Egwene stared at the sparkling sword. If the Prophecies of the Dragon were true, if Rand was the Dragon as Moiraine claimed, he would wield it one day, though from the rest of what she knew of the Prophecies concerning Callandor, she could not see how it could ever come to be. But if there's a way to take it, maybe the Black Ajah knows how. If they know it, I can figure it out.
Cautiously, she reached out with the Power, probing at whatever held and shielded the sword. Her probe touched — something — and stopped. She could sense which of the Five Powers had been used here. Air, and Fire, and Spirit. She could trace the intricate weave made by saidar, set with a strength that amazed her. There were gaps in that weave, spaces where her probe should slide through. When she tried, it was like fighting the strongest part of the weave head on. It hit her then, what she was trying to force a way through, and she let her probe vanish. Half that wall had been woven using saidar; the other half, the part she could not sense or touch, had been made with saidin. That was not it, exactly — the wall was all of one piece — but it was close enough. A stone wall stops a blind woman as surely as one who can see it.
Footsteps echoed in the distance. Boots.
Egwene could not tell how many there were, or from which direction they were coming, but Silvie gave a start and immediately stared off among the columns. “He's coming to stare at it again,” she muttered. “Awake or asleep, he wants...” She seemed to remember Egwene, and put on a worried smile. “You must leave, now, my Lady. He mustn't find you here, or even know you've been.”
Egwene was already backing in among the columns, and Silvie followed, flapping her hands and waving her stick. “I am going, Silvie. I just have to remember the way.” She fingered the stone ring. “Take me back to the hills.” Nothing happened: She channeled a hairlike flow to the ring. “Take me back to the hills.” The redstone columns still surrounded her. The boots were closer, close enough not to be swallowed in their own echoes anymore.
“You don't know the way out,” Sylvie said flatly, then went on in a near whisper, ingratiating and mocking at once, an old retainer who felt she could take liberties. “Oh, my Lady, this is a dangerous place to come into, if you don't know the way out. Come, let poor old Silvie take you out. Poor old Silvie will tuck you safe in your bed, my Lady.” She wrapped both arms around Egwene, urging her further from the sword. Not that Egwene needed much urging. The boots had stopped; he — whoever he was — was probably gazing at Callandor.
“Just show me the way,” Egwene whispered back. “Or tell me. There's no need to push.” The old woman's fingers had somehow gotten tangled around the stone ring. “Don't touch that, Silvie.”
“Safe in your bed.”
Pain annihilated the world.
With a throatwrenching shriek, Egwene sat up in the dark, sweat rolling down her face. For a moment she had no idea where she was, and did not care. “Oh, Light,” she moaned, “that hurt. Oh, Light, that hurt!” She ran her hands over herself, sure her skin must be scored or wealed to make such a burning, but she could not find a mark.
“We are here,” Nynaeve's voice said from the darkness. “We're here, Egwene.”
Egwene threw herself toward the voice and wrapped her arms around Nynaeve's neck in sheer relief. “Oh, Light, I'm back. Light, I'm back.”
“Elayne,” Nynaeve said.
In a few moments one of the candles was giving a small light. Elayne paused with the candle in hand and the spill she had lit with flint and steel in the other. Then she smiled, and every candle in the room burst into flame. She stopped at the washstand and came back to the bed with a cool, damp cloth to wash Egwene's face.
“Was it bad?” she asked worriedly. “You never stirred. You never mumbled. We did not know whether to wake you or not.”
Hurriedly, Egwene fumbled the leather cord from around her neck and hurled it and the stone ring across the room. “Next time,” she panted, “we decide on a time, and you wake me after it. Wake me if you have to stick my head in a basin of water!” She had not realized that she had decided there would be a next time. Would you put your head in a bear's mouth just to show you weren't afraid? Would you do it twice just because you'd done it once and didn't die?
Yet it was more than a matter of proving to herself that she was not afraid. She was afraid, and knew it. But so long as the Black Ajah had those ter'angreal Corianin had studied, she would have to keep going back. She was sure the answer to why they wanted them lay in Tel'aran'rhiod. If she could find answers about the Black Ajah there perhaps other answers, too, if half what she had been told about Dreaming were true — she had to go back. “But not tonight,” she said softly. “Not yet.”
“What happened?” Nynaeve asked. “What did you... dream?”
Egwene lay back on the bed and told them. Of it all, the only thing she left out was about Perrin talking to the wolf. She left the wolf out altogether. She felt a little guilty about keeping secrets from Elayne and Nynaeve, but it was Perrin's secret to tell, when and if he chose, not hers. The rest she gave them word for word, describing everything. When she was done, she felt emptied.
“Aside from being tired,” Elayne said, “did he look hurt? Egwene, I cannot believe he would ever hurt you. I cannot believe he would.”
“Rand,” Nynaeve said dryly, “will have to look after himself awhile longer.” Elayne blushed; she looked pretty doing it. Egwene realized that Elayne looked pretty doing anything, even crying, or scrubbing pots. “Callandor,” Nynaeve continued. “The Heart of the Stone. That was marked on the plan. I think we know where the Black Ajah is.”
Elayne had regained her poise. “It does not change the trap,” she said. “If it is not a diversion, it is a trap.”
Nynaeve smiled grimly. “The best way to catch whoever set a trap is to spring it and wait for him to come. Or her, in this instance.”
“You mean go to Tear?” Egwene said, and Nynaeve nodded.
“The Amyrlin has cut us loose, it seems. We make our own decisions, remember? At least we know the Black Ajah is in Tear, and we know who to look for there. Here, all we can do is sit and stew in our own suspicions of everybody, wonder if there is another Gray Man out there. I would rather be the hou