The rooftops of Tear were no place for a sensible man to be in the night, Mat decided as he peered into the moon shadows. A little more than fifty paces of broad street, or perhaps narrow plaza, separated the Stone from his tiled roof, itself three stories above the paving stones. But when was I ever sensible? The only people I ever met who were sensible all the time were so boring that watching them could put you to sleep. Whether the thing was a street or a plaza, he had followed it all the way around the Stone since nightfall; the only place it did not go was on the river side, where the Erinin ran right along the foot of the fortress, and nothing interrupted it except the city wall. That wall was only two houses to his right. So far, the top of the wall seemed the best path to the Stone, but not one he would be overjoyed to take.
Picking up his quarterstaff and a small, wire-handled tin box, he moved carefully to a brick chimney a little nearer the wall. The roll of fireworks—what had been the roll of fireworks before he worked on it back in his room—shifted on his back. It was more of a bundle, now, all jammed together as tight as he could make it, but still too big for carrying around rooftops in the dark. Earlier, a slip of his foot because of the thing had sent a roof tile skittering over the edge, and roused the man sleeping in a room below to bellow “thief!” and send him running. He hitched the bundle back into position without thinking about it, and crouched in the shadows of the chimney. After a moment he set the tin box down; the wire handle was beginning to grow uncomfortably warm.
It felt a little safer, studying the Stone from the shadows, but not much more encouraging. The city wall was not nearly as thick as those he had seen in other places, in Caemlyn or Tar Valon, no more than a pace wide, supported by great stone buttresses cloaked in darkness, now. A pace was more than sufficient width for walking, of course, except that the fall to either side was nearly ten spans. Through the dark, to hard pavement. But some of these bloody houses back right up against it. I can make it to the top easily enough, and it bloody runs straight to the bloody Stone!
It did that, but that was no particular comfort. The sides of the Stone looked like cliffs. Eyeing the height again, he told himself he should be able to climb it. Of course, I can. Just like those cliffs in the Mountains of Mist. Over a hundred paces straight up before there was a battlement. There must be arrowslits lower down, but he could not make them out in the night. And he could not squeeze through an arrowslit. A hundred bloody paces. Maybe a hundred and twenty. Burn me, even Rand would not try to climb that. But it was the one way in he had found. Every gate he had seen had been shut tight and looked strong enough to stop a herd of bulls, not to mention the dozen or so soldiers guarding very nearly every last one, in helmets and breastplates, and swords at their belts.
Suddenly he blinked, and squinted at the side of the Stone. There was some fool climbing it, just visible as a moving shadow in the moonlight, and over halfway up already, with a drop of seventy paces to the pavement under his feet. Fool, is he? Well, I’m as big a one, because I am going up, too. Burn me, he’ll probably raise an alarm in there and get me caught. He could not see the climber anymore. Who in the Light is he? What does it matter who he is? Burn me, but this is a bloody way to win a wager. I’m going to want a kiss from all of them, even Nynaeve!
He shifted to peer toward the wall, trying to choose his spot to climb, and suddenly there was steel across his throat. Without thinking, he knocked it away and swept the man’s feet out from under him with his staff. Someone else kicked his own feet away and he fell almost on top of the man he had knocked down. He rolled off onto the roof tiles, loosing the bundle of fireworks—If that falls into the street, I’ll break their necks!—staff whirling; he felt it strike flesh, and a second time, heard grunts. Then there were two blades at his throat.
He froze, arms outflung. The points of short spears, dull so they hardly caught the faint light of the moon at all, pressed into his flesh just short of bringing blood. His eyes followed them up to the faces of whoever was holding them, but their heads were shrouded, their faces veiled in black except for their eyes, staring at him. Burn me, I have to run into real thieves! What happened to my luck?
He put on a grin, with plenty of teeth so they could see it in the moonlight. “I do not mean to trouble you in your work, so if you let me go my way, I’ll let you go yours and say nothing.” The veiled men did not move, and neither did their spears. “I want no more outcry than you. I’ll not betray you.” They stood like statues, staring down at him. Burn me, I do not have time for this. Time to toss the dice. For a chilling moment he thought the words in his head had been strange. He tightened his grip on the quarterstaff, lying out to one side of him—and almost cried out when someone stepped hard on his wrist.
He rolled his eyes to see who. Burn me for a fool, I forgot the one I fell on. But he saw another shape moving behind the one standing on his wrist, and decided maybe it was as well he had not managed to bring the staff into use after all.
It was a soft boot, laced to the knee, that rested on his arm: It tugged at his memory. Something about a man met in mountains. He eyed the night-cloaked shape the rest of the way up, trying to make out the cut and colors of his clothes—they seemed all shadow, colors that blended with the darkness too well to see them clearly—past a long-bladed knife at the fellow’s waist, right up to the dark veil across his face. A black-veiled face. Black-veiled.
Aiel! Burn me, what are bloody Aiel doing here! He had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he remembered hearing that Aiel veiled themselves when they killed.
“Yes,” said a man’s voice, “we are Aiel.” Mat gave a start; he had not realized he had spoken aloud.
“You dance well for one caught by surprise,” a young woman’s voice said. He thought she was the one standing on his wrist. “Perhaps another day I will have time to dance with you properly.”
He started to smile—If she wants to dance, they can’t be going to kill me, at least!—then frowned instead. He seemed to remember Aiel sometimes meant something different when they said that.
The spears were pulled back, and hands hauled him to his feet. He shook them away and brushed himself off as if he were standing in a common room instead of on a night-cloaked rooftop with four Aiel. It always paid to let the other man know you had a steady nerve. The Aiel had quivers at their waists as well as knives, and more of those short spears on their backs with cased bows, the long spear points sticking up above their shoulders. He heard himself humming “I’m Down at the Bottom of the Well,” and stopped it.
“What do you do here?” the man’s voice asked. With the veils, Mat was not entirely sure which one had spoken; the voice sounded older, confident, used to command. He thought he could pick out the woman, at least; she was the only one shorter than he, and that not by much. The others all stood a head taller than he or more. Bloody Aiel, he thought. “We have watched you for some little time,” the older man went on, “watched you watch the Stone. You have studied it from every side. Why?”
“I could ask the same of all of you,” another voice said. Mat was the only one who gave a start as a man in baggy breeches stepped out of the shadows. The fellow appeared to be shoeless, for better footing on the tiles. “I expected to find thieves, not Aiel,” the man went on, “but do not think your numbers frighten me.” A slim staff no taller than his head made a blur and a hum as he whirled it. “My name is Juilin Sandar, and I am a thief-catcher, and I would know why you are on the rooftops, staring at the Stone.”
Mat shook his head. How many bloody people are on the roofs tonight? All that was needed was for Thom to appear and play his harp, or someone to come looking for an inn. A bloody thief-taker! He wondered why the Aiel were just standing there.
“You stalk well, for a city man,” the older man’s voice said. “But why do you follow us? We have stolen nothing. Why have you looked so often at the Stone tonight yourself?”
Even in the moonlight this Sandar’s surprise was evident. He gave a start, opened his mouth—and closed it again as four more Aiel rose out of the dimness behind him. With a sigh, he leaned on his slender staff. “It seems I am caught myself,” he muttered. “It seems I must answer your questions.” He peered toward the Stone, then shook his head. “I . . . did a thing today that . . . troubles me.” He sounded almost as though he were talking to himself, trying to puzzle it out. “Part of me says it was right, what I did, that I must obey. Surely, it seemed right when I did it. But a small voice tells me I . . . betrayed something. I am certain this voice is wrong, and it is very small, but it will not stop.” He stopped then himself, shaking his head again.
One of the Aiel nodded, and spoke with the older man’s voice. “I am Rhuarc, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel, and once I was Aethan Dor, a Red Shield. Sometimes the Red Shields do as your thief-catchers do. I say this so you will understand that I know what it is you do, and the kind of man you must be. I mean no harm to you, Juilin Sandar of the thief-catchers, nor to the people of your city, but you will not be suffered to raise the armcry. If you will keep silence, you will live; if not, not.”
“You mean no harm to the city,” Sandar said slowly. “Why are you here, then?”
“The Stone.” Rhuarc’s tone made it plain that was all he meant to say.
After a moment Sandar nodded, and muttered, “I could almost wish you had the power to harm the Stone, Rhuarc. I will hold my tongue.”
Rhuarc turned his veiled face to Mat. “And you, nameless youngling? Will you tell me now why you watch the Stone so closely?”
“I just wanted a walk in the moonlight,” Mat said lightly. The young woman put her spearpoint to his throat again; he tried not to swallow. Well, maybe I can tell them something of it. He must not let them know he was shaken; if you let the other fellow know that, you lost whatever edge you might have. Very carefully, with two fingers, he moved her steel away from him. It seemed to him that she laughed softly. “Some friends of mine are inside the Stone,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Prisoners. I mean to bung them out.”
“Alone, nameless one?” Rhuarc said.
“Well, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else,” Mat said dryly. “Unless you care to help? You seem interested in the Stone yourself. If you mean to go into it, perhaps we could go together. It is a tight roll of the dice any way you look at it, but my luck runs good.” So far, anyway. I’ve run into black-veiled Aiel and they have not cut my throat; luck cannot get much better than that. Burn me, it would not be bad to have a few Aiel along with me in there. “You could do worse than betting on my luck.”
“We are not here for prisoners, gambler,” Rhuarc said.
“It is time, Rhuarc.” Mat could not tell from which of the Aiel that came, but Rhuarc nodded.
“Yes, Gaul.” He looked from Mat to Sandar and back. “Do not give the armcry.” He turned away, and in two steps he had blended into the night.
Mat gave a start. The other Aiel were gone, too, leaving him alone with the thief-taker. Unless they left somebody to watch us. Burn me, how could I tell if they did? “I hope you don’t mean to try stopping me, either,” he told Sandar as he slung the bundle of fireworks on his back again and picked up his quarterstaff. “I mean to go inside, by you or through you, one way or the other.” He went over to the chimney to pick up the tin box; the wire handle was more than warm, now.
“These friends of yours,” Sandar said. “They are three women?”
Mat frowned at him, wishing there was enough light to show the man’s face clearly. The fellow’s voice sounded odd. “What do you know of them?”
“I know they are inside the Stone. And I know a small gate near the river where a thief-catcher can gain entrance with a prisoner, to take him to the cells. The cells where they must be. If you will trust me, gambler, I can take us that far. What happens after that is up to chance. Perhaps your luck will bring us out again alive.”
“I have always been lucky,” Mat said slowly. Do I feel lucky enough to trust him? He did not much like the idea of pretending to be a prisoner; it seemed too easy for pretense to become reality. But it seemed no bigger risk than trying to climb three hundred feet or more straight up in the dark.
He glanced toward the city wall, and stared. Shadows flowed along it; dim shapes trotting. Aiel, he was sure. There must have been over a hundred. They vanished, but now he could make out shadows moving on the cliff face that was the sheer side of the Stone of Tear. So much for going up that way. That one fellow earlier might have made it inside without raising an alarm—Rhuarc’s armcry—but a hundred or more Aiel would have to be like sounding bells. They might make a diversion, though. If they caused a commotion somewhere up there, inside the Stone, then whoever was guarding the cells might not pay as much attention to a thief-taker bringing a thief.
I might as well add a little to the confusion. I worked hard enough on it. “Very well, thief-taker. Just don’t decide I am a real prisoner at the last minute. We can start for your gate as soon as I stir the anthill a bit.” He thought Sandar frowned, but he did not mean to tell the man more than he had to.
Sandar followed him across the rooftops, climbing to higher levels as easily as he did. The last roof was only a little lower than the top of the wall and ran right up to it, a matter of pulling himself up rather than climbing.
“What are you doing?” Sandar whispered.
“Wait here for me.”
With the tin box dangling from one hand by its wire handle and his quarterstaff held horizontally in front of him, Mat took a deep breath and started toward the Stone. He tried not to think of how far it was to the pavement below. Light, the bloody thing is three feet wide! I could walk it with a bloody blindfold, in my sleep! Three feet wide, in the dark, and better than fifty feet to the pavement. He tried not to think about Sandar not being there when he came back, either. He was all but committed to this fool notion of pretending to be a thief caught by the man, but it seemed all too probable that he would return to the roof to find Sandar gone, maybe bringing more men to make him a prisoner in truth. Don’t think about it. just do the job at hand. At least I’ll finally see what it is like.
As he had suspected, there was an arrowslit in the wall of the Stone right at the end of the wall, a deep wedge cut into the rock holding a tall, narrow opening for an archer to shoot through. If the Stone were attacked, the soldiers inside would want some way to stop any trying to follow this path. The slit was dark, now. There did not appear to be anyone watching. That was something he had tried not to think about, too.
Quickly he set down the tin box at his feet, balanced his quarterstaff across the wall right against the side of the Stone, and unslung the bundle from his back. Hurriedly he wedged it into the slit, forcing it in as far as he could; he wanted as much of the noise to be inside as he could manage. Pulling aside a corner of the oiled cloth cover revealed knotted fuses. After a little thinking, back in his room, he had cut the longer fuses to match the shortest, using the pieces to help tie all the fuses together. It seemed they should all go off at once, and a bang-and-flash like that should be enough to pull everyone who was not completely deaf.
The lid of the tin box was hot enough that he had to blow on his fingers twice before he could pry it off—he wished he had whatever Aludra’s trick had been, lighting that lantern so easily—to expose the dark bit of charcoal inside, lying on a bed of sand. The wire handle came off to make tongs, and a little blowing had the coal glowing red again. He touched the hot coal to the knotted fuses, let tongs and coal fall over the side of the wall as the fuses hissed into flame, snatched up his quarterstaff and darted back along the wall.
This is crazy, he thought as he ran. I don’t care how big a bang it makes. I could break my fool neck doing thi—!
The roar behind him was louder than anything he had ever heard in his life; a monstrous fist punched him in the back, knocking all the wind out of him even before he landed, sprawled on his belly on the wall top, barely holding on to his staff as it swung over the edge. For a moment he lay there, trying to make his lungs work again, trying not to think how he must have used up all his luck this time by not falling off the wall. His ears rang like all the bells in Tar Valon.
Pushing himself up carefully, he looked back toward the Stone. A cloud of smoke hung around the arrowslit. Behind the smoke, the shadowed shape of the arrowslit itself seemed different. Larger. He did not understand how or why, but it did seem larger.
He only thought for a moment. At one end of the wall Sandar might be waiting, might be intending to take him into the Stone as a pretend prisoner—or might be hurrying back with soldiers. At the other end of the wall, there might be a way inside without any chance of Sandar betraying him. He darted back the way he had just come, no longer worrying about the darkness or the drop to either side.
The arrowslit was larger, most of the thinner stone at the middle simply gone, leaving a rough hole as if someone had hammered at it with a sledge for hours. A hole just big enough for a man. How in the Light? There was no time for wondering.
He pushed through the jagged opening, coughing at the acrid smoke, jumped to the floor inside, and had run a dozen steps before Defenders of the Stone appeared, at least ten of them, all shouting in confusion. Most wore only their shirts, and none had helmet or breastplate. Some carried lanterns. Some held bared swords.
Fool! he shouted inside his head. This is why you set the bloody things off in the first place! Light-blinded fool!
He had no time to make it back out onto the wall. Quarterstaff spinning, he threw himself at the soldiers before they had a chance to do more than see he was there, hurled himself into them, smashing at heads, swords, knees, whatever he could reach, knowing they were too many for him to handle alone, knowing that his fool toss of the dice had cost Egwene and the others whatever chance he might have had.
Suddenly Sandar was there beside him, in the light of lanterns dropped by men clawing for their swords, his slender staff whirling even faster than Mat’s quarterstaff. Caught between two staffmen, taken by surprise, the soldiers went down like pins in a game of bowls.
Sandar stared at the fallen men, shaking his head. “Defenders of the Stone. I have attacked Defenders! They will have my head for—! What was it that you did, gambler? That flash of light, and thunder, breaking stone. Did you call lightning?” His voice fell to a whisper. “Have I joined myself to a man who can channel?”
“Fireworks,” Mat said curtly. His ears were still ringing, but he could hear more boots coming, running boots thudding on stone. “The cells, man! Show me the way to the cells before any more get here!”
Sandar shook himself. “This way!” He dashed down a side hall, away from the oncoming boots. “We must hurry! They will kill us if they find us!” Somewhere above, gongs began to sound an alarm, and more thundered echoes through the Stone.
I’m coming, Mat thought as he ran after the thief-taker. I’ll get you out or die! I promise it!
The alarm gongs sent echoes crashing through the Stone, but Rand paid no more attention to them than he had to the roar that had come before, like muffled thunder from somewhere below. His side ached; the old wound burned, strained almost to tearing by the climb up the side of the fortress. He gave the pain no heed, either. A crooked smile was fixed on his face, a smile of anticipation and dread he could not have wiped away if he had wanted to. It was close, now. What he had dreamed of. Callandor.
I will finish it at last. One way or another, it will be done with. The dreams, finished. The baiting, and the taunting, and the hunting. I’ll finish it all!
Laughing to himself, he hurried through the dark corridors of the Stone of Tear.
Egwene put a hand to her face, wincing. Her mouth had a bitter taste, and she was thirsty. Rand? What? Why was I dreaming about Mat again, all mixed with Rand, and shouting that he was coming? What?
She opened her eyes, stared at the gray stone walls, one smoky rush torch casting flickering shadows, and screamed as she remembered it all. “No! I will not be chained again! I won’t be collared! No!”
Nynaeve and Elayne were beside her in an instant, their bruised faces too worried and fearful for the soothing sounds they made to be believed. But just the fact that they were there was enough to still her screams. She was not alone. A prisoner, but not alone. And not collared.
She tried to sit up, and they helped her. They had to help her; she ached in every muscle. She could remember every unseen blow during the frenzy that had all but driven her mad when she realized . . . I will not think about that. I have to think about how we are to escape. She slid backwards until she could lean against a wall. Her pains fought with weariness; that struggle when she had refused to give in had taken every last scrap of her strength, and the bruises seemed to sap even more.
The cell was absolutely empty except for the three of them and the torch. The floor was bare, and cold, and hard. The door of rough planks, splintered as if countless futile fingers had clawed at it, was the only break in the walls. Messages had been scratched in the stone, most by unsteady hands. The Light have mercy and let me die, one read. She blanked that out of her head.
“Are we still shielded?” she mumbled. Even talking hurt. Even as Elayne nodded, she realized she had not had to ask. The swollen cheek on the golden-haired woman, her split lip and black eye, were answer enough, even if her own pains had not been. If Nynaeve had been able to reach the True Source, they surely would have been Healed.
“I have tried,” Nynaeve said despairingly. “I have tried, and tried, and tried.” She gave her braid a sharp tug, anger seeping through despite the hopeless fear in her voice. “One of them is sitting outside. Amico, that milk-faced chit, if they have not changed since we were thrown in here. I suppose one is enough to maintain the shielding once it has been woven.” She barked a bitter laugh. “For all the pains they took—and gave!—to take us, you would think we were of no importance at all. It has been hours since they slammed that door behind us, and no one has come to ask a question, or look, or even bring a drop of water. Perhaps they mean to leave us here until we die of thirst.”
“Bait.” Elayne’s voice quavered, though she was obviously trying to sound unafraid. And failing miserably. “Liandrin said we are bait.”
“Bait for what?” Nynaeve asked shakily. “Bait for who? If I am bait, I’d like to shove myself down their throats till they choke on me!”
“Rand.” Egwene stopped to swallow; even a drop of water would be welcome. “I dreamed about Rand, and Callandor. I think he is coming here.” But why did I dream of Mat? And Perrin? It was a wolf, but I am sure it was him. “Do not be so afraid,” she said, trying to sound confident. “We will escape them somehow. If we could better the Seanchan, we can best Liandrin.”
Nynaeve and Elayne exchanged looks over her. Nynaeve said, “Liandrin said thirteen Myrddraal are coming, Egwene.”
She found herself staring at that message scratched on the stone wall again: The Light have mercy and let me die. Her hands clenched into fists. Her jaws cramped with the effort of not screaming those words. Better to die. Better death than being turned to the Shadow, made to serve the Dark One!
She realized that one of her hands had tightened around the pouch at her belt. She could feel the two rings inside, the small circle of the Great Serpent and the larger, twisted stone ring.
“They did not take the ter’angreal,” she said wonderingly. She fumbled it out of her pouch. It lay heavily on her palm, all stripes and flecks of color, a ring with only one edge.
“We were not even important enough to search,” Elayne sighed. “Egwene, are you certain Rand is coming here? I would much rather free myself than wait for the chance of him, but if there is anyone who can defeat Liandrin and the rest of them, it must be him. The Dragon Reborn is meant to wield Callandor. He must be able to defeat them.”
“Not if we pull him into a cage after us,” Nynaeve muttered. “Not if they have a trap set he does not see. Why are you staring at that ring, Egwene? Tel’aran’rhiod will not help us now. Not unless you can dream a way out of here.”
“Perhaps I can,” she said slowly. “I could channel in Tel’aran’rhiod. Their shielding won’t stop me reaching it. All I need do is sleep, not channel. And I am surely weary enough to sleep.”
Elayne frowned, wincing as it pulled her bruises. “I will take any chance, but how can you channel even in a dream, cut off from the True Source? And if you can, how can it help us here?”
“I do not know, Elayne. Just because I am shielded here does not mean I am shielded in the World of Dreams. It is at least worth a try.”
“Perhaps,” Nynaeve said worriedly. “I will take any chance, too, but you saw Liandrin and the others the last time you used that ring. And you said they saw you, too. What if they are there again?”
“I hope they are,” Egwene said grimly. “I hope they are.”
Clutching the ter’angreal in her hand, she closed her eyes. She could feel Elayne smoothing her hair, hear her murmuring softly. Nynaeve began to hum that wordless lullaby from her childhood; for once, she felt no anger at it at all. The soft sounds and touches soothed her, let her surrender to her weariness, let sleep come.
She wore blue silk this time, but she barely noticed more than that. Soft breezes caressed her unbruised face, and sent the butterflies swirling above the wildflowers. Her thirst was gone, her aches. She reached out to embrace saidar and was filled with the One Power. Even the triumph she felt at succeeding was small beside the surging of the Power through her.
Reluctantly she made herself release it, closed her eyes, and filled the emptiness with a perfect image of the Heart of the Stone. That was the one place in the Stone she could picture aside from her cell, and how to distinguish one featureless cubicle from another? When she opened her eyes, she was there. But she was not alone.
The form of Joiya Byir stood before Callandor, her shape so insubstantial that the surging light of the sword shone through her. The crystal sword no longer merely glittered with refracted light. In pulses it glowed, as if some light inside it were being uncovered, then covered and uncovered again. The Black sister started with surprise and spun to face Egwene. “How? You are shielded! Your Dreaming is at an end!”
Before the first words were out of the woman’s mouth, Egwene reached for saidar again, wove the complicated flow of Spirit as she remembered it being used against her, and cut Joiya Byir off from the Source. The Darkfriend’s eyes widened, those cruel eyes so incongruous in that beautiful, kindly face, but Egwene was already weaving Air. The other woman’s form might seem like mist, but the bonds held it. It seemed to Egwene that there was no effort involved in holding both flows in their weaving. There was sweat on Joiya Byir’s forehead as she walked closer.
“You have a ter’angreal!” Fear was plain on the woman’s face, but her voice fought to hide it. “That must be it. A ter’angreal that escaped us, and one that does not require channeling. Do you think it will do you any good, girl? Whatever you do here, it cannot affect what happens in the real world. Tel’aran’rhiod is a dream! When I wake, I will take your ter’angreal from you myself. Be careful what you do, lest I have reason to be angry when I come to your cell.”
Egwene smiled at her. “Are you certain you will wake, Darkfriend? If your ter’angreal requires channeling, why did you not wake as soon as I shielded you? Perhaps you cannot wake so long as you are shielded here.” Her smile faded away; the effort of smiling at this woman was more than she could bear. “A woman once showed me a scar she received in Tel’aran’rhiod, Darkfriend. What happens here is still real when you wake.”
The sweat rolled down the Black sister’s smooth, ageless face, now. Egwene wondered if she thought she was about to die. She almost wished she were cruel enough to do that. Most of the unseen blows she had received had come from this woman, like a pounding of fists, for no reason more than that she had kept trying to crawl away, no reason more than that she had refused to give up.
“A woman who can give such beatings,” she said, “should have no objections to a milder one.” She wove another flow of Air quickly; Joiya Byir’s dark eyes bulged in disbelief as the first blow landed across her hips. Egwene saw how to adjust the weaving so she did not have to maintain it. “You will remember this, and feel it, when you waken. When I allow you to waken. Remember this, too. If you ever even try to beat me again, I will return you here and leave you for the rest of your life!” The Black sister’s eyes stared hate at her, but there was a suggestion of tears in them, too.
Egwene felt a moment of shame. Not at what she was doing to Joiya—the woman deserved every blow, if not for her own beating, then for the deaths in the Tower—not that, not really, but because she had spent time on her own revenge while Nynaeve and Elayne were sitting in a cell hoping against hope that she might be able to rescue them.
She tied off and set the flows of her weavings before she knew she had done it, then paused to study what she had done. Three separate weavings, and not only had it been no trouble to hold them all at once, but now she had done something so they would maintain themselves. She thought she could remember how, too. And it might be useful.
After a moment, she unraveled one of the weavings, and the Darkfriend sobbed as much from relief as from pain. “I am not like you,” Egwene said. “This is the second time I have done something like this, and I do not like it. I am going to have to learn to cut throats instead.” From the Black sister’s face, she thought Egwene meant to start learning with her.
Making a disgusted sound, Egwene left her standing there, trapped and shielded, and hurried into the forest of polished redstone columns. There had to be a way down to the cells somewhere.
The stone corridor fell silent as the final dying scream was cut off by Young Bull’s jaws closing on the two-legs’s throat, crushing it. The blood was bitter on his tongue.
He knew this was the Stone of Tear, though he could not say how he knew. The two-legs lying around him, one kicking his last with Hopper’s teeth buried in his throat, had smelled rank with fear as they fought. They had smelled confused. He did not think they had known where they were—they certainly did not belong in the wolf dream—but they had been set to keep him from that tall door ahead, with its iron lock. To guard it, at least. They had seemed startled to see wolves. He thought they had been startled at being there themselves.
He wiped his mouth, then stared at his hand with a momentary lack of comprehension. He was a man again. He was Perrin. Back in his own body, in the blacksmith’s vest, with the heavy hammer at his side.
We must hurry, Young Bull. There is something evil near.
Perrin pulled the hammer from his belt as he strode to the door. “Faile must be here.” One sharp blow shattered the lock. He kicked open the door.
The room was empty except for a long stone block in the middle of the floor. Faile lay on that block as if sleeping, her black hair spread out like a fan, her body so wrapped in chains that it took him a moment to realize she was unclothed. Every chain was held to the stone by a thick bolt.
He was hardly aware of crossing the space until his hand touched her face, tracing her cheekbone with a finger.
She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. “I kept dreaming you would come, blacksmith.”
“I will have you free in a moment, Faile.” He raised his hammer, smashed one of the bolts as if it were wood.
“I was sure of it. Perrin.”
As his name faded from her tongue, she faded, too. With a clatter, the chains dropped to the stone where she had been.
“No!” he cried. “I found her!”
The dream is not like the world of flesh, Young Bull. Here, the same hunt can have many endings.
He did not turn to look at Hopper. He knew his teeth were bared in a snarl. Again he raised the hammer, brought it down with all his strength against the chains that had held Faile. The stone block cracked in two under his blow; the Stone itself rang like a stuck bell.
“Then I will hunt again,” he growled.
Hammer in hand, Perrin strode out of the room with Hopper beside him. The Stone was a place of men. And men, he knew, were crueler hunters than ever wolves were.
Alarm gongs somewhere above sent sonorous clangs down the corridor, not quite drowning out the ring of metal on metal and the shouts of fighting men rather closer. The Aiel and the Defenders, Mat suspected. Tall, golden lamp stands, each with four golden lamps, lined the hall where Mat was, and silk tapestries of battle scenes hung on the polished stone walls. There were even silk carpets on the floor, dark red on dark blue, woven in the Tairen maze. For once, Mat was too busy to put a price on anything.
This bloody fellow is good, he thought as he managed to sweep a sword thrust away from him, but the blow he aimed at the man’s head with the other end of the staff had to turn into another block of that darting blade. I wonder if he is one of these bloody High Lords? He almost managed a solid blow at a knee, but his opponent sprang back, his straight blade raised on guard.
The blue-eyed man certainly wore the puffy-sleeved coat, yellow with thread-of-gold stripes, but it was all undone, his shirt only half tucked into his breeches, and his feet bare. His short-cropped, dark hair was tousled, like that of a man roused hastily from sleep, but he did not fight like it. Five minutes ago he had come darting out from one of the tall, carved doors that lined this hall, a scabbardless sword in his hands, and Mat was only grateful the fellow had appeared in front of them and not behind. He was not the first man dressed so that Mat had faced already, but he was surely the best.
“Can you make it past me, thief-catcher?” Mat called, careful not to take his eyes off the man waiting for him with blade poised to strike. Sandar had insisted irritably on “thief-catcher,” not “thief-taker,” though Mat could not see any difference.
“I cannot,” Sandar called from behind him. “If you move to let me by, you will lose room to swing that oar you call a staff, and he will spit you like a grunt.”
Like a what? “Well, think of something, Tairen. This ragamuffin is grating my nerves.”
The man in the gold-striped coat sneered. “You will be honored to die on the blade of the High Lord Darlin, peasant, if I allow it so.” It was the first time he had deigned to speak. “Instead, I think I will have the pair of you hung by the heels, and watch while the skin is stripped from your bodies—”
“I do not think I’d like that,” Mat said.
The High Lord’s face reddened with indignation at being interrupted, but Mat gave him no time for any outraged comment. Quarterstaff whirling in a tight double-loop weave, so quick the staff blurred at the ends, he leaped forward. It was all a snarling Darlin could do to keep the staff from him. For the moment. Mat knew he could not keep this up very long, and if he was lucky then, it would all go back to the strike and counterstrike. If he was lucky. But he had no intention of counting on luck this time. As soon as the High Lord had a moment to set himself in a pattern of defense, Mat altered his attack in mid-whirl. The end of the staff Darlin had been expecting at his head dipped instead to sweep his legs out from under him. The other end did strike at his head then, as he fell, a sharp crack that rolled his eyes back up in his head.
Panting, Mat leaned on his staff over the unconscious High Lord. Burn me, if I have to fight one or two more like this, I’ll bloody well fall over from exhaustion! The stories do not tell you being a hero it such hard work! Nynaeve always did find a way to make me work.
Sandar came to stand beside him, frowning down at the crumpled High Lord. “He does not look so mighty lying there,” he said wonderingly. “He does not look so much greater than me.”
Mat gave a start and peered down the hall, where a man had just gone trotting across along a joining corridor. Burn me, if I did not know it was crazy, I would swear that was Rand!
“Sandar, you find that—” he began, swinging his staff up onto his shoulder, and cut off when it thudded into something.
Spinning, he found himself facing another half-dressed High Lord, this one with his sword on the floor, his knees buckling, and both hands to his head where Mat’s staff had split his scalp. Hastily, Mat poked him hard in the stomach with the butt of the staff to bring his hands down, then gave him another thump on the head to put him down in a heap on top of his sword.
“Luck, Sandar,” he muttered. “You cannot beat bloody luck. Now, why don’t you find this bloody private way the High Lords take down to the cells?” Sandar had insisted there was such a stairway, and using it would avoid having to run through most of the Stone. Mat did not think he liked men so eager to watch people put to the question that they wanted a quick route to the prisoners from their apartments.
“Just be glad you were so lucky,” Sandar said unsteadily, “or this one would have killed us both before we saw him. I know the door is here somewhere. Are you coming? Or do you mean to wait for another High Lord to appear?”
“Lead on.” Mat stepped over the unconscious High Lord. “I am no bloody hero.”
Trotting, he followed the thief-catcher, who peered at the tall doors they passed, muttering that he knew it was here somewhere.