“I sent for Moiraine,” Perrin said. Rhuarc nodded. Of course, the Maidens would have told him everything they knew.
Rand gave a painful bark of a laugh. “I told her to keep quiet. It seems the Lord Dragon doesn't rule Mayene.” He sounded more wryly amused than anything else.
“I have daughters older than that young woman,” Rhuarc said. “I do not believe she will tell anyone else. I think she would like to forget everything that happened tonight.”
“And I would like to know what happened,” Moiraine said, gliding into the room. Slight and slender as she was, Rhuarc towered over her as much as the man who followed her in — Lan, her Warder — but it was the Aes Sedai who dominated the room. She must have run to come so fast, but she was calm as a frozen lake now. It took a great deal to ruffle Moiraine's serenity. Her blue silk gown had a high lace neck and sleeves slashed with darker velvet, but the heat and humidity did not appear to touch her. A small blue stone, suspended on her forehead from a fine golden chain in her dark hair, flashed in the light, emphasizing the absence of the slightest sheen of sweat.
As always when they met, Lan's and Rhuarc's icy blue stares nearly struck sparks. A braided leather cord held Lan's dark hair, graystreaked at the temples. His face looked to have been carved from rock, all hard planes and angles, and his sword rode his hip like part of his body. Perrin was not sure which of the two men was more deadly, but he thought a mouse could starve on the difference.
The Warder's eyes swung to Rand. “I thought you were old enough to shave without someone to guide your hand.”
Rhuarc smiled, a slight smile but the first Perrin had ever seen from him in Lan's presence. “He is young yet. He will learn.”
Lan glanced back at the Aielman, then returned the smile, just as slightly.
Moiraine gave the two men a brief, withering look. She did not seem to pick her way as she crossed the carpet, but she stepped so lightly, holding her skirts up, that not one shard of glass crunched under her slippers. Her eyes swept around the room; taking in the smallest details, Perrin was sure. For a moment she studied him — he did not meet her gaze; she knew too much about him for comfort — but she bore down on Rand like a silent, silken avalanche, icy and inexorable.
Perrin dropped his hand and moved out of her way. The wadded cloth stayed against Rand's side, held by congealing blood. From head to foot the blood was beginning to dry in black streaks and smears. The slivers of glass in his skin glittered in the lamplight. Moiraine touched the bloodcaked cloth with her fingertips, then took her hand back as though changing her mind about looking underneath. Perrin wondered how the Aes Sedai could look at Rand without wincing, but her smooth face did not change. She smelled faintly of rosescented soap.
“At least you are alive.” Her voice was musical, a chill, angry music at the moment. “What happened can wait. Try to touch the True Source.”
“Why?” Rand asked in a wary voice. “I cannot Heal myself, even if I knew how to Heal. No one can. I know that much.”
For the space of a breath Moiraine seemed on the point of an outburst, strange as that would have been, but in another breath she was once again layered in calm so deep that surely nothing could crack it. “Only some of the strength for Healing comes from the Healer. The Power can replace what comes from the Healed. Without it, you will spend tomorrow flat on your back and perhaps the next day as well. Now, draw on the Power, if you can, but do nothing with it. Simply hold it. Use this, if you must.” She did riot have to bend far to touch Callandor.
Rand moved the sword from under her hand. “Simply hold it, you say.” He sounded about to laugh out loud. “Very well.”
Nothing happened that Perrin could see, not that he expected to. Rand sat there like the survivor of a lost battle, looking at Moiraine. She hardly blinked. Twice she scrubbed her fingers against her palms as if unaware.
After a time Rand sighed. “I cannot even reach the Void. I can't seem to concentrate.” A quick grin cracked the blood drying on his face. “I do not understand why.” A thick red thread snaked its way down past his left eye.
“Then I will do it as I always have,” Moiraine said, and took Rand's head in her hands, careless of the blood that ran over her fingers.
Rand lurched to his feet with a roaring gasp, as if all the breath were being squeezed from his lungs, back arching so his head nearly tore free of her grasp. One arm flung wide, fingers spread and bending back so far it seemed they must break; the other hand clamped down on Callandor's hilt, the muscles of that arm knotting visibly into cramps. He shook like cloth caught in a windstorm. Dark flakes of dried blood fell, and bits of glass tinkled onto the chest and floor, forced out of cuts closing up and knitting themselves together.
Perrin shivered as if that windstorm roared around him. He had seen Healing done before, that and more, greater and worse, but he could never be complacent about seeing the Power used, about knowing it was being used, not even for this. Tales of Aes Sedai, told by merchants' guards and drivers, had embedded themselves in his mind long years before he met Moiraine. Rhuarc smelled sharply uneasy. Only Lan took it as a matter of course. Lan and Moiraine.
Almost as soon as it began, it was done. Moiraine took her hands away, and Rand slumped, catching the bedpost to hold himself on his feet. It was difficult to say whether he clutched the bedpost or Callandor more tenaciously. When Moiraine tried to take the sword to replace it on the ornate stand against the wall, he drew it away from her firmly, even roughly.
Her mouth tightened momentarily, but she contented herself with pulling the wad of cloth from his side, using it to scrub away some of the surrounding smears. The old wound was a tender scar again. The other injuries were simply gone. The mostly dried blood that still covered him could have come from someone else.
Moiraine frowned. “It still does not respond,” she murmured, half to herself. “It will not heal completely.”
“That is the one that will kill me, isn't it?” he asked her softly, then quoted, “'His blood on the rocks of Shayol Ghul, washing away the Shadow, sacrifice for man's salvation.'”
“You read too much,” she said sharply, “and understand too little.”
“Do you understand more? If you do, then tell me.”
“He is only trying to find his way,” Lan said suddenly. “No man likes to run forward blindly when he knows there is a cliff somewhere ahead.”
Perrin gave a twitch of surprise. Lan almost never disagreed with Moiraine, or at least not where anyone could overhear. He and Rand had been spending a good deal of time together, though, practicing the sword.
Moiraine's dark eyes flashed, but what she said was “He needs to be in bed. Will you ask that wash water be brought, and another bedchamber prepared? This one needs a thorough cleaning and a new mattress.” Lan nodded and put his head into the anteroom for a moment, speaking quietly.
“I will sleep here, Moiraine.” Letting go of the bedpost, Rand pushed himself erect, grounding Callandor's point on the littered carpet and resting both hands on the hilt. If he leaned a little on the sword, it did not show much. “I won't be chased any more. Not even out of a bed.”
“Tai'shar Manetheren,” Lan murmured.
This time even Rhuarc looked startled, but if Moiraine heard the Warder compliment Rand, she gave no sign of it. She was staring at Rand, her face smooth but thunderheads in her eyes. Rand wore a quizzical little smile, as if wondering what she would try next.
Perrin edged toward the doors. If Rand and the Aes Sedai were going to match wills, he would just as soon be elsewhere. Lan did not appear to care; it was hard to tell with that stance of his, somehow standing with his back straight and slouching at the same time. He could have been bored enough to sleep where he stood or ready to draw his sword; his manner suggested either, or both. Rhuarc stood much the same, but he was eyeing the doors, too.
“Stay where you are!” Moiraine did not look away from Rand, and her outflung finger pointed halfway between Perrin and Rhuarc, but Perrin's feet stopped just the same. Rhuarc shrugged and folded his arms.
“Stubborn,” Moiraine muttered. This time the word was for Rand. “Very well. If you mean to stand there until you drop, you can use the time before you fall on your face to tell me what occurred here. I cannot teach you, but if you tell me perhaps I can see what you did wrong. A small chance, but perhaps I can.” Her voice sharpened. “You must learn to control it, and I do not mean just because of things like this. If you do not learn to control the Power, it will kill you. You know that. I have told you often enough. You must teach yourself. You must find it within yourself.”
“I did nothing except survive,” he said in a dry voice: She opened her mouth, but he went on. “Do you think I could channel and not know it? I didn't do it in my sleep. This happened awake.” He wavered, and caught himself on the sword.
“Even you could not channel anything but Spirit asleep,” Moiraine said coolly, “and this was never done with Spirit. I was about to ask what did happen.”
Perrin felt his hackles rising as Rand told his story; The axe had been bad enough, but at least the axe was something solid, something real. To have your own reflection jump out of mirrors at you.... Unconsciously he shifted his feet, trying not to stand on any fragments of glass.
Soon after he began speaking, Rand glanced behind him at the chest, a quick look, as if he did not want it observed. After a moment the slivers of silvered glass that were scattered across the lid of the chest stirred and slid off onto the carpet as though pushed by an unseen broom. Rand exchanged looks with Moiraine, then sat down slowly and went on. Perrin was not sure which of them had cleared the chest top. There was no mention of Berelain in the tale.
“It must have been one of the Forsaken,” Rand finished at last. “Maybe Sammael. You said he's in Illian. Unless one of them is here in Tear. Could Sammael reach the Stone from Illian?”
“Not even if he held Callandor,” Moiraine told him. “There are limits. Sammael is only a man, not the Dark One.”
Only a man? Not a very good description, Perrin thought. A man who could channel, but who somehow had not gone mad; at least, not yet, not that anyone knew. A man perhaps as strong as Rand, but where Rand was trying to learn, Sammael knew every trick of his talents already. A man who had spent three thousand years trapped in the Dark One's prison, a man who had gone over to the Shadow of his own choice. No. “Only a man” did not begin to describe Sammael, or any of the Forsaken, male or female.
“Then one of them is here. In the city.” Rand put his head down on his wrists, but jerked himself erect immediately, glaring at those in the room. “I'll not be chased again. I'll be the hound, first, I will find him — or her — and I will — ”
“Not one of the Forsaken,” Moiraine cut in. “I think not. This was too simpl