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.
The woman’s eyes glazed over, and her mouth opened. Thought was faster than weaves. Egwene hesitated. Now what? Kill her, while defenseless? Her stomach turned at that thought. I could take her captive. Go and—
Someone appeared in the room with her. The newcomer wore black, a magnificent gown with silver trim. Darkness swirled about her, made of spinning ribbons of cloth, her skirt rippling. The effect was unnatural and impressive; possible only here in Tel’aran’rhiod.
Egwene looked into the woman’s eyes. Large and blue, set in an angular face with chin-length black hair. There was a power to those eyes, and Egwene immediately knew what she was facing. Why fight? She couldn’t—
Egwene felt her mind change, become accepting. She fought it with a burst of panic, and in a moment of clarit
