Nynaeve's face stayed frozen as she shifted the way she sat, just a fraction. Bands of lighted windows reached out like spokes of a wheel from the city walls. The Trollocs were still out there. A man who could channel.
A shaping stone, to make, us; a testing ground, to prove our worth; and a punishment for the sin. There was a peculiar emphasis in Ingtar's last words. The lancers were odd ferrymen, walking the deck in helmets and armor, with swords on their backs, but they took the ferry out into the river well enough. Burn me, Egwene, he brought the Trollocs to Emond's Field! The Dark One's hound, he called himself, and he has been sniffing on my trail since Winternight.
Join the newsletter to receive news, updates, new products and freebies in your inbox.