Faile reached to her throat, touching the cord that bore Rolan’s stone. She didn’t wear it every day, but she did so often enough. Had Morgase been false that entire time they’d been with the Shaido? Or had she, in a way, been more true? With no titles to live up to, she hadn’t been forced to be the “legendary” Morgase Trakand. Under circumstances like that, wouldn’t a person’s true nature be more likely to show through?

Faile gripped the cord. Morgase would not turn this trial against Perrin out of spite. But she would offer judgment in honesty. Which meant Faile needed to be prepared, and have ready—

Screams sounded nearby.

Faile reacted immediately, spinning toward the woods. She instinctively anticipated Aiel leaping from the bushes to kill and capture, and she felt a moment of sheer panic.

But the screams were coming from inside camp. She cursed, turning about, but felt something tug at her belt. She looked down with a start to see her belt knife pull itself from its sheath and flip into the air.

“A bubble of evil!” Berelain said, stumbling to the side.

Faile ducked, throwing herself to the ground as her knife flipped through the air toward her head. It narrowly missed. As Faile came up in a crouch, she saw with a start that Berelain was facing down a dagger, one that looked—from the damage to Berelain’s shirt—to have ripped its way free of a hidden sheath inside her sleeve.

Beyond Berelain, the camp was in a tumult. The nearby practicing refugees were scattering, swords and spears flipping through the air of their own volition. It looked as if every weapon in the camp had suddenly sprung to life, rising up to attack its master.

Motion. Faile dodged to the side as her knife came back for her, but a white-haired figure in brown snatched the weapon from the air, holding it in a tight grip. Sulin rolled, clinging to it, her teeth gritted as she wrenched it from the air and slammed it down onto a stone, breaking the blade from the hilt.

It stopped moving. Sulin’s spears, however, pulled from their place on her back and spun in the sky, tips pointing toward her.

“Run!” the Maiden said, turning and trying to face all three spears at once.

“Where?” Faile demanded, picking up a stone from the ground. “The weapons are everywhere.” Berelain was struggling with her dagger. She’d grabbed it, but it was fighting her, wrenching her arms from side to side. Alliandre was surrounded by three knives. Light! Faile suddenly felt lucky for having worn only one today.

Several of the Maidens charged in to help Alliandre, throwing stones at the knives, dodging spears that lunged for them. Berelain was alone.

Gritting her teeth—feeling half a fool for helping the woman she hated—Faile jumped in and placed her hands over Berelain’s, lending her strength to that of the First. Together, they wrenched the dagger to the side, toward the ground, where they could drive its point into the earth. When they did, remarkably, it stopped moving.