Perrin watched the mountains of Kinslayer's Dagger uncomfortably as he rode. The way still slanted upwards, and looked as if it would climb forever, though he thought the crest of the pass must not be too much further. To one side of the trail, the land sloped sharply down to a shallow mountain stream, dashing itself to froth over sharp rocks; to the other side the mountains reared in a series of jagged cliffs, like frozen stone waterfalls. The trail itself ran through fields of boulders, some the size of a man's head, and some as big as a cart. It would take no great skill to hide in that.

The wolves said there were people in the mountains. Perrin wondered if they were some of Fain's Darkfriends. The wolves did not know, or care. They only knew the Twisted Ones were somewhere ahead. Still far ahead, though Ingtar had pressed the column hard. Perrin noticed that Uno was watching the mountains around them much the way he himself was.

Mat, his bow slung across his back, rode with seeming unconcern, juggling three colored balls, yet he looked paler than he had. Verin examined him two and three times a day now, frowning, and Perrin was sure she had even tried Healing at least once, but it made no difference Perrin could see. In any case, she seemed to be more absorbed in something about which she did not speak.

Rand, Perrin thought, looking at the Aes Sedai's back. She always rode at the head of the column with Ingtar, and she always wanted them to move even faster than the Shienaran lord would allow. Somehow, she knows about Rand. Images from the wolves flickered in his head-stone farmhouses and terraced villages, all beyond the mountain peaks; the wolves saw them no differently than they saw hills or meadows, except with a feeling that they were spoiled land. For a moment he found himself sharing that regret, remembering places the two-legs had long since abandoned, remembering the swift rush through the trees, and the ham-stringing snap of his jaws as the deer tried to flee, and . . . . With an effort he pushed the wolves out of his head. There Aes Sedai are going to destroy all of us.

Ingtar let his horse fall back beside Perrin's. Sometimes, to Perrin's eyes, the crescent crest on the Shienaran's helmet looked like a Trolloc's horns. Ingtar said softly, "Tell me again what the wolves said."

"I've told you ten times," Perrin muttered.

"Tell me again! Anything I may have missed, anything that will help me find the Horn . . . ." Ingtar drew a breath and let it out slowly. "I must find the Horn of Valere, Perrin. Tell me again."

There was no need for Perrin to order it in his mind, not after so many repetitions. He droned it out. "Someone - or something - attacked the Darkfriends in the night and killed those Trollocs we found." His stomach no longer lurched at that. Ravens and vultures were messy feeders. "The wolves call him - or it - Shadowkiller; I think it was a man, but they wouldn't go close enough to see clearly. They are not afraid of this Shadowkiller; awe is more like it. They say the Trollocs now follow Shadowkiller. And they say Fain is with them" - even after so long the remembered smell of Fain, the feel of the man, made his mouth twist - "so the rest of the Darkfriends must be, too."

"Shadowkiller," Ingtar murmured. "Something of the Dark One, like a Myrddraal? I have seen things in the Blight that might be called Shadowkillers, but . . . . Did they see nothing else?"

"They would not come close to him. It was not a Fade. I've told you, they will kill a Fade quicker than they will a Trolloc, even if they lose half the pack. Ingtar, the wolves who saw it passed this to others, then still others, before it reached me. I can only tell you what they passed on, and after so many tellings . . . ." He let the words die as Uno joined them.

"Aielman in the rocks," the one-eyed man said quietly.

"This far from the Waste?" Ingtar said incredulously. Uno somehow managed to look offended without changing his expression, and Ingtar added, "No, I don't doubt you. I am just surprised."

"He flaming wanted me to see him, or I likely wouldn't have." Uno sounded disgusted at admitting it. "And his bloody face wasn't veiled, so he's not out for killing. But when you see one bloody Aiel, there's always more you don't." Suddenly his eye widened. "Burn me if it doesn't look like he bloody wants more than to be seen." He pointed: a man had stepped into the way ahead of them.

Instantly Masema's lance dropped to a couch, and he dug his heels into his horse, leaping to a dead gallop in three strides. He was not the only one; four steel points hurtled toward the man on the ground.

"Hold!" Ingtar shouted. "Hold, I said! I'll have the ears of any man who doesn't stop where he stands!"

Masema pulled in his horse viciously, sawing the reins. The others also stopped, in a cloud of dust not ten paces from the man, their lances still held steady on the man's chest. He raised a hand to wave away the dust as it drifted toward him; it was the first move he had made.

He was a tall man, with skin dark from the sun and red hair cut short except for a tail in the back that hung to his shoulders. From his soft, laced knee-high boots to the cloth wrapped loosely around his neck, his clothes were all in shades of brown and gray that would blend into rock or earth. The end of a short horn bow peeked over his shoulder, and a quiver bristled with arrows at his belt at one side. A long knife hung at the other. In his left hand he gripped a round hide buckler and three short spears, no more than half as long as he was tall, with points fully as long as those of the Shienaran lances.

"I have no pipers to play the tune," the man announced with a smile, "but if you wish the dance . . . ." He did not change his stance, but Perrin caught a sudden air of readiness. "My name is Urien, of the Two Spires sept of the Reyn Aiel. I am a Red Shield. Remember me."

Ingtar dismounted and walked forward, removing his helmet. Perrin hesitated only a moment before climbing down to join him. He could not miss the chance to see an Aiel close up. Acting like a black-veiled Aiel. In story after story Aiel were as deadly and dangerous as Trollocs - some even said they were all Darkfriends - but Urien's smile somehow did not look dangerous despite the fact that he seemed poised to leap. His eyes were blue.

"He looks like Rand." Perrin looked around to see that Mat had joined them, too. "Maybe Ingtar's right," Matt added quietly. "Maybe Rand is an Aiel. "

Perrin nodded. "But it doesn't change anything."

"No, it doesn't." Mat sounded as if he were talking about something beside what Perrin meant.

"We are both far from our homes," Ingtar said to the Aiel, "and we, at least, have come for other things than fighting." Perrin revised his opinion of Urien's smile; the man actually looked disappointed.

"As you wish it, Shienaran." Urien turned to Verin, just getting down off her horse, and made an odd bow, digging the points of his spears into the ground and extending his right hand, palm up. His voice became respectful. "Wise One, my water is yours."

Verin handed her reins to one of the soldiers. She studied the Aiel as she came closer. "Why do you call me that? Do you take me for an Aiel?"

"No, Wise One. But you have the look of those who have made the journey to Rhuidean and survived. The years do not touch the Wise Ones in the same way as............