“We cannot hope to rely on Morgase,” Nynaeve said. “She is in Caemlyn, and we will be in Tar Valon. No, we may be in enough trouble already for going off as we did, no matter what we've brought back. It will be best if we stay low, behave humbly, and do nothing to attract more attention than we already have.”

Another time, Egwene would have laughed at the idea of Nynaeve pretending to be humble. Even Elayne managed a better job of it. But at present she did not feel like laughing. “And if Hurin is right? If we are attacked? He cannot defend us against twenty or thirty men, and we might be dead if we wait for Verin to do something. You said you sense a storm, Nynaeve.”

“You do?” Elayne said. Redgold curls swung as she shook her head. “Verin will not like it if we...” She trailed off. “Whatever Verin likes or doesn't like, we may have to.”

“I will do what must be done,” Nynaeve said sharply, “if there is anything to be done, and you two will run, if need be. The White Tower may be all abuzz with your potential, but don't think they will not still you both if the Amyrlin Seat or the Hall of the Tower decides it is necessary.”

Elayne swallowed hard. “If they would still us for it,” she said in a faint voice, “they would still you, too. We should all run together; or act together. Hurin has been right before. If we want to live to be in trouble in the Tower, we may have to... to do what we must.”

Egwene shivered. Stilled. Cut off from saidar, the female half of the True Source. Few Aes Sedai had ever incurred that penalty, yet there were deeds for which the Tower demanded stilling. Novices were required to learn the names of every Aes Sedai who had ever been stilled, and their crimes.

She could always feel the Source there, now, just out of sight, like the sun at noon over her shoulder. If she often caught nothing when she tried to touch saidar, she still wanted to touch it. The more she touched it, the more she wanted to, all the time, no matter what Sheriam Sedai, the Mistress of Novices, said about the dangers of growing too fond of the feel of the One Power. To be cut off from it; still able to sense saidar, but never to touch it again...

Neither of the others seemed to want to talk, either.

To cover her shaking, she bent from her saddle to the gently swaying litter. Mat's blankets had become disarrayed, exposing a curved dagger in a golden sheath clutched in one hand, a ruby the size of a pigeon's egg capping the hilt. Careful not to touch the dagger, she eased the blankets back over his hand. He was only a few years older than she, but gaunt cheeks and sallow skin had aged him. His chest barely moved as he breathed hoarsely. A lumpy leather sack lay at his feet. She shifted the blanket to cover that, too. We have to get Mat to the Tower, she thought. And the sack.

Nynaeve leaned down as well, and felt Mat's forehead. “His fever is worse.” She sounded worried. “If only I had some worrynot root or feverbane.”

“Perhaps if Verin tried Healing again,” Elayne said.

Nynaeve shook her head. She smoothed Mat's hair back and sighed, then straightened before speaking. “She says it is all she can do to keep him alive, now, and I believe her. I tried Healing last night myself, but nothing happened.”

Elayne gasped. “Sheriam Sedai says we mustn't try to Heal until we've been guided step by step a hundred times.”

“You could have killed him,” Egwene said sharply.

Nynaeve sniffed loudly. “I was Healing before I ever thought of going to Tar Valon, even if I didn't know I was. But it seems I need my medicines to make it work for me. If I only had some feverbane. I do not think he has much time left. Hours, maybe.”

Egwene thought she sounded almost as unhappy about knowing, about how she knew, as she did about Mat. She wondered again why Nynaeve had chosen to go to Tar Valon for training at all. She had learned to channel unknowingly, even if she could not always control the act, and had passed the crisis that killed three out of four women who learned without Aes Sedai guidance. Nynaeve said she wanted to learn more, but often she was as reluctant about it as a child being dosed with sheepstongue root.

“We will have him in the White Tower soon,” Egwene said. “They can Heal him there. The Amyrlin will take care of him. She will take care of everything.” She did not look at where Mat's blanket covered the sack at his feet. The other two women were studiously not looking at it, either. There were some secrets they would all be relieved to shed.

“Riders,” Nynaeve said suddenly, but Egwene had already seen them. Two dozen men appearing over a low rise ahead, white cloaks flapping as they galloped, angling toward them.

“Children of the Light,” Elayne said, like a curse. “I think we have found your storm, and Hurin's trouble.”

Verin had pulled up, a hand on Hurin's arm to stop him drawing his sword. Egwene touched the lead litter horse to stop it just behind the plump Aes Sedai.

“Let me do all the talking, children,” the Aes Sedai said placidly, pushing her cowl back to reveal gray in her hair. Egwene was not sure how old Verin was; she thought old enough to be a grandmother, but the gray streaks were the Aes Sedai's only signs of age. “And whatever you do, do not allow them to make you angry.”

Verin's face was as calm as her voice, but Egwene thought she saw the Aes Sedai measuring the distance to Tar Valon. The tops of the towers were visible now, and a high bridge arching over the river to the island, tall enough for the trading ships that plied the river to sail beneath.

Close enough to see, Egwene thought, but too far to do any good.

For a moment she was sure the oncoming Whitecloaks meant to charge them, but their leader raised a hand and they abruptly drew rein a scant forty paces off, scattering dust and dirt ahead of them.

Nynaeve muttered angrily under her breath, and Elayne sat straight and full of pride, appearing likely to berate the Whitecloaks for ill manners. Hurin still had a grip on his sword hilt; he looked ready to put himself between the women and the Whitecloaks no matter what Verin said. Verin mildly waved a hand in front of her face to dispel the dust. The whitecloaked riders spread out in an arc, blocking the way firmly.

Their breastplates and conical helmets shone from polishing, and even the mail on their arms gleamed brightly. Each man had the flaring, golden sun on his breast. Some fitted arrows to bows, which they did not raise, but held ready. Their leader was a young man, yet he wore two golden knots of rank beneath