Perrin climbed to his feet. It’s not real.
“Tarmon Gai’don!” people yelled. “The Last Battle has come! It ends! Light, it ends!”
Perrin stumbled, pulling himself up against a chunk of rock, trying to stand. His arm hurt, and his fingers wouldn’t grip, but the worst wound was in his leg, where the arrow had hit. His trousers and coat were wet with blood, and the scent of his own terror was powerful in his nose.
He knew this nightmare was not real. And yet, how could one not feel the horror of it? To the west, Dragonmount was erupting, plumes of angry smoke billowing into the sky. The entire mountain seemed aflame, rivers of red surging down its sides. Perrin could feel it shaking, dying. Buildings cracked, trembled, melted, shattered. People died, crushed by stones or burned to death.
No. He would not be drawn in. The ground around him changed from broken cobbles to neat tiles; the servants’ entrance to the White Tower. Perrin forced himself to his feet, creating a staff to use in limping.
He didn’t destroy the nightmare; he had to find Slayer. In this terrible place, Perrin might be able to gain an advantage. Slayer was very practiced in Tel’aran’rhiod, but perhaps—if Perrin had luck on his side—the man was skilled enough to have avoided nightmares in the past. Perhaps he would be startled by this one, taken in.
Reluctantly, Perrin weakened his resolve, letting himself be drawn into the nightmare. Slayer would be close. Perrin stumbled across the street, staying far from the building with the lava boiling from its windows. It was hard to keep himself from giving in to the screams of horror and pain. The calls for help.
There, Perrin thought, reaching an alley. Slayer stood inside, head bowed, a hand up against one wall. The ground beside the man ended in a rift, boiling magma at the bottom. People clung to the edge of the gap, screaming. Slayer ignored them. Where his hand touched the wall, it started to change from whitewashed brick to the gray stone of the White Tower’s interior.
The ter’angreal still hung at Slayer’s waist. Perrin had to move quickly.
The wall is melting from the heat, Perrin thought, focusing on the wall beside Slayer. It was easier, here, to change things like that—it was playing into the world the nightmare created.
Slayer cursed, pulling his hand back as the wall grew red-hot. The ground beneath him rumbled, and his eyes opened wide in alarm. He spun as a rift opened beside him, projected there by Perrin. In that moment, Perrin saw that Slayer believed—for just a fraction of a second—that the nightmare was real. Slayer stepped away from the rift, raising a hand against its heat, believing it real.
Slayer vanished in the blink of an eye, appearing beside those hanging above the rift. The nightmare incorporated him, sucking him into its whims, making him play a role in its terrors. It nearly took Perrin, too. He felt himself waver, nearly responding to the heat. But no. Hopper was dying. He would not fail!
Perrin imagined himself as someone else. Azi al’Thone, one of the Two Rivers men. Perrin put himself in clothing like that he’d seen on the street, a vest and a white shirt, finer trousers than any man would wear while working in Emond’s Field. This step was almost too much for him. His heart beat faster, and he stumbled as the ground rumbled. If he let himself be caught up completely in the nightmare, he’d end up like Slayer.
No, Perrin thought, forcing himself to hold to his memory of Faile in his heart. His home. His face might change, the world might shake, but that was still home.
He ran to the edge of the rift, above the heat, acting as if he were just another part of the nightmare. He screamed in terror, reaching down to help those who were falling. Though he reached for someone else, Slayer cursed and grabbed his arm, using it to heave himself upward.
And as he passed, Perrin grabbed the ter’angreal. Slayer crawled over him, reaching the relative safety of the alley. Covertly, Perrin made a knife in his other hand.
“Burn me,” Slayer growled. “I hate these things.” The area around them suddenly changed to tiles.
Perrin stood up, holding a staff to steady himself and trying to appear terrified—it wasn’t hard. He began to stumble past Slayer. In that moment, the hard-faced man looked down and saw the ter’angreal in Perrin’s fingers.
His eyes opened wide. Perrin rammed his hand forward, plunging the knife into Slayer’s stomach. The man screamed, lurching backward, hand to his belly. Blood soaked his fingers.
Slayer clenched his teeth. The nightmare bent around him. It would burst soon. Slayer righted himself, lowering his bloodied hand, eyes alight with anger.
Perrin felt unsteady on his feet, even with the staff. He’d been wounded so badly. The ground trembled. A rift opened in the ground next to him, steaming with heat and lava, like…
Perrin started. Like Dragonmount. He looked down at the ter’angreal in his fingers. The fear-dreams of people are strong. Hopper’s voice whispered in Perrin’s mind. So very strong….
As Slayer advanced on him, Perrin gritted his teeth and hurled the ter’angreal into the river of lava.
“No!” Slayer screamed, reality returning around him. The nightmare burst, its last vestiges vanishing. Perrin was left kneeling on the cold tiled floor of a small hallway.
A short distance to his right, a melted lump of metal lay on the ground. Perrin smiled.
Like Slayer, the ter’angreal was here from the real world. And like a person, it could be broken and destroyed here. Above them, the violet dome had vanished.
Slayer growled, then stepped forward and kicked Perrin in the stomach. His chest wound flared. Another kick followed. Perrin was growing dizzy.
Go, Young Bull, Hopper sent, his voice so weak. Flee.
I can’t leave you!
And yet…I must leave you.
No!
You have found your answer. Seek Boundless. He will…explain…that answer.
Perrin blinked through tears as another kick landed. He screamed, raggedly, as Hopper’s sending—so comforting, so familiar—faded from his mind.
Gone.
Perrin screamed in anguish. Voice ragged, eyes stained with tears, Perrin willed himself out of the wolf dream and away. Fleeing like an utter coward.
Egwene awoke with a sigh. Eyes still closed, she breathed in. The battle with Mesaana had left her mind feeling strained—indeed, she had a splitting headache. She had quite nearly been defeated there. Her plans had worked, but the weight of what had happened left her feeling contemplative, even a little overwhelmed.
Still, it had been a great victory. She would have to do a search of the White Tower and find the woman who, when awakened, now had the mind of a child. She knew, somehow, that this was not something Mesaana would recover from. She’d known it even before Bair had spoken her words.
Egwene opened her eyes to a comfortably dark room, making plans to gather the Hall and explain why Shevan and Carlinya would never awaken. She spared a moment to mourn for them as she sat up. She’d explained to them the dangers, but still she felt as if she’d failed them. And Nicola, always trying to go faster than she should. She shouldn’t have been there. It—
Egwene hesitated. What was that smell? Hadn’t she left a lamp burning? It must have gone out. Egwene embraced the Source and wove a ball of light to hang above her hand. She was stunned by the scene it revealed.
The translucent curtains of her bed had been sprayed red with blood, and five bodies littered the floor. Three were in black. One was an unfamiliar young man in the tabard of the Tower Guard. The last wore a fine white and red coat and trousers.
Gawyn!
Egwene threw herself from the bed and knelt beside him, ignoring the pain of her headache. He was breathing shallowly, and had a gaping wound in his side. She wove Water, Spirit and Air into a Healing, but she was far from talented in this area. She worked on, in a panic. Some of his color returned and the wounds began to close, but she couldn’t do nearly enough.
“Help!” she yelled. “The Amyrlin needs help!”
Gawyn stirred. “Egwene,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering open.
“Hush, Gawyn. You’re going to be fine. Aid! To the Amyrlin!”
“You…didn’t leave enough lights on,” he whispered.
“What?”
“The message I sent….”
“We never got a message,” she said. “Be still. Help!”
“Nobody is near. I yelled. The lamps…it is good…you didn’t…” He smiled dazedly. “I love you.”
“Lie still,” she said. Light! She was crying.
“The assassins weren’t your Forsaken, though,” he said, words slurring. “I was right.”
And he had been; what were those unfamiliar black uniforms? Seanchan?
I should be dead, she realized. If Gawyn hadn’t stopped these assassins, she’d have been murdered in her sleep and would have vanished from Tel’aran’rhiod. She’d never have defeated Mesaana.
Suddenly, she felt a fool, any sense of victory completely evaporating.
“I’m sorry,” Gawyn said closing his eyes, “for disobeying you.” He was slipping.
“It’s all right, Gawyn,” she said, blinking away tears. “I’m going to bond you now. It’s the only way.”
His grip on her arm became slightly more firm. “No. Not unless…you want…”
“Fool,” she said, preparing the weaves. “Of course I want you as my Warder. I always have.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear it. I swear that I want you as my Warder, and as my husband.” She rested her hand on his forehead and laid the weave on him. “I love you.”
He gasped. Suddenly, she could feel his emotions, and his pain, as if they were her own. And, in return, she knew that he could feel the truth of her words.
Perrin opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He was crying. Did people cry in their sleep when they dreamed normal dreams?
“Light be praised,” Faile said. He opened his eyes and found that she knelt next to him, as did someone else. Masuri?
The Aes Sedai grabbed Perrin’s head in her hands, and Perrin felt the icy cold of a Healing wash across him. The wounds in his leg and across his chest closed.
“We tried to Heal you while you slept,” Faile said, cradling Perrin’s head in her lap. “But Edarra stopped us.”
“It is not to be done. Wouldn’t work anyway.” That was the Wise One’s voice. Perrin could hear her in the tent somewhere. He blinked his eyes. He lay on his pallet. It was dim outside.
“It’s been longer than an hour,” he said. “You should have left by now.”
“Hush,” Faile said. “Gateways are working again, and almost everyone is through. Only a few thousand soldiers remain—Aiel and Two Rivers men, mostly. You think they’d leave, you think I’d leave, without you?”
He sat up, wiping his brow. It was damp with sweat. He tried to make it vanish, as he had in the wolf dream. He failed, of course. Edarra stood by the far wall, behind him. She watched him with a measuring gaze.
He turned to Faile. “We have to get away,” he said, voice ragged. “Slayer will not be working alone. There will be a trap, probably an army. Someone with an army. They might try to strike at any moment.”