“Upstairs, I suppose,” Perrin said. “In his room, or maybe the dining room. There are lights in the windows up there. He is always working on those notes of his. I suppose he will have plenty to say in his book about us running away.” He was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. Light, fool, do you want to face one of the Forsaken? No. No, but I am tired of running. I remember not running, once. I remember fighting back, and it was better. Even if I thought I was going to die, it was better.

“I will find him,” Zarine announced. “I have no shame in admitting I will be glad enough to run from this fight. Men fight when they should run, and fools fight when they should run. But I had no need to say it twice.” She strode ahead of them, her narrow, divided skirts making small whisking noises as they entered the inn.

Perrin glanced around the common room as they followed her toward the stairs in the back. There were fewer men at the tables than he expected. Some sat alone, with dull eyes, but where two or three sat together they talked in frightened whispers his ears could barely catch. Even so, he heard “Dragon” three times.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he heard another soft sound, a thump as of something falling in the private dining room. He peered that way along the hall. “Zarine?” There was no answer. He felt the hair on the back of his neck shift, and padded that way. “Zarine?” He pushed open the door. “Faile!”

She was lying on the floor near the table. As he started to rush into the room, Moiraine’s commanding shout halted him.

“Stop, you fool! Stop, for your life!” She came along the hallway slowly, head turning as if she were listening for something, or searching for something. Lan followed with his hand on his sword—and a look in his eye as if he already knew steel would do no good. She came abreast of the door and stopped. “Move back, Perrin. Move back!”

In agony he stared at Zarine. At Faile. She lay there as if lifeless. Finally he made himself step back from the door, leaving it open, standing where he could see her. She looked as if she were dead. He could not see her chest stir. He wanted to howl. Frowning, he worked his hand, the one he had used to push the door into the room, opening and closing his fingers. It tingled sharply, as if he had struck his elbow. “Aren’t you going to do anything, Moiraine? If you will not, I am going to her.”

“Stand still or you will go nowhere,” she said calmly. “What is that by her right hand? As if it dropped from her grip when she fell. I cannot make it out.”