Perrin froze, pulling to a halt on the bank of the river. The hunt for the white stag. Hopper was there, suddenly, beside the river with him.

“This started when I began to sense the wolves,” Perrin sent. “The first time I lost control of myself was with those Whitecloaks.”

Hopper lay down, resting his head on his paws. You often are here too strongly, the wolf sent. It is what you do.

Hopper had told him that, off and on, since he’d known the wolf and the wolf dream. But suddenly, Perrin saw a new meaning to it. It was about coming to the wolf dream, but it was also about Perrin himself.

He’d begun to blame the wolves for what he did, the way he was when fighting, the way he’d become when searching for Faile. But were the wolves the cause of that? Or was it some part of him? Was it possible that that was what caused him to become a wolfbrother in the first place?

“Is it possible,” Perrin said, “to run on four legs, but not come here too strongly?”

Of course it is, Hopper sent, laughing after the way of wolves—as if what Perrin had discovered was the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it was.

Perhaps he wasn’t like the wolves because he was a wolfbrother. Perhaps he was a wolfbrother because he was like the wolves. He didn’t need to control them. He needed to control himself.

“The pack,” Perrin said. “How do I catch them? Move more quickly?”

That is one way. Another is to be where you want.

Perrin frowned. Then he closed his eyes and used the direction the wolves were running to guess where they would be. Something shifted.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing on a sandy hillside, tufts of long-bladed grass peeking out of the soil. An enormous mountain with a broken tip—shattered as if it had been slapped by the hand of a giant—rose to his right.

A pack of wolves burst out of the forest. Many of them were laughing. Young Bull, hunting when he should seek the end! Young Bull, seeking the end when he should enjoy the hunt! He smiled, trying to feel good natured about the laughter, though in truth he felt much as he had on the day that his cousin Wil had planted a bucket of wet feathers to drop on Perrin.

Something fluttered in the air. A chicken feather. Wet around the edges. Perrin started, realizing that they were spread around him on the ground. As he blinked, they vanished. The wolves smelled greatly amused, sending images of Young Bull dusted with feathers.

Get lost in dreams here, Young Bull, Hopper sent, and those dreams become this dream.

Perrin scratched his beard, fighting down his embarrassment. He’d experienced before the unpredictable nature of the wolf dream. “Hopper,” he said, turning to the wolf. “How much could I change about my surroundings, if I wanted?”