The Warder had a hand under the Aes Sedai’s arm, as if trying to support her without letting her know it. Moiraine’s eyes were haggard, and she carried a small, age-dark ivory carving of a woman in one hand. Perrin knew it for an angreal, a remnant from the Age of Legends that allowed an Aes Sedai to safely channel more of the Power than she could alone. It was a measure of her tiredness that she was using it for Healing.

Min got to her feet to help Moiraine, but the Aes Sedai motioned her away. “Everyone else is seen to,” she told Min. “When I am done here, I can rest.” She shook off Lan as well, and a look of concentration appeared on her face as she traced a cool hand across Perrin’s bleeding shoulder, then along the wound on his back. Her touch made his skin tingle. “This is not too bad,” she said. “The bruising of your shoulder goes deep, but the gashes are shallow. Brace yourself. This will not hurt, but. . . .”

He had never found it easy being near someone he knew was channeling the One Power, and still less if it actually involved him. Yet there had been one or two of those times, and he thought he had some idea what the channeling entailed, but those Healings had been minor, simply washing away tiredness when Moiraine could not afford to have him weary. They had been nothing like this.

The Aes Sedai’s eyes suddenly seemed to be seeing inside him, seeing through him. He gasped and almost dropped his axe. He could feel the skin on his back crawling, muscles writhing as they knit back together. His shoulder quivered uncontrollably, and everything blurred. Cold seared him to the bone, then deeper still. He had the impression of moving, falling, flying; he could not tell which, but he felt as if he were rushing—somewhere, somehow—at great speed, forever. After an eternity the world came into focus again. Moiraine was stepping back, half staggering until Lan caught her arm.

Gaping, Perrin looked down at his shoulder. The gashes and bruises were gone; not so much as a twinge remained. He twisted carefully, but the pain in his back had vanished as well. And his feet no longer hurt; he did not need to look to know all the bruises and scrapes were gone. His stomach rumbled loudly.

“You should eat as soon as you can,” Moiraine told him. “A good bit of the strength for that came from you. You need to replace it.”

Hunger—and images of food—were already filling Perrin’s head. Blood rare beef, and venison, and mutton, and. . . . With an effort he made himself stop thinking of meat. He would find some of those roots that smelled like turnips when they were roasted. His stomach growled in protest.

“There’s barely even a scar, blacksmith,” Lan said behind him.