“We are not going to destroy you,” Elayne said firmly, and Aviendha nodded.

“As you say, Aes Sedai. But the old stories are all clear on one point. We must never fight Aes Sedai. If you bring your lightnings and your balefire against me, I will dance with them, but I will not harm you.”

“Stabbing people,” Nynaeve growled. She lowered Dailin’s head, and laid a hand on the woman’s brow. Dailin’s eyes had closed again. “Stabbing women!” Aviendha shifted her feet and frowned again, and she was not alone among the Aiel.

“Balefire,” Egwene said. “Aviendha, what is balefire?”

The Aiel woman turned her frown on her. “Do you not know, Aes Sedai? In the old stories, Aes Sedai wielded it. The stories make it a fearsome thing, but I know no more. It is said we have forgotten much that we once knew.”

“Perhaps the White Tower has forgotten much, too,” Egwene said. I knew of it in that . . . dream, or whatever it was. It was as real as Tel’aran’rhiod. I’d gamble with Mat on that.

“No right!” Nynaeve snapped. “No one has a right to tear bodies so! It is not right!”

“Is she angry?” Aviendha asked uneasily. Chiad and Bain and Jolien exchanged worried looks.

“It is all right,” Elayne said.

“It is better than all right,” Egwene added. “She is getting angry, and it is much better than all right.”

The glow of saidar surrounded Nynaeve suddenly—Egwene leaned forward, trying to see, and so did Elayne—and Dailin started up with a scream, eyes wide open. In an instant, Nynaeve was easing her back down, and the glow faded. Dailin’s eyes slid shut, and she lay there panting.

I saw it, Egwene thought. I . . . think I did. She was not sure she had even been able to make out all the many flows, much less the way Nynaeve had woven them together. What Nynaeve had done in those few seconds had seemed like weaving four carpets at once while blindfolded.

Nynaeve used the bloody bandages to wipe Dailin’s stomach, smearing away bright red new blood and black crusts of dried old. There was no wound, no scar, only healthy skin considerably paler than Dailin’s face.

With a grimace, Nynaeve took the bloody cloths, stood up, and threw them into the river. “Wash the rest of that off of her,” she said, “and put some clothes back on her. She’s cold. And be ready to feed her. She will be hungry.” She knelt by the water to wash her hands.

CHAPTER
39

Threads in the Pattern

Jolien put an unsteady hand to where the wound had been in Dailin’s middle; when she touched smooth skin, she gasped as if she had not believed her own eyes.