Speaking of taking care, he became aware of Aviendha studying him, her shawl wrapped around her head much like a shoufa. He straightened himself again. Moiraine might have told her off to nurse him, but he had the impression the woman was waiting to see him fall. Doubtless she would find that funny, Aiel humor being what it was. He would have liked to think she simply resented being stuffed into a dress and set to watch him, but the glitter in her eyes seemed too personal for that.

For once Moiraine and the Wise Ones were not watching him. Halfway between the Jindo and the Shaido, Moiraine and Egwene were walking with Amys and the others, all six women looking at something in the Aes Sedai's hands. It caught the light of the falling sun, sparkling like a gem; they certainly seemed as intent as any girl on a pretty. Lan rode back among the gai'shain and packhorses, as though they had sent him away.

The scene made Rand uneasy. He was used to being the center of attention for that lot. What had they found more interesting? Surely nothing he could be happy about, not with Moiraine, likely not with Amys or the others. They all had their plans for him. Egwene was the only one of them he really trusted. Light, I hope I can still trust her. The only one he could really trust was himself. When the boar breaks cover, there's only you and your spear. His laugh was a touch bitter this time.

“You find the Threefold Land amusing, Rand al'Thor?” Aviendha's smile was the merest flash of white teeth. “Laugh while you can, wetlander. When this land begins to break you, it will be a fitting punishment for your treatment of Elayne.”

Why would the woman an not let up? “You didn't show any respect for the Dragon Reborn,” he snapped, “but you could try finding a little for the Car'a'carn.”

Rhuarc chuckled. “A clan chief is not a wetlander king Rand, nor is the Car'a'carn. There is respect — though women generally show as little as they can get away with — but anyone can speak to a chief.” Even so, he sent a frown in the direction of the woman on the other side of Rand's horse. “Some do push the bounds of honor.”

Aviendha must have known that last was meant for her ears; her face went stony. But she strode along without saying another word, fists clenched at her sides.

A pair of the scouting Maidens appeared, coming back at a dead run. They were plainly not together; one headed straight for the Shaido, the other for the Jindo. Rand recognized her, a yellowhaired woman named Adelin, handsome but hardfaced, with a scar making a fine white line across her sundark cheek. She was one of those who had been in the Stone, though older than most of the Maidens there, perhaps ten years more than he. The quick look she gave Aviendha before falling in beside Rhuarc, an equal blend of curiosity and sympathy, made Rand bristle. If Aviendha had agreed to do the Wise Ones' spying, she certainly did not deserve sympathy. His company was not so onerous as that. Him, Adelin ignored altogether.

“There is trouble at Imre Stand,” she told Rhuarc, her speech quick and clipped. “There is no one to be seen. We have kept hidden and not gone close.”

“Good,” Rhuarc replied. “Inform the Wise Ones.” Unconsciously hefting his spears, he dropped back to the main body of Jindo. Aviendha muttered to herself, plucking at her skirts, obviously wanting to join him.

“I think they already know,” Mat said as Adelin sped toward the Wise Ones' party.

From the agitation among the women around Moiraine, Rand thought he was right. They all appeared to be talking at once. Egwene was shading her eyes, staring at either Adelin or him, her other hand to her mouth. How they knew had to be a question for later.

“What kind of trouble might it be?” he asked Aviendha. Still muttering to herself, she did not answer. “Aviendha? What kind of trouble?” Nothing. “Burn you, woman, you can answer a simple question! What kind of trouble?”

She flushed, but her reply came in a level tone. “It is most likely to be a raid, for goats or sheep; either could be herded at Imre for pasture, but most likely goats, because of the water. Probably it was the Chareen, the White Mountain sept or the Jarra. They are closest. Or it might be a sept from the Goshien. The Tomanelle are too far, I think.”

“Will there be fighting?” He reached out for saidin; the sweet rush of the Power flooded him. The rancid taint oozed through him, and fresh sweat burst from every pore. “Aviendha?”

“No. Adelin would have said if the raiders were still there. The herd and the gai'shain are miles gone by now. We cannot recover the herd because we must accompany you. ”

He wondered why she did not mention recovering the captives, the gai'shain, but he did not wonder long. The effort of staying upright while holding on to saidin, of not folding up and being swept away, left little room for thought.

Rhuarc and the Jindo swept ahead at a run, already veiling their faces, and Rand followed more slowly. Aviendha shot him impatient frowns, but he kept Jeade'en to a brisk walk. He would not go galloping into someone else's trap. At least Mat was in no hurry; he hesitated, looking at the peddlers' wagons, before cantering Pips up. Rand never glanced at the wagons.

The Shaido fell behind, slowing until the Wise Ones began to move again. Of course. This was Taardad land. Couladin would not care if someone raided here. Rand hoped the clan chiefs could be gathered at Alcair Dal quickly. How could he unite a people who seemed to fight each other all the time? The least of his worries, now.

When Imre Stand finally came in sight, it was something of a surprise. A few widely scattered clumps of longhaired white goats browsed on patches of tough grass and even the leaves of thorny bushes. At first he did not see the crude stone building set against the base of a tall butte; the rough stonework blended in perfectly, and several thornbushes had taken root on the dirt covered roof. Not very big, it had arrowslits for windows and only one door that he could see. After a moment he spotted another building, no larger, tucked onto a ledge some twenty paces higher. A deep crevice ran up to the ledge and beyond from behind the stone house at the base; there was no other evident way to reach the ledge.

Rhuarc, standing openly four hundred or so paces from the butte with his veil lowered, was the only Jindo in sight. That did not mean the others were not there, of course. Rand reined in beside him and dismounted. The clan chief continued to study the stone buildings.

“The goats,” Aviendha said, sounding troubled. “Raiders would not have left any goats behind. Most are gone, but it almost looks as if the herd has just been allowed to wander.”

“For days,” Rhuarc agreed, not taking his eyes from the buildings, “or more would remain. Why does no one come out? They should be able to see my face, and know me.” He started forward, and made no objection when Rand joined him leading Jeade'en. Aviendha had one hand on her belt knife, and Mat, riding behind, carried that blackhafted spear as if he expected to need it.

The door was rough wood, pieced together from short, narrow planks. Some of the stout bracing was broken, hacked by axes. Rhuarc hesitated a moment before pushing it open. He hardly glanced inside before turning to run his eyes over the surrounding country.

Rand put his head in. There was no one there. The interior, light streaming in bars through the arrowslits, was all one room and plainly not a dwelling, just a place for herdsmen to shelter, and defend themselves if attacked. There were no furnishings, no tables or chairs. A raised open hearth stood beneath a sooty smoke hole in the roof. The wide crevice at the back had steps chiseled into the gray rock. The place had been ransacked. Bedding, blankets, pots, all lay scattered across the stone floor amid slashed cushions and pillows. Some liquid had been splashed over everything, the walls, even the ceiling, and had dried black.

When he realized what it was, he jerked back, the Powerwrought sword coming into his hands before he even thought. Blood. So much blood. There had been slaughter done here, as savage as anything he could imagine. Nothing moved out there except the goats.

Aviendha backed out as fast as she went in. “Who?” she demanded incredulously, her large bluegreen eyes filled with outrage. “Who would do this? Where are the dead?”

“Trollocs,” Mat muttered. “It looks like Trolloc work to me.”

She snorted contemptuously. “Trollocs do not come into the Threefold Land, wetlander. No more than a few miles below the Blight, at least, and then seldom. I have heard they call the Threefold Land the Dying Ground. We hunt Trollocs, wetlander; they do not hunt us.”

Nothing moved. Rand let the sword go, pushed saidin away. It was hard. The sweetness of the Power was nearly enough to overcome the feel of filth from the taint, the sheer exhilaration almost enough to make him not care. Mat was right whatever Aviendha said, but this was old, the Trollocs gone. Trollocs in the Waste, at a place he had come to. He was not fool enough to think it coincidence. But if they think I am, maybe they'll grow careless.

Rhuarc signaled the Jindo to come in — they seemed to rise out of the ground — and some time later the others appeared, the Shaido and the peddlers' wagons and the Wise Ones' party. Word spread quickly of what had been found, and among the Aiel, tension became palpable. They moved as if they expected momentary attack, perhaps from each other. Scouts fanned out in every direction. Unharnessing their mules, the wagon drivers looked around jerkily, and seemed ready to dive under their wagons at the first shout.

For a time all was a stirred hive of ants. Rhuarc made sure the peddlers lined their wagons up on the edge of the Jindo camp. Couladin glowered, since it meant any Shaido who wanted to trade had to go to the Jindo, but he did not argue. Perhaps even he could see that might lead to dancing the spears, now. The Shaido tents went up a scant quartermile away, with the Wise Ones, as usual, in between. The Wise Ones examined the inside of the building, and Moiraine and Lan did, as well, but if they reached any conclusions, they told no one.

The water at Imre Stand turned out to be a tiny spring at the back of the crevice, feeding a deep, roughly round pool — what Rhuarc called a tank — less than two paces across. Enough for herdsmen, enough for the Jindo to fill some of their waterskins. No Shaido went near; in Taardad land, the Jindo had first claim on water. It seemed the goats got their moisture purely from the thick leaves of the thorny bushes. Rhuarc assured Rand there would be much more water at the next night's stop.

Kadere produced a surprise while the wagon drivers were unhitching their teams and fetching buckets from the waterwagons. When he came out of his wagon, a darkhaired young woman accompanied him, in a red silk gown and red velvet slippers more suited to a palace than to the Waste. A filmy red scarf wound almost like shoufa and veil provided no protection from the sun, and certainly did nothing to hide a palely beautiful heartshaped face. Clinging to the peddler's thick arm, she swayed enticingly as he took her to see the bloodsplashed room; Moiraine and the others had gone off to where the gai'shain were erecting the Wise Ones' camp. When the pair came back out, the young woman shuddered delicately. Rand was sure it was pretense, just as he was sure she had asked to view that butcher's workroom. Her show of revulsion lasted all of two seconds, and then she was peering about