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 twolegs'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 twolegs 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 blueeyed man certainly wore the puffysleeved coat, yellow with threadofgold stripes, but it was all undone, his shirt only half tucked into his breeches, and his feet bare. His shortcropped, 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, thiefcatcher?” Mat called, careful not to take his eyes off the man waiting for him with blade poised to strike. Sandar had insisted irritably on “thiefcatcher,” not “thieftaker,” 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