Egwene tried sending herself to Cairhien. It didn’t work. She looked out the window, feeling worried, but resolute. Yes, there was violet above.

“Wake if you must,” she said to the Wise Ones. “I will fight. One of the Shadowsouled is here.”

The Wise Ones fell silent. “We will go with you,” Melaine finally said.

“Good. You others, be away from this place. Go to the Musician’s Way and stay there until awakened. Melaine, Amys, Bair, Leane, we are going to a place higher in the Tower, a room with wood paneling and a four-poster bed, gauze drapings around it. It is my bedroom.”

The Wise Ones nodded, and Egwene sent herself there. A lamp sat on her nightstand; it didn’t burn here in Tel’aran’rhiod, though she’d left it burning in the real world. The Wise Ones and Leane appeared around her. The gauze draping Egwene’s bed ruffled in the breeze of their appearance.

The Tower shook. The fighting continued.

“Be careful,” Egwene said. “We hunt dangerous foes, and they know this terrain better than you.”

“We will be careful,” Bair replied. “I have heard that the Shadowsouled think themselves masters of this place. Well, we shall see.”

“Leane,” Egwene said, “can you handle yourself?” Egwene had been tempted to send her away, but she and Siuan had spent some measure of time in Tel’aran’rhiod. Certainly, she was more experienced than most.

“I’ll keep my head low, Mother,” she promised. “But there are bound to be more of them than us. You need me.”

“Agreed,” Egwene said.

The four women winked away. Why couldn’t they leave the Tower? It was troubling, but also useful. It would mean she was trapped here.

But hopefully so was Mesaana.

Five doves rose into the air, scattering from the ledge of the rooftop. Perrin spun. Slayer stood behind him, smelling like stone.

The hard-eyed man glanced up at the fleeing birds. “Yours?”

“For warning,” Perrin replied. “I figured you’d see through walnut shells on the ground.”

“Clever,” Slayer said.

Behind him spread a magnificent city. Perrin hadn’t believed that any city could be as magnificent as Caemlyn. But if there was such a thing, Tar Valon was it. The entire city was a work of art, almost every building decked with archways, spires, engravings and ornamentation. Even the cobblestones seemed to be arranged artistically.

Slayer’s eyes flickered down to Perrin’s belt. There, affixed in a pouch Perrin had created to hold it, was the ter’angreal. The tip stuck out the top, silvery bits wrapping around one another in a complex knotted braid. Perrin had tried again to destroy the thing by thinking of it, but had been rebuffed. Attacking it with his hammer hadn’t so much as bent it. Whatever this thing was, it had been built to resist such attacks.

“You’ve grown skilled,” Slayer said. “I should have killed you months ago.”

“I believe you tried,” Perrin said, raising his hammer, resting it on his shoulder. “Who are you really?”

“A man of two worlds, Perrin Aybara. And one owned by both. I’ll need the dreamspike back.”