Content note: mentions of homophobia (I'm not sure how canon-typical, I imagine the continent is fairly diverse in its attitudes), as well as canon-typical violence etc.

"I know you are a proud man," his contact whispers. "And rightly so. House Shinowa has wrought many worthy deeds, and the Shienar nation has prevailed in many fearsome battles. Will you see them endure? Or will you watch as they are swept away like Malkier? Like Manetheren and Hawkwing's empire and so many tattered emblems?"

Think not of glory. "My ancestors fought when all hope was lost, and succumbed to the Blight when they could battle no more. Who am I, to think of surviving longer than they could?"

"Then follow them to the grave." The Darkfriend sneers, and before his eyes can catch up with reality, Ingtar is wincing from a blow to the side. The blade is poisoned, he knows, or perhaps cursed by some foul power of the dark. Of course he had come alone, had not wanted to disgrace any of his brothers-in-arms by showing them what he had been willing to consider. They will believe he died nobly, and he wishes he could disabuse them of the conceit, show them that a moment of temptation had been enough to doom him. But the earth is vast below him, ready to reclaim all her children, no matter their deeds.

"It is no shame, not to wish this life," Verin says kindly. "There are many men who would blanch at the notion of becoming entangled with another, spirit to spirit."

"You do not know me!" Tomas rages. "Not in truth, not the meanest fraction!"

"I know that you are frustrated with my scholarly pursuits, that you miss your family, that you tire of the White Tower's internal politics—as, on many occasions, I do. These are all worthy reasons to leave."

"Do not mock me," says Tomas. "You could not comprehend the things I have seen, no, not even with all your empty book-learning."

Before he can rail against the world any further, she places her palm to his head as she had when she had bonded him. "Tomas Gaidin, I release you from all oaths that bind you to me and to my sisterhood. Go forth in freedom, and in peace."

The pain that accompanies her yielding of the bond is not like it had been on Balinor's death; that was low and subdued, an ache that might twinge over the months. This is sharp and deliberate, as if she had carefully taken a knife to her chest and carved a delicate pattern.

If Tomas feels the loss of strength and stamina that the bond had created, he makes no sign. Instead he sags and hangs his head. "You fool! You Light-blind fool of a woman! My oath to you was never a burden. Ah, if you could burn away every oath with your channels!"

She does not know who could replace him, but she fears she will never readjust to being alone.

A squadron of Whitecloaks stops them shortly after they enter into Cairhien. Ingtar scowls—the Children should not hold sway so far east—and the Two Rivers men grumble. But they are merely annoyed at being detained, not embarrassed by the gaudy suns on the Whitecloaks' uniforms. As crass as the emblems are, they serve their purpose in reminding Ingtar how far he has fallen.

Mat is relieved when the captain ignores him, and Rand and Perrin much more pleased to escape questioning after a few brief exchanges. It's Hurin, of all people, who they cross-examine. "Just what do you think you're doing, leading this band?"

"My Lord Agelmar admires my horsemanship," Hurin says. "I am no general, but I do what I can."

"We pursue Darkfriends," Ingtar adds. "Surely we have common cause with you."

"And how do you pursue them?" asks the captain. "Is your knowledge of woodscraft so great, that you can track trails that we do not see? Or do you have other methods?"

"We seek the Horn of Valere!" Hurin says. "There is no deceit in that!"

"Trust not in ghosts," says another Child, "but in the strength of the living."

They make it clear that they intend to ride with Ingtar's band, to root out any treachery that might be infiltrating Cairhien. And while Ingtar himself somehow projects calm despite it all, it is the Two Rivers men who exchange glances and flee, Hurin steps behind. "Where are you going?" yells the Ogier. "Rand? Rand? Oh dear, I do not think they have considered—"

The Whitecloaks scatter; half follow the horses making a hurried escape, and the other half surround Ingtar as if he is a valuable hostage. He scarcely cares if he lives or dies; either way, he knows the Horn will never fall into his hands.

"It is well to heed the summons of the Hall," intone the sisters. "It is not yours to ask for what purpose you have been summoned."

"As the Hall demands, so do I obey," says Verin smoothly, not protesting as they shield her. "Might some of you accompany me to my quarters? I have some texts there that I wish to present to the Sitters."

"Do not let her separate us," says Anaiya. "You will proceed as you are Summoned."

It's a small group, barely a quorum, and she sees none of her Black sisters. But they have witnesses who testify to her inconsistencies. Small things, but taken together, and vouched for by those who cannot lie, they add up.

And then Verin presents her side of the story, how it had all been a misunderstanding or hearsay or Yellows thinking they understood Brown business. As much as she strains to confess, to tell the entire truth underpinning her lies, she is unable to; her oaths to the Dark still hold.

"You could produce the Oath Rod," she finally proposes. "Make me swear I am not lying."

"No!" snaps Elaida. "If she is what she stands accused of, no weave can hold her. How will we know she is not deceiving us even then?"

"It is so," says Sierin, the Amyrlin. The Hall holds council privately, a formality, but their sentence is as harsh as Verin had known it would be. Stilling: dulling all the colors and textures and harmonies of Power to a limp haze.

At least she is able to recover her notes before she is turned out, but who in the Tower would listen to her even if she knew she was dying? She is no longer even feared as a member of the Black Ajah; she is a pitiable nobody, worse than the humblest peasant who at least would not know what she missed.

They are surrounded by beasts, monsters from another land. Maybe more distant. "When we were in the other world," Loial begins, "these were there, even with no humans to guide them."

"Another world?" Mat echoes.

"There are creatures here who will fight for us," Perrin says, "if they are called."

"Blood and ashes!" Uno erupts. "Are you going to whistle for your bloody hound all the way from the Two Flaming Rivers?"

"I had a different idea," says Perrin. And before anyone can stop him—they do not dare, not with the grolm and raken and other Seanchan animals closing in—he reaches for the Horn.

The wolves who live come from the east; the others come from over the sea. Silver wolves, dark wolves, wolves in an aura of moonlight. Wolves have their own heroes, their own untranslatable names that have passed beyond memory, and the one who was once twist of fur kneeling over prey will be reborn as sniff of air at sunrise, and today is of all packs and none.

Perrin, the quiet blacksmith, is calling the wolves, leading them in battle. And what is strange is not that he knows them by name or that the Seanchan's battle lines break before him, but that he had the nerve to reach for the Horn and Ingtar did not.

"Be sure you leave out sweets for the Accepted," Verin notes. "Moiraine and Siuan will push each other hard, and they won't think to come down for dinner."

Most of the cooks have nodded and told her to consider it done. Polgaar, however, scowls. "Practicing for their exams, is that all?"

"They have their own studies, no doubt. Siuan reads the histories like a Brown and tries to find how they made peace, like a Gray. We'd be honored to take her, but I don't know where she'll land."

"And the Cairhienin lady, is she 'taking' her friend as well?"

"Come again?"

"It's all well and good for highborn folk like you to have their pillow-friends, but us normal women, we don't have all that freedom."

"You're jealous of the Accepted...because they're lovers?"

"Well, why not? Get a husband or take to witchery, that's my lot."

"It doesn't have to be that way. There are places where no one cares—"

"You're two hundred years old, Verin Sedai. Not all of us can wait for change."

"All our lives are brief compared to the Wheel's turning."

"And most of the people who say that are also two centuries old."

"There are those," Verin says carefully, "who believe in immortality, in this life. Where a cook or a smith could reign over Aes Sedai or monarchs, and Aiel warriors be smitten down by Tinkers' pots."

"Is this another fancy you've found in your books?"

"It's real," says Verin. "All around me, as near as my ring."

Only later does she realize that she's recruited a Darkfriend in spirit as well as name. The worst of it is, she doesn't fully regret it.

It sits in an elegant box, the sort of craftsmanship that should have been presented to the Amyrlin Seat. The grandeur of the case is a contrast to the bodies of the Trollocs that litter the hall, but Ingtar was raised to see the stark beauty in places such as Fal Dara, where the terrors of the Blight are never far from thought. Mat clings to the dagger he has retrieved, but backs away, as if the Horn itself could catch the curse that plagues him.

"Burn me," says Uno. "We're going to see Tarmon flaming Gai'don in our own lives."

"No!" Rand snaps. "We will not be—lifeless rocks, waiting to be moved because some prophecy demands it."

"We must," Ingtar says. "Even if it was not foretold, why would we shy from summonning the Heroes of the Horn?"

"I will not be used!" Rand thunders. And fire bursts from within the box, melting the horn into a bright-hot puddle. Rand has barely moved, but his eyes are intense, bright as any Aielman's and as unforgiving.

"What have you done?" Ingtar whimpers.

"My choice," says Rand. "Mine! A free man!"

"A madman," grumbles Masema.

Ingtar ignores him. Whatever Rand's freedom, he has sealed Ingtar's doom.

"One lifetime is not enough," says Mesaana. "Not to discover the wonders and secrets of the One Power."

"You flatter me, Lady." Verin curtsies deeply, not willing to meet her eyes.

"You are fortunate to have already forsworn the Tower's oaths. They would have dragged you to an early grave as surely as another plate of sweet food."

An early grave? Aes Sedai lived for centuries more than women who could not channel, but the Chosen seemed to think even that was strangely brief. "Your Age was truly one of legends. I am not worthy to take a place with you."

"Ha! My brothers and sisters are burnt away by children unaware of their own strength. Asmodean understood the truth, that death is the true curse of humankind, that nothing will do but to overcome. And where is he now?"

"Was that a rhetorical question, my Lady? I fear I could not tell you."

"Pah, never mind. The Lord of the Grave will make new Chosen, in whichever form he sees fit."

Perhaps it is a test; is she hoping Verin will appear too eager? "I serve and await."

They say the end of the Age is coming, that the loosening of the Dark One's seals is a sign that a great turning of the Wheel is at hand. Could Verin be so favored as to witness the birth of a new Age, an Age of order and power, where she is poised to chronicle all the new feats that will come to pass? It is this hope, more than ranks or titles among squabbling Darkfriends, that convinces her all the scruples she abandoned long before were a worthy sacrifice.

The Gray Owl of House Shinowa is barely visible against a gray sky, but there are no other banners to be seen, and scarcely any owls, either. Sometimes there will be ravens perching on the barren branches of trees, but they are in no rush to spy. Ba'alzamon needs no minions to see all.

They are a nation, Ingtar tells himself, a living nation. Their blood is their own, what little of it still flows. It will not be replaced by a different nation with a different language and a different noble house; Friends of the Dark need not die. He has considered it—death—but there would still be the Lord of the Grave there, and there would be no Shienar.

Be'lal Travelled to inspect the city the other day, a man calling upon the One Power to traverse the continent. Once that would have been worth noting, but there is no taint for men who wield saidin. No taint more strange than the one that blankets earth and sky, sleep and wakefulness.

Verin misses her friends among the rebels, but surely there were more true of heart among them, those who stood by Siuan even in disgrace. She needs to stay within the Tower to root out the Black Ajah there, the Whites who never left their studies or the Greens who itched to subdue the rebellion.

So, just half an hour ago, she was speaking with Alviarin, speculating over how they might isolate the pretender without making her a martyr. The child has some logical points, to be sure; no one can deny that the Tower was riddled with factions and mistrust. But the way she has gained the admiration of many sisters makes her a threat, even to those not of the Black.

And then the Tower is racked from without. Monsters in the sky call down fire—no, not monsters, the enslaved channelers riding them. Classrooms and archives and private chambers that had stood for centuries crumble under the invaders' weaves.

Verin calls forth Earth and Spirit, trying to shore up the room around her while unleashing havoc on the enemy. Even those who are not bound by the Three Oaths are surely justified in striking to kill; this is the last defense not of one sister or Gaidin, but the entire institution. Yet Verin feels a thrill in knowing she is not held by them. She can be as vicious to the slavers and the beasts they harry as any tyrant.

But then the room explodes in fire, books and flesh and owl wings dissolving into ash. Verin's last thought is that it was unfair she had not known the hour of her death. She would have made better plans.

The Shienaran gave a start when she [Verin] touched his arm, and looked at her with frantic eyes. "I walk in the Light," he said hoarsely. "I will find the Horn of Valere and pull down Shayol Ghul's power. I will!"

"Of course you will," she said soothingly. She took his face in her hands, and he gave a sudden breath, abruptly recovering from whatever had held him. Except that memory still lay in his eyes.

-"The Great Hunt": Chapter 37, "What Might Be"