On the deck, Nynaeve caught a dockman's arm, a burly fellow in a coarse brown shirt with no sleeves. He sounded too matter-of-fact. Why? The Prophecies must be fulfilled. We will ride harder to make it up.
The Power could burn them all, burn Fain and all the rest to cinders. Light, I am going crazy. And something worse. Not gaunt from the dungeon - the food here was the same as the servants ate, and not even the worst prisoner was shorted - but from what he had done before coming to Fal Dara.
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