wind had not blown all the time. Night was only a small 
relief, trading a dull, fiery red sun for cold. He wrapped himself tighter in 
the cape of wild goatskins he used for a blanket.
His companions scrambled closer, bundled as he was, kicking rocks and muttering 
until he was sure they would wake the men below. He did not complain; he was no 
more used to this than they. Dustveils hid their faces, but he could make out 
who was who. Luca, with his shoulders half again as wide as anyone else's; he 
liked to play tricks. Gearan, lanky as a stork and the best runner among the 
wagons. Charlin and Alijha, alike as reflections except for Charlin's habit of 
tilting his head when he was worried, as he was now; their sister Colline was 
down in that camp. And Maigran, Lewin's sister.
When the girls' gathering bags were found on ground torn by a struggle, everyone 
else was ready to mourn and go on as they had done so many times before. Even 
Lewin's greatfather. If Adan had known what the five of them planned, he would 
have stopped them. All Adan did now was mutter about keeping faith with the Aes 
Sedai Lewin had never seen, that and try to keep the Aiel alive. The Aiel as a 
people, but not any one given Aiel. Not even Maigran.
"They are four," Lewin whispered. "The girls are this side of the fire. I will 
wake them – quietly &#8209; and we will sneak them away while the men sleep." His 
friends looked at each other, nodded. He supposed they should have made a plan 
before this, but all they had been able to think of was coming to get the girls, 
and how to leave the wagons without being seen. He had not been certain they 
could follow these men, or find them before they reached the village they came 
from, a collection of rough huts where the Aiel had been driven away with stones 
and sticks. There would be nothing to be done if the takers got that far.
"What if they do wake?" Gearan asked.
"I will not leave Colline," Charlin snapped, right on top of his brother's 
quieter "We are taking them back, Gearan."
"We are," Lewin agreed. Luca poked Gearan's ribs, and Gearan nodded.
Making their way down in the darkness was no easy task. Drought&#8209;dried twigs 
snapped under their feet; rocks and pebbles showered down the dry slope ahead of 
them. The harder Lewin tried to move silently, the more noise he seemed to make. 
Luca fell into a thornbush that cracked loudly, but managed to extract himself 
with no more than heavy breathing. Charlin slipped, and slid halfway to the 
bottom. But nothing moved below.
Short of the camp Lewin paused, exchanging anxious looks with his friends, then 
tiptoed in. His own breath sounded thunderous in his ears, as loud as the snores 
coming from one of the four large mounds. He froze as the rough snorts stopped 
and one of the mounds heaved. It settled, the snoring began again, and Lewin let 
himself breathe.
Carefully he crouched beside one of the smaller heaps and flipped aside a rough 
woolen blanket stiff with dirt. Maigran stared up at him, face bruised and 
swollen, her dress torn to little better than rags. He clapped a hand over her 
mouth to keep her from crying out, but she only continued to stare blankly, not 
even blinking.
"I am going to carve you like a pig, boy." One of the larger mounds tumbled 
aside, and a wild&#8209;bearded man in filthy clothes got to his feet, the long knife 
in his hand glittering dully in the moonlight, picking up the red glow of the 
coals. He kicked the mounds to either side of him, producing grunts and 
stirrings. "Just like a pig. Can you squeal, boy, or do you people just run?"
"Run," Lewin said, but his sister only stared dully. Frantic, he seized her 
shoulders, pulled to try starting her toward where the others were waiting. 
"Run!" She came out of the blankets stiffly, almost a dead weight. Colline was 
awake &#8209; he could hear her whimpering &#8209; but she seemed to be drawing her dirty 
blankets around her even more tightly, trying to hide in them. Maigran stood 
there, staring at nothing, seeing nothing.
"Seems you cannot even do that." Grinning, the man was coming around the fire, 
his knife held low. The others were sitting up in their blankets now, laughing, 
watching the fun. ,
Lewin did not know what to do. He could not leave his sister. All he could was 
die. Maybe that would give Maigran a chance to run. "Run, Maigran! Please run!" 
She did not move. She did not even seem to hear him. What had they done to her?
The bearded man came closer, taking his time, chuckling, enjoying his slow 
advance.
"Nooooooooooooooo!" Charlin came hurtling out of the night, throwing his arms 
around the man with the knife, carrying him to the ground. The other men bounded 
to their feet. One, his head shaved and shining in the pale light, raised a 
sword to slash at Charlin.
Lewin was not sure exactly how it happened. Somehow he had the heavy kettle by 
its iron handle, swinging; it struck the shaved head with a loud crunch. The man 
collapsed as if his bones had melted. Off balance, Lewin stumbled trying to 
avoid the fire, and fell beside it, losing the cookpot. A dark man with his hair 
in braids lifted another sword, ready to skewer him. He scrambled away on his 
back like a spider, eyes on the sword's sharp point, hands searching frenziedly 
for something to fend the man off, a stick, anything. His palm fell on rounded 
wood. He jerked it around, pushed it at the snarling man. The man's dark eyes 
widened, the sword dropped from his grasp; blood poured from his mouth. Not a 
stick. A spear.
Lewin's hands sprang away from the haft as soon as he realized what it was. Too 
late. He crawled backward to avoid the man as he fell, stared at him, trembling. 
A dead man. A man he had killed. The wind felt very cold.
After a time it came to him to wonder why one of the others had not killed him. 
He was surprised to see the rest of his friends there around the coals. Gearan 
and Luca and Alijha, all panting and wild&#8209;eyed above their dustveils. Colline 
still emitted soft sniffling sobs from beneath her blankets, and Maigran still 
stood staring. Charlin was huddled on his knees, holding himself. And the four 
men, the villagers .... Lewin stared from one motionless bloody shape to 
another.
"We . . . killed them." Luca's voice shook. "We . . . . Mercy of the Light, be 
with us now."
Lewin crawled to Charlin and touched his shoulder. "Are you hurt?"
Charlin fell over. Red wetness slicked his hands, gripping the hilt of the knife 
driven into his belly. "It hurts, Lewin," he whispered. He shuddered once, and 
the light went out of his eyes.
"What are we going to do?" Gearan asked. "Charlin is dead, and we . . . . Light, 
what have we done? What do we do?"
"We will take the girls back to the wagons." Lewin could not pull his eyes away 
from Charlin's glazed stare. "We will do that."
They gathered up everything that was useful, the cookpot and the knives, mainly. 
Metal things were hard to come by. "We might as well," Alijha said roughly. 
"They certainly stole it from someone just like us."
When Alijha started to pick up one of the swords, though, Lewin stopped him. 
"No, Alijha. That is a weapon, made to kill people. It has no other use." Alijha 
said nothing, only ran his eyes over the four dead bodies, looked at the spears 
Luca was winding with blankets to carry Charlin's body on. Lewin refused to look 
at the villagers. "A spear can put food in the pots, Alijha. A sword cannot. It 
is forbidden by the Way."
Alijha was still silent, but Lewin thought he sneered behind his dustveil. Yet 
when they finally started away into the night, the swords remained by the dying 
coals and the dead men.
It was a long walk back through the darkness, carrying the makeshift stretcher 
bearing Charlin, the wind sometimes gusting to raise choking clouds of dust. 
Maigran stumbled along, staring straight ahead; she did not know where she was, 
or who they were. Colline seemed half&#8209;terrified, even of her own brother, 
jumping if anyone touched her. This was not how Lewin had imagined their return. 
In his mind the girls had been laughing, happy to return to the wagons; they had 
all been laughing. Not carrying Charlin's corpse. Not hushed by the memory of 
what they had done.
The lights of the cook fires came into view, and then the wagons, harnesses 
al­ready spread for men to take their places at sunrise. No one left the shelter 
of the wagons after dark, so it surprised Lewin to see three shapes come 
hurrying toward them. Adan's white hair stood out in the night. The other two 
were Nerrine, Colline's mother, and Saralin, his and Maigran's. Lewin lowered 
his dustveil with foreboding.
The women rushed to their daughters with comforting arms and soft murmurs. 
Colline sank into her mother's embrace with a welcoming sigh; Maigran hardly 
appeared to notice Saralin who looked dose to tears at the bruises on her 
daughter's face.
Adan frowned at the young men, permanent creases of worry deepening in his face. 
"In the name of the Light, what happened? When we found you were gone, too . . . 
." He trailed off when he saw the stretcher holding Charlin. "What happened?" he 
asked again, as if dreading the answer.
Lewin opened his mouth slowly, but Maigran spoke first.
"They killed them." She was staring at something in the distance, her voice as 
simple as a child's. "The bad men hurt us. They . . . . Then Lewin came and 
killed them."
"You must not say things like that, child," Saralin said soothingly. "You &#8209; " 
She stopped, peering into her daughter's eyes, then turned to stare uncertainly 
at Lewin. "Is it . . . ? Is it true?"
"We had to," Alijha said in a pained voice. "They tried to kill us. They did 
kill Charlin." 
Adan stepped back. "You . . . killed? Killed men? What of the Covenant? We harm 
no one. No one! There is no reason good enough to justify killing another human 
being. None!"
"They took Maigran, greatfather," Lewin said. "They took Maigran and Colline, 
and hurt them. They - "
"There is no reason!" Adan roared, shaking with rage. "We must accept what 
comes. Our sufferings are sent to test our faithfulness. We accept and endure! 
We do not murder! You have not strayed from the Way, you have abandoned it. You 
are Da'shain no longer. You are corrupt, and I will not have the Aiel corrupted 
by you. Leave us, strangers. Killers! You are not welcome in the wagons of the 
Aiel." He turned his back and strode away as if they no longer existed. Saralin 
and Nerrine started after him, guiding the girls.
"Mother?" Lewin said, and flinched when she looked back at him with cold eyes. 
"Mother, please &#8209; "
"Who are you that addresses me so? Hide your face from me, stranger. I had a 
son, once, with a face like that. I do not wish to see it on a killer." And she 
led Maigran after the others.
"I am still Aiel," Lewin shouted, but they did not look back. He thought he 
heard Luca crying. The wind rose, picking up dust, and he veiled his face. "I am 
Aiel!"
 
Wildly darting lights bored into Rand's eyes. The pain of Lewin's loss still 
dung to him, and his mind tumbled furiously. Lewin had not carried a weapon. He 
had not known how to use a weapon. Killing terrified him. It did not make sense.
He was almost abreast of Muradin now, but the man was not aware of him. 
Muradin's snarl was a rictus; sweat beaded on his face; he quivered as though 
wanting to run.
Rand's feet took him forward, and back.
 
CHAPTER
26
 
The Dedicated
 
Forward, and back.
 
Adan lay in the sandy hollow clutching his dead son's weeping children, 
shielding their eyes against his ragged coat. Tears rolled down his face, too, 
but silently, as he peered cautiously over the edge. At five and six, Maigran 
and Lewin deserved the right to cry; Adan was surprised he had any tears left, 
himself.
Some of the wagons were burning. The dead lay where they had fallen. The horses 
had already been driven off, except for those still hitched to a few wagons that 
had been emptied onto the ground. For once he took no notice of the crated 
things the Aes Sedai had given into Aiel charge, toppled carelessly into the 
dirt. It was not the first time he had seen that, or dead Aiel, but this time he 
could not care. The men with the swords and spears and bows, the men who had 
done the killing, were loading those empty wagons. With women. He watched Rhea, 
his daughter, shoved up into a wagon box with the others, crowded together like 
animals by laughing killers. The last of his children. Elwin dead of hunger at 
ten, Sorelle at twenty of fever her dreams told her was coming, and Jaren, who 
threw himself off a cliff a year ago, at nineteen, when he found he could 
channel. Marind, this morning.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to rush out there and stop them from taking his 
last child. Stop them, somehow. And if he did rush out? They would kill him, and 
take Rhea anyway. They might well kill the children, too. Some of those bodies 
sprawled in their own blood were small.
Maigran clutched at him as if she sensed he might leave her, and Lewin stiffened 
as if he wanted to hold tighter but thought himself too old. Adan smoothed their 
hair and kept their faces pressed against his chest. He made himself watch, 
though, until the wagons wheeled away surrounded by whooping riders, after the 
horses that were already almost out of sight toward the smoking mountains that 
lined the horizon.
Only then did he stand up, prying the children loose. "Wait here for me," he 
told them. "Wait until I come back." Clinging to each other, they stared at him 
with tear&#8209;stained white faces, nodded uncertainly.
He walked out to one of the bodies, rolled her over gently. Siedre could have 
been asleep, her face just the way it appeared beside him when he woke each 
morning. It always surprised him to notice gray in her red&#8209;gold hair; she was 
his love, his life, and ever young and new to him. He tried not to look at the 
blood soaking the front of her dress or the gaping wound below her breasts.
"What do you mean to do now, Adan? Tell us that! What?"
He brushed Seidre's hair from her face &#8209; she liked to be neat &#8209; and stood, 
turning slowly to confront the knot of angry, frightened men. Sulwin was the 
leader, a tall man with deep&#8209;set eyes. He had let his hair grow, Sulwin had, as 
if to hide being Aiel. A number of men had. It had made no difference, to these 
last raiders or those who had come before.
"I mean to bury our dead and go on, Sulwin." His eyes drifted back to Siedre. 
"What else is there?"
"Go on, Adan? How can we go on? There are no horses. There is almost no water, 
no food. All we have left are wagons full of things the Aes Sedai will never 
come for. What are they, Adan? What are they that we should give our lives to 
haul them across the world, afraid to touch them even. We cannot go on as 
before!"
"We can!" Adan shouted. "We will! We have legs; we have backs. We will drag the 
wagons, if need be. We will be faithful to our duty!" He was startled to see his 
own brandished fist. A fist. His hand trembled as he unclenched it and put it 
down by side.
Sulwin stepped back, then held his ground with his companions. "No, Adan. We are 
supposed to find a place of safety, and some of us mean to do that. My 
greatfather used to tell me stories he heard as a boy, stories of when we lived 
in safety and people came to hear us sing. We mean to find a place where we can 
be safe, and sing again."
"Sing?" Adan scoffed. "I have heard those old stories, too, that Aiel singing 
was a wondrous thing, but you know those old songs no more than I do. The songs 
are gone, and the old days are gone. We will not give up our duty to the Aes 
Sedai to chase after what is lost forever."
"Some of us will, Adan." The others behind Sulwin nodded. "We mean to find that 
safe place. And the songs, too. We will!"
A crash whipped Adan's head around. More of Sulwin's cronies were unloading one 
of the wagons, and a large flat crate had fallen, half breaking open to reveal 
what looked like a polished doorframe of dark red stone. Other wagons were being 
emptied, too, and by more than Sulwin's friends. At least a quarter of the 
people he saw were hard at work clearing wagons of everything but food or water.
"Do not try to stop us," Sulwin cautioned.
Adan made his fist loosen again. "You are not Aiel," he said. "You betray 
everything. Whatever you are, you are no longer Aiel!"
"We keep the Way of the Leaf as well as you, Adan."
"Go!" Adan shouted. "Go! You are not Aiel! You are lost! Lost! I do not want to 
look at you! Go!" Sulwin and the others stumbled in their haste to get away from 
him.
His heart sank lower as he surveyed the wagons, and the dead lying among the 
litter. So many dead, so many wounded moaning as they were tended. Sulwin and 
his lost ones were taking some care in their unloading. The men with the swords 
had broken open crates until they realized there was no gold inside, no food. 
Food was more precious than gold. Adan studied the stone doorframe, tumbled 
piles of stone figurines, odd shapes in crystal standing among the potted chora 
cuttings Sulwin's folk had no use for. Was there a use for any of it? Was this 
what they were being faithful for? If it was, then so be it. Some could be 
saved. There was no way to tell what Aes Sedai might consider most important, 
but some could be saved.
He saw Maigran and Lewin clutching their mother's skirts. He was glad Saralin 
was alive to look after them; his last son, her husband, the children's father, 
had died from the very first arrow that morning. Some could be saved. He would 
save the Aiel, whatever it took.
Kneeling, he gathered Siedre in his arms. "We are still faithful, Aes Sedai," he 
whispered. "How long must we be faithful?" Putting his head down on his wife's 
breast, he wept.
 
Tears stung Rand's eyes; silently, he mouthed, "Siedre." The Way of the Leafy 
That was no Aiel belief. He could not think dearly; he could hardly think at 
all. The lights spun faster and faster. Beside him, Muradin's mouth was open in 
a soundless howl; the Aiel's eyes bulged as if witnessing the death of 
everything. They stepped forward together.
 
Jonai stood at the edge of the cliff staring out westward over the sun&#8209;sparkled 
water. A hundred leagues in that direction lay Comelle. Had lain Comelle. 
Comelle had clung to the mountains overlooking the sea. A hundred leagues west, 
where the sea now ran. If Alnora were still alive, perhaps it would have been 
easier to take. Without her dreams, he scarcely knew where to go or what to do. 
Without her, he hardly cared to live. He felt every gray hair as he turned to 
trudge back to the wagons, waiting a mile away. Fewer wagons, now, and showing 
wear. Fewer people, too, a handful of thousands where there had been tens. But 
too many for the remaining wagons. No one rode now save children too small to 
walk.
Adan met him at the first wagon, a tall young man, his blue eyes too wary. Jonai 
always expected to see Willim if he looked around quickly enough. But Willim had 
been sent away, of course, years ago, when he began to channel no matter how 
hard he tried to stop. The world had too many men channeling, still; they had to 
send away boys who showed the signs. They had to. But he wished he had his 
children back. When had Esole died? So little to be laid in a hastily dug hole, 
wasted with sickness there was no Aes Sedai to Heal.
"There are Ogier, father," Adan said excitedly. Jonai suspected his son had 
al­ways thought his stories of the Ogier were just that, stories. "They came 
from the north."
It was a bedraggled band Adan led him to, no more than fifty in number, 
hollow&#8209;cheeked, sad&#8209;eyed, tufted ears drooping. He had become accustomed to his 
own people's drawn faces and worn, patched clothing, but seeing the same on 
Ogier shocked him. Yet he had people to care for, and duties to discharge for 
the Aes Sedai.
How long since he had seen an Aes Sedai? Just after Alnora died. Too late for 
Alnora. The woman had Healed the sick who still lived, taken some of the 
sa'angreal, and gone on her way, laughing bitterly when he asked her where there 
was a place of safety. Her dress had been patched, and worn at the hem. He was 
not sure she had been sane. She claimed one of the Forsaken was only partly 
trapped, or maybe not at all; Ishamael still touched the world, she said. She 
had to be as mad as the remaining male Aes Sedai.
He pulled his mind back to the Ogier as they stood, unsteady on their great 
legs. His thoughts wandered too much since Alnora's death. They had bread and 
bowls in their hands. He was shocked to feel a prick of anger that someone had 
shared their meager stock of food. How many of his people could eat on what 
fifty Ogier could consume? No. To share was the way. To give freely. A hundred 
people? Two hundred?
"You have chora cuttings," one of the Ogier said. His thick fingers gently 
brushed the trefoil leaves of the two potted plants tied to the side of a wagon.
"Some," Adan said curtly. "They die, but the old folk keep new cuttings before 
they do." He had no time for trees. He had a people to look after. "How bad is 
it in the north?"
"Bad," an Ogier woman replied. "The Blighted Lands have grown southward, and 
there are Myrddraal and Trollocs."
"I thought they were all dead." Not north, then. They could not turn north. 
South? The Sea of Jeren lay ten days south. Or did it, any longer? He was tired. 
So tired.
"You have come from the east?" another Ogier asked. He wiped his bowl with a 
heel of bread and gulped it down. "How is it to the east?"
"Bad," Jonai replied. "Perhaps not so bad for you, though. Ten &#8209; no, twelve days 
ago, some people took a third of our horses before we could escape. We had to 
abandon wagons." That pained him. Wagons left behind, and what was in them. The 
things the Aes Sedai had placed in Aiel charge, abandoned. That it was not the 
first time only made it worse. "Almost everyone we meet takes things, whatever 
they want. Perhaps they will not be so with Ogier, though."
"Perhaps," an Ogier woman said as if she did not believe it. Jonai was not 
certain he did either; there was no safe place. "Do you know where any of the 
stedding are?"
Jonai stared at her. "No. No, I do not. But surely you can find the stedding."
"We have run so far, so long," an Ogier back in the huddle said, and another 
added in a mournful rumble, "The land has changed so much."
"I think we must find a stedding soon or die," the first Ogier woman said. "I 
feel a . . . longing . . . in my bones. We must find a stedding. We must."
"I cannot help you," Jonai said sadly. He felt a tightness in his chest. The 
land changed beyond knowing, changing still so the plain traveled last year 
might be mountains this. The Blighted Lands growing. Myrddraal and Trollocs 
still alive. People stealing, people with faces like animals, people who did not 
recognize Da'shain or know them. He could barely breathe. The Ogier, lost. The 
Aiel, lost. Everything lost. The tightness broke in pain, and he sank to his 
knees, doubled over, clutching his chest. A fist held his heart, squeezing.
Adan knelt beside him worriedly. "Father, what is it? What is the matter? What 
can I do?"
Jonai managed to sieze his son's frayed collar and pull his face dose. "Take&#8209;the 
people&#8209;south." He had to force the words out between spasms that seemed to be 
ripping his heart out.
"Father, you are the one who &#8209; "
"Listen. Listen! Take them &#8209; south. Take &#8209; the Aiel &#8209; to safety. Keep &#8209; the 
Covenant. Guard &#8209; what the Aes Sedai &#8209; gave us &#8209; until they &#8209; come for it. The 
Way &#8209; of the Leaf. You must &#8209; " He had tried. Solinda Sedai must understand 
that. He had tried. Alnora.
 
Alnora. The name faded, the pain in Rand's chest loosened. No sense. It made no 
sense. How could these people be Aiel?
The columns flashed in blinding pulses. The air stirred, swirling.
Beside him, Muradin's mouth stretched wide in an effort to scream. The Aiel 
clawed at his veil, clawed at his face, leaving deep bloody scratches.
Forward.
 
Jonai hurried down the empty streets, trying not to look at shattered buildings 
and dead chora trees. All dead. At least the last of the long abandoned jo&#8209;cars 
had been hauled away. Aftershocks still troubled the ground beneath his feet. He 
wore his work clothes, his cadin'sor, of course, though the work he had been 
given was nothing he had been trained for. He was sixty&#8209;three, in the prime of 
life, not yet old enough for gray hairs, but he felt a tired old man.
No one questioned his entering the Hall of the Servants; there was no one at the 
great columned entrance to question anyone, or give greeting. Plenty of people 
darted about inside, arms filled with papers or boxes, eyes anxious, but none so 
much as looked at him. There was a feel of panic about them, and it grew by 
increments every time the ground shook. Distressed, he crossed the anteroom and 
trotted up the broad stairs. Mud stained the silvery white elstone. No one could 
spare time. Perhaps no one cared.
There was no need to knock at the door he sought. Not one of the great gilded 
doors to an ingathering hall, but a door plain and unobtrusive. He slipped in 
quietly, though, and was glad he had. Half a dozen Aes Sedai stood around the 
long table, arguing, apparently not noticing when the building trembled. They 
were all women.
He shivered, wondering if men would ever stand in a meeting such as this again. 
When he saw what was on the table, the shiver became a shudder. A crystal sword 
&#8209; perhaps an object of the Power, perhaps only an ornament; he had no way of 
telling &#8209; held down the Dragon banner of Lews Therin Kinslayer, spread out like 
a tablecloth and spilling onto the floor. His heart clenched. What was that 
doing here? Why had it not been destroyed, and memory of the cursed man as well?
"What good is your Foretelling," Oselle was almost shouting, "if you cannot tell 
us when?" Her long black hair swayed as she shook with anger. "The world rests 
on this! The future! The Wheel itself?"
Dark&#8209;eyed Deindre faced her with a more usual calm. "I am not the Creator. I can 
only tell you what I Foretell."
"Peace, sisters." Solinda was the calmest of them all, her old&#8209;fashioned streith 
gown only a pale blue mist. The sun&#8209;red hair falling to her waist was nearly the 
color of his own. His greatfather had served her as a young man, but she looked 
younger than he; she was Aes Sedai. "The time for contention among ourselves is 
past. Jaric and Haindar will both be here by tomorrow."
"Which means we cannot afford mistakes, Solinda."
"We must know . . . ."
"Is there any chance of . . . ?"
Jonai stopped listening. They would see him when they were ready. He was not the 
only one in the room besides the Aes Sedai. Someshta sat against the wall near 
the door, a great shape seemingly woven of vines and leaves, his head a little 
above Jonai's even so. A fissure of withered brown and charred black ran up the 
Nym's face and furrowed the green grass of his hair, and when he looked at 
Jonai, his hazelnut eyes seemed troubled.
When Jonai nodded to him, he fingered the rift and frowned. "Do I know you?" he 
said softly.
"I am your friend," Jonai replied sadly. He had not seen Someshta in years, but 
he had heard of this. Most of the Nym were dead, he had heard. "You rode me on 
your shoulders when I was a child. Do you remember nothing of it?"
"Singing," Someshta said. "Was there singing? So much is gone. The Aes Sedai say 
some will return. You are a Child of the Dragon, are you not?"
Jonai winced. That name had caused trouble, no less for not being true. But how 
many citizens now believed the Da'shain Aiel had once served the Dragon and no 
other Aes Sedai?
"Jonai?"
He turned at the sound of Solinda's voice, went to one knee as she approached. 
The others were still arguing, but more quietly.
"All is in readiness, Jonai?" she said.
"All, Aes Sedai. Solinda Sedai . . . ." He hesitated, took a deep breath. 
"Solinda Sedai, some of us wish to remain. We can serve, still."
"Do you know what happened to the Aiel at Tzora?" He nodded, and she sighed, 
reaching out to smooth his short hair as if he were a child. "Of course you do. 
You Da'shain have more courage than . . . . Ten thousand Aiel linking arms and 
singing, trying to remind a madman of who they were and who he had been, trying 
to turn him with their bodies and a song. Jaric Mondoran killed them. He stood 
there, staring as though at a puzzle, killing them, and they kept closing their 
lines and singing. I am told he listened to the last Aiel for almost an hour 
before destroying him. And then Tzora burned, one huge flame consuming stone and 
metal and flesh. There is a sheet of glass where the second greatest city in the 
world once stood."
"Many people had time to flee, Aes Sedai. The Da'shain earned them time to flee. 
We are not afraid."
Her hand tightened painfully in his hair. "The citizens have already fled Paaren 
Disen, Jonai. Besides, the Da'shain yet have a part yet to play, if Deindre 
could only see far enough to say what. In any case, I mean to save something 
here, and that something is you."
"As you say," he said reluctantly. "We will care for what you have given into 
our charge until you want them again."
"Of course. The things we gave you." She smiled at him and loosened her grip, 
smoothing his hair once more before folding her hands. "You will carry the . . . 
things . . . to safety, Jonai. Keep moving, always moving, until you find a 
place of safety, where no one can harm you."
"As you say, Aes Sedai."
"What of Coumin, Jonai? Has he calmed?"
He did not know any way but to tell her; he would rather have bitten his tongue 
out. "My father is hiding somewhere in the city. He tried to talk us into . . . 
resisting. He would not listen, Aes Sedai. He would not listen. He found an old 
shocklance somewhere, and . . . ." He could not go on. He expected her to be 
angry, but her eyes glistened with tears.
"Keep the Covenant, Jonai. If the Da'shain lose everything else, see they keep 
the Way of the Leaf. Promise me."
"Of course, Aes Sedai," he said, shocked. The Covenant was the Aiel, and the 
Aiel were the Covenant; to abandon the Way would be to abandon what they were. 
Coumin was an aberration. He had been strange since he was a boy, it was said, 
hardly Aiel at all, though no one knew why.
"Go now, Jonai. I want you far from Paaren Disen by tomorrow. And remember &#8209; 
keep moving. Keep the Aiel safe."
He bowed where he knelt, but she was already being drawn back into the argument.
"Can we trust Kodam and his fellows, Solinda?"
"We must, Oselle. They  are  young  and  inexperienced, but barely touched by 
the taint, and . . . . And we have no choice."
"Then we will do what we must. The sword must wait. Someshta, we have a task for 
the last of the Nym, if you will do it. We have asked too much of you; now we 
must ask more."
Jonai bowed his way out formally as the Nym rose, his head brushing the ceiling. 
Already immersed in their plans, they were not looking at him, but he did them 
this last honor anyway. He did not think he would ever see them again.
He ran from the Hall of the Servants, all the way out of the city to where the 
great gathering waited. Thousands of wagons in ten lines stretching nearly two 
leagues, wagons loaded with food and water barrels, wagons loaded with the 
crated things the Aes Sedai had given into Aiel charge, angreal and sa'angreal 
and ter'angreal, all the things that had to be kept from the hands of men going 
mad while they wielded the One Power. Once there would have been other ways to 
carry them, jo&#8209;cars and jumpers, hoverflies and huge sho&#8209;wings. Now painfully 
assembled horses and wagons had to suffice. Among the wagons stood the people, 
enough to populate a city but perhaps all the Aiel left alive in the world.
A hundred came to meet him, men and women, the representatives demanding word of 
whether the Aes Sedai had granted leave for some to stay. "No," he told them. 
Some frowned reluctantly, and he added, "We must obey. We are Da'shain Aiel, and 
we obey the Aes Sedai."
They dispersed back to their wagons slowly, and he thought he heard Coumin's 
name mentioned, but he could not let it trouble him. He hurried to his own 
wagon, at the head of one of the center lines. The horses were all nervous with 
the ground shaking at intervals.
His sons were already up on the seat &#8209; Willim, fifteen, with the reins, and 
Adan, ten, beside him, both grinning with nervous excitement. Little Esole lay 
playing with a doll on top of the canvas tied over their possessions &#8209; and, more 
important, their charges from the Aes Sedai. There was no room for any to ride 
but the young and the very old. A dozen rooted chora cuttings in day pots sat 
behind the wagon seat, to be planted when they found a place of safety. A 
foolish thing to carry, perhaps, but no wagon was without its potted cuttings. 
Something from a time long gone; symbol of a better time to come. People needed 
hope, and symbols.
Alnora waited beside the team, glossy black hair tumbling about her shoulders 
and reminding him of the first time he saw her as a girl. But worry had etched 
lines around her eyes now.
He managed a smile for her, hiding the worry in his own heart. "All will be 
well, wife of my heart." She did not answer, and he added, "Have you dreamed?"
"Of no time soon," she murmured. "All will be well, all will be well, and all 
manner of thing will be well." Smiling tremulously, she touched his cheek. "With 
you I know it will be so, husband of my heart."
Jonai waved his arms over his head, and the signal rippled down the lines. 
Slowly the wagons began to move, the Aiel leaving Paaren Disen.
Rand shook his head. Too much. Memories crowding together. The air seemed filled 
with sheet lightning. The wind swirled gritty dust into dancing whirlwinds. 
Muradin had clawed deep furrows in his face; he was digging at his eyes now. 
Forward.
Coumin knelt at the edge of the plowed ground in his working clothes, plain 
brownish gray coat and breeches and soft laced boots, in a line with others like 
him that surrounded the field, ten men of the Da'shain Aiel at twice 
stretched&#8209;arms' length and then an Ogier, all the way around. He could see the 
next field, lined the same way, beyond the soldiers with their shocklances 
sitting atop armored jo&#8209;cars. A hoverfly buzzed overhead in its patrol, a deadly 
black metal wasp containing two men. He was sixteen, and the women had decided 
his voice was finally deep enough to join in the seed singing.
The soldiers fascinated him, men and Ogier, the way a colorful poisonous snake 
might. They killed. His father's greatfather, Charn, claimed there had been no 
soldiers once, but Coumin did not believe it. If there were no soldiers, who 
would stop the Nightriders and the Trollocs from coming to kill everyone? Of 
course, Charn claimed there had not been any Myrddraal or Trollocs then, either. 
No Forsaken, no Shadowwrought. He had many stories he claimed were from a time 
before soldiers and Nightriders and Trollocs, when he said the Dark Lord of the 
Grave had been bound away, and no one knew his name, or the word "war." Coumin 
could not imagine such a world; the war had been old when he was born.
He enjoyed Charn's stories even if he could not make himself believe, but some 
earned the old man frowns and scoldings. Like when he claimed to have served one 
of the Forsaken, once. Not just any Forsaken, but Lanfear herself. As well say 
he had served Ishamael. If Charn had to make up stories, Coumin wished he could 
say he had served Lews Therin, the great leader himself. Of course, everyone 
would ask why he was not serving the Dragon now, but that would be better than 
the way things were. Coumin did not like the way citizens looked at Charn when 
he said that Lanfear had not always been evil.
A stir at the end of the field told him one of the Nym was approaching. The 
great form, head and shoulders and chest taller than any Ogier, stepped out onto 
the seeded ground, and Coumin did not have to see to know he left footprints 
filled with sprouting things. It was Someshta, surrounded by clouds of 
butterflies, white and yellow and blue. Excited murmurs rose from the 
townspeople and the folk whose fields these were, gathered to watch. Each field 
would have its Nym, now.
Coumin wondered if he could ask Someshta about Charn's stories. He had spoken to 
him once, and Someshta was old enough to know if Charn was telling the truth; 
the Nym were older than anyone. Some said the Nym never died, not so long as 
plants grew. But this was no time to be thinking of questioning a Nym.
The Ogier began it, as was fitting, standing to sing, great bass rumbles like 
the earth singing. The Aiel rose, men's voices lifting in their own song, even 
the deepest at a higher pitch than the Ogier's. Yet the songs braided together, 
and Someshta took those threads and wove them into his dance, gliding across the 
field in swooping strides, arms wide, butterflies swirling about him, landing on 
his spread fingertips.
Coumin could hear the seed singing around the other fields, hear the women 
dapping to urge the men on, their rhythm the heartbeat of new life, but it was a 
distant knowledge. The song caught him up, and he almost felt that it was 
himself, not the sounds he made, that Someshta wove into the soil and around the 
seeds. Seeds no longer, though. Zemais sprouts covered the field, taller 
wherever the Nym's foot had trod. No blight would touch those plants, nor any 
insect; seed sung, they would eventually grow twice as high as a man and fill 
the town's grainbarns. This was what he had been born for, this song and the 
other seed songs. He did not regret the fact that the Aes Sedai had passed him 
over at ten, saying he lacked the spark. To have been trained as Aes Sedai would 
have been wondrous, but surely no more so than this moment.
The song faded slowly, the Aiel guiding its end. Someshta danced a few steps 
more after the last voices ceased, and it seemed the song still hung faintly in 
the air for as long as he moved. Then he stopped, and it was done.
Coumin was surprised to see that the townspeople were gone, but he had no time 
to wonder where they had gone or why. The women were coming, laughing, to 
congratulate the men. He was one of the men now, not a boy any longer, though 
the women alternated between kissing him on the lips and reaching up to ruffle 
his short red hair.
It was then that he saw the soldier, only a few steps away, watching them. He 
had left his shocklance and fancloth battle cape somewhere, but he still wore 
his helmet, like some monstrous insect's head, its mandibles hiding his face 
though his black shockvisor was raised. As if realizing he still stood out, the 
soldier pulled off the helmet, revealing a dark young man no more than four or 
five years older than Coumin. The soldier's unblinking brown eyes met his, and 
Coumin shivered. The face was only four or five years older, but those eyes . . 
. . The soldier would have been chosen to begin his training at ten, too. Coumin 
was glad Aiel were spared that choosing.
One of the Ogier, Tomada, came over, tufted ears slanted forward inquisitively. 
"Do you have news, warman? I saw excitement among the jo&#8209;cars while we sang."
The soldier hesitated. "I suppose I can tell you, though it is not confirmed. We 
have a report that Lews Therin led the Companions on a strike at Shayol Ghul 
this morning at dawn. Something is disrupting communications, but the report is 
the Bore has been sealed, with most of the Forsaken on the other side. Maybe all 
of them."
"Then it is over." Tomada breathed. "Over at last, the Light be praised."
"Yes." The soldier looked around, suddenly seeming lost. "I . . . suppose it is. 
I suppose. . . ." He peered at his hands, then let them fall to his sides again. 
He sounded weary. "The local folk could not wait to begin celebrating. If the 
news is true, it might go on for days. I wonder if . . . ? No, they will not 
want soldiers joining them. Will you?"
"For tonight, perhaps," Tomada said. "But we have three more towns to visit 
before our circuit is done."
"Of course. You still have work to do. You have that." The soldier looked around 
again. "There are still Trollocs. Even if the Forsaken are gone, there are still 
Trollocs. And Nightriders." Nodding to himself, he started back toward the 
jo&#8209;cars.
Tomada did not appear excited at all, of course, but Coumin felt as stunned as 
the young soldier. The war was over? What would the world be like without war? 
Suddenly he had to talk to Charn.
Sounds of merrymaking rolled out to meet him before he reached the town 
laughing, singing. The bells in the town&#8209;hall tower began ringing exuberantly. 
Townspeople danced in the streets, men and women and children. Coumin dodged 
between them, searching. Charn had elected to stay at one of the inns where the 
Aiel were putting up instead of coming to the singing &#8209; even the Aes Sedai could 
no longer do much for the aches in his aged knees &#8209; but surely he would be out 
for this.
Abruptly something struck Coumin in the mouth and his legs buckled; he was 
pushing himself to his knees before he realized he was down. A hand put to his 
mouth came away bloody. He looked up to find an angry&#8209;faced townsman standing 
over him, nursing a fist. "Why did you do that?" he asked.
The townsman spat at him. "The Forsaken are dead. Dead, do you hear? Lanfear 
will not protect you anymore. We will root out all of you who served the 
Forsaken while pretending to be on our side, and treat the lot of you as we 
treated that crazy old man. "
A woman was tugging at the man's arm. "Come away, Toma. Come away, and hold your 
foolish tongue! Do you want the Ogier to come for you?" Suddenly wary, the man 
let her pull him away into the crowd.
Struggling to his feet, Coumin began to run, heedless of the blood oozing down 
his chin.
The inn was empty, silent. Not even the innkeeper was there, or the cook, or her 
helpers. Coumin ran through the building shouting, "Charn? Charn? Charn?"
Out back, maybe. Charn liked to sit under the spiceapple trees behind the inn, 
and tell his stories of the days when he was young.
Coumin ran out the back door, and tripped, falling on his face. It was an empty 
boot that had caught his toe. One of Charn's red dress boots that he wore all 
the time, now that he no longer joined in the singing. Something made Coumin 
look up.
Charn's white&#8209;haired body hung from a rope pulled over the ridgepole, one foot 
bare where he had kicked his boot off, the fingers of one hand caught at his 
neck where he had tried to pull the rope free.
"Why?" Coumin said. "We are Da'shain. Why?" There was no one to answer. 
Clutching the boot to his chest, he knelt there, staring up at Charn, as the 
noise of revelry washed over him.
 
Rand quivered. The light from the columns was a shimmering blue haze that seemed 
solid, that seemed to claw the nerves out of his skin. The wind howled, one vast 
whirlwind sucking inward. Muradin had managed to veil himself; bloody sockets 
stared blindly above the black veil. The Aiel was chewing, and bloody froth 
dripped onto his chest. Forward.
 
Charn made his way down the side of the wide, crowded street beneath the 
spreading chora trees, their trefoil leaves spreading peace and contentment in 
the shadows of silvery buildings that touched the sky. A city without choras 
would seem bleak as wilderness. jo&#8209;cars hummed quietly down the street, and a 
great white sho&#8209;wing darted across the sky, carrying citizens to Comelle or 
Tzora or somewhere. He seldom used the sho&#8209;wings, himself &#8209; if he needed to go 
very far, an Aes Sedai usually Traveled with him &#8209; but tonight he would, to 
M'jinn. Today was his twenty&#8209;fifth naming day, and tonight he intended to accept 
Nalla's latest offer of marriage. He wondered if she would be surprised; he had 
been putting her off for a year, not wanting to settle down. It would mean 
changing his service to Zorelle Sedai, whom Nalla served, but Mierin Sedai had 
already given her blessing.
He rounded a corner and just had time to see a dark, wide&#8209;shouldered man with a 
fashionably narrow beard before the man's shoulder sent him crashing to his 
back, head bouncing on the walkway so he saw spots. Dazed, he lay there.
"Watch where you are going," the bearded man said irritably, adjusting his 
sleeveless red coat and flicking the lace at his wrists. His black hair, hanging 
to his shoulders, was gathered in back. That was the latest fashion, too, as 
near as anyone who had not sworn to the Covenant would come to imitating Aiel.
The pale&#8209;haired woman with him laid a hand on his arm, her dress of shimmery 
white streith becoming more opaque with her sudden embarrassment. "Jom, look at 
his hair. He is Aiel, Jom."
Feeling his head to see if it was cracked, Charn's fingers brushed through 
short&#8209;cut, reddish&#8209;gold hair. He gave the longer tail at his nape a tug in lieu 
of shaking his head. A bruise, he thought, but no more.
"So he is." The man's annoyance vanished in consternation. "Forgive me, 
Da'shain. I am the one who should be watching where he walks. Let me help you 
up." He was already suiting his words, hoisting Charn to his feet. "Are you all 
right? Let me call a jumper to take you where you are going."
"I am not hurt, citizen," Charn said mildly. "Truly, it was my fault." It had 
been, hurrying like that. He could have injured the man. "Did I harm you? 
Please, forgive me."
The man opened his mouth to protest &#8209; citizens always did; they seemed to think 
Aiel were made of spinglass &#8209; but before he could speak, the ground rippled 
under their feet. The air rippled, too, in spreading waves. The man looked about 
uncertainly, pulling his stylish fancloth cloak around himself and his lady so 
their heads seemed to float disembodied. "What is it, Da'shain?"
Others who had seen Charn's hair were gathering around him anxiously asking the 
same questions, but he ignored them, not even thinking of whether he was being 
rude. He actually began to push through the crowd, his eyes fixed on the Sharom; 
the white sphere, a thousand feet in diameter, floated as high above the blue 
and silver domes of the Collam Daan.
Mierin had said today was the day. She said she had found a new source for the 
One Power. Female Aes Sedai and male would be able to tap the same source, not 
separate halves. What men and women could do united would be even greater now 
that there would be no differences. And today she and Beidomon would tap it for 
the first time &#8209; the last time men and women would work together wielding a 
different Power. Today.
What seemed a tiny chip of white spun away from the Sharom in a jet of black 
fire; it descended, deceptively slow, insignificant. Then a hundred gouts 
spurted everywhere around the huge white sphere. The Sharom broke apart like an 
egg and began to drift down, falling, an obsidian inferno. Darkness spread 
across the sky, swallowing the sun in unnatural night, as if the light of those 
flames was blackness. People were screaming, screaming everywhere.
With the first spurt of fire, Charn broke into a run toward the Collam Daan, but 
he knew he was too late. He was sworn to serve Aes Sedai, and he was too late. 
Tears rolled down his face as he ran.
 
Blinking to dispel the spots fluttering across his vision, Rand squeezed his 
head with both hands. The image still drifted through his head, that huge 
sphere, burning black, falling. Did I really see the hole being drilled into the 
Dark One's prison? Did I? He stood at the edge of the glass columns, staring out 
at Avendesora. A chora tree. A city in a wilderness without chorar. And now 
there's only one. The columns sparkled in the blue glow from the dome of fog 
above, but once again the light seemed only brilliant reflections. There was no 
sign of Muradin; he did not think the Aiel had come out of the glass forest. Or 
ever would.
Suddenly something caught his eye, low in the branches of the Tree of Life. A 
shape swinging slowly. A man, hanging from a pole laid across two branches by a 
rope around his neck.
With a wordless roar, he ran for the tree, grabbing at saidin, the fiery sword 
coming into his hands as he leaped, slashing at the rope. He and Mat hit the 
dusty white paving stones with twin thuds. The pole jarred free and clattered 
down beside them; not a pole, but an odd black&#8209;hafted spear with a short sword 
blade in place of a spearpoint, slightly curved and single&#8209;edged. Rand would not 
have cared if it was made of gold and cuendillar set with sapphires and 
firedrops.
Letting sword and Power go, he ripped the rope away from Mat's neck and pressed 
an ear to his friend's chest. Nothing. Desperately, he tore open Mat's coat and 
shirt, breaking the leather cord that held a silver medallion on Mat's chest. He 
tossed the medallion aside, listened again. Nothing. No heartbeat. Dead. No! 
He'd be all right if I hadn't let him follow me here. 1 can't let him be dead!
As hard as he could he pounded his fist against Mat's chest, listened. Nothing. 
Again he hammered, listened. Yes. There. A faint heartbeat. It was. So faint, so 
slow. And slowing. But Mat was still alive despite the heavy purple welt around 
his neck. He might yet be kept alive.
Filling his lungs, Rand scrambled around to breathe into Mat's mouth as strongly 
as he could. Again. Again. Then he leaped astride Mat, seized the waist of his 
breeches and heaved upward, lifting his hips off the pavement. Up and down, 
three times, and then back to breathing into his mouth. He could have channeled; 
he might have been able to do something that way. The memory of that girl in the 
Stone stopped him. He wanted Mat to live. Live, not be a puppet moved by the 
Power. Once back in Emond's Field he had seen Master Luhhan revive a boy who had 
been found floating in the Winespring Water. So he breathed and heaved, breathed 
and heaved and prayed.
Abruptly Mat jerked, coughed. Rand knelt beside him as he put both hands to his 
throat and rolled onto his side, sucking air in an agonized rattle.
Mat touched the piece of rope with one hand and shivered. "Those flaming sons &#8209; 
of goats," he muttered hoarsely. "They tried &#8209; to kill me."
"Who did?" Rand asked, looking around warily. Half&#8209;finished palaces around the 
great littered square stared back at him. Surely Rhuidean was empty except for 
the two of them. Unless Muradin was still alive, somewhere.
"The folk&#8209;on the other side &#8209; of that &#8209; twisted doorway." Swallowing painfully, 
Mat sat up and took a deep unsteady breath. "There's one here, too, Rand." He 
still sounded as if his throat had been rasped.
"You could go through it? Did they answer questions?" That could be useful. He 
desperately needed more answers. A thousand questions, and too few answers.
"No answers," Mat said huskily. "They cheat. And they tried to kill me." He 
picked up the medallion, a silver foxhead that almost filled his palm, and after 
a moment stuffed it into his pocket with a grimace. "I got something out of 
them, at least." Pulling the strange spear to him, he ran his fingers along the 
black shaft. A line of some strange cursive script ran its length, bracketed by 
a pair of birds inlaid in metal even darker than the wood. Ravens, Rand thought 
they were. Another pair were engraved on the blade. With a rough wry laugh, Mat 
levered himself to his feet, half&#8209;leaning on the spear, the sword blade 
beginning just level with his head. He did not bother to lace up his shirt or 
button his coat. "I'll keep this, too. Their joke, but I will keep it."
"A joke?"
Mat nodded. "What it says.
 
'Thus it our treaty written; thus is agreement made.
Thought is the arrow of time; memory never fades.
What was asked is given. The price is paid.'
 
"A pretty joke, you see. I'll slice them with their own wit if I ever get the 
chance. I'll give them 'thought and memory.' " He winced, scrubbing a hand 
through his hair. "Light, but my head hurts. It's spinning, like a thousand bits 
of dreams, and every one a needle. Do you think Moiraine will do something for 
it if I ask?"
"I am sure she will," Rand replied slowly. Mat had to be hurting badly if he 
sought the Aes Sedai's help. He looked at the dark spear shaft again. Most of 
the script was hidden by Mat's hand, but not all. Whatever it was, he had no 
idea what it said. How had Mat? Rhuidean's empty windows stared at him 
mockingly. We hide many secrets still, they seemed to say. More than you know. 
Worse than you know. "Let's go back now, Mat. I don't care if we have to cross 
the valley in the night. As you said, it will be cooler. I don't want to stay in 
here any longer."
"That sounds just fine to me," Mat said, coughing. "As long as we can get 
another drink of water at that fountain."
Rand kept his pace to Mat's, which was slow at first, hobbling along using the 
odd spear as a walking staff. He paused once to look at the two figurines of a 
man and a woman holding crystal spheres, but he left them there. Not yet. Not 
for a long time yet, if he was lucky.
When they left the square behind, the unfinished palaces rearing along the 
street had a threatening look, their jagged tops like the walls of great 
fortresses. Rand embraced saidin, though he saw no real threat. But he felt it, 
as though murderous eyes were boring into his back. Rhuidean lay peaceful and 
empty, shadowless in the blue glow of its fog roof. The dust in the streets 
rippled in the wind . . . . The wind. There was no wind.
"Oh, burn me," Mat muttered. "I think we're in trouble, Rand. It's what I get 
for staying around you. You always get me in trouble."
The ripples came faster, sliding together to make thicker lines, quivering 
still.
"Can you walk faster?" Rand asked.
"Walk? Blood and ashes, I can run." Slanting the spear across his chest, Mat 
suited his words with a lurching gallop.
Running alongside, Rand brought his sword back, uncertain of what he could do 
with it against shivering lines of dust, uncertain that there really was need. 
It was only dust. No, it bloody isn't. It's one of those bubbles. The Dark One's 
evil, drifting along the Pattern, seeking out bloody ta'veren. I know it is.
All around them dust rippled and shivered ever thicker, bunching and gathering. 
Suddenly, right in front of them, a shape reared up in the basin of a dry 
fountain, a solid man shape, dark and featureless, with fingers like sharp 
claws. Silently it leaped at them.
Rand moved instinctively &#8209; the Moon Rises Over Water &#8209; and the blade of Power 
sliced through that dark figure. In a twinkling it was only a thick cloud of 
dust, drifting toward the pavement.
Others replaced it, though, black faceless shapes rushing in from all sides, no 
two alike, but all with reaching claws. Rand danced the forms among them, blade 
weaving intricate patterns in the air, leaving floating motes behind. Mat used 
his spear like a quarterstaff, a spinning blur, but bringing the sword blade 
into it as if he had always used the weapon. The creatures died &#8209; or at least 
returned to dust &#8209; but they were many, and quick. Blood poured down Rand's face, 
and the old wound in his side burned on the point of splitting open. Red spread 
across Mat's face, too, and down his chest. Too many, and too quick.
You do not do the tenth part of what you are capable of already. That was what 
Lanfear had told him. He laughed as he danced the forms. Learn from one of the 
Forsaken. He could do that, if not the way she intended. Yes, he could. He 
channeled, wove strands of the Power, and sent a whirlwind into the middle of 
each black shape. They exploded in clouds of dust that left him coughing. As far 
as he could see, dust settled from the air.
Hacking and panting, Mat leaned on his dark&#8209;shafted spear. "Did you do that?" he 
wheezed, wiping blood away from his eyes. "About time. If you knew how, why 
didn't you bloody do it in the first place?"
Rand started to laugh again &#8209; Because I didn't think of it. Because I didn't 
know how until I did it - ­but it froze in his mouth. Dust drifted out of the 
air, and as it settled on the ground, it began to ripple. "Run," he said. "We 
have to get out of here. Run!"
Side by side they sped for the fog, slashing at any lines of dust that seemed to 
be thickening, kicking at them, anything to keep them from coalescing. Rand sent 
whirlwinds swirling wildly in every direction. Dispelled dust began shivering 
back together immediately, even before it reached the ground now. They kept 
running, into the fog and through, bursting out into dim, sharp&#8209;shadowed light.
Side aching, Rand spun, ready to try lightning, or fire, anything. Nothing came 
through the fog  after them. Maybe  the mist was a  wall to those  dark shapes. 
Maybe it held them in. Maybe. . . . He did not know. He did not really care, so 
long as the things could not follow.
"Burn me," Mat muttered hoarsely, "we were in there all night. It's nearly 
sunrise. I didn't think it was that long."
Rand stared at the sky. The sun had not topped the mountains yet; a painfully 
brilliant nimbus outlined the jagged peaks. Long shadows covered the valley 
floor. He will come from Rhuidean at dawn, and tie you together with bonds you 
cannot break. He will take you back, and he will destroy you.
"Let's go back up the mountain," he said quietly. "They will be waiting for us."
For me.
CHAPTER
27
 
Within the Ways
 
The darkness of the Ways compressed the light of Perrin's pole&#8209;lantern to a 
sharp&#8209;edged pool around himself and Gaul. The creak of his saddle, the gritty 
dick of hooves on stone, seemed to reach no further than light's rim. There was 
no smell to the air; nothing. The Aielman strode along beside Stepper easily, 
keeping an eye on the dimly seen lantern glow from Loial's party ahead. Perrin 
refused    to call it Faile's. The Ways did not seem to bother Gaul, for all 
their reputation. Perrin himself could not help listening, as he had for nearly 
two days, or what passed for days in this lightless place. His ears would be 
first to catch the sound that meant they were all going to die or worse, the 
sound of wind rising where no wind ever blew. No wind but Machin Shin, the Black 
Wind that ate souls. He could not help thinking that traveling the Ways was 
slack&#8209;witted folly, but when need called, what was foolish changed.
The faint light ahead stopped, and he drew rein in the middle of what appeared 
to be an ancient stone bridge arching through utter blackness, ancient because 
of the breaks in the bridge walls, the pits and shallow ragged craters freckling 
the roadbed. Very likely it had stood dose to three thousand years, but it 
seemed ready to fall, now. Maybe right now.
The packhorse crowded up behind Stepper: the animals whickered to each other and 
rolled their eyes uneasily at the surrounding dark. Perrin knew how the horses 
felt. A few more people for company would have lifted some of the endless 
night's weight. Still, he would not have gone any closer to the lanterns ahead 
even had he been alone. Not and risk a repeat of what happened back on that 
first Island, right after entering the Waygate in Tear. He scratched his curly 
beard irritably. He was not sure what he had expected, but not . . . .
The pole&#8209;lantern bobbed as he .stepped down from his saddle and led Stepper and 
the packhorse to the Guiding, a tall slab of white stone covered with cursive 
silver inlays vaguely reminiscent of vines and leaver, all pitted as if splashed 
with acid. He could not read it, of course &#8209; Loial had to do that; it was Ogier 
script &#8209; and after a moment he walked around it, studying the Island. It was the 
same as the others he had seen, with a chest&#8209;high wall of white stone, simple 
curves and rounds fitted in an intricate pattern. At intervals bridges pierced 
the wall, arching out into the darkness, and rail less ramps running up or down 
with no means of support he could see. There were cracks everywhere, ragged pits 
and shallow craters, as though the stone were rotting. When the horses moved 
there was a grainy sound of stone flaking away beneath their hooves. Gaul peered 
into the dark with no visible nervousness, but then, he did not know what might 
be out there. Perrin did, too well.
When Loial and the others arrived, Faile immediately hopped from her black mare 
and strode straight to Perrin, eyes intent on his face. He was already 
regretting making her worry, but she did not look worried at all. He could not 
have said what her expression was, besides fixed.
"Have you decided to talk to me instead of over my hea &#8209; ?"
Her full&#8209;armed slap made spots dance in front of his eyes. "What did you mean," 
she practically spat, "charging in here like a wild boar? You have no regard. 
None!"
He took a slow, deep breath. "I asked you before not to do that." Her dark, 
tilted eyes widened as if he had said something infuriating. He was rubbing his 
cheek when her second slap caught him on the other side, nearly unhinging his 
jaw. The Aiel were watching interestedly, and Loial with his ears drooping.
"I told you not to do that," he growled. Her fist was not very big, but her 
sudden punch to his shortribs drove most of the air from his lungs, hunching him 
over sideways, and she drew back her fist again. With a snarl, he seized her by 
the scruff of her neck and . . . .
Well, it was her own fault. It was. He had asked her not to hit him, told her. 
Her own fault. He was surprised she had not tried to pull one of her knives, 
though; she seemed to carry as many as Mat.
She had been furious, of course. Furious with Loial for trying to intervene; she 
could take care of herself, thank you very much. Furious with Bain and Chiad for 
not intervening; she had been taken aback when they said they did not think she 
would want them to interfere in a fight she had picked. When you choose the 
fight, Bain had said, you must take the consequences, win or lose. But she did 
not seem even the tiniest bit angry with him any longer. That made him nervous. 
She had only stared at him, her dark eyes glistening with unshed tears, which 
made him feel guilty, which in turn made him angry. Why should he be guilty? Was 
he supposed to stand there and let her hit him to her heart's content? She had 
mounted Swallow and sat there, very stiff&#8209;backed, refusing to sit gingerly, 
staring at him with an unreadable expression. It made him very nervous. He 
almost wished she had pulled a knife. Almost.
"They are moving again," Gaul said.
Perrin jerked back to the present. The other light was moving. Now it paused. 
One of them had noticed his light was not following yet. Probably Loial. Faile 
might not mind if he got lost, and the two Aiel women had twice tried to talk 
him into walking off a little way with them. He had not needed the slight shake 
of Gaul's head to refuse. He heeled Stepper forward, leading the packhorse.
The Guiding here was more pocked than most he had seen, but he rode on past it 
with only a glance. The light of the other lanterns was already starting down 
one of the gently sloping ramps, and he followed with a sigh. He hated the 
ramps. Sided only by darkness, it began to curve, down and around, with nothing 
discernible beyond the squashed light of the lantern swaying above his head. 
Something told him that a fall over the edge would never end. Stepper and the 
packhorse kept to the middle without any urging, and even Gaul avoided the 
brink. Worse, when the ramp ended on another Island, there was no way to escape 
the conclusion that it lay directly beneath the one they had just left. He was 
glad to see Gaul glancing upward, glad he was not alone in wondering what held 
the Islands up and whether it was still sound.
Once more Loial and Faile's lanterns had stopped by the Guiding, so he reined up 
again, just off the ramp. This time they did not move on, though. After a few 
moments, Faile's voice called, "Perrin."
He  exchanged  looks with Gaul, and the Aiel shrugged. She had not spoken to 
Perrin since he . . . .
"Perrin, come here." Not peremptory, exactly, but not asking, either.
Bain and Chiad were squatting easily beside the Guiding, and Loial and Faile sat 
their horses dose by, pole&#8209;lanterns in hand. The Ogier had their packhorses' 
lead line; his ear tufts twitched as he looked from Faile to Perrin and back 
again. She, on the other hand, seemed completely absorbed in adjusting her 
riding gloves, of soft green leather with golden falcons embroidered on their 
backs. She had changed her dress, too. The new one was cut in the same fashion, 
with a high neck and narrow divided skirts, but it was a dark green brocaded 
silk, and somehow it seemed to emphasize her bosom. Perrin had never seen the 
dress before.
"What do you want?" he asked warily.
She looked up as if surprised to see him, tilted her head thoughtfully, then 
smiled as though it had just occurred to her. "Oh, yes. I wanted to see if you 
could be taught to come when I call." Her smiled deepened; it had to be because 
she had heard his teeth grinding. He scrubbed at his nose; there was a faint 
rank smell here.
Gaul chuckled softly. "As well try to understand the sun, Perrin. It simply is, 
and it is not to be understood. You cannot live without it, but it exacts a 
price. So with women."
Bain leaned over to whisper in Chiad's ear, and they both laughed. From the way 
they looked at Gaul and him, Perrin did not think he would like hearing what the 
women found so funny.
"It is not that at all," Loial rumbled, ears shifting testily. He gave Faile an 
accusing look, which did not abash her at all; she smiled at him vaguely and 
went back to her gloves, snugging each finger all over again. "I am sorry, 
Perrin. She insisted on being the one to call you. This is why. We are there." 
He pointed to the base of the Guiding, where a wide pit&#8209;broken white line ran 
off, not to bridge or ramp, but into the darkness. "The Waygate at Manetheren, 
Perrin."
Perrin nodded, saying nothing. He was not about to suggest they follow the line, 
not and have Faile call him down for trying to take over. He rubbed his nose 
again absently; that almost imperceptible scent of rankness was irritating. He 
was not going to make even the most sensible suggestion. If she wanted to lead, 
let her. But she sat her saddle, fooling with her gloves, obviously waiting for 
him to speak so she could make some witty remark. She liked wittiness; he 
preferred saying what he meant. Irritably, he turned Stepper, meaning to go on 
without her or Loial. The line led to the Waygate, and he could pick out the 
Avendesora leaf that opened it himself.
Suddenly his ear caught a muffled dick of hooves from the darkness, and the 
fetid smell slammed home in his mind. "Trollocs!" he shouted.
Gaul pivoted smoothly to slide a spear into the black&#8209;mailed chest of a 
wolf&#8209;snouted Trolloc dashing into the light with scythe-like sword upraised; in 
the same effortless motion the Aiel pulled his spearpoint free and sidestepped 
to let the huge shape fall. More came behind it, though, all goat-snouts and 
boar's tusks, cruel beaks and twisted horns, with curved swords and spiked axes 
and hooked spears. The horses danced and screamed.
Holding his pole&#8209;lantern high &#8209; the thought of facing these things in the dark 
gave him cold sweat &#8209; Perrin clawed for a weapon, swung at a face distorted by a 
sharp&#8209;toothed snout. He was surprised to realize he had pulled the hammer free 
of its lashings on his saddlebags, but if it did not have the axe's sharp edge, 
ten pounds of steel wielded by a blacksmith's arm still sent the Trolloc 
staggering back shrieking and clutching a ruined face.
Loial dashed his pole&#8209;lantern against a goat&#8209;horned head, and the lantern broke; 
bathed in burning oil, the Trolloc ran howling into the dark. The Ogier flailed 
about him with the stout pole, a switch in his huge hands, but one that landed 
with sharp cracks of splintering bone. One of Faile's knives blossomed in an 
all&#8209;too&#8209;human eye above a tusked snout. The Aiel danced the spears, having 
somehow found time to veil themselves. Perrin struck, and struck, and struck. A 
whirlwind of death that lasted . . . . A minute? Five? It seemed an hour. But 
suddenly the Trollocs were down, those not already dead kicking in their death 
throes.
Perrin sucked air into his lungs; his right arm felt as if the weight of the 
hammer might pull it off. There was a burning sensation on his face, a wetness 
trickling down his side, another on his leg, where Trolloc steel had gotten 
through. Each of the Aiel had at least one damp patch darkening their 
brown&#8209;and&#8209;gray clothes, and Loial wore a bloody gash down his thigh. Perrin's 
eyes went right past them, seeking Faile. If she was hurt . . . . She sat atop 
her black mare, a knife in her hand ready to throw. She had actually managed to 
pull off her gloves and tuck them neatly behind her belt. He could not see a 
wound on her. In all the blood smell &#8209; human, Ogier, Trolloc &#8209; he could not have 
picked out hers if she were bleeding, but he knew her scent, and she did not 
have the pained smell of injury. Bright lights hurt Trolloc eyes; they did not 
adapt quickly. Very likely the only reason they were still alive and the 
Trollocs dead was that abrupt entry from darkness into light.
That was all the time they had, a moment's respite, long enough to glance 
around, take breath. With a roar like a hundred pounds of bone falling into a 
huge meat grinder, a Fade leaped into the light, eyeless stare a stare of death, 
black sword flickering like lightning. The horses screamed, trying to bolt.
Gaul barely managed to turn that blade with his buckler, losing a slice from the 
side of it as if the layers of cured bullhide were only paper. He stabbed, 
eluded a thrust - barely &#8209; and stabbed again. Arrows sprouted in the Myrddraal's 
chest. Bain and Chiad had thrust their spears through the harness holding the 
cased bows on their backs and were using those curved horn bows. More arrows, 
pincushioning the Halfman's chest. Gaul's spear, darting, stabbing. One of 
Faile's knives suddenly stood out in that smooth maggot&#8209;white face. The Fade 
would not fall, would not stop trying to kill. Only the wildest dodging kept its 
sword from finding flesh.
Perrin bared his teeth in an unconscious snarl. He hated Trollocs as an enemy of 
his blood, but the Neverborn . . . ? It was worth dying to kill a Neverborn. To 
put my teeth in its throat . . . ! Careless of whether he blocked Bain and 
Chiad's arrows, he guided Stepper closer to the Neverborn's back, forcing the 
reluctant dun nearer with reins and knees. At the last instant, the creature 
spun away from Gaul, seemingly ignoring a spearpoint that thrust between its 
shoulders and came out below its throat, staring up at Perrin with the eyeless 
gaze that sent fear into every man's soul. Too late. Perrin's hammer fell, 
shattering head and eyeless gaze alike.
Even down and virtually headless, the Myrddraal still thrashed, lashing 
aimlessly with its Thakandar&#8209;wrought blade. Stepper danced back, whickering 
nervously, and suddenly Perrin felt as if he had been doused in icy water. That 
black steel made wounds even Aes Sedai found hard to Heal, and he had ridden in 
uncaring. My teeth in its .... Light, I have to keep hold of myself. I have to!
He could still hear smothered sounds from the darkness at the far end of the 
Island, the clatter of hoofed feet, the scrape of boots, harsh breathing and 
guttural murmurs. More Trollocs; how many he could not say. A pity they had not 
been linked to the Myrddraal, yet perhaps they might hesitate to attack without 
it to drive them. Trollocs were usually cowards in their way, preferring strong 
odds and easy kills. But even lacking a Myrddraal they could work themselves up 
to come again eventually.
"The Waygate," he said. "We have to get out before they decide what to do 
without that." He used the bloody hammer to gesture to the still flailing Fade. 
Faile reined Swallow around immediately, and he was so surprised, he blurted, 
"You aren't going to argue?"
"Not when you speak sense," she said briskly. "Not when you speak sense. Loial?"
The Ogier took the lead on his tall, hairy&#8209;fetlocked mount. Perrin backed 
Stepper after Faile and Loial, hammer in hand, the Aiel siding him, all with 
bows ready now. Shuffling hooves and boots followed in the blackness, and harsh 
mutters in a language too rough for human tongues. Back and back, with the 
mutters edging closer, working up courage.
Another sound floated to Perrin, like silk sighing across silk. It sent shivers 
along his bones. Louder, a distant giant's exhalation, rising, falling, rising 
higher. "Hurry!" he shouted. "Hurry!"
"I am," Loial barked. "I &#8209; That sound! Is it &#8209; ? The Light illumine our souls, 
and the Creator's hand shelter us! It's opening. It is opening! I must be last. 
Out! Out! But not too &#8209; No, Faile!"
Perrin risked a glance over his shoulder. Twin gates of apparently living leaves 
were swinging open, revealing a smoked&#8209;glass view of mountainous country. Loial 
had dismounted to remove the Avendesora leaf to unlock the gate, and Faile had 
their pack animals' leads and his huge mount's reins. With a hasty shout of 
"Follow me! Quickly!" she booted Swallow's ribs, and the Tairen mare sprang 
toward the opening.
"After her," Perrin told the Aiel. "Hurry! You cannot fight this." Wisely they 
hesitated only a heartbeat before peeling back, Gaul seizing the packhorse's 
lead line. Stepper came abreast of Loial. "Can you lock it shut some way? Block 
it?" A frantic edge had entered the harsh mutterings; the Trollocs had 
recognized the sound too, now. Machin Shin was coming. Living meant getting out 
of the Ways.
"Yes," Loial said. "Yes. But go. Go!"
Perrin reined Stepper back quickly toward the Gate, yet before he knew what he 
was doing he had thrown back his head and howled, defiance and challenge. 
Foolish, foolish, foolish! Still, he kept his eyes on that pitch dark and backed 
Stepper into the Waygate. An icy ripple slid across him hair by hair, and time 
stretched out. The jolt of leaving the Ways hit him, as if he had gone from a 
dead gallop to a stop in one step.
The Aiel were still turning to face the Waygate, spreading out across the slope 
with arrows nocked, among low bushes and stunted mountain trees, wind&#8209;twisted 
pine and fir and leatherleaf Faile was just picking herself up from where she 
had tumbled from Swallow's saddle, the black mare nuzzling her. Galloping out of 
a Waygate was at least as bad as galloping in; she was lucky she had not broken 
her neck, and her horse's, too. Loial's tall horse and her packhorses were 
trembling as though hit between the eyes. Perrin opened his mouth, and she 
glared at him, daring him to make any comment at all, maybe a sympathetic one 
least of all. He grimaced wryly and wisely kept silent.
Abruptly Loial came hurtling out of the Waygate, leaping out of a dull silvery 
mirror with his own reflection growing behind him, and rolled across the ground. 
Almost on his heels, two Trollocs appeared, ram's horns and snout, eagle's beak 
and feathered crest, but before they were more than halfway out, the shimmering 
surface turned dead black, bubbling and bulging, clinging to them.
Voices whispered in Perrin's head, a thousand babbling mad voices clawing at the 
inside of his skull. Bitter blood. Blood so bitter. Drink the blood and crack 
the bone. Crack the bone and suck the marrow. Bitter marrow, sweet the screams. 
Singing screams. Sing the screams. Tiny souls. Acrid souls. Gobble them down. So 
.Tweet the pain. On and on.
Shrieking, howling, the Trollocs beat at the blackness boiling around them, 
clawed to pull free as it sucked them deeper, deeper, till only one hairy hand 
remained, clutching frantically, then only darkness, bulging outward, seeking. 
Slowly the Waygates appeared, sliding together, squeezing the blackness so it 
oozed back inside between them. The voices in Perrin's head finally stopped. 
Loial rushed forward quickly to place not one but two three&#8209;lobed leaves among 
the myriad leaves and vines. The Waygate became stone again, a section of stone 
wall, carved in intricate detail, standing alone on a sparsely wooded 
mountainside. Among the myriad leaves and vines was not one, but two Avendesora 
leaves. Loial had replaced the trefoil leaf from inside on the outside.
The Ogier heaved a deep, relieved sigh. "That is the best I can do. It can only 
be opened from this side now." He gave Perrin a look at once anxious and firm. 
"I could have locked it forever by not replacing the leaves, but I will not ruin 
a Waygate, Perrin. We grew the Ways and tended them. Perhaps they can be 
cleansed someday. I cannot ruin a Waygate."
"It will do," Perrin told him. Had the Trollocs been coming to this Waygate, or 
had it just been a chance encounter? In either case, it would do.
"Was that &#8209; ?" Faile began unsteadily, then stopped to swallow. Even the Aiel 
looked shaken for once.
"Machin Shin," Loial said. "The Black Wind. A creature of the Shadow, or a thing 
grown of the Ways' own taint &#8209; no one knows. I pity the Trollocs. Even them."
Perrin was not sure he did, not even dying like that. He had seen what Trollocs 
left when they got their hands on humans. Trollocs ate anything, so long as it 
was meat, and sometimes they liked to keep their meat alive while they 
butchered. He would not let himself pity Trollocs.
Stepper's hooves crunched on gritty dirt as Perrin turned him to see where they 
were.
Cloud&#8209;capped mountains rose all around; it was the ever&#8209;present clouds that gave 
them their name, the Mountains of Mist. The air was cool at this altitude, even 
in summer, especially compared to Tear. The late&#8209;afternoon sun sat on the 
western peaks, glinting on streams running down to the river that coursed along 
the floor of the long valley below. The Manetherendrelle, it was called once it 
had traveled out of the mountains and much farther west and south, but Perrin 
had grown up calling the length of it that ran along the south edge of the Two 
Rivers the White River, an uncrossable stretch of rapids that churned its waters 
to froth. The Manetherendrelle. Waters of the Mountain Home.
Where bare rock showed in the valley below or on the surrounding slopes, it 
glittered like glass. Once a city had stood there, covering valley and 
mountains. Manetheren, city of soaring spires and splashing fountains, capital 
of a great nation of the same name, perhaps the most beautiful city in the 
world, according to old Ogier tales. Gone now without a trace, except for the 
all&#8209;but&#8209;indestructible Waygate that had stood in the Ogier grove. Burned to 
barren rock more than two thousand years ago, while the Trolloc Wars still 
raged, destroyed by the One Power after the death of its last king, Aemon 
al'Caar al'Thorin, in his last bloody battle against the Shadow. Aemon's Field, 
men had named that place, where the village called Emond's Field now stood.
Perrin shivered. That was long ago. Trollocs had come once since, on Winternight 
more than a year gone, the night before he and Rand and Mat were forced to flee 
in the darkness with Moiraine. That seemed long ago, too, now. It could not 
happen again, with the Waygate locked. It's Whitecloaks 1 have to worry about, 
not Trollocs.
A pair of white&#8209;winged hawks wheeled above the far end of the valley. Perrin's 
eyes barely caught the streak of arising arrow. One of the hawks cartwheeled and 
fell, and Perrin frowned. Why would anyone shoot a hawk up here in the 
mountains? Over a farm, if it was after the chickens or the geese, but up here? 
Why would anyone even be up here? Two Rivers people avoided the mountains.
The second hawk swooped on snowy wings toward where its mate had fallen, but 
suddenly it was climbing desperately. A black cloud of ravens burst from the 
trees, surrounding it in wild melee, and when they settled again, the hawk was 
gone.
Perrin made himself breathe. He had seen ravens, and other birds, attack a hawk 
that came too close to their nests before, but he could not make himself believe 
it that simple this time. The birds had burst up from about where the arrow had 
risen. Ravens. The Shadow used animals as spies, sometimes. Rats and others that 
fed on death, usually. Ravens, especially. He had sharp memories of running from 
sweeping lines of ravens that had hunted him as though they had intelligence.
"What are you staring at?" Faile asked, shading her eyes to peer down the 
valley. "Were those birds?"
"Just birds," he said. Maybe they were. I can't frighten everybody until I'm 
sure. Not while they're still shaky from Machin Shin.
He was still holding his bloody hammer, he realized, slick with black Myrddraal 
blood. His fingers found drying blood on his cheek, matting in his short beard. 
When he climbed down, his side and his leg burned. He found a shirt in his 
saddlebags to clean the hammer before the Fade's blood etched the metal. In a 
moment he would find out if there was anything to fear in these mountains. If it 
was more than men, the wolves would know.
Faile began unbuttoning his coat.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"Tending your wounds," she snapped back. "I'll not have you bleeding to death on 
me. That would be just like you, to die and leave me the work of burying you. 
You have no consideration. Hold still."
"Thank you," he said quietly, and she looked surprised.
She made him strip off everything but his smallclothes, so she could wash his 
wounds, rub them with ointment fetched from her saddlebags. He could not see the 
cut on his face, of course, but it seemed small and shallow, if uncomfortably 
dose to his eye. The slash across his left side was over a hand long, though, 
straight along a rib, and the hole a spear had made in his right thigh was deep. 
Faile had to put stitches in that, with needle and thread from her sewing kit. 
He took it stoically; she was the one who winced at every stitch. She muttered 
angrily under her breath the whole time she worked, especially while rubbing her 
dark stinging cream into his cheek, looking almost as if the hurts were hers, 
and his fault, yet she tied bandages around his ribs and his thigh with a gentle 
hand. It made a startling contrast, her soft touch and her furious grumbles. 
Purely confusing.
While he donned a clean shirt and a spare pair of breeches from his saddlebags, 
Faile stood fingering the slice in the side of his coat. Two inches to the 
right, and he would not have left that Island. Stamping his feet in his boots, 
he reached for his coat &#8209; and she flung it at him.
"You needn't think I will sew that up for you. I've done all the sewing for you 
I mean to! Do you hear me, Perrin Aybara?"
"I didn't ask &#8209; "
"You needn't think it! That's all!" She stalked away to help the Aiel tend each 
other and Loial. That was an odd group, the Ogier with his baggy breeches off, 
Gaul and Chiad eyeing each other like strange cats, Faile spreading her ointment 
and wrapping bandages and all the while shooting accusing glares at him. What 
was he supposed to have done now?
Perrin shook his head. Gaul was right, he decided; as well try to understand the 
sun.
Even knowing what he had to do now, he was reluctant, especially after what had 
happened in the Ways, with the Fade. Once he had seen a man who had forgotten he 
was human. The same could happen to him. Fool. You only have to hold out a few 
more days. Just till you find the Whitecloaks. And he had to know. Those ravens.
He sent his mind questing across the valley for the wolves. There were always 
wolves where men were not, and if they were dose, he could talk with them. 
Wolves avoided men, ignored them as much as possible, but they hated Trollocs 
for unnatural things, and despised Myrddraal with a hatred too deep to hold. If 
Shadowspawn were in the Mountains of Mist, the wolves could tell him.
But he found no wolves. None. They should have been there, in this wilderness. 
He could see deer browsing down in the valley. Perhaps it was just that no 
wolves were close enough. They could talk over some distance, but even a mile 
was too far. Maybe it was less in mountains. That could be it.
His gaze swept across the cloud&#8209;capped peaks and settled on the valley's far 
end, where the ravens had come from. Maybe he would find wolves tomorrow. He did 
not want to think of the alternatives.

CHAPTER
28
 
To the Tower of Ghenjei
 
With night so near, they had no choice but to camp there on the mountain near 
the Waygate. In two camps. Faile insisted on it.
"That is done with," Loial told her in a displeased rumble. "We are out of the 
Ways, and I have kept my oath. It is finished." Faile put on one of her stubborn 
expressions, with chin up and fists on hips.
"Leave it alone, Loial," Perrin said. "I'll camp over there a bit." Loial 
glanced at Faile, who had turned to the two Aiel women as soon as she heard 
Perrin agree, then shook his huge head and made as if to join Perrin and Gaul. 
Perrin motioned him back, with a small gesture he hoped none of the women 
noticed.
He made it a small bit, less than twenty paces. The Waygate might be locked, but 
there were still the ravens, and whatever they might presage. He wanted to be 
near if needed. If Faile complained, she could just complain. He was so set to 
ignore her protests that it irked him when she made none.
Disregarding twinges from his leg and side, he unsaddled Stepper and unloaded 
the packhorse, hobbled both animals and fitted them with nose bags with a few 
handfuls of barley and some oats. There was certainly no grazing up here. As to 
what there was, though . . . . He strung his bow and laid it across his quiver 
near the fire, slipped the axe free of its belt loop.
Gaul joined him in making a fire, and they had a meal of bread and cheese and 
dried beef, eaten in silence and washed down with water. The sun slid behind the 
mountains, silhouetting the peaks and painting the undersides of the clouds red. 
Shadows blanketed the valley, and the air began to grow crisp.
Dusting crumbs from his hands, Perrin dug his good green wool cloak out of his 
saddlebags. Perhaps he had grown more accustomed to Tear's heat than he had 
thought. The women were certainly not eating in silence around their shadow­ 
shrouded fire; he could hear them laughing, and the bits of what they said that 
he picked up made his ears burn. Women would talk about anything; they had no 
restraint at all. Loial had moved as far away from them as he could and still be 
in the light, and was trying to bury himself in a book. They probably did not 
even realize they were embarrassing the Ogier; they probably thought they were 
talking quietly enough for Loial not to hear.
Muttering to himself, Perrin sat back down across the fire from Gaul. The Aiel 
seemed to be taking no notice of the chill. "Do you know any funny stories?"
"Funny stories? I cannot think of one, offhand." Gaul's eyes half&#8209;turned to the 
other fire, and the laughter. "I would if I could. The sun, remember?"
Perrin laughed noisily and made his voice loud enough to carry. "I do. Women!" 
The hilarity in the other camp faded for a moment before rising again. That 
should show them. Other people could laugh. Perrin stared glumly into the fire. 
His wounds ached.
After a moment, Gaul said, "This place begins to look more like the Three&#8209;fold 
Land than most of the wetlands. Too much water, still, and the trees are still 
too big and too many, but it is not so strange as the places called forests."
The soil was poor here where Manetheren had died in fire, the widely scattered 
trees all stunted and thick&#8209;holed, odd wind&#8209;bent shapes, none as much as thirty 
feet high. Perrin thought it about as desolate a spot as he had ever seen.
"I wish I could see your Three&#8209;fold Land someday, Gaul."
"Perhaps you will, when we are done here."
"Perhaps." Not much chance of it, of course. None, really. He could have told 
the Aielman that, but he did not want to talk of it now, or think of it.
"This is where Manetheren stood? You are of Manetheren's blood?"
"This was Manetheren," Perrin replied. "And I suppose I am." It was hard to 
believe that the small villages and quiet farms of the Two Rivers held the last 
of Manetheren's blood, but that was what Moiraine had said. The old blood runs 
strong in the Two Rivers, she had said. "That was a long time ago, Gaul. We are 
farmers, shepherds; not a great nation, not great warriors."
Gaul smiled slightly. "If you say it. I have seen you dance the spears, and Rand 
al'Thor, and the one called Mat. But if you say it."
Perrin shifted uncomfortably. How much had he changed since leaving home? 
Himself, and Rand, and Mat? Not his eyes, and the wolves, or Rand's channeling; 
he did not mean that. How much of what was inside remained unchanged? Mat was 
the only one who still seemed to be just himself, only more so. "You know about 
Manetheren?"
"We know more of your world than you think. And less than we believed. Long 
before I crossed the Dragonwall I had read books brought by peddlers. I knew of 
'ships' and 'rivers' and 'forests,' or thought I did." Gaul made them sound like 
words in a strange tongue. "This is how I envisioned a 'forest.' " He gestured 
at the sparse trees, dwarfed from the height they should have had. "To believe a 
thing is not to make it true. What of the Nightrunner, and Leafblighter's get? 
Do you believe it just coincidence they came near this Waygate?"
"No." Perrin sighed. "I saw ravens, down the valley. Maybe that's all they were, 
but I don't want to take the chance, not after the Trollocs."
Gaul nodded. "They could have been Shadoweyes. If you plan for the worst, all 
surprises are pleasant."
"I could do with a pleasant surprise." Perrin felt for wolves again, and again 
found nothing. "I may be able to find out something tonight. Maybe. If anything 
happens here, you might have to kick me to wake me." That sounded odd, he 
realized, but Gaul only nodded again. "Gaul, you've never mentioned my eyes, or 
even given them a second glance. None of the Aiel have." He knew they were 
glowing golden now, in the firelight.
"The world is changing," Gaul said quietly. "Rhuarc, and Jheran, my own clan 
chief &#8209; the Wise Ones, too &#8209; they tried to hide it, but they were uneasy when 
they sent us across the Dragonwall searching for He Who Comes With the Dawn. I 
think perhaps the change will not be what we have always believed. I do not know 
how it will be different, but it will be. The Creator put us in the Three&#8209;fold 
Land to shape us as well as to punish our sin, but for what have we been 
shaped?" He shook his head suddenly, ruefully. "Colinda, the Wise One of Hot 
Springs Hold, tells me I think too much for a Stone Dog, and Bair, the eldest 
Wise One of the Shaarad, threatens to send me to Rhuidean when Jheram dies 
whether I want to go or not. Beside all of that, Perrin, what does the color of 
a man's eyes matter?"
"I wish everybody thought that way." The merriment had finally stopped at the 
other fire. One of the Aiel women &#8209; Perrin could not tell which &#8209; was taking the 
first watch, her back to the light, and everyone else had settled down for 
sleep. It had been a tiring day. Sleep should be easy to find, and the dream he 
needed. He stretched out beside the fire, pulling his cloak around him. 
"Remember. Kick me awake, if need be."
Sleep enfolded him while Gaul was still nodding, and the dream came at once.
 
It was daylight, and he stood alone near the Waygate, which looked like an 
elegantly carved length of wall, incongruous on the mountainside. Except for 
that there was no sign any human had ever set foot on that slope. The sky was 
bright and fine, and a soft breeze up the valley brought him the scent of deer 
and rabbits, quail and dove, a thousand distinct smells, of water and earth and 
trees. This was the wolf dream.
For a moment the sense of being a wolf rolled over him. He had paws, and . . . . 
No! He ran his hands over himself, relieved to find only his own body, in his 
own coat and cloak. And the wide belt that normally held his axe, but with the 
hammer haft thrust through the loop instead.
He frowned at that, and surprisingly, for a moment, the axe flickered there 
instead, insubstantial and misty. Abruptly it was the hammer again. Licking his 
lips, he hoped it stayed that way. The axe might be a better weapon, but he 
preferred the hammer. He could not remember anything like that happening before, 
something changing, but he knew little of this strange place. If it could be 
called a place. It was the wolf dream, and odd things happened there, surely as 
odd as in any ordinary dream.
As though thinking of the oddities triggered one of them, a patch of sky against 
the mountains darkened suddenly, became a window to somewhere else. Rand stood 
amid swirling stormwinds, laughing wildly, even madly, arms upraised, and on the 
winds rode small shapes, gold&#8209;and&#8209;scarlet, like the strange figure on the Dragon 
banner; hidden eyes watched Rand, and there was no telling whether he knew it. 
The odd "window" winked out, only to be replaced by another farther over, where 
Nynaeve and Elayne stalked cautiously through a demented landscape of twisted, 
shadowed buildings, hunting some dangerous beast. Perrin could not have said how 
he knew it was dangerous, but he did. That vanished, and another black blotch 
spread across the sky. Mat, standing where a road forked ahead of him. He 
flipped a coin, started down one branch, and suddenly was wearing a wide&#8209;brimmed 
hat and walking with a staff bearing a short sword blade. Another "window," and 
Egwene and a woman with long white hair were staring at him in surprise while 
behind them the White Tower crumbled stone by stone. Then they were gone, too.
Perrin drew a deep breath. He had seen the like before, here in the wolf dream, 
and he thought the sightings were real in some way, or meant something. Whatever 
they were, the wolves never saw them. Moiraine had suggested that the wolf dream 
was the same as something called Tel'aran'rhiod, and then would say no more. He 
had overheard Egwene and Elayne speaking of dreams, once, but Egwene already 
knew too much about him and wolves, perhaps as much as Moiraine. It was not 
something he could talk about, not even with her.
There was one person he could have talked to. He wished he could find Elyas 
Machera, the man who had introduced him to the wolves. Elyas had to know about 
these things. When he thought of the man, it seemed for a moment he heard his 
own name whispered faintly in the wind, but when he listened, there was only the 
wind. It was a lonely sound. Here there was only himself.
"Hopper!" he called, and in his mind, Hopper! The wolf was dead, and yet not 
dead, here. The wolf dream was where wolves came when they died, to await being 
born again. It was more than that, to wolves; they seemed in some way to be 
aware of the dream even while awake. One was almost as real&#8209;maybe as real&#8209;as the 
other, to them. "Hopper!" Hopper! But Hopper did not come.
This was all useless. He was there for a reason, and he might as well get on 
with it. At best, getting down to where he had seen the ravens rise would take 
hours.
He took a step &#8209; the land around him blurred &#8209; and his foot came down near a 
narrow brook beneath stunted hemlock and mountain willow, with cloud&#8209;capped 
peaks towering above. For a moment he stared in amazement. He was at the far end 
of the valley from the Waygate. In fact, he was at the very spot he had been 
aiming for, the place where the ravens had come from, and the arrow that killed 
the first hawk. Such a thing had never happened to him before. Was he learning 
more of the wolf dream &#8209; Hopper had always said he was ignorant &#8209; or was it 
different this time?
He was more cautious with his next step, but it was only a step. There was no 
evidence of archer or ravens, no track, no feather, no scent. He was not sure 
what he had expected. There would be no sign unless they had been in the dream, 
too. But if he could find wolves in the dream, they could help him find their 
brothers and sisters in the waking world, and those wolves could tell him if 
there were Shadowspawn in the mountains. Perhaps if he were higher up they could 
hear him call.
Fixing his eye on the highest peak bordering the valley, just below the clouds, 
he stepped. The world blurred, and he was standing on the mountainside, with 
white billows not five spans overhead. In spite of himself, he laughed. This was 
fun. From here he could see the entire valley stretched out below.
"Hopper!" No answer.
He leaped to the next mountain, calling, and the next, and the next, eastward, 
toward the Two Rivers. Hopper did not answer. More troubling, Perrin did not 
sense any other wolves, either. There were always wolves in the wolf dream. 
Always.
From peak to peak he sped in blurred motion, calling, seeking. The mountains lay 
empty beneath him, except for deer and other game. Yet there were occasional 
signs of men. Ancient signs. Twice great carved figures took nearly an entire 
mountainside, and in another place strange angular letters two spans high had 
been incised across a cliff a shade too smooth and sheer. Weathering had worn 
away the figures' faces, and eyes less sharp than his might have taken the 
letters themselves for the work of wind and rain. Mountains and cliffs gave way 
to the Sand Hills, great rolling mounds sparsely covered with tough grass and 
stubborn bushes, once the shore of a great sea before the Breaking. And suddenly 
he saw another man, atop a sandy hill.
The fellow was too distant to see clearly, just a tall, dark&#8209;haired man, but 
plainly not a Trolloc or anything of the sort, in a blue coat with a bow on his 
back, stooping over something on the ground hidden by the low brush. Yet there 
was something familiar about him.
The wind rose, and Perrin caught his smell faintly. A cold scent, that was the 
only way to describe it. Cold, and not really human. Suddenly his own bow was in 
his hand, an arrow nocked, and the weight of a filled quiver tugged at his belt.
The other man looked up, saw Perrin. For a heartbeat he hesitated, then turned 
and became a streak, slashing away across the hills.
Perrin leaped down to where he had stood, stared at what had occupied the 
fellow, and without thought pursued, leaving the half&#8209;skinned corpse of a wolf 
behind. A dead wolf in the wolf dream. It was unthinkable. What could kill a 
wolf here? Something evil.
His prey ran ahead of him in strides that covered miles, never more than barely 
in sight. Out of the hills and across the tangled Westwood with its 
wide&#8209;scattered farms, over cleared farmland, a quilt of hedged fields and small 
thickets, and past Watch Hill. It was odd to see the thatched village houses 
covering the hill with no people in the streets, and farmhouses standing as if 
abandoned. But he kept his eye on the man fleeing ahead of him. He had become so 
used to this pursuit that he felt no surprise when one leaping stride put him 
down on the south bank of the River Taren and the next amid barren hills without 
trees or grass. North and east he ran, over streams and roads and villages and 
rivers, intent only on the man ahead. The land grew flat and grassy, broken by 
scattered thickets, without any sign of man. Then something glittered ahead, 
sparkling in the sun, a tower of metal. His quarry sped straight for it, and 
vanished. Two leaps brought Perrin there as well.
Two hundred feet the tower rose, and forty thick, gleaming like burnished steel. 
It might as well have been a solid column of metal. Perrin walked around it 
twice without seeing any opening, not so much as a crack, not even a mark on 
that smooth, sheer wall. The smell hung here, though, that cold, inhuman stink. 
The trail ended here. The man&#8209;if man he was&#8209;had gone inside somehow. He only had 
to find the way to follow.
Stop! It was a raw flow of emotion that Perrin's mind put a word to. Stop!
He turned as a great gray wolf as tall as his waist, grizzled and scarred, 
alighted as if he had just leaped down from the sky. He might well have. Hopper 
had always envied eagles their ability to fly, and here, he could too. Yellow 
eyes met yellow eyes.
"Why should I stop, Hopper? He killed a wolf."
Men have killed wolves, and wolves men. Why doer anger .seize your throat like 
fire this time?
"I don't know," Perrin said slowly. "Maybe because it was here. I didn't know it 
was possible to kill a wolf here. I thought wolves were safe in the dream."
You chase Slayer, Young Bull. He it here in the flesh, and he can kill.
"In the flesh? You mean not just dreaming? How can he be here in the flesh?"
I do not know. It is a thing dimly remembered from long ago, come again as so 
much else. Things of the Shadow walk the dream, now. Creatures of Heartfang. 
There a no safety.
"Well, he's inside, now." Perrin studied the featureless metal tower. "If I can 
find how he got in, I can put an end to him."
Cub foolish, digging in a groundwasps' nest. This place a evil. All know this. 
And you would chase evil into evil. Slayer can kill.
Perrin paused. There was a sense of finality to the emotions his mind attached 
the word "kill" to. "Hopper, what happens to a wolf who dies in the dream?"
The wolf was silent for a time. If we die here, we die forever, Young Bull. I do 
not know if the same is true for you, but I believe it is.
"A dangerous place, archer. The Tower of Ghenjei is a bad place for humankind."
Perrin whirled, half&#8209;raising his bow before he saw the woman standing a few 
paces away, her golden hair in a thick braid to her waist, almost the way women 
wore it in the Two Rivers, but more intricately woven. Her clothes were oddly 
cut, a short white coat and voluminous trousers of some thin pale yellow 
material gathered at the ankles above short boots. Her dark cloak seemed to hide 
something that glinted silver at her side.
She shifted, and the metallic flicker vanished. "You have sharp eyes, archer. I 
thought that the first time I saw you."
How long had she been watching? It was embarrassing that she had sneaked up 
without him hearing. At the least Hopper should have warned him. The wolf was 
lying down in the knee&#8209;high grass, muzzle on his forepaws, watching him.
The woman seemed vaguely familiar, though Perrin was certain he would have 
remembered her had he ever seen her before. Who was she, to be in the wolf 
dream? Or was it Moiraine's Tel'aran'rhiod, too? "Are you Aes Sedai?"
"No, archer." She laughed. "I only came to warn you, despite the prescripts. 
Once entered, the Tower of Ghenjei is hard enough to leave in the world of men. 
Here it is all but impossible. You have a bannerman's courage, which some say 
cannot be told from foolhardiness."
Impossible to leave? The fellow - Slayer &#8209; surely had gone in. Why would he do 
that if he could not leave? "Hopper said it's dangerous, too. The Tower of 
Ghenjei? What is it?"
Her eyes widened, and she glanced at Hopper, who still lay stretched out on the 
grass ignoring her and watching Perrin. "You can talk to wolves? Now that is a 
thing long lost in legend. So that is how you are here. I should have known. The 
tower? It is a doorway, archer, to the realms of the Aelfinn and the Eelfinn." 
She said the names as if he should recognize them. When he looked at her 
blankly, she said, "Did you ever play the game called Snakes and Foxes?"
"All children do. At least, they do in the Two Rivers. But they give it up when 
they get old enough to realize there's no way to win."
"Except to break the rules," she said. " 'Courage to strengthen, fire to blind, 
music to daze, iron to bind.' "
"That's a line from the game. I don't understand. What does it have to do with 
this tower?"
"Those are the ways to win against the snakes and the foxes. The game is a 
remembrance of old dealings. It does not matter so long as you stay away from 
the Aelfinn and the Eelfinn. They are not evil the way the Shadow is evil, yet 
they are so different from humankind they might as well be. They are not to be 
trusted, archer. Stay clear of the Tower of Ghenjei. Avoid the World of Dreams, 
if you can. Dark things walk."
"Like the man I was chasing? Slayer."
"A good name for him. This Slayer is not old, archer, but his evil is ancient." 
She almost appeared to be leaning slightly on something invisible; perhaps that 
silver thing he had never quite seen. "I seem to be telling you a great deal. I 
do not understand why I spoke in the first place. Of course. Are you ta'veren, 
archer?"
"Who are you?" She seemed to know a lot about the tower, and the wolf dream. But 
she was surprised I could talk to Hopper. "I've met you before somewhere, I 
think."
"I have broken too many of the prescripts already, archer."
"Prescripts? What prescripts?" A shadow fell on the ground behind Hopper, and 
Perrin turned quickly, angry at being caught by surprise again. There was no one 
there. But he had seen it; the shadow of a man with the hilts of two swords 
rising above his shoulders. Something about that image teased his memory.
"He is right," the woman said behind him. "I should not be talking to you."
When he turned back, she was gone. As far as he could see were only grassland 
and scattered thickets. And the gleaming, silvery tower.
He frowned at Hopper, who finally lifted his head from his paws. "It's a wonder 
you aren't attacked by chipmunks," Perrin muttered. "What did you make of her?"
Her? A she? Hopper stood, looking around. Where?
"I was talking to her. Right here. Just now."
You made noises at the wind, Young Bull. There was no she here. None but you and 
I.
Perrin scratched his beard irritably. She had been there. He had not been 
talking to himself. "Strange things can happen here," he told himself. "She 
agreed with you, Hopper. She told me to stay away from this tower."
She is wise. There was an element of doubt in the thought; Hopper still did not 
believe there had been any "she."
"I've come awfully far afield from what I intended," Perrin muttered. He 
explained his need to find wolves in the Two Rivers, or the mountains above, 
explained about the ravens, and the Trollocs in the Ways.
When he was done, Hopper remained silent for a long time, his bushy tail held 
low and stiff. Finally . . . . Avoid your old home, Young Bull. The image 
Perrin's mind called "home" was of the land marked by a wolfpack. There are no 
wolves there now. Those who were and did not flee are dead. Slayer walks the 
dream there.
"I have to go home, Hopper. I have to."
Take care, Young Bull. The day of the Last Hunt draws near. We will run together 
in the Last Hunt.
"We will," Perrin said sadly. It would be nice if he could come here when he 
died; he was half wolf already, it seemed sometimes. "I have to go now, Hopper."
May you know good hunting, Young Bull, and shes to give you many cubs.
"Goodbye, Hopper."
 
He opened his eyes to the dim light of dying coals on the mountainside. Gaul was 
squatting just beyond the edge of the light, watching the night. In the other 
camp, Faile was up, taking her turn at guard. The moon hung above the mountains, 
turning the clouds to pearly shadows. Perrin estimated he had been asleep two 
hours.
"I'll keep guard awhile," he said, tossing off his cloak. Gaul nodded and 
settled himself on the ground where he was. "Gaul?" The Aiel raised his head. 
"It may be worse in the Two Rivers than I thought."
"Things often are," Gaul replied quietly. "It is the way of life." The Aielman 
calmly put his head down for sleep.
Slayer. Who was he? What was he? Shadowspawn at the Waygate, ravens in the 
Mountains of Mist, and this man called Slayer in the Two Rivers. It could not be 
coincidence, however much he wished it.
 
CHAPTER
29
 
Homecoming
 
The journey into the Westwood that had taken him perhaps half a dozen strides or 
so in the wolf dream, out of the mountains and across the Sand Hills, lasted 
three long days on horses. The Aid had no trouble keeping up afoot, but then the 
animals themselves could not manage much speed with the land mostly up and down 
as it was. Perrin's wounds itched fiercely, healing; Faile's ointment seemed to 
be working.
It was a quiet journey by and large, broken more often by the bark of a hunting 
fox or the echoing cry of a hawk than by anyone speaking. At least they saw no 
more ravens. More than once he thought Faile was about to bring her mare over 
close to him, about to say something, but each time she restrained herself. He 
was glad of it; he wanted to talk to her more than anything, but what if he 
found himself making up with her? He berated himself for wanting to. She had 
tricked Loial, tricked him. She was going to make everything worse; make it 
harder. He wished he could kiss her again. He wished she would decide she had 
had her fill of him and go. Why did she have to be so stubborn?
She and the two Aiel women kept to themselves, Bain and Chiad striding along on 
either side of Swallow when one or the other was not ranging ahead. Sometimes 
the three of them murmured softly among themselves, after which they avoided 
looking at him so pointedly that they might as well have thrown rocks. Loial 
rode with them at Perrin's request, though the situation obviously upset him no 
end. Loial's ears twitched as if he wished he had never heard of humans. Gaul 
seemed to find the entire thing vastly amusing; whenever Perrin looked at him, 
he wore an inward grin.
For himself, Perrin traveled wrapped in worry, and kept his strung bow across 
the tall pommel of his saddle. Did this man called Slayer rove the Two Rivers 
only in the wolf dream, or was he in the waking world, too? Perrin suspected the 
latter, and that Slayer was the one who had shot the hawk for no reason. It was 
another complication he could do without, on top of the Children of the Light.
His family lived on a sprawling farm more than half a day beyond Emond's Field, 
almost to the Waterwood. His father and mother, his sisters, his baby brother. 
Paetram would be nine now, no doubt objecting more strenuously than ever to 
being called the baby, Deselle a plump twelve, and Adora sixteen, probably ready 
to braid her hair. Uncle Eward, his da's brother, and Aunt Magde, stout and 
looking nearly alike, and their children. Aunt Neain, who visited Uncle Carlin's 
grave every morning, and their children, and Great&#8209;Aunt Ealsin, who had never 
married, with her sharp nose and sharper eye for discovering what everyone for 
miles around was up to. Once apprenticed to Master Luhhan, he had seen them only 
on feastdays; the distance was too great for casual travel, and there had always 
been work to do. If the Whitecloaks hunted for Aybaras, they were easy to find. 
They were his responsibility, not this Slayer. He could only do so much. Protect 
his family, and Faile. That was first. Then came the village, and the wolves, 
and this Slayer last. One man could not manage everything.
The Westwood grew on stony soil broken by bramble&#8209;covered outcrops, a hard, 
thickly treed, land with few farms or paths. He had wandered these heavy woods 
as a boy, alone or with Rand and Mat, hunting with bow or sling, setting snares 
for rabbits or simply roaming for the sake of roaming. Bushy&#8209;tailed squirrels 
chittering in the trees, speckled thrushes warbling on branches imitated by 
black&#8209;winged mockers, bluebacked quail bursting up out of the brush in front of 
the travelers&#8209;all spoke to him of home. The very smell of the dirt the horses' 
hooves turned was a recognition.
He could have headed straight for Emond's Field, but instead he angled more 
northward through the forest, finally crossing the wide, rough track called the 
Quarry Road as the sun slanted down toward the treetops. Why "quarry" no one in 
the Two Rivers knew, and it scarcely looked a road at all, only a weedy stretch 
that you did not even notice was bare of trees until you saw the overgrown ruts 
from generations of wagons and carts. Sometimes shards of old pavement worked 
their way to the surface. Perhaps it had led to a quarry for Manetheren.
The farm Perrin sought lay not far from the road, beyond rows of apple and pear 
trees where fruit was setting. He smelled the farm before he saw it. The smell 
of char; not new, yet a full year would not soften that smell.
He reined in at the edge of the trees and sat staring before he made himself 
ride into what had been the al'Thor farm, the packhorse trailing behind his dun. 
Only the stone&#8209;walled sheep pen still stood, railed gate open and hanging by one 
hinge. The soot&#8209;blackened chimney cast a slanting shadow across the tumbled 
burned beams of the farmhouse. The barn and the tabac&#8209;curing shed were only 
ashes. Weeds choked the tabac field and the vegetable garden, and the garden had 
a trampled look; most of what was not sawleaf or feathertop lay broken and 
brown.
He did not even think of nocking an arrow. The fire was weeks old, the burned 
wood slicked and dulled by past rains. Chokevine needed nearly a month to grow 
that tall. It had even enveloped the plow and harrow lying beside the field; 
rust showed under the pale, narrow leaves.
The Aiel searched carefully, though, spears ready and eyes wary, quartering the 
ground and poking through the ashes. When Bain clambered out of the ruins of the 
house, she looked at Perrin and shook her head. At least Tam al'Thor had not 
died in there.
They know. They know, Rand. You should have come. It was very nearly more than 
he could do to stop from putting Stepper to a gallop, keeping him there all the 
way to his family's farm. Trying to, at least; even Stepper would fall dead 
before he ran that far. Maybe this was Trolloc work. If it was Trollocs, maybe 
his family was still working their farm, still safe. He drew a deep breath, but 
the char obliterated any other smell.
Gaul stopped beside him. "Whoever did this is long gone. They killed some of the 
sheep and scattered the rest. Someone came later to gather the flock and drive 
it off north. Two men, I think, but the tracks are too old to be sure."
"Is there any clue to who did it?" Gaul shook his head. It could have been 
Trollocs. Strange, to wish for a thing like that. And foolish. The Whitecloaks 
knew his name, and they knew Rand's as well, it seemed. They know my name. He 
looked at the ashes of the al'Thor farmhouse, and Stepper moved as the reins 
trembled in his hands.
Loial had dismounted at the edge of the fruit trees, but his head was still in 
the branches. Faile rode toward Perrin, studying his face, her mare stepping 
delicately. "Is this . . . ? Do you know the people who lived here?"
"Rand and his father."
"Oh. I thought it might be . . . ." The relief and sympathy in her voice were 
enough to finish the sentence. "Does your family live near?"
"No," he said curtly, and she recoiled as if slapped. But she still watched him, 
waiting. What did he have to do to drive her away? More than he could bring 
himself to, if he had not managed it already.
The shadows were growing longer, the sun sitting on the treetops. He reined 
Stepper around, rudely turning his back on her. "Gaul, we will have to camp dose 
by tonight. I want to start early in the morning." He sneaked a glance over his 
shoulder; Faile was riding back to Loial, sitting stiff in her saddle. "In 
Emond's Field, they will know . . . ." Where the Whitecloaks were, so he could 
turn himself in before they hurt his family. If his family was all right. If the 
farm where he had been born was not already like this. No. He had to be in time 
to stop that. "They'll know how things are."
"Early, then." Gaul hesitated. "You will not drive her off. That one is almost 
Far Dareis Mai, and if a Maiden loves you, you cannot escape her however hard 
you run."
"You let me worry about Faile." He softened his voice; it was not Gaul he wanted 
to be rid of. "Very early. While Faile is still asleep."
Both camps, beneath the apple trees, were quiet that night. Several times one or 
the other of the Aid women stood, staring toward the small fire where he and 
Gaul sat, but an owl hooting and the horses stamping were the only sounds. 
Perrin could not sleep, and it was still an hour short of first light, with the 
full moon setting, when he and Gaul slipped away, the Aiel silent in his soft 
boots and the horses' hooves making little more noise. Bain, or maybe Chiad, 
watched them go. He could not tell which, but she did not wake Faile, and he was 
grateful.
The sun had climbed well up by the time they came out of the Westwood a little 
below the village, amid cart tracks and paths, most bordered by hedges or low 
rough stone walls. Smoke made feathery gray plumes above farmhouse chimneys, 
goodwives doing the morning's baking, by the smell. Men dotted the fields of 
tabac or barley, and boys watched flocks of black&#8209;faced sheep in the pastures. 
Some people took note of their passing, but Perrin kept Stepper at a fast walk 
and hoped none were dose enough to recognize him or wonder at the strangeness of 
Gaul's clothes, or his spears.
People would be out and about in Emond's Field, too, so he circled around to the 
east, wide of the village, wide of the hard&#8209;packed dirt streets and thatched 
roofs clustered around the Green, where the Winespring itself gushed from a 
stone outcrop with enough force to knock a man down and gave birth to the 
Winespring Water. The damage he remembered from Winternight a year gone, the 
burned houses and charred roofs, were all rebuilt and repaired. The Trollocs 
might as well never have come back then. He prayed no one would have to live 
through that again. The Winespring Inn stood practically at the eastern end of 
Emond's Field, between the stout wooden Wagon Bridge across the rushing 
Winespring Water and a huge old stone foundation with a great oak growing up 
through the middle of it. Tables beneath the thick branches were where folk sat 
of a fine afternoon and watched the play at bowls. At this hour of the morning, 
the tables were empty, of course. There were only a few houses farther east. The 
inn itself was river rock on the first floor, with a whitewashed second story 
jutting out all the way around and a dozen chimneys rising above a glittering 
red tile roof, the only tile roof for miles.
Tying Stepper and the packhorse to a hitchpost near the kitchen door, Perrin 
glanced at the thatch&#8209;roofed stable. He could hear men working in there, 
probably Hu and Tad, mucking out the stalls where Master al'Vere kept the big 
Dhurran team he rented out for heavy hauling. There were sounds from the other 
side of the inn, too, the murmur of voices on the Green, geese honking, the 
rumble of a wagon. What was on the horses, he left; this would be a short stop. 
He motioned for Gaul to follow and hurried inside, carrying his bow, before 
either stableman could come out.
The kitchen was empty, both iron stoves and all but one fireplace cold, though 
the smell of baking still hung in the air. Bread and honeycakes. The inn seldom 
had guests except when merchants came down from Baerlon to buy wool or tabac, or 
a monthly peddler when snow had not made the road impassable, and the village 
folk who might come for a drink or a meal later in the day would all be hard at 
work at their own homes now. Someone might be there, though, so Perrin tiptoed 
along the short hallway leading from the kitchen to the common room and cracked 
the door to peek inside.
He had seen that square room a thousand times, with its fireplace of river 
stones stretching half the room's length, the lintel as high as a man's 
shoulder, Master al'Vere's polished tabac canister and prized dock sitting on 
the mantel. It all seemed smaller than it had, somehow. The tall&#8209;backed chairs 
in front of the fireplace were where the Village Council met. Brandelwyn 
al'Vere's books sat on a shelf opposite the fireplace &#8209; once, Perrin had been 
unable to imagine more books in one place than those few dozen mostly worn 
volumes &#8209; and casks of ale and wine lined another wall. Scratch, the inn's 
yellow cat, sprawled asleep as usual atop one.
Except for Bran al'Vere himself and his wife, Marin, in long white aprons, 
polishing the inn's silver and pewter at one of the tables, the common room 
stood empty. Master al'Vere was a wide, round man, with a sparse fringe of gray 
hair; Mistress al'Vere was slender and motherly, her thick, graying braid pulled 
over one shoulder. She smelled of baking, and under that of roses. Perrin 
remembered them as smiling people, but both looked intent now, and the Mayor 
wore a frown that surely had nothing to do with the silver cup in his hands.
"Master al'Vere?" He pushed open the door and went in. "Mistress al'Vere. It's 
Perrin."
They sprang to their feet, knocking their chairs over and making Scratch jump. 
Mistress al'Vere clapped her hands to her mouth; she and her husband gaped as 
much at him as they did at Gaul. It was enough to make Perrin shift his bow 
awkwardly from hand to hand. Especially when Bran hurried to one of the front 
windows &#8209; he moved with surprising lightness for a man of his bulk &#8209; and 
twitched the summer curtains aside to peer out, as though for more Aiel outside.
"Perrin?" Mistress al'Vere murmured disbelievingly. "It a you. I almost didn't 
know you, with that beard, and &#8209; Your cheek. Were you &#8209; ? Is Egwene with you?"
Perrin touched the half&#8209;healed slash across his cheek self&#8209;consciously, wishing 
he had cleaned up, or at least left the bow and axe in the kitchen. He had not 
considered how his appearance might frighten them. "No. This has nothing to do 
with her. She is safe." Safer on her way back to Tar Valon, perhaps, than if 
still in Tear with Rand, but safe in either case. He supposed he had to give 
Egwene's mother something more than that bald statement. "Mistress al'Vere, 
Egwene is studying to be Aes Sedai. Nynaeve, too."
"I know," she said quietly, touching the pocket on her apron. "I have three 
letters from her in Tar Valon. From what she writes she sent more, and Nynaeve 
at least one, but only three of Egwene's have reached us. She tells something of 
her training, which I must say sounds very hard."
"It is what she wants." Three letters? Guilt made him shrug uncomfortably. He 
had not written a letter to anyone, not since the notes he had left for his 
family and Master Luhhan the night Moiraine took him away from Emond's Field. 
Not one.
"So it seems, though not what I had envisioned for her. It isn't something I can 
tell many people about, now is it? She says she's made friends, anyway, nice 
girls by the sound of them. Elayne, and Min. Do you know them?"
"We have met. I think you could call them nice girls." How much had Egwene told 
in those letters? Not much, evidently. Let Mistress al'Vere think what she 
would; he had no intention of worrying her over things she could do nothing 
about. What was past, was past. Egwene was safe enough now.
Abruptly realizing that Gaul was just standing there, he made hasty 
introductions. Bran blinked when Gaul was named Aiel, and frowned at his spears 
and the black veil hanging down his chest from his shoufa, but his wife merely 
said, "Be welcome to Emond's Field, Master Gaul, and to the Winespring Inn."
"May you always have water and shade, roofmistress," Gaul said formally, bowing 
to her. "I ask leave to defend your roof and hold."
She barely hesitated before replying as if that were exactly what she was used 
to hearing. "A gracious offer. But you must allow me to decide when it is 
needed."
"As you say, roofmistress. Your honor is mine." From under his coat, Gaul 
produced a gold saltcellar, a small bowl balanced on the back of a cunningly 
made lion, and extended it to her. "I offer this small guest gift to your roof."
Marin al'Vere made over it as she would have any gift, hardly showing her shock. 
Perrin doubted there was a piece to equal it in the whole Two Rivers, certainly 
not in gold. There was little enough gold coin in the Two Rivers, much less gold 
ornaments. He hoped she never found out it had been looted from the Stone of 
Tear; at least he would have wagered that it had.
"My boy," Bran said, "perhaps I should be saying 'welcome home,' but why did you 
return?"
"I heard about the Whitecloaks, sir," Perrin replied simply.
The Mayor and his wife shared somber looks, and Bran said, "Again, why did you 
return? You cannot stop anything, my boy, or change anything. Best that you go. 
If you don't have a horse, I will give you one. If you do, climb back in your 
saddle and ride north. I thought the Whitedoaks were guarding Taren Ferry . . . 
. Did they give you that decoration on your face?"
"No. It - "
"Then it doesn't matter. If you got past them coming in, you can get past to 
leave. Their main camp is up at Watch Hill, but their patrols can be anywhere. 
Do it, my boy. "
"Don't wait, Perrin," Mistress al'Vere added quietly but firmly, in that voice 
that usually ended with people doing as she said. "Not even an hour. I'll make 
you a bundle to take with you. Some fresh bread and cheese, some ham and roast 
beef, pickles. You must go, Perrin."
"I cannot. You know they are after me, or you'd not want me to go." And they had 
not commented on his eyes, even to ask if he was ill. Mistress al'Vere had 
barely been surprised. They knew. "If I give myself up, I can stop some of it. I 
can keep my family &#8209; " He jumped as the hall door banged open to admit Faile, 
followed by Bain and Chiad.
Master al'Vere ran a hand over his bald head; even taking in the Aiel women's 
garb and obviously identifying them with Gaul, he only seemed a little bemused 
that they were women. Mainly he looked irritated at the intrusion. Scratch sat 
up to stare suspiciously at all these strangers. Perrin wondered whether the cat 
considered him one, as well. He wondered how they had found him, too, and where 
Loial was. Anything to avoid wondering how he was going to manage Faile now.
She gave him little time to ponder, planting herself in front of him with fists 
on hips. Somehow she managed that trick women had, making herself seem taller 
through pure quivering outrage. "Give yourself up? Give yourself up! Have you 
been planning this from the start? You have, haven't you? You utter idiot! Your 
brain has frozen solid, Perrin Aybara. It was nothing but muscle and hair to 
begin, but now it isn't even that. If Whitecloaks are hunting you, they will 
hang you if you surrender to them. Why should they want you?"
"Because I killed Whitecloaks." Looking down at her, he ignored Mistress 
al'Vere's gasp. "Those the night I met you, and two before that. They know about 
those two, Faile, and they think I'm a Darkfriend." She would learn that much 
soon enough. Brought to the point of it, he might have told her why, had they 
been alone. At least two Whitecloaks, Geofram Bornhald and Jaret Byar, suspected 
something of his connection with wolves. Not nearly all, but for them the little 
was enough. A man who ran with wolves had to be a Darkfriend. Maybe one or both 
was with the Whitecloaks here. "They believe it for true."
"You are no more a Darkfriend than I," she whispered harshly. "The sun could be 
a Darkfriend first."
"It makes no difference, Faile. I have to do what I have to do."
"You addle&#8209;brained lummox! You don't have to do any such crackpate thing! You 
goose&#8209;brain! If you try it, I'll hang you myself!"
"Perrin," Mistress al'Vere said quietly, "would you introduce me to this young 
woman who thinks so highly of you?"
Faile's face went bright red when she realized she had been ignoring Master and 
Mistress al'Vere, and she began making elaborate curtsies and offered flowery 
apologies. Bain and Chiad did as Gaul had, asking leave to defend Mistress 
al'Vere's roof and giving her a small golden bowl worked in leaves and an ornate 
silver pepper mill bigger than Perrin's two fists, topped by some fanciful 
creature half horse, half fish.
Bran al'Vere stared and frowned, rubbed his head and muttered to himself. Perrin 
caught the word "Aiel" more than once in an incredulous tone. The Mayor kept 
glancing at the windows, too. Not wondering about more Aiel; he had been 
surprised to learn Gaul was Aiel. Maybe he was worried about Whitecloaks.
Marin al'Vere, on the other hand, took it all in stride, treating Faile and Bain 
and Chiad the same as any other young women travelers who came to the inn, 
commiserating with them over how tiring travel was, complimenting Faile on her 
riding dress&#8209;dark blue silk, today&#8209;and telling the Aid women how she admired the 
color and sheen of their hair. Perrin suspected that Bain and Chiad, at least, 
did not know quite what to make of her, but in short order, with a sort of calm 
motherly firmness, she had all three women settled at a table with damp towels 
to wipe journey dust from hands and faces, sipping tea she poured from a large 
red&#8209;striped pot he remembered well.
It might have been amusing seeing those fierce women &#8209; he certainly included 
Faile &#8209; suddenly eager to assure Mistress al'Vere that they were more than 
comfortable, was there nothing they could do to help, she was doing too much, 
all of them wide&#8209;eyed as children, with a child's chance of resisting her. It 
would have been amusing if she had not included himself and Gaul, sweeping them 
just as firmly to the table, insisting on clean hands and clean faces before 
they got a cup of tea. Gaul wore a small grin the whole time; Aiel had a strange 
sense of humor.
Surprisingly, she never glanced at his bow or axe, or the Aiel's weapons. People 
seldom carried even a bow in the Two Rivers, and she always insisted such be set 
aside before anyone took a place at one of her tables. Always. But she just 
ignored them now.
Another surprise came when Bran placed a silver cup of apple brandy at Perrin's 
elbow, not the small tot that men usually drank at the inn, barely enough to 
cover the last joint of the thumb, but half&#8209;full. When he had left he would have 
been offered cider if not milk, or perhaps well&#8209;watered wine, a half&#8209;cup with a 
meal or a full one on a feastday. It was gratifying to be recognized as a grown 
man, but he only held it. He was used to wine now, but he seldom drank anything 
stronger.
"Perrin," the Mayor said as he ,took a chair beside his wife, "no one believes 
you a Darkfriend. No one with any sense. There is no reason for you to let 
yourself be hanged."
Faile nodded in fierce agreement, but Perrin ignored her. "I won't be turned 
aside, Master al'Vere. The Whitecloaks want me, and if they do not get me, they 
might turn to the next Aybara they can find. Whitecloaks don't need much to 
decide somebody is guilty. They are not pleasant people."
"We know," Mistress al'Vere said softly.
Her husband stared at his hands on the table. "Perrin, your family is gone."
"Gone? You mean the farm is burned already?" Perrin's fist tightened around the 
silver cup. "I hoped I was in time. I should have known better, I suppose. Too 
long before I heard. Maybe I can help my da and Uncle Eward rebuild. Who are 
they staying with? I want to see them first, at least."
Bran grimaced, and his wife stroked his shoulder comfortingly. But strangely her 
eyes stayed on Perrin, all sadness and comfort.
"They are dead, my boy," Bran said in a rush.
"Dead? No. They can't be &#8209; " Perrin frowned as wetness suddenly slopped over his 
hand, stared at the crumpled cup as though wondering where it had come from. "I 
am sorry. I didn't mean to &#8209; " He pulled at the flattened silver, trying to 
force it back out with his fingers. That would not work. Of course not. Very 
carefully, he put the ruined cup in the middle of the table. "I will replace it. 
I can &#8209; " He wiped his hand on his coat, and suddenly found he was caressing the 
axe hanging at his belt. Why was everyone looking at him so oddly? "Are you 
sure?" His voice sounded far away. "Adora and Deselle? Paet? My mother?"
"All of them," Bran told him. "Your aunts and uncles, too, and your cousins. 
Everybody on the farm. I helped bury them, my boy. On that low hill, the one 
with the apple trees."
Perrin stuck his thumb in his mouth. Fool thing to do, cutting himself on his 
own axe. "My mother likes apple blossoms. The Whitecloaks. Why would they&#8209;?Burn 
me, Paet was only nine. The girls. . . ." His voice was very flat. He thought he 
should have had some emotion in those words. Some emotion.
"It was Trollocs," Mistress al'Vere said quickly. "They have come back, Perrin. 
Not the way they did when you went away, not attacking the village, but out in 
the countryside. Most farms without dose neighbors have been abandoned. No one 
goes outside at night, even near to the village. It is the same down to Deven 
Ride and up to Watch Hill, maybe to Taren Ferry. The Whitecloaks, bad as they 
are, are our only real protection. They've saved two families that I know, when 
Trollocs attacked their farms. "
"I wished &#8209; I hoped &#8209; " He could not quite remember what it was he had wished. 
Something about Trollocs. He did not want to remember. The Whitecloaks 
protecting the Two Rivers? It was almost enough to make him laugh. "Rand's 
father. Tam's farm. Was that Trollocs, too?"
Mistress al'Vere opened her mouth, but Bran cut her off. "He deserves the truth, 
Marin. That was Whitecloaks, Perrin. That, and the Cauthon place."
"Mat's people too. Rand's, and Mat's, and mine." Strange. He sounded as if he 
were talking about whether it might rain. "Are they dead, too?"
"No, my boy. No, Abell and Tam are hiding in the Westwood somewhere. And Mat's 
mother and sisters . . . . They're alive, too."
"Hiding?"
"There is no need to go into that," Mistress al'Vere said briskly. "Bran, bring 
him another cup of brandy. And you drink this one, Perrin." Her husband sat 
where he was, but she only frowned at him and went on. "I would offer you a bed, 
but it isn't safe. Some people are like as not to run off hunting for Lord 
Bornhald if they find out you are here. Eward Congar and Hari Coplin fawn after 
the Whitecloaks like heel&#8209;hounds, eager to please and name names, and Cenn Buie 
isn't much better. And Wit Congar will carry tales, too, if Daise doesn't stop 
him. She is the Wisdom, now. Perrin, it is best for to go. Believe me."
Perrin shook his head slowly; it was too much to take in. Daise Congar the 
Wisdom? The woman was like a bull. Whitecloaks protecting Emond's Field. Hari 
and Eward and Wit cooperating. Not much more could be expected from Congars or 
Coplins, but Cenn Buie was on the Village Council. Lord Bornhald. So Geofram 
Bornhald was there. Faile was watching him, her eyes large and moist. Why should 
she be on the edge of tears?
"There is more, Brandelwyn al'Vere," Gaul said. "Your face says so."
"There is," Bran agreed. "No, Marin," he added firmly when she gave a small 
shake of her head. "He deserves the truth. The whole truth." She folded her 
hands with a sigh; Marin al'Vere very nearly always got her way &#8209; except when 
Bran's face was set, as now, with his eyebrows drawn down hard as a plow.
"What truth?" Perrin asked. His mother liked apple blossoms.
"First off, Padan Fain is with the Whitecloaks," Bran said. "He calls himself 
Ordeith now, and he won't answer to his own name at all, but it's him, stare 
down his nose as he will."
"He's a Darkfriend," Perrin said absently. Adora and Deselle always put apple 
blossoms in their hair in the spring. "Admitted from his own mouth. He brought 
the Trollocs, on Winternight." Paet liked to climb in the apple trees; he would 
throw apples at you from the branches if you did not watch him.
"Is he, now," the Mayor said grimly. "Now, that is interesting. He has some 
authority with the Whitecloaks. The first we heard they were here was after they 
burned Tam's farm. That was Fain's work; he led the Whitecloaks that did it. Tam 
feathered four or five of them with arrows before he made it to the woods, and 
he reached the Cauthon farm in the nick to stop them taking Abell. But they 
arrested Natti and the girls. And Haral Luhhan, and Alsbet, too. I think Fain 
might have hung them, except Lord Bornhald wouldn't allow it. Not that he let 
them go, either. They haven't been harmed, as far as I can discover, but they're 
being held in the Whitecloak camp up at Watch Hill. For some reason, Fain has a 
hate for you, and Rand, and Mat. He's offered a hundred pieces of gold for 
anyone related to the three of you; two hundred for Tam or Abell. And Lord 
Bornhald seems to have some interest in you, especially. When a Whitecloak 
patrol comes here, he usually comes, too, and asks questions about you."
"Yes," Perrin said. "Of course. He would." Perrin of the Two Rivers, who ran 
with wolves. Darkfriend. Fain could have told them the rest. Fain, with the 
Children of the Light? It was a distant thought. Better than thinking about 
Trollocs, though. He grimaced at his hands, made them be still on the table. 
"They protect you from the Trollocs."
Marin al'Vere leaned toward him, frowning. "Perrin, we need the Whitecloaks. 
Yes, they burned Tam's farm, and Abell's, they've arrested people, and they 
stamp around as if they own everything they see, but Alsbet and Natti and the 
rest are unharmed, only held, and that can be straightened out somehow. The 
Dragon's Fang
has been scrawled on a few doors, but nobody except the Congars and Coplins pay 
any mind, and they're likely the ones who did the scrawling. Tam and Abell can 
stay in hiding until the Whitecloaks go. They have to go sooner or later. But as 
long as there are Trollocs here, we do need them. Please understand. It isn't 
that we would not rather have you than them, but we need them and we don't want 
them to hang you."
"You call this being protected, roofmistress?" Bain said. "If you ask the lion 
to protect you from wolves, you have only chosen to end in one belly instead of 
another."
"Can you not protect yourselves?" Chiad added. "I have seen Perrin fight, and 
Mat Cauthon, and Rand al'Thor. They are the same blood as you."
Bran sighed heavily. "We are farmers, simple people. Lord Luc talks of 
organizing men to fight the Trollocs, but that means leaving your family 
unprotected while you go off with him, and no one much likes that idea."
Perrin was confused. Who was Lord Luc? He asked as much, and Mistress al'Vere 
answered.
"He came about the time the Whitecloaks did. He's a Hunter of the Horn. You know 
the story, The Great Hunt of the Horn? Lord Luc thinks the Horn of Valere is 
somewhere in the Mountains of Mist above the Two Rivers. But he gave over his 
hunt because of our problems. Lord Luc is a great gentleman, with the finest 
manners." Smoothing her hair, she gave an approving smile; Bran looked at her 
sideways and grunted sourly.
Hunters of the Horn. Trollocs. Whitecloaks. The Two Rivers hardly seemed the 
same place he had left. "Faile is a Hunter of the Horn, too. Do you know this 
Lord Luc, Faile?"
"I have had enough," she announced. Perrin frowned as she stood and came around 
the table to him. Seizing his head, she pulled his face into her midriff. "Your 
mother is dead," she said quietly. "Your father is dead. Your sisters are dead, 
and your brother. Your family is dead, and you cannot change it. Certainly not 
by dying yourself. Let yourself grieve. Don't hold it inside where it can 
fester."
He took her by the arms, meaning to move her, but for some reason his hands 
tightened till that grip was the only thing holding him up. It was only then 
that he realized he was crying, sobbing into her dress like a baby. What must 
she think of him? He opened his mouth to tell her he was all right, to apologize 
for breaking down, but what came out was, "I couldn't get here any faster. I 
couldn't &#8209; I &#8209; " He gritted his teeth to shut himself off.
"I know," she murmured, stroking his hair for all the world as if he were a 
child. "I know."
He wanted to stop, but the more she whispered understanding, the more he wept, 
as though her hands soft on his head were smoothing the tears out of him.
 
CHAPTER
30
 
Beyond the Oak
 
With Faile holding his head beneath her breasts, Perrin lost track of how long 
he cried. Images of his family flashed in his thoughts, his father smiling as he 
showed him how to hold a bow, his mother singing while she spun wool, Adora and 
Deselle teasing him when he shaved the first time, Paet wide&#8209;eyed at a gleeman 
during Sunday long ago. Pictures of graves, cold and lonely in a row. He wept 
until there were no more tears in him. When he finally pulled back, the two of 
them were alone except for Scratch, washing himself atop the ale barrel. He was 
glad the others had not remained to watch him. Faile was bad enough. In a way he 
was glad she had stayed; he only wished she had not seen or heard.
Taking his hands in hers, Faile sat in the next chair. She was so beautiful, 
with her slightly tilted eyes, large and dark, and her high cheekbones. He did 
not know how he was going to be able to make up to her for the way he had 
treated her these last few days. No doubt she would find a means to make him pay 
for it.
"Have you given up the notion of surrendering to the Whitecloaks?" she asked. 
There was no hint in her voice that she had just watched him cry like a baby.
"It seems it wouldn't do any good. They'll be after Rand's father, and Mat's, 
whatever I do. My family. . . ." He quickly loosened his grip on her hands, but 
she smiled instead of wincing. "I have to get Master Luhhan and his wife free, 
if I can. And Mat's mother and sisters; I promised him I would look after them. 
And do what I can about the Trollocs." Maybe this Lord Luc had some ideas. At 
least the Waygate was blocked; no more would come through the Ways. He 
especially wanted to do something about the Trollocs. "I can't manage any of 
that if I let them hang me."
"I am very glad you see that," she told him dryly. "Any more fool notions about 
sending me away?"
"No." He braced himself for the storm, but she simply nodded as if the one word 
were what she expected and all she wanted. A small thing, nothing worth arguing 
over. She was going to make him pay large.
"We are five, Perrin, six if Loial is willing. And if we can find Tam al'Thor 
and Abell Cauthon . . . . Are they as good with a bow as you?"
"Better," he said truthfully. "Much better."
She gave him a slight, disbelieving nod. "That will make eight. A beginning. 
Maybe others will join us. And then there's Lord Luc. He will probably want to 
take charge, but if he's not a crackbrain, it won't matter. Not everyone who 
took the Hunter's Oath is sensible, though. I've met some who think they know 
everything, and are stubborn as mules besides."
"I know." She looked at him sharply, and he managed to keep the smile off his 
face. "That you've met some like that, I mean. I saw a pair of them once, 
remem­ber."
"Oh, them. Well, we can hope Lord Luc is not a boasting liar." Her eyes became 
intent, and her grip tightened on his hands, not uncomfortably, but as though 
she was trying to add her strength to his. "You will want to visit your family's 
farm, your home. I will come with you, if you will let me."
"When I can, Faile." Not now, though. Not yet. If he looked at those graves 
below the apple trees now . . . . It was strange. He had always taken his own 
strength for granted, and now it turned out that he was not strong at all. Well, 
he was done with weeping like a babe. It was past time to be doing something. 
"First things first. Finding Tam and Abell, I suppose."
Master al'Vere put his head into the common room, and came the rest of the way 
when he saw them sitting apart. "There is an Ogier in the kitchen," he told 
Perrin with a bemused look. "An Ogier. Drinking tea. The biggest cup looks . . . 
." He held two fingers as though gripping a thimble. "Maybe Marin could pretend 
Aiel walk in here every day, but she nearly fainted when she saw this Loial. I 
gave her a double tot of brandy, and she tossed it down like water. Nearly 
coughed herself to death; she doesn't take more than wine, usually. I think 
she'd have drunk another, if I'd given it to her." He pursed his lips and 
affected an interest in a nonexistent spot on his long white apron. "Are you all 
right now, my boy?"
"I'm fine, sir," Perrin said hastily. "Master al'Vere, we cannot remain here 
much longer. Someone might tell the Whitecloaks you sheltered me."
"Oh, there are not many would do that. Not all the Coplins, and not some of the 
Congars, even." But he did not suggest they stay.
"Do you know where I can find Master al'Thor and Master Cauthon?"
"In the Westwood somewhere, usually," Bran said slowly. "That's all I know for 
sure. They move about." Locking his fingers over his broad belly, he tilted his 
gray&#8209;fringed head to one side. "You aren't leaving are you? Well. I told Marin 
you would not, but she doesn't believe me. She thinks it best for you to go 
away&#8209;best for you&#8209;and like most women she's sure you will see things her way if 
she talks long enough."
"Why, Master al'Vere," Faile said sweetly, "I for one have always found men to 
be sensible creatures who only need to be shown the wisest path once to choose 
it."
The Mayor favored her with an amused smile. "You will be talking Perrin into 
going then, I take it? Matin's right; that is wisest, if he wants to avoid a 
noose. The only reason to stay is that sometimes a man can't run. No? Well, no 
doubt you know best." He ignored her sour look. "Come along, my boy. Let's tell 
Marin the good news. Set your teeth and hold on to your intentions, because she 
won't give up trying to shift you."
In the kitchen, Loial and the Aiel were cross&#8209;legged on the floor. There was 
certainly no chair in the inn big enough for the Ogier. He sat with an arm 
resting on the kitchen table, tall enough sitting to look Marin al'Vere in the 
eye. Bran had exaggerated the smallness of the cup in Loial's hands, though on 
second glance Perrin saw it was a white&#8209;glazed soup bowl.
Mistress al'Vere was still doing her best to pretend Aiel and Ogier were normal, 
bustling about with a tray of bread and cheese and pickles, making sure everyone 
ate, but her eyes did widen each time they landed on Loial, though he tried to 
put her at ease with compliments for her baking. His tufted ears twitched 
nervously whenever she looked at him, and she gave a little jump every time they 
did, then shook her head, the thick graying braid swaying vigorously. Given a 
few hours, they might send each other to bed with the shakes.
Loial heaved a deep bass sigh of relief at the sight of Perrin and set his 
cup&#8209;bowl&#8209;of tea on the table, but the next instant his broad face sagged sadly. 
"I am sorry to hear your loss, Perrin. I share your grief. Mistress al'Vere . . 
." His ears twitched wildly even without looking at her, and she gave another 
start. ". . . has been telling me you will go, now there's nothing to keep you 
here. If you wish it, I will sing to the apple trees before we leave."
Bran and Marin exchanged startled looks, and the Mayor actually reamed at his 
ear with a finger.
"Thank you, Loial. I will appreciate that, when there's time. But I have work to 
do before I can go." Mistress al'Vere set the tray on the table with a sharp 
click and stared at him, but he kept on, laying out his plans, such as they 
were: Find Tam and Abell, and rescue the people the Whitecloaks held. He did not 
mention Trollocs, though he had vague plans there, too. Perhaps not so vague. He 
did not mean to leave while there was a Trolloc or Myrddraal alive in the Two 
Rivers. He fastened his thumbs behind his belt to keep from caressing his axe. 
"It won't be easy," he finished. "I will appreciate your company, but I will 
understand if you want to go. This isn't your fight, and you have seen enough 
trouble through staying close to Emond's Field folk. And you won't write much of 
your book here."
"Here or there, it is the same fight, I think," Loial replied. "The book can 
wait. Perhaps I will have a chapter about you."
"I said I would come with you," Gaul put in without being asked. "I did not mean 
until the journey grew hard. I owe you blood debt."
Bain and Chiad looked questioningly at Faile, and when she nodded, added their 
decisions to remain, too.
"Stubborn foolish," Mistress al'Vere said, "the lot of you. Very likely you will 
all end up on gallows, if you live that long. You know that, don't you?" When 
they only looked at her, she untied her apron and lifted it over her head. 
"Well, if you are foolish enough to stay, I suppose I had better show you where 
to hide."
Her husband looked surprised at her sudden surrender, but he recovered quickly. 
"I thought perhaps the old sickhouse, Marin. No one ever goes there now, and I 
think it still has most of its roof."
What was still called the new sickhouse, where people were taken to be tended if 
their illness was contagious, had stood east of the village, beyond Master 
Thane's mill, since Perrin was a small boy. The old one, in the Westwood, had 
been all but destroyed in a fierce windstorm back then. Perrin remembered it as 
half&#8209;covered by vines and briars, with birds roosting in what was left of the 
thatch and a badger's den under the back steps. It would be a good place to 
hide.
Mistress al'Vere gave Bran a sharp look, as though startled he had thought of 
it. "That will do, I suppose. For tonight, at least. That is where I will take 
them."
"No need for you to do it, Marin. I can lead them easy enough, if Perrin doesn't 
remember the way."
"Sometimes you forget you're the Mayor, Bran. You attract eyes; people wonder 
where you're going and what you are up to. Why don't you stay here, and if 
anyone drops by, see they go away thinking everything is just as it should be. 
There's mutton stew in the kettle, and lentil soup that just needs heating. Now 
don't mention the sickhouse to anyone, Bran. Best if no one even remembers it 
exists."
"I am not a fool, Marin," he said stiffly.
"I know you aren't, dear." She patted her husband's cheek, but her fond look 
tightened as it shifted from Bran to the rest of them. "You do cause trouble," 
she muttered before handing out instructions.
They were to travel in smaller parties so as not to attract attention. She would 
cross the village by herself and meet them in the woods on the other side. The 
Aiel assured her they could find the lightning&#8209;split oak she described, and 
slipped out by the back door. Perrin knew it, a huge tree, a mile beyond the 
edge of the village, that looked as if it had been deft down the middle by an 
axe yet somehow continued to live and even flourish. He was sure he could go 
straight to the sickhouse itself with no trouble, but Mistress al'Vere insisted 
everyone meet at the oak.
"You go wandering about by yourself, Perrin, and the Light knows what you might 
stumble into." She looked up at Loial&#8209;standing now, his shaggy hair brushing the 
ceiling beams &#8209; and sighed. "I do wish there was something we could do about 
your height, Master Loial. I know it is hot, but would you mind wearing your 
cloak, with the hood up? Even these days most people will soon convince 
themselves they didn't see what they saw if it isn't what they expect, but if 
they catch a glimpse of your face . . . . Not that you aren't quite handsome, 
I'm sure, but you'll never pass for Two Rivers folk."
Loial's smile split his face in two beneath his wide snout of a nose. "The day 
doesn't seem too warm for a cloak at all, Mistress al'Vere."
Fetching a light, knit shawl with blue fringe, she accompanied Perrin, Faile and 
Loial out to the stableyard to see them off, and for a moment it appeared all 
their efforts at secrecy were doomed. Cenn Buie, looking made from gnarled old 
roots, was examining the horses with beady eyes. Especially Loial's tall horse, 
as big as one of Bran's Dhurrans. Cenn scratched his head, staring at the great 
saddle on the big horse.
Those eyes widened when they caught sight of Loial, and Cenn's jaw flapped. 
"Tr&#8209;Tr&#8209;Trolloc!" he managed to get out at last.
"Don't be an old fool, Cenn Buie," Marin said firmly, stepping off to one side 
to pull the thatcher's attention with her. Perrin kept his head down, studying 
his bow, and did not move. "Would I be standing on my own back doorstep with a 
Trolloc?" She gave a contemptuous sniff. "Master Loial is an Ogier, as you would 
know if you weren't a cantankerous goose who would rather complain than look at 
what's under his nose. Passing through, and with no time to be bothered by the 
likes of you. You be on about your business and leave our guests some peace. You 
know very well that Corin Ayellin has been after you for months about the poor 
work you did on her roof."
Cenn mouthed the word "Ogier," silent and blinking. For a moment it seemed he 
might rouse himself in defense of his handiwork, but then his gaze shifted to 
Perrin and narrowed. "Him! It's him! They're after you, you young whelp, 
rapscallion, running off with Aes Sedai and becoming a Darkfriend. That was when 
we had Trollocs before. Now you're back, and so are they. You going to tell me 
that's coincidence? What's wrong with your eyes? You sick? You have some kind of 
sickness from off you've brought back to kill us all, as if Trollocs are not 
enough? The Children of the Light will settle you. See if they don't."
Perrin sensed Faile tensing, and hastily put a hand on her arm when he realized 
she was drawing a knife. What did she think she was doing? Cenn was an irascible 
old fool, but that was no reason for knives. She gave an exasperated toss of her 
head, but at least she left it at that.
"That is enough, Cenn," Marin said sharply. "You keep this to yourself. Or have 
you started running to the Whitecloaks with tales, like Hari and his brother 
Darl? I've my suspicions why the Whitecloaks came rummaging through Bran's 
books. They took six off with them, and lectured Bran under his own roof about 
blasphemy. Blasphemy, of all things! Because they didn't agree with what was in 
a book. You're lucky I don't make you replace those books for him. They burrowed 
through the whole inn like weasels. Hunting for more blasphemous writings, they 
said, as if anyone would hide a book. Tumbled all the mattresses from the beds, 
upset my linen closets. You are lucky I didn't come haul you back here to put it 
all to rights again."
Cenn drew in on himself a little more with each sentence, until he looked to be 
trying to pull his bony shoulders over his head. "I didn't tell them anything, 
Marin," he protested. "Just because a man mentions &#8209; That is, I just happened to 
say, just in passing &#8209; " He shook himself, still avoiding her eye but regaining 
some of his old manner. "I mean to take this up with the Council, Marin. Him, I 
mean." He pointed a gnarled finger at Perrin. "We're all in danger as long as 
he's here. If the Children find out you're sheltering him, they might blame the 
rest of us. Upset closets won't be in it, then."
"This is Women's Circle business." Marin rewrapped her shawl about her shoulders 
and moved to stand eye to eye with the thatcher. He was a little taller than 
she, but her sudden air of grave formality gave her the edge. He spluttered, but 
she rode right over his attempts to slide a word in. "Circle business, Cenn 
Buie. If you think it isn't&#8209;if you even dare think of calling me a liar&#8209;you go 
flapping your tongue. You breathe a word of Women's Circle business to anyone, 
including the Village Council . . ."
"The Circle has no right interfering in Council affairs," he shouted.
". . . and see if your wife doesn't have you sleeping in the barn. And eating 
what your milk cows leave. You think Council takes precedence over Circle? I'll 
send Daise Congar over to convince you different, if you need convincing."
Cenn flinched, as well he might. If Daise Congar was the Wisdom, she would 
probably force foul&#8209;tasting concoctions down his throat every day for the next 
year, and Cenn was too scrawny to stop her. Alsbet Luhhan was the only woman in 
Emond's Field larger than Daise, and Daise had a mean streak and a temper to go 
with it. Perrin could not imagine her as Wisdom; Nynaeve would probably have a 
fit when she found out who had replaced her. Nynaeve had always believed she 
used sweet reason, herself.
"No need to get nasty, Marin," Cenn muttered placatingly. "You want me to keep 
quiet, I'll keep quiet. But Women's Circle or no, you're risking bringing the 
Children down on all of us." Marin merely raised her eyebrows, and after a 
moment he slunk away, grumbling under his breath.
"Well done," Faile said when Cenn disappeared around the corner of the inn. "I 
think I need to take lessons from you. I am not half so good at handling Perrin 
as you are with Master al'Vere and that fellow." She smiled at Perrin to show 
she was joking. At least, he hoped that was what it meant.
"You have to know when to rein them short," the older woman replied absently, 
"and when there's nothing to do but give them their head. Letting them have 
their way when it isn't important makes it easier to check them when it is." She 
was frowning after Cenn, not really paying attention to what she was saying, 
except maybe when she added, "And some should be tied in the stall and left 
there."
Perrin leaped in hastily. Faile certainly did not need any advice of this sort. 
"Will he hold his tongue do you think, Mistress al'Vere?"
Hesitating, she said, "I believe he will. Cenn was born with a sore tooth that's 
only gotten worse as he ages, but he isn't like Hari Coplin or that lot." Still, 
she had hesitated.
"We had best be moving," he said. No one argued.
The sun was higher than he had expected, past its midday height already, which 
meant most people were indoors for their dinner. The few still out, mainly boys 
minding sheep or cows, were busy eating what they had brought with them wrapped 
up in a cloth, too absorbed in their food and too far from the cart paths to pay 
much mind to anyone passing. Still, Loial earned some stares despite the deep 
hood hiding his face. Even on Stepper Perrin came short of the Ogier's chest on 
his tall mount. To the people who saw them from a distance they must have looked 
like an adult with two children, all on ponies, leading packponies. Certainly 
not a usual sight, but Perrin hoped that was what they thought they saw. Talk 
would draw notice. He had to avoid that until he got Mistress Luhhan and the 
others free. If only Cenn kept his peace. He kept the hood of his own cloak up, 
too. That might also cause talk, but not as much as if anyone saw his beard and 
realized he was definitely not a child. At least the day was not particularly 
warm. It almost felt like spring, not summer, after Tear.
He had no trouble finding the split oak, the two halves leaning apart in a wide 
fork with the inner surface black and hardened like iron, the ground beneath the 
thick spreading branches clear. Merely crossing the village was much shorter 
than going around, so Mistress al'Vere was already waiting, shifting her shawl a 
trifle impatiently. The Aiel were there, too, squatting on the mulch of old oak 
leaves and squirrel&#8209;chewed acorn hulls, Gaul apart from the two women. The 
Maidens and Gaul watched each other almost as closely as the surrounding woods. 
Perrin had no doubt they had managed to reach this spot unobserved. He wished he 
had that ability; he could stalk fairly well in the woods, but the Aiel did not 
seem to care if it was forest or farmland or city. When they did not want to be 
seen, they found a way not to be seen.
Mistress al'Vere insisted they go the rest of the way afoot, claiming the way 
was too overgrown for riding. Perrin did not agree, but he dismounted anyway. No 
doubt it would not be comfortable leading folk on horseback while on foot. In 
any case, his head was full of plans. He needed a look at the Whitecloak camp up 
at Watch Hill before deciding how to rescue Mistress Luhhan and the others. And 
where were Tam and Abell hiding? Neither Bran nor Mistress al'Vere had said; 
perhaps they did not know. If Tam and Abell had not brought the prisoners out 
already, it was not an easy task. He had to do it somehow, though. Then he could 
turn his attention to Trollocs.
No one from the village had come this way in years, and the path had vanished, 
yet tall trees kept the undergrowth down to a large extent. The Aiel slipped 
along silently with everyone else, acceding to Mistress al'Vere's insistence 
that they all stay together. Loial murmured approvingly at great oaks or 
particularly tall fir trees and leatherleaf Occasionally a mocker or redbreast 
sang in the trees, and once Perrin smelled a fox watching them pass.
Suddenly he caught man scent that had not been there a moment before, heard a 
faint rustle. The Aiel tensed, crouching with spears ready. Perrin reached to 
his quiver.
"Be at ease," Mistress al'Vere said urgently, motioning for weapons to be 
lowered. "Please, be at ease."
Abruptly there were two men standing ahead, one tall and dark and slender to the 
left, the other short, stocky and graying to the right. Both held bows with 
arrows nocked, ready to raise and draw, with quivers balancing the swords on 
their hips. Both wore cloaks that seemed to fade into the surrounding foliage.
"Warders!" Perrin exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell us there are Aes Sedai here, 
Mistress al'Vere? Master al'Vere never mentioned it either. Why?"
"Because he doesn't know," she said hurriedly. "I did not lie when I said this 
is Women's Circle business." She turned her attention to the two Warders, 
neither of whom had relaxed an inch. "Tomas, Ihvon, you know me. Put those bows 
down. You know I'd not bring anyone here if they meant harm."
"An Ogier," the gray&#8209;haired man said, "Aiel, a yellow&#8209;eyed man &#8209; the one the 
Whitecloaks seek, of course &#8209; and a fierce young woman with a knife." Perrin 
glanced at Faile; she held a blade ready to throw. He agreed with her this time. 
These might be Warders, but they showed no sign of lowering their bows yet; 
their faces might as well have been carved from anvils. The Aiel looked ready to 
begin dancing the spears without waiting to veil themselves. "A strange group, 
Mistress al'Vere," the older Warder went on. "We shall see. Ihvon?" The slender 
man nodded and melted into the undergrowth; Perrin could barely hear the 
fellow's going. Warders moved like death itself when they wanted to.
"What do you mean, Women's Circle business?" he demanded. "I know Whitecloaks 
would cause trouble if they knew about Aes Sedai, so you wouldn't want to tell 
Hari Coplin, but why keep it secret from the Mayor? And us?"
"Because we agreed to," Mistress al'Vere said irritably. The irritation seemed 
meant in equal parts for Perrin and the Warder still guarding them &#8209; there was 
no other word for it &#8209; with maybe a bit left over for the Aes Sedai. "They were 
at Watch Hill when the Whitecloaks came. No one there knew who they were except 
the Circle there, who passed them on to us to hide. From everyone, Perrin. It's 
the best way to keels a secret, if only a few know. Light preserve me, I know 
two women who have stopped sharing their husbands' beds for fear they might talk 
in their sleep. We agreed to keep it secret."
"Why did you decide to change that?" the gray&#8209;haired Warder asked in a hard 
voice.
"For what I consider good and sufficient reasons, Tomas." From the way she 
shifted her shawl, Perrin suspected she was hoping the Circle &#8209; and the Aes 
Sedai &#8209; thought so, too. Rumor had it the Circle could be even harder on each 
other than they were on the rest of the village. "Where better to hide you, 
Perrin, than with Aes Sedai? Surely you aren't afraid of them, not after leaving 
here with one. And . . . . You will find out soon enough. You just have to trust 
me."
"There are Aes Sedai and Aes Sedai," Perrin told her. But those he considered 
the worst, the Red Ajah, did not bond Warders; the Red Ajah did not like men 
very much at all. This Tomas had dark unwavering eyes. They might rush him, or 
better simply leave, but the Warder would surely put an arrow through the first 
one to do something he did not like, and Perrin was ready to bet the man had 
more shafts handy for easy nocking. The Aiel seemed to agree; they still looked 
ready to spring in any direction at any moment, but they looked as if they could 
stand where they were until the sun froze, too. Perrin patted Faile on the 
shoulder. "It will be all right," he said.
"Of course it will," she replied, smiling. She had put the knife away. "If 
Mistress al'Vere says it, I trust her."
Perrin hoped she was right. He did not trust as many people as he once had. Not 
Aes Sedai. And maybe not even Marin al'Vere. But maybe these Aes Sedai would 
help him fight Trollocs. He would trust anyone who did that. But how far could 
he rely on Aes Sedai? They did what they did for their own reasons; the Two 
Rivers was home, to him, but to them it might be a stone on a stone's board. 
Faile and Marin al'Vere appeared to be trusting, though, and the Aiel waited. 
For the moment, it seemed he had little choice.