Slayer’s eyes flickered down to Perrin’s belt. There, affixed in a pouch Perrin had created to hold it, was the ter’angreal. The tip stuck out the top, silvery bits wrapping around one another in a complex knotted braid. Perrin had tried again to destroy the thing by thinking of it, but had been rebuffed. Attacking it with his hammer hadn’t so much as bent it. Whatever this thing was, it had been built to resist such attacks.
“You’ve grown skilled,” Slayer said. “I should have killed you months ago.”
“I believe you tried,” Perrin said, raising his hammer, resting it on his shoulder. “Who are you really?”
“A man of two worlds, Perrin Aybara. And one owned by both. I’ll need the dreamspike back.”
“Step closer, and I’ll destroy it,” Perrin said.
Slayer snorted, walking forward. “You don’t have the strength for that, boy. I don’t even have the strength to manage that.” His eyes flickered unconsciously over Perrin’s shoulder. Toward what?
Dragonmount, Perrin thought. He must have worried I was coming this way to toss it in. Was that, then, an indication of a way Perrin could destroy the ter’angreal? Or was Slayer trying to mislead him?
“Don’t press me, boy,” Slayer said, sword and knife appearing in his hands as he walked forward. “I’ve already killed four wolves today. Give me the spike.”
Four? But he’d killed only one that Perrin had seen. He’s trying to goad me.
“You think I’ll believe that you won’t kill me if I give it to you?” Perrin said. “If I gave this to you, you’d have to go put it back in Ghealdan. You know I’d just follow you there.” Perrin shook his head. “One of us has to die, and that’s that.”
Slayer hesitated, then smiled. “Luc hates you, you know. Hates you deeply.”
“And you don’t?” Perrin asked, frowning.
“No more than the wolf hates the stag.”
“You are not a wolf,” Perrin said, growling softly.
Slayer shrugged. “Let us be done with this, then.” He dashed forward.
Gawyn charged into the White Tower; the men on guard barely had time to salute. He dashed past mirrored stand-lamps. Only one in every two was lit, to conserve oil. As he reached a ramp upward, he heard feet behind him.
His sword hissed as he pulled it free, spinning. Mazone and Celark pulled to a halt. The former Younglings wore Tower Guard uniforms now. Would they try to stop him? Who knew what kind of orders Egwene had left?
They saluted.
“Men?” Gawyn said. “What are you doing?”
“Sir,” Celark said, lean face shadowed in the patchy lamplight. “When an officer runs by with a look like that on his face, you don’t ask if he needs help. You just follow!”
Gawyn smiled. “Come on.” He dashed up the ramps, the two men following, swords at the ready.
Egwene’s quarters were some way up, and Gawyn’s pulse was racing—his breathing forced—by the time they reached her level. They hurried down three hallways; then Gawyn held up his hand. He glanced at the nearby shadowed recesses. Were any of them deep enough to hide a Bloodknife?
You cannot have light without shadow…
He peeked around the corner toward Egwene’s door; he stood in virtually the same position he had been when he had ruined her plans before. Was he doing the same thing now? His two guardsmen stood up close behind him, waiting on his command.
Yes. He was doing the same thing as before. And yet, something had changed. He would see her protected so that she could do great things. He would stand in her shadow and be proud. He would do as she asked—but would see her safe no matter what.
Because that was what a Warder did.
He slipped forward, waving his men to follow. The darkness in that shadowy alcove from before didn’t seem to repel his attention as it had last time. A good sign. He stopped at the door and tried it carefully. It was unlocked. He took a deep breath, then slipped inside.
No alarms went off; no traps caught him and flung him about. A few lamps shone on the walls. At a faint noise, he looked upward. A Tower maid hung there, struggling, with wide eyes, mouth gagged by an invisible flow of Air.
Gawyn cursed, dashing across the room, and threw open the door to Egwene’s sleeping chamber. Her bed, one side against the far wall, was draped with white gauze curtains, and a lamp burned on the stand beside it. Gawyn crossed the room to her, pushing the gauze aside. Was she sleeping? Or was she…
He reached a hand toward her neck, but at a faint thump behind, Gawyn whipped his sword around and blocked the strike coming at his back. Not one, but two blurs of darkness leaped from the shadows. He spared a glance for Egwene; there was no blood, but he couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. Had his entrance interrupted the assassins in time?
There was no time to check. He fell into Apple Blossoms in the Wind and began to shout. His men stepped up to the doorway, then froze there, stunned.
“Get more help!” Gawyn said. “Go!”
Dark-skinned Mazone turned to obey while Celark, looking determined, leaped into the fight.
The Bloodknives shifted and undulated. Gawyn managed to slip into Cat on Hot Sand to test them, but each strike hit only air. His eyes were already hurting from trying to follow the figures.
Celark attacked from behind, but was as in effective as Gawyn. Gawyn gritted his teeth, fighting with his back against the bed. He had to keep them away from Egwene, long enough for help to come. If he could—
Both figures twisted suddenly, striking in tandem at Celark. The man barely had time to curse before a sword took him in the neck, and bright blood spurted out. Gawyn yelled again, falling into Lizard in the Thornbush, striking at the backs of the assassins.
Again, his attacks missed. It seemed he was off by only a few hairs. Celark stumbled to the floor with a gurgle, his blood reflecting lanternlight, and Gawyn couldn’t step forward to defend him. Not without exposing Egwene.
One of the assassins turned back to Gawyn while the other beheaded Celark, with a slash that—despite the shadows—looked a lot like The River Undercuts the Bank. Gawyn stepped back, trying to keep his eyes off the fallen man. Defend. He only had to defend until help came! He edged to the side.
The Seanchan were wary; they knew he’d fought one of them off before. But they had such a strong advantage. Gawyn wasn’t certain he could stand against two of them.
Yes you will, he told himself sternly. If you fall, Egwene dies.
Was that a flicker of movement from the other room? Could help have come? Gawyn felt a surge of hope, and edged to the side. From there, he could see Mazone’s body on the floor, bleeding.
A third shadowed figure glided into the room and shut the door behind, locking it. That was why the other two had been hesitating. They’d wanted to wait until their ally arrived.
The three of them attacked together.
Perrin let the wolf free.
For once, he didn’t worry about what it would do to him. He let himself be, and as he fought, the world seemed to become right around him.
Perhaps that was because it bent to his will.
Young Bull leaped from a rooftop in Tar Valon, powerful hind legs springing him into the air, ter’angreal pouch fastened to his back. He soared over a street and landed on a white marble roof with groups of statues on its edges. He rolled, coming up as a man—ter’angreal tied at his waist—with hammer swinging.
Slayer vanished right before the hammer hit, then appeared beside Perrin. Perrin vanished as Slayer swung, then appeared just to the left. Back and forth they went, spinning around one another, each disappearing then appearing again, struggling to land a blow.
Perrin threw himself out of the cycle, sending himself to a place beside one of the roof’s large statues, a pompous-looking general. He swung, smashing his hammer into it, magnifying the power of the blow. Chunks of statue exploded toward Slayer. The wolf-killer appeared, expecting to find Perrin beside him. Instead, a storm of stone and dust crashed into him.
Slayer bellowed, stone chips slicing his skin. His cloak immediately became as strong as steel, reflecting chunks of stone. He whipped it back and the entire building started to shake. Perrin cursed and leaped free as the roof fell in.
Perrin soared, becoming a wolf before landing on a nearby rooftop. Slayer appeared in front of him, bow drawn. Young Bull growled, imagining the wind blowing, but Slayer didn’t fire. He just stood there, as if—
As if he were just a statue.
Perrin cursed, spinning as an arrow shot past him, narrowly missing him at the waist. The real Slayer stood a short distance off; he vanished, leaving the remarkably detailed statue he’d created to distract Perrin.
Perrin took a deep breath and made the sweat leave his brow. Slayer could come at him from any direction. He put a wall at his back and stood carefully, scanning the rooftop. The dome shook overhead. He’d grown used to that—it moved with him.
But he wasn’t moving.
He looked down with a panic. The pouch was gone—the arrow Slayer had fired at his waist had sliced it free. Perrin dashed forward to the edge of the roof. Below, Slayer ran through the street, the pouch in his hand.
A wolf leaped from an alley, crashing into Slayer, tossing him to the ground. Hopper.
Perrin was there in a moment, attacking. Slayer cursed, vanishing from underneath Hopper and appearing at the end of the street. He began to flee, leaving a blur behind him.
Perrin followed, Hopper joining him. How did you find me? Perrin sent.
You are two foolish cubs, Hopper sent. Very loud. Like snarling cats. Easy to find.
He’d deliberately not shown Hopper where he was. After seeing Oak Dancer die…well, this was Perrin’s fight. Now that the ter’angreal was away from Ghealdan and his people were escaping, he didn’t want to risk the lives of other wolves.
Not that Hopper would go if he told him to. Growling again, Perrin barreled after Slayer, wolf at his side.
Egwene crouched beside the wall of the hallway, panting, sweat dripping from her brow. Across from her, molten drops of rock cooled from a blast of fire.
The Tower hallway fell still. A few lamps flickered on the wall. Through a window, she could see the purple sky above, between the Tower and the dark clouds. She’d been fighting for what seemed like hours, though it had probably been only fifteen minutes. She’d lost track of the Wise Ones.
She began to creep forward, using the anti-eavesdropping weave to make her footfalls silent until she reached a corner and peered around it. Darkness in both directions. Egwene crept forward, moving carefully, resolutely. The Tower was her domain. She felt invaded, as surely as when the Seanchan had come. However, this fight was proving very different from fighting off the Seanchan. Then, the enemy had been bold, easy to spot.
Faint light appeared under a doorway ahead. She shifted herself into the room, preparing weaves. Two women were there, speaking in whispers, one holding a globe of light. Evanellein and Mestra, two of the Black sisters who had fled the White Tower.
Egwene let loose with a ball of fire that destroyed Mestra in an inferno. Evanellein yelped, and Egwene used a trick Nynaeve had taught her—she imagined Evanellein being stupid, unable to think, unable to react.