Ingtar raised his hand and signaled for a trot.

The village Masema had found covered the slopes of a hill, with a paved square at the top around a circle of stone walls. The houses were of stone, all flatroofed and few more than a single story. Three that had been larger, along one side of the square, were only heaps of blackened rubble; shattered chunks of stone and roof beams lay scattered across the square. A few shutters banged when the wind gusted.

Ingtar dismounted in front of the only large building still standing. The creaking sign above its door bore a woman juggling stars, but no name; rain came off the corners in two steady drizzles. Verin hurried inside while Ingtar spoke. “Uno, search every house. If there is anyone left, perhaps they can tell us what happened here, and maybe a little more about these Seanchan. And if there's any food, bring that, too. And blankets.” Uno nodded and began telling off men. Ingtar turned to Hurin. “What do you smell? Did Fain come through here?”

Hurin, rubbing his nose, shook his head. “Not him, my Lord, and not the Trollocs, neither. Whoever did that left a stench, though.” He pointed to the wreckage that had been houses. “It was killing, my Lord. There were people in there.”

“Seanchan,” Ingtar growled. “Let's get inside. Ragan, find some sort of stable for the horses.”

Verin already had fires going in both of the big fireplaces, at either end of the common room, and was warming her hands at one, her sodden cloak spread out on one of the tables dotting the tiled floor. She had found a few candles, too, now burning on a table stuck in their own tallow. Emptiness and quiet, except for the occasional grumble of thunder, added to the flickering shadows to give the place a cavernous feel. Rand tossed his equally wet cloak and coat on a table and joined her. Only Loial seemed more interested in checking his books than in warming himself.

“We will never find the Horn of Valere this way,” Ingtar said. “Three days since we ... since we arrived here” — he shuddered and scrubbed a hand through his hair; Rand wondered what the Shienaran had seen in his other lives — “another two, at least, to Falme, and we have not found so much as a hair of Fain or Darkfriends. There are scores of villages along the coast. He could have gone to any of them and taken ship anywhere by now. If he was ever here.”

“He is here,” Verin said calmly, “and he went to Falme.”

“And he's still here,” Rand said. Waiting for me. Please, Light, he's still waiting.

“Hurin still hasn't caught a whiff of him,” Ingtar said. The sniffer shrugged as if he felt himself at fault for the failure. “Why would he choose Falme? If those villagers are to be believed, Falme is held by these Seanchan. I would give my best hound to know who they are, and where they came from.”

“Who they are is not important to us.” Verin knelt and unfastened her saddlebags, pulling out dry clothes. “At least we have rooms in which to change our clothes, though it will do us little good unless the weather changes. Ingtar, it may well be that what the villagers told us is right, that they are the descendants of Artur Hawkwing's armies come back. What matters is that Padan Fain has gone to Falme. The writings in the dungeon at Fal Dara —”

“— never mentioned Fain. Forgive me, Aes Sedai, but that could have been a trick as easily as dark prophecy. I can't believe even Trollocs would be stupid enough to tell us everything they were going to do before they did it.”

She twisted to look up at him. “And what do you mean to do, if you will not take my advice?”

“I mean to have the Horn of Valere,” Ingtar said firmly. “Forgive me, but I have to trust my own senses before some words scrawled by a Trolloc ...”

“A Myrddraal, surely,” Verin murmured, but he did not even pause.

“ ... or a Darkfriend seeming to betray himself out of his own mouth. I mean to quarter the ground until Hurin smells a trail or we find Fain in the flesh. I must have the Horn, Verin Sedai. I must!”

“That isn't the way,” Hurin said softly. “Not 'must.' What happens, happens.” No one paid him any mind.

“We all must,” Verin murmured, peering into her saddlebags, “yet some things may be even more important than that.”

She did not say more, but Rand grimaced. He longed to get away from her and her prods and hints. I am not the Dragon Reborn. Light, but I wish I could just get away from Aes Sedai completely. “Ingtar, I think I'm riding on to Falme. Fain is there — I'm sure he is — and if I don't come soon, he — he will do something to hurt Emond's Field.” He had not mentioned that part before.

They all stared at him, Mat and Perrin frowning, worried but considering; Verin as if she had just seen a new piece added to a puzzle. Loial looked astonished, and Hurin seemed confused. Ingtar was openly disbelieving.

“Why would he do that?” the Shienaran said.

“I don't know,” Rand lied, “but that was part of the message he left with Barthanes.”

“And did Barthanes say Fain was going to Falme?” Ingtar demanded. “No. It wouldn't matter if he had.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Darkfriends lie as naturally as they breathe.”

“Rand,” Mat said, “if I knew how to stop Fain from hurting Emond's Field, I would. If I was sure he was going to. But I need that dagger, Rand, and Hurin has the best chance of finding it.”

“I will go wherever you go, Rand,” Loial said. He had finished making sure the books were dry and was taking off his sodden coat. “But I don't see where a few more days will change anything one way or another, now. Try being a little less hasty for once.”

“It doesn't matter to me whether we go to Falme now, later, or never,” Perrin said with a shrug, “but if Fain really is threatening Emond's Field ... well, Mat's right. Hurin is the best way to find him.”

“I can find him, Lord Rand,” Hurin put in. “Let me get one sniff of him, and I'll take you right to him. There's never anything else left a trail like his.”

“You must make your own choice, Rand,” Verin said carefully, “but remember that Falme is held by invaders about whom we still know next to nothing. If you go to Falme alone, you may find yourself a prisoner, or worse, and that will serve nothing. I am sure whatever choice you make wil