Falme, where someone used the Power in the streets, and the harbor, and the Seanchan host, and the dying Whitecloaks, all of it beneath him, all of him hanging above, all of it just as it had been. She leaned forward in her seat, waiting for his answer, but he had the feeling she wanted to lean back. For another, she was beautiful, ivory-pale skin contrasting sharply with long, night-dark hair and black eyes. She set us to searching.
Egwene did not come any further into the room. It seemed pure song, music without words, at least none that Rand could make out; if there were words, they faded into the music just as water pours into a stream. He was born, lived, and died an Aiel. The men with the buckets were gone when he reached the stairs.
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