He smiled, then turned back to the river. There, he noticed something caught between two large river stones along the shore. It was an overturned cooking pot, with a copper bottom, barely used, only dinged on the sides a couple of times. It must have been dropped by a traveler walking up the river.
Yes, he might not be able to judge distance, and he might not be able to see as well. But luck worked better when you were not looking anyway.
He smiled wider, then fetched the rabbit—he would skin that for supper—and plucked the pot out of the river.
Moiraine would get her tea after all.
EPILOGUE
And after Graendal hurriedly gathered what she needed from her new palace. From her desk, she took a small angreal Mesaana had traded her in exchange for information. It was in the shape of a small, carved ivory knife; she'd lost her gold ring in al'Thor's attack.
Graendal tossed it in her pack, then snatched a sheaf of papers from her bed. Names of contacts, eyes-and- ears—everything she'd managed to remember from what had been destroyed at Natrin's Barrow.
Waves surged against the rocks outside. It was still dark. Only moments had passed since her last tool had failed her, Aybara surviving the battlefield. That was supposed to have worked!
She was in her elegant manor house a few leagues from Ebou Dar. Now that Semirhage was gone, Graendal had begun placing some strings around their new, childlike Empress. She'd have to abandon those schemes now.
Perrin Aybara had escaped. She felt stunned. Plan after perfect plan had fallen in place. And then… he'd escaped. How? The prophecy… it had said…
That fool ham, Graendal thought, stuffing the papers in her pack. And that idiot Whitecloak! She was sweating. She shouldn't be sweating.
She tossed a few ter'angreal from her desk into the pack, then rifled her closet for changes of clothing. He could find her anywhere in the world.
But perhaps one of the mirror realms of the Portal Stones. Yes. There, his connections were not— She turned, arms full of silk, and froze. A figure stood in the room. Tall, like a pillar dressed in black robes. Eyeless. Smiling lips the color of death.
Graendal dropped to her knees, throwing aside the clothing. Sweat ran down her temple onto her cheek.
'Graendal,' said the tall Myrddraal. His voice was terrible, like the last whispers of a dying man. 'You have failed, Graendal.'
Shaidar Haran. Very bad. 'I…' she said, licking her dry lips. How to twist this to a victory? 'It is according to plan. It is merely a—'
'I know your heart, Graendal. I can taste your terror.'
She squeezed her eyes shut.
'Mesaana has fallen,' Shaidar Haran whispered. 'Three Chosen, destroyed by your actions. The design builds, a lattice of failure, a framework of incompetence.'
'I had nothing to do with Mesaana's fall!'
'Nothing? Graendal, the dreamspike was there. Those who fought with Mesaana said that they tried to move, to draw the Aes Sedai to a location where their trap could be sprung. They were not meant to fight in the White Tower. They could not leave. Because of you.'
'Isam—'
'A tool given you. The failure is yours, Graendal.'
She licked her lips again. Her entire mouth had gone dry. There had to be a way out. 'I have a better plan, more bold. You will be impressed. Al'Thor thinks I am dead, and so I can—'
'No.' Such a quiet voice, but so horrible. Graendal found she could not speak. Something had taken her voice. 'No,' Shaidar Haran continued. 'This opportunity has been given to another. But Graendal, you shall not be forgotten.'
She looked up, feeling a surge of hope. Those dead lips were smiling widely, that eyeless gaze fixed on her. She felt a horrible sinking feeling.
'No,' Shaidar Haran said, 'I shall not forget you, and you shall not forget that which comes next.'
She opened her eyes wide, then howled as he reached for her.
The sky rumbled; the grass around Perrin shivered. That grass was spotted black, just as in the real world. Even the wolf dream was dying.
The air was full of scents that did not belong. A fire burning. Blood drying. The dead flesh of a beast he didn't recognize. Eggs rotting.
No, he thought. No it will not be.
He gathered his will. Those scents would vanish. They did, replaced with the scents of summer. Grass, hedgehogs, beetles, moss, mice, blue-winged doves, purple finches. They appeared, bursting to life in a circle around him.
He gritted his teeth. The reality spread from him like a wave, blackness fading from the plants. Above him, the clouds undulated, then parted. Sunlight streamed down. The thunder calmed.
And Hopper lives, Perrin thought. He does! I can smell his coat, hear him loping in the grass.
A wolf appeared before him, forming as if from mist. Silvery gray, grizzled from years of life. Perrin thrilled in his power. It was real.
And then he saw the wolf's eyes. Lifeless.
The scent turned stale and wrong.
Perrin was sweating from the strain of concentrating so hard. Something within him became disjointed. He was coming into the wolf dream too strongly; to try to control this place absolutely was like trying to contain a wolf in a box.
He cried out, falling to his knees. The misty not-Hopper vanished in a puff and the clouds crashed back into place. Lightning exploded above him and the black spots flooded the grass. The wrong scents returned.
Perrin knelt, sweat dripping from his brow, one hand on the prickly brown and black grass. Too stiff.
Perrin thought of Faile in their tent back in the Field of Merrilor. She was his home. There was much to do. Rand had come, as promised. Tomorrow, he would face Egwene. Thought of the real world grounded Perrin, keeping him from entering the wolf dream too strongly.
Perrin stood. He could do many things in this place, but there were limits. There were always limits.
Seek Boundless. He will explain.
Hopper's last sending to him. What did it mean? Hopper had said that Perrin had found the answer. And yet, Boundless would explain that answer? The sending had been awash with pain, loss, satisfaction at seeing Perrin accept the wolf within him. One final image of a wolf leaping proudly into the darkness, coat shining, scent determined.
Perrin sent himself to the Jehannah Road. Boundless was often there, with the remnants of the pack. Perrin reached out and found him: a youthful male with brown fur and a lean build. Boundless teased him sending the image of Perrin as a bull trampling a stag. The others had left that image alone, but Boundless continued to remember.
Boundless, Perrin sent. Hopper told me I needed you.
The wolf vanished.
Perrin started, then jumped to the place the wolf had been—a cliff top several leagues from the road. He caught the faintest scent of the wolf's destination, and then went there. An open field with a distant barn, looking rotted.
Boundless? Perrin sent. The wolf crouched in a pile of brush nearby.
No. No. Boundless sent fright and anger.
What did I do?
