“Actually,” Tarna said, continuing to write, “I’ve been thinking on what we discussed last night. Perhaps I was hasty. There is much to learn here, and there is the matter of the rebels outside. If we leave, they will bond Asha’man, which should not be allowed.”

The woman looked up, and Pevara froze. There was something different in Tarna’s eyes, something cold. She’d always been a distant one, but this was worse.

Tarna smiled, a grimace that looked completely unnatural on her face. Like the smile on the lips of a corpse. She turned back to her writing.

Something is very, very wrong here, Pevara thought. “Well, you may be right,” she found herself saying. Her mouth worked, though her mind reeled. “This expedition was your suggestion, after all. I will think on it further. If you’ll excuse me.”

Tarna waved ambivalently. Pevara stood, years as an Aes Sedai keeping her profound worry from showing in her posture. She stepped outside, then walked eastward, along the unfinished wall. Yes, guard stations had been set up regularly. Earlier this morning, those hadn’t been manned. Now they were, with men who could channel. One of those men could strike her dead before she could respond. She couldn’t see their weaves, and she couldn’t strike first, because of her oaths.

She turned and walked to a small stand of trees, a place that was to become a garden. Inside, she sat down on a stump, breathing deeply. The coldness—almost lifelessness—she’d seen in Tarna’s eyes still chilled her.

Pevara had been ordered by the Highest not to risk gateways unless the situation were dire. This seemed like a dire situation to her. She embraced the Source and wove the proper weave.

The weave fell apart the moment she completed it. No gateway formed. Eyes wide, she tried again, but got the same result. She tried other weaves, and they worked, but gateways failed every time.

Her chill became frost within her. She was trapped.

They all were.

Perrin clasped hands with Mat. “Good luck, my friend.”

Mat grinned, tugging down the broad brim of his dark hat. “Luck? I hope this all comes down to luck. I’m good with luck.”

Mat carried a bulging pack over one shoulder, as did the bony, gnarled man that Mat had introduced as Noal. Thom had his harp on his back and a similar pack. Perrin still wasn’t clear on what they were bringing. Mat only planned to be at the tower for a few days, so there was no need for a lot of supplies.

The small group stood on the Traveling ground outside Perrin’s camp. Behind them, Perrin’s people shouted back and forth, breaking down the camp. None had any inkling of how important this day could prove. Moiraine. Moiraine was alive. Light, let it be so.

“Are you certain I can’t convince you to take more help?” Perrin asked.

Mat nodded. “Sorry. These things…well, they tend to be particular. The note was clear. Only three of us can enter, otherwise we’ll fail. If we fail anyway…well, I guess it will be her own bloody fault then, won’t it?”