When Perrin left the Wise Ones’ tent, he considered removing his coat to see whether his hide was still attached and whole. Not a tethered goat, maybe, but a stag with six she-wolves on his heels, and he was unsure what fast feet had gained him. For certain, none of the Wise Ones had changed her mind, and their promises not to take any action on their own had been vague at best. About the Aes Sedai, there had been no promises, even foggy ones.
He looked for either of the sisters, and found Masuri. A narrow rope had been tied between two trees and a fringed red-and-green rug draped over it. The slender Brown was flailing away with a bent-wood beater, raising thin clouds of dust, motes that floated glittering in the midmorning sun. Her Warder, a compact man with dark receding hair, sat on a fallen tree trunk nearby, watching her glumly. Rovair Kirklin normally had a ready grin, but it was buried deep today. Masuri caught sight of Perrin, and with barely a pause in her rug-beating shot him a look of such frozen malevolence that he sighed. And she was the one who thought as he did. As close to it as he was likely to find, anyway. A red-tailed hawk passed overhead, riding rising currents of hot air from hill to hill without flapping its outstretched wings. It would be very nice to soar away from all this. The iron in front of him, not dreams of silver.
Nodding to Sulin and the Maidens, who might have taken root under that leatherleaf, Perrin turned to go, and stopped. Two men were climbing the hill, one an Aiel in the grays and browns and greens of the cadin’sor, his cased bow on his back, a bristling quiver at his belt, and his spears and round hide buckler in hand. Gaul was a friend, and the only man among the Aiel who did not wear white. His companion, a head shorter in a broad-brimmed hat and coat and breeches of a plain dull green, was no Aiel. He had a full quiver at his belt, too, and a knife even longer and heavier than the Aielman’s, but he carried his bow, much shorter than a Two Rivers longbow though longer than the horn bows of the Aiel. Despite his clothes, he did not have the look of a farmer, or a city man either. Perhaps it was the graying hair tied at the nape of his neck and hanging to his waist, the beard fanning across his chest, or perhaps just the way he moved, much like the man at his side, slipping around the brush on the hill so that you were sure no twig snapped in his passing, no weeds broke under his foot. Perrin had not seen him in what seemed a very long time.
Reaching the hilltop, Elyas Machera regarded Perrin, golden eyes shining faintly in the shadow of his hat brim. His eyes had been that way years before Perrin’s; Elyas had introduced Perrin to the wolves. He had been dressed in hides, then. “Good to see you again, boy,” he said quietly. Sweat glistened on his face, but little more than on Gaul’s. “You give away that axe, finally? I didn’t think you’d ever stop hating it.”
“I still do,” Perrin said just as quietly. A long time ago the onetime Warder had told him to keep the axe until he stopped hating to use it. Light, but he still hated it! And he had added new reasons, now. “What are you doing in this part of the world, Elyas? Where did Gaul find you?”
“He found me,” Gaul said. “I did not know he was behind me until he coughed.” He spoke loudly enough to be heard by the Maidens, and the sudden stillness among them was solid as a touch.
Perrin expected at least a few cutting comments—Aiel humor could near draw blood, and the Maidens seized any chance to dig at the green-eyed man—but instead, some of the women took up spears and bucklers to rattle them together in approbation. Gaul nodded approval.
Elyas grunted ambiguously and tugged his hat down, yet he smelled pleased. The Aiel did not approve of much this side of the Dragonwall. “I like to keep moving,” he told Perrin, “and I just happened to be in Ghealdan when some mutual friends told me you were traveling with this parade.” He did not name the mutual friends; it was unwise to speak openly about talking to wolves. “Told me a lot of things. Told me they smell a change coming. They don’t know what. Maybe you do. I hear you’ve been running with the Dragon Reborn.”
“I don’t know,” Perrin said slowly. A change? He had not thought to ask the wolves anything more than where large groups of men were, so he could go around them. Even here in Ghealdan, sometimes he felt blame among them for the wolves dead at Dumai’s Wells. What kind of change? “Rand is surely changing things, but I couldn’t say what they mean. Light, the whole world is turning somersaults, and never mind him.”
“All things change,” Gaul said dismissively. “Until we wake, the dream drifts on the wind.” For a moment he studied Perrin and Elyas, comparing their eyes, Perrin was sure. He said nothing about them, though; the Aiel seemed to take golden eyes as just one more peculiarity among wetlanders. “I will leave you two to talk alone. Friends long separated need to talk by themselves. Sulin, are Chiad and Bain about? I saw them hunting yesterday, and thought I might show them how to draw a bow before one of them shoots herself.”
“I was surprised to see you come back today,” the white-haired woman replied. “They went out to set snares for rabbits.” Laughter rippled through the Maidens, and fingers flickered rapidly in handtalk.
Sighing, Gaul rolled his eyes ostentatiously. “In that case, I think I must go cut them loose.” Almost as many Maidens laughed at that, including Sulin. “May you find shade this day,” he told Perrin, a casual farewell between friends, but he clasped forearms formally with Elyas and said, “My honor is yours, Elyas Machera.”
“Odd fellow,” Elyas murmured, watching Gaul lope back down the hill. “When I coughed, he turned around ready to kill me, I think, then he just started laughing instead. You have any objections to going somewhere else? I don’t know the sister who’s trying to murder that rug, but I don’t like taking chances with Aes Sedai.” His eyes narrowed. “Gaul says there are three with you. You don’t expect to be meeting up with any more, do you?”
“I hope not,” Perrin replied. Masuri was glancing their way between slashes with the beater; she would learn about Elyas’ eyes soon enough and start trying to ferret out what else linked him to Perrin. “Come on; it’s time I was back in my own camp anyway. Are you worried about meeting an Aes Sedai who knows you?” Elyas’ days as a Warder had ended when it was learned he could talk to wolves. Some sisters thought it a mark of the Dark One, and he had had to kill other Warders to get away.
The older man waited until they were a dozen paces from the tents before he replied, and even then, he spoke quietly, as though he suspected someone behind them might have ears as good as theirs. “One who knows my name will be bad enough. Warders don’t run off often, boy. Most Aes Sedai will free a man who really wants to go—most will—and anyway, she can track you down however far you run if she decides to hunt. But any sister who finds a renegade will spend her idle moments making him wish he’d never been born.” He shivered slightly. His smell was not fear, but anticipation of pain. “Then she’ll turn him over to his own Aes Sedai to drive the lesson home. A man’s never quite the same after that.” At the edge of the slope, he looked back. Masuri did seem to be trying to kill the carpet, focusing all her rage on attempting to beat a hole through it. Elyas shivered again, though. “Worse thing would be to run into Rina. I’d rather be caught in a forest fire with both legs broken.”
“Rina’s your Aes Sedai? But how could you run into her? The bond lets you know where she is.” That nudged something in Perrin’s memory, but whatever it was melted away at Elyas’ reply.
“A fair number can fuzz the bond, in a manner of speaking. Maybe they all can. You don’t know much more than she’s still alive, and I know that anyway, because I haven’t gone crazy.” Elyas saw the question on his face and barked a laugh. “Light, man, a sister’s flesh-and-blood, too. Most are. Think about it. Would you want somebody inside your head while you cuddled up with a likely wench? Sorry; I forgot you were married, now. No offense meant. I was surprised to hear you’d married a Saldaean, though.”
“Surprised?” Perrin had never considered that about the Warder bond. Light! For that matter, he had never really thought about Aes Sedai that way. It seemed about as possible as . . . as a man talking to wolves. “Why surprised?” They started down through the trees on this side of the hill, not hurrying and making little noise. Perrin had always been a good hunter, accustomed to the forests, and Elyas hardly disturbed the leaves underfoot, gliding smoothly through the undergrowth without shifting a branch. He might have slung his bow on his back now, but he still carried it ready. Elyas was a wary man, especially around people.
“Why, because you’re a quiet sort, and I thought you’d marry somebody quiet, too. Well, you know by now Saldaeans aren’t quiet. Except with strangers and outsiders. Set the sun on fire one minute, and the next, it’s all blown away and forgotten. Make Arafellin look stolid and Domani downright dull.” Elyas grinned suddenly. “I lived a year with a Saldaean, once, and Merya shouted my ears off five days in the week, and maybe heaved the dishes at my head, too. Every time I thought about leaving, though, she’d want to make up, and I never seemed to get to the door. In the end, she left me. Said I was too restrained for her taste.” His rasping laugh was reminiscent, but he rubbed at a faint, age-faded scar along his jaw reminiscently, too. It looked to have been made by a knife.
“Faile’s not like that.” It sounded like being married to Nynaeve! Nynaeve with sore teeth! “I don’t mean she doesn’t get angry now and then,” he admitted reluctantly, “but she doesn’t shout and throw things.” Well, she did not shout very often, and instead of flaring hot and vanishing, her anger started hot and dragged on till it turned cold.
Elyas glanced at him sideways. “If I ever smelled a man trying to dodge hail . . . You’ve been giving her soft words all the time, haven’t you? Mild as milk-water and never lay your ears back? Never raise your voice to her?”
“Of course not!” Perrin protested. “I love her! Why would I shout at her?”
Elyas began muttering under his breath, though Perrin could hear every word, of course. “Burn me, a man wants to sit on a red adder, it’s his affair. Not my business if a man wants to warm his hands when the roof’s on fire. It’s his life. Will he thank me? No, he bloody well won’t!”
“What are you going on about?” Perrin demanded. Catching Elyas’ arm, he pulled him to a stop beneath a winterberry tree, its prickly leaves still mostly green. Little else nearby was, except for some struggling creepers. They had come less than halfway down the hill. “Faile isn’t a red adder or a roof on fire! Wait until you meet her before you start talking like you know her.”
Irritably, Elyas raked fingers through his long beard. “I know Saldaeans, boy. That year wasn’t the only time I’ve been there. I’ve only ever met about five Saldaean women I’d call meek, or even mild-mannered. No, she isn’t an adder; what she is is a leopard, I’ll wager. Don’t growl, burn you! I’ll bet my boots she’d smile to hear me say it!”
Perrin opened his mouth angrily, then closed it again. He had not realized he was growling deep in his throat. Faile would smile at being called a leopard. “You can’t be saying she wants me to shout at her, Elyas.”
“Yes, I am. Most likely, anyway. Maybe she’s the sixth. Maybe. Just hear me out. Most women, you raise your voice, and they go bulge-eyed or ice, and next thing you know, you’re arguing about you being angry, never mind what put the ember down your back in the first place. Swallow your tongue with a Saldaean, though, and to her, you’re saying she isn’t strong enough to stand up to you. Insult her like that, and you’re lucky she doesn’t feed you your own gizzard for breakfast. She’s no Far Madding wench, to expect a man to sit where she points and jump when she snaps her fingers. She’s a leopard, and she expects her husband to be a leopard, too. Light! I don’t know what I’m doing. Giving a man advice about his wife is a good way to get your innards spilled.”
It was Elyas’ turn to growl. He jerked his hat straight unnecessarily and looked around the slope frowning, as though considering whether to vanish back into the forests, then poked a finger at Perrin. “Look here. I always knew you were more than a stray, and putting what the wolves told me together with you just happening to be heading toward this Prophet fellow, I thought maybe you could use a friend to watch your back. Of course, the wolves didn’t mention you were leading those pretty Mayener lancers. Neither did Gaul, till we saw them. If you’d like me to stay, I will. If not, there’s plenty of the world I haven’t seen yet.”
“I can always use another friend, Elyas.” Could Faile really want him to shout? He had always known he might hurt somebody if he was not careful, and he always tried to keep a tight rein on his temper. Words could hurt as hard as fists, the wrong words, words you never meant, let loose in a temper. It had to be impossible. It just stood to reason. No woman would stand for that, from her husband or any man.
A bluefinch’s call brought Perrin’s head up, ears pricking. It was just at the edge of hearing even for him, but a moment later the trill was repeated closer, then again, nearer still. Elyas cocked an eyebrow at him; he would know the call of a Borderland bird. Perrin had learned it from some Shienarans, Masema among them, and taught the Two Rivers men.
“We have visitors coming,” he told Elyas.
They came quickly, four riders at a fast canter, arriving before he and Elyas reached the bottom of the hill. Berelain led the way, splashing across the stream with Annoura and Gallenne close behind and a woman in a pale, hooded dust-cloak at her side. They swept right by the Mayener camp without a glance, not drawing rein until they were in front of the red-and-white striped tent. Some of the Cairhienin servants rushed to take bridles and hold stirrups, and Berelain and her companions were inside before the dust of their arrival settled.
All in all, the arrival created quite a stir. A buzz rose among the Two Rivers men that Perrin could only call anticipatory. The inevitable gathering of Faile’s young fools scratched their heads and stared at the tent, chattering excitedly among themselves. Grady and Neald watched the tent through the trees, too, now and then leaning together to talk though nobody was close enough to hear anything they said.
“Looks like your visitors are more than casual,” Elyas said quietly. “Watch Gallenne; he could be trouble.”
“You know him, Elyas? I’d like you to stay, but if you think he might tell one of the sisters who you are . . . ” Perrin shrugged in resignation. “I might be able to stop Seonid and Masuri”—he thought he could—“but I think Annoura will do whatever she wants.” And what did she really think about Masema?
“Oh, Bertain Gallenne doesn’t know the likes of Elyas Machera,” Elyas replied with a wry grin. “ ‘More fools know Jak Fool than Jak Fool knows.’ I know him, though. He won’t go against you or behind your back, but Berelain has the brains between them. She’s kept Tear out of Mayene by playing the Tairens against the Illianers since she was sixteen. Berelain knows how to maneuver; all Gallenne knows is attack. He’s good at it, but he never sees anything else, and sometimes he doesn’t stop to think.”
“I’d figured that out about both of them,” Perrin muttered. At least Berelain had brought a messenger from Alliandre. She would not have come rushing in that way with a new maid. The only question was why Alliandre’s reply needed a messenger. “I had best find out whether the news is good, Elyas. Later, we’ll talk about what lies south. And you can meet Faile,” he added before turning away.
“The Pit of Doom lies south,” the other man called after him, “or as close to it as I expected to see below the Blight.” Perrin imagined he heard that faint thunder in the west again. Now, that would be a pleasant change.
In the tent, Breane was carrying a silver tray about with a bowl of rose-scented water and cloths for washing faces and hands, curtsying stiffly as she presented it. With even stiffer curtsies, Maighdin was offering a tray holding cups of wine-punch—made with the last of the dried blueberries, by the smell—while Lini folded the newcomer’s dust-cloak. There seemed something odd in the way Faile and Berelain stood to either side of the new woman, and Annoura hovered behind them, all focused on her. Somewhere in her middle years, with a cap of green net gathering dark hair that fell almost to her waist, she might have been pretty if her nose had not been so long. And if she had not carried it so high. Shorter than Faile or Berelain either one, she still managed to look down that nose at Perrin, coolly examining him from hair to boots. She did not blink at sight of his eyes, although nearly everyone did.
“Majesty,” Berelain pronounced in a formal voice as soon as Perrin entered, “may I present Lord Perrin Aybara of the Two Rivers, in Andor, the personal friend and emissary of the Dragon Reborn.” The long-nosed woman nodded carefully, coolly, and Berelain went on with scarcely a pause. “Lord Aybara, give greetings and welcome to Alliandre Maritha Kigarin, Queen of Ghealdan, Blessed of the Light, Defender of Garen’s Wall, who is pleased to receive you in person.” Gallenne, standing near the tent wall, adjusted his eyepatch and raised his winecup to Perrin with a smile of triumph.
For some reason Faile shot Berelain a hard look. Perrin’s mouth nearly dropped open. Alliandre herself? He wondered whether he should kneel, then settled for a bow after too long a pause. Light! He had no notion how to deal with a queen. Especially one who turned up out of the blue with no escort, without a jewel in sight. Her dark green riding dress was plain wool, lacking a single stitch of embroidery.
“After the recent news,” Alliandre said, “I thought I should come to you, Lord Aybara.” Her voice was calm, her face smooth, her eyes aloof. And observant, or he was a Taren Ferry man. Best to step warily till he knew how the path lay. “You may not have heard,” she continued, “but four days ago Illian fell to the Dragon Reborn, blessed be his name in the Light. He has taken the Laurel Crown, though I understand it is now called the Crown of Swords.”
Faile, taking a cup from Maighdin’s tray, whispered under her breath, “And seven days gone, the Seanchan took Ebou Dar.” Even Maighdin did not notice.
If Perrin had not already taken hold of himself, he truly would have gaped. Why did Faile tell him this way instead of waiting for it to come from the woman who must have told her? In a voice that everyone could hear, he repeated her words. A hard voice, but that was the only way to keep it from shaking. Ebou Dar, too? Light! And seven days ago? The day Grady and the others had seen the One Power in the sky. Coincidence, maybe. But would he rather it had been the Forsaken?
Annoura frowned over her cup, pursing her lips, before he finished speaking, and Berelain gave him a startled look that vanished quickly. They knew he had not known about Ebou Dar when they rode into Bethal.
Alliandre merely nodded, every bit as self-possessed as the Gray. “You seem remarkably well informed,” she said, coming closer to him. “I doubt the first rumors are reaching Jehannah with the river trade, yet. I myself learned of it only a few days ago. Several of the merchants keep me abreast of events. I believe,” she added dryly, “that they hope I can intercede for them with the Prophet of the Lord Dragon, if such becomes necessary.”
At last he could pick out her scent, and his opinion of her changed, though not for the worse. Outwardly, the Queen was all cool reserve, but uncertainty shot through with fear filled the smell of her. He did not believe he could have held his face so calm had he felt that.
“Always best to know as much as you can,” he told her, half distracted. Burn me, he thought, I have to let Rand know about this!
“In Saldaea we find merchants useful for information, too,” Faile said. Implying that was how Perrin knew about Ebou Dar. “They seem to learn what happened a thousand miles off weeks before the rumors begin.”
She did not look at Perrin, but he knew she spoke to him as much as Alliandre. Rand knew, she was saying. And anyway, there was no way to get word to him in secret. Could Faile really want him to . . . ? No, it was unthinkable. Blinking, he realized he had missed something Alliandre had said. “Your pardon, Alliandre,” he said politely. “I was thinking about Rand—the Dragon Reborn.” Of course it was unthinkable!
Everyone stared at him, even Lini and Maighdin and Breane. Annoura’s eyes had gone wide, and Gallenne’s mouth hung open. Then it hit him. He had just called the Queen by name. He took a cup from Maighdin’s tray, and she rose from her curtsy so quickly that she nearly knocked it from his hand. Waving her away absently, he wiped his damp hand on his coat. He had to concentrate here, not let his mind wander in nine directions. No matter what Elyas thought he knew, Faile would never . . . No! Concentrate!
Alliandre recovered her equilibrium quickly. In truth, she had appeared the least surprised of anyone, and her scent never wavered. “I was saying that coming to you in secret seemed the wisest course, Lord Aybara,” she said in that cool voice. “Lord Telabin believes I am keeping private in his gardens, which I left by a seldom-used gate. Passing out of the city, I was Annoura Sedai’s maid.” Brushing fingertips across one skirt of her riding dress, she gave a small laugh. Even that about her was cool, so at odds with what his nose told him. “A number of my own soldiers saw me, but with the hood of my cloak pulled up, none knew me.”
“Times being what they are, that probably was wisest,” Perrin said carefully. “But you will have to come into the open sooner or later. One way or another.” Polite and to the point, that was the thing. A queen would not want to waste time with a man who blathered. And he did not want to disappoint Faile by acting the hayfoot again. “Why come at all? All you had to do was send a letter, or just tell Berelain your answer. Will you declare for Rand or not? Either way, have no fear about getting back to Bethal safely.” A good point, that. Whatever else frightened her, being here alone must.
Faile was watching him, pretending not to, sipping her punch and directing her smiles at Alliandre, but he caught the quick flickers of her eyes in his direction. Berelain made no pretense, watching quite openly, eyes slightly narrowed and never leaving his face. Annoura was just as intent, just as thoughtful. Did they all believe he was going to trip over his own tongue again?
Instead of answering the important question, Alliandre said, “The First told me a great deal about you, Lord Aybara, and about the Lord Dragon Reborn, blessed be his name in the Light.” That last sounded by rote, an addition she no longer had to think about. “I cannot see him before I make my decision, so I wished to see you, to take a measure of you. It’s possible to tell much about a man by those he chooses to speak for him.” Tilting her face down toward the cup in her hands, she peered at him through her lashes. From Berelain, that would have been flirtatious, but Alliandre was cautiously watching a wolf sure as he was standing in front of her. “I also saw your banners,” she said quietly. “The First did not mention them.”
Perrin scowled before he could stop himself. Berelain had told her a great deal about him? What had she said? “The banners are meant to be seen.” Anger put a roughness in his voice that required some effort to force down. Now, Berelain was a woman who needed shouting at. “Believe me, there are no plans to set up Manetheren again.” There; his tone was as cool as Alliandre’s. “What is your decision? Rand can have ten thousand soldiers, a hundred thousand, here in the blink of an eye, or near enough.” And he might have to. The Seanchan in Amador and Ebou Dar? Light, how many were they?
Alliandre sipped delicately at her wine-punch before speaking, and again she dodged the question. “There are a thousand rumors, as you must know, and even the wildest is believable when the Dragon is Reborn, strangers appear claiming to be Artur Hawkwing’s armies returned, and the Tower itself is broken by rebellion.”
“A matter for Aes Sedai,” Annoura said sharply. “It concerns no one else.” Berelain flashed an exasperated look at her, which she affected not to notice.
Alliandre flinched and turned her shoulder to the sister. Queen or not, no one wanted to hear that tone from an Aes Sedai. “The world is turned upside down, Lord Aybara. Why, I’ve even had reports of Aiel sacking a village right here in Ghealdan.” Abruptly Perrin realized there was more here than anxiety over offending Aes Sedai. Alliandre watched him, waiting. But for what? Reassurance?
“The only Aiel in Ghealdan are with me,” he told her. “The Seanchan may be descendants of Artur Hawkwing’s army, but Hawkwing is a thousand years dead. Rand dealt with them once already, and he will again.” He remembered Falme as clearly as Dumai’s Wells, though he had tried forgetting. Surely there had not been enough of them there to take Amador and Ebou Dar, even with their damane. Balwer claimed they had Taraboner soldiers, too. “And it might cheer you to hear that those rebel Aes Sedai support Rand. They will, soon, at least.” That was what Rand said, a handful of Aes Sedai with nowhere to go except to him. Perrin was not so sure. Rumor in Ghealdan put an army with those sisters. Of course, the same rumors counted more Aes Sedai in that handful than there were in the world, but still . . . Light, he wished someone would reassure him! “Why don’t we sit,” he said. “I’ll answer any questions you have, to help you make your decision, but we might as well be comfortable.” Drawing one of the folding chairs to him, he remembered at the last instant not to just drop into it, but it creaked under him just the same.
Lini and the other two servants rushed about, pulling chairs into a circle with his, but none of the other women moved toward them. Alliandre stood looking at him, and the rest looked at her. Except for Gallenne, who merely poured himself another cup of punch from the silver pitcher.
It came to Perrin that Faile had not opened her mouth since speaking of the merchants. He was as grateful for Berelain’s silence as he was that she had not decided to flutter her lashes at him in front of the Queen, but he could have used some help from Faile right then. A little advice. Light, she knew ten times what he did about what he should say and do here.
Wondering whether he should stand with the others, he set his wine-punch on one of the small tables and asked her to speak to Alliandre. “If anyone can make her see the right way to go, you can,” he said. Faile gave him a pleased smile, but held her tongue.
Abruptly Alliandre put out her cup to one side without looking, as if expecting a tray to be there. One was, barely in time to catch the cup, and Maighdin, who held it, muttered something Perrin hoped Faile had not heard. Faile was death on servants using that sort of language. He started to rise as Alliandre approached him, but to his shock, she knelt gracefully in front of him, catching his hands with hers. Before he knew what she was doing, she twisted so her hands were back-to-back between his palms. She clung so hard her hands must have hurt; for sure, he was not certain he could loose himself without hurting her.
“Under the Light,” she said firmly, looking up at him, “I, Alliandre Maritha Kigarin, pledge my fealty and service to Lord Perrin Aybara of the Two Rivers, now and for all time, save that he chooses to release me of his own will. My lands and throne are his, and I yield them to his hand. So I do swear.”
For an instant there was a silence broken only by Gallenne’s gasp and the muted thud of his winecup hitting the rug.
Then Perrin heard Faile, once more whispering so softly no one next to her could have made out her words. “Under the Light, I do accept your pledge and will defend and protect you and yours through battle’s wrack and winter’s blast and all that time may bring. The lands and throne of Ghealdan, I give to you as my faithful vassal. Under the Light, I do accept . . . ” That must have been the Saldaean manner of accepting. Thank the Light she was too busy concentrating on him to see Berelain nodding at him furiously, urging the same. The pair of them looked almost as if they had expected this! Annoura, though, with her mouth hanging open, appeared as stunned as he, like a fish who had just seen the water vanish.
“Why?” he asked gently, ignoring Faile’s frustrated hiss and Berelain’s exasperated grunt alike. Burn me, he thought, I’m a bloody blacksmith! Nobody swore fealty to blacksmiths. Queens did not swear fealty to anyone! “I’ve been told I’m ta’veren; you might want to reconsider this in an hour.”
“I hope you are ta’veren, my Lord.” Alliandre laughed, but not in amusement, and gripped his hands even more tightly, as though fearful he might pull away. “With all my heart, I hope it. I fear nothing less will save Ghealdan. I all but reached this decision as soon as the First told me why you are here, and meeting you only confirmed me in it. Ghealdan needs protection I cannot give, so duty demands I find it. You can give it, my Lord, you and the Lord Dragon Reborn, blessed be his name in the Light. In truth, I would swear directly to him if he were here, but you are his man. Swearing to you, I also swear to him.” Drawing a deep breath, she forced out another word. “Please.” She smelled desperate, now, and her eyes shone with fear.
Still, he hesitated. This was everything Rand could want and more, but Perrin Aybara was just a blacksmith. He was! Could he still tell himself that if he did this thing? Alliandre stared up at him pleadingly. Did ta’veren work on themselves, he wondered. “Under the Light, I, Perrin Aybara, accept your pledge . . . ” His throat was dry by the time he finished the words Faile had whispered. Too late to stop and think now.
With a gasp of relief, Alliandre kissed his hands. Perrin did not think he had ever been so embarrassed in his life. Standing hurriedly, he drew her to her feet. And realized he did not know what to do next. A proudly beaming Faile whispered no further hints. Berelain smiled, too, relief so strong on her face she might have just been pulled from a fire.
He was sure Annoura would speak—Aes Sedai always had plenty to say, especially when it gave an opportunity to take charge—but the Gray sister was holding out a winecup for Maighdin to refill. Annoura watched him with an unreadable expression, and for that matter, so did Maighdin, so much so that she continued tilting her pitcher until punch slopped over onto the Aes Sedai’s wrist. At which Annoura gave a start, staring at the cup in her hand as though she had forgotten it was there. Faile frowned, and Lini frowned even harder, and Maighdin scurried for a cloth to dry the sister’s hand, all the while muttering under her breath again. Faile was going to have fits if she ever heard those mutters.
Perrin knew he was taking too long. Alliandre licked her lips anxiously; she expected more, but what? “Now that we’re done here, I have to find the Prophet next,” he said, and winced. Too abrupt. He had no feel for dealing with nobles, much less queens. “I suppose you’ll want to get back to Bethal before anyone learns you’re gone.”
“The last I heard,” Alliandre told him, “the Prophet of the Lord Dragon was in Abila. That’s a largish town in Amadicia, perhaps forty leagues south of here.”
In spite of himself, Perrin frowned, though he smoothed his brow quickly. So Balwer had been right. Right in one thing did not mean right in all, but it might be worthwhile hearing what the man had to say about the Whitecloaks. And the Seanchan. How many Taraboners?
Faile glided to his side, laying a hand on his arm and directing a warm smile at Alliandre. “You cannot mean to send her away now, my heart. Not when she has just arrived. Leave us to talk here out of the sun before she must face the ride back. I know you have important matters to see to.”
He managed not to stare, with a little effort. What could be more important than the Queen of Ghealdan? Certain sure, nothing anyone would let him lay hand to. Clearly she wanted to talk with Alliandre without him. With luck, she would tell him why later. With luck, she would tell him all of it. Elyas might think he knew Saldaeans, but Perrin had learned on his own that only a fool tried to root out all of his wife’s secrets. Or let her know about those he had unearthed already.
Leaving Alliandre should no doubt involve as much ceremony as meeting her, but he managed a credible leg and made his bow, asking her pardon for going off, and she curtsied deeply, murmuring that he honored her too much, and that was that. Except for jerking his head at Gallenne to follow him. He doubted that Faile would send him off and want that one to stay. What did she want to talk about alone?
Outside, the one-eyed man gave Perrin a clap on the shoulder that would have staggered a smaller man. “Burn me, I’ve never heard of the like! Now I can say I’ve seen a ta’veren at work for true. What did you want with me?” And what was he to say to that?
Just then, he heard shouting from the Mayener camp, the sound of arguing, loud enough that Two Rivers men stood to peer through the trees, though the side of the hill hid everything.
“First let’s see what all that is about,” Perrin replied. That would give him time to think. About what to say to Gallenne, and other things.
Faile waited a few moments after Perrin left before telling the servants that she and the others would see to themselves. Maighdin was so busy staring at Alliandre that Lini had to pluck at her sleeve before she moved. That would have to be handled later. Setting her cup down, Faile followed the three women to the door of the tent as if hurrying them, but she paused there.
Perrin and Gallenne were striding off through the trees toward the Mayener camp. Good. Most of Cha Faile was squatting not far off. Catching Parelean’s eye, she gestured low in front of her waist, where no one behind her could see. A quick circular motion followed by a clenched fist. Immediately the Tairens and Cairhien broke apart in groups of two or three and spread out. Far less elaborate than Maiden handtalk, Cha Faile’s signals sufficed. In moments a scattered ring of her people had surrounded the tent, apparently at random, talking idly or playing at cat’s cradle. But no one would come nearer than twenty paces without her receiving warning before they reached the threshold.
It was Perrin who worried her most. She had expected something momentous as soon as Alliandre appeared in the flesh, if not what came, but he had been stunned by her vow. If he took it into his head to return, to take another stab at making Alliandre feel comfortable in her decision . . . Oh, he did think with his heart when he should use his head. And with his head when he should use his heart! Guilt pricked her at the thought.
“Peculiar servants you found by the side of the road,” Berelain said in tones of mock sympathy at her side, and Faile gave a start. She had not heard the woman come up behind her. Lini and the others were walking toward the carts, Lini shaking a finger at Maighdin, and Berelain shifted her gaze from Faile to them. She kept her voice low, but the mocking tone remained. “The oldest at least seems to know her duties instead of simply having heard about them, but Annoura tells me the youngest is a wilder. Very weak, Annoura says, negligible, but wilders always cause problems. The others will carry tales about her, if they know, and sooner or later, she will run away. Wilders always do, I hear. That’s what comes of picking up your maids like stray dogs.”
“They suit me well enough,” Faile replied coolly. Still, a long conversation with Lini was definitely needed. A wilder? Even if weak, that might prove useful. “I always thought you were fit for hiring servants.” Berelain blinked, uncertain what that meant, and Faile carefully did not let her satisfaction show. Turning away, she said, “Annoura, will you make us private with a ward against listeners?”
There seemed little chance that Seonid or Masuri would find any opportunity to eavesdrop using the Power—she was waiting for the explosion when Perrin found out just how tightly the Wise Ones had that pair haltered—yet the Wise Ones themselves might have learned. Faile was sure Edarra and the others were wringing Seonid and Masuri dry.
The Gray sister’s beaded braids clicked softly as she nodded. “It is done, Lady Faile,” she said, and Berelain’s lips compressed briefly. Quite satisfying. The temerity of making the presentations here in Faile’s own tent! She deserved more than having someone step between her and her advisor, but it was satisfying.
Childishly satisfying, Faile admitted, when she should be focused on the matter at hand. She almost bit her lip in aggravation. She did not doubt her husband’s love, but she could not treat Berelain as the woman deserved, and that forced her, against her will, to play a game with Perrin too often as the gaming board. And the prize, so Berelain believed. If only Perrin did not sometimes behave as if he might be. Firmly she put all that out of her head. There was a wife’s work to be done here. The practical side.
Alliandre glanced thoughtfully at Annoura when a ward was mentioned—she had to realize it meant serious talk—but what she said was “Your husband is a formidable man, Lady Faile. I mean no offense when I say his bluff exterior belies a shrewd mind. With Amadicia on our doorstep, we in Ghealdan play Daes Dae’mar of necessity, but I do not think I have ever been danced so swiftly or so deftly to a decision as your Lord did. The hint of a threat here, a frown there. A very formidable man.”
This time hiding her smile took some effort on Faile’s part. These southlanders set a great store by the Game of Houses, and she did not think Alliandre would appreciate learning that Perrin simply said what he believed—too freely by half, at times—and people with devious minds saw calculation in his honesty. “He spent some time in Cairhien,” she said. Let Alliandre make of that what she would. “We can speak freely here, safe behind Annoura Sedai’s warding. It is plain you do not want to return to Bethal yet. Is your oath to Perrin, and his to you, not enough to tie him to you?” Some here in the south had peculiar ideas of what fealty entailed.
Berelain silently took a position to Faile’s right, and a moment later Annoura did the same on her left, so that Alliandre found herself confronted by all three. It surprised Faile that the Aes Sedai fell in with her plan without knowing what it was—without doubt Annoura had her own reasons, and Faile would have given a pretty to know what they were—but she felt no surprise that Berelain did so. One casual mocking sentence could spoil everything, especially about Perrin’s skill in the Great Game, yet she was sure it would not come. In a way, that irritated her. Once she had despised Berelain; she still hated her, deep and hot, but grudging respect had replaced contempt. The woman knew when their “game” had to be put aside. If not for Perrin, Faile thought she might actually have liked her! Briefly, to extinguish that hateful thought, she pictured herself shaving Berelain bald. She was a jade and a trull! And not something Faile could allow to divert her now.
Alliandre studied each of the women in front of her in turn, but she gave no evidence of nervousness. Taking up her winecup again, she sipped casually and spoke with sighs and rueful smiles as if her words were not really as important as they sounded. “I mean to keep my oath, of course, but you must understand that I hoped for more. Once your husband goes, I am left as I was. Worse, perhaps, until some tangible aid comes from the Lord Dragon, blessed be his name in the Light. The Prophet could ruin Bethal or even Jehannah itself as he did Samara, and I cannot stop him. And if he somehow learns of my oath . . . He says he has come to show us how to serve the Lord Dragon in the Light, but he is the one who shows that way, and I cannot think he will be pleased with anyone who finds another.”
“It is good that you will keep your oath,” Faile told her dryly. “If you want more of my husband, perhaps you should do more. Perhaps you should accompany him when he goes south to meet the Prophet. Of course, you will want your own soldiers with you, but I suggest no more than the First has with her. Shall we sit?” Taking the chair Perrin had vacated, she motioned Berelain and Annoura to those on either side, and only then gestured toward another for Alliandre.
The Queen sat slowly, staring wide-eyed at Faile, not nervous but astounded. “Why in the Light would I do that?” she exclaimed. “Lady Faile, the Children of the Light will take any excuse to increase their depredations in Ghealdan, and King Ailron might decide to send an army north as well. It’s impossible!”
“The wife of your liege lord asks it of you, Alliandre,” Faile said firmly.
It did seem possible that Alliandre’s eyes could widen further, yet they did. She looked to Annoura and found only imperturbable Aes Sedai calm looking back. “Of course,” she said after a moment. Her voice was hollow. Swallowing, she added, “Of course, I will do as you . . . ask . . . my Lady.”
Faile hid her relief behind a gracious nod of acceptance. She had expected Alliandre to balk. That Alliandre could swear fealty without realizing what that meant—that she felt it necessary to say that she intended to keep her oath!—had only confirmed Faile’s belief that the woman could not be left behind. By all accounts, Alliandre had dealt with Masema by yielding to him. Slowly, to be sure, with little other choice and only when she had to, yet submission could become a habit. Back in Bethal, with nothing visible changed, how soon before she would decide to hedge with a warning to Masema? She had felt the weight of her oath; now Faile could lighten her burden.
“I am happy that you will be accompanying us,” she said warmly. And truly, she was. “My husband does not forget those who render him service. One such service would be to write to your nobles, telling them that a man in the south has raised the banner of Manetheren.” Berelain’s head half jerked around in surprise, and Annoura went so far as to blink.
“My Lady,” Alliandre said urgently, “half of them will send word to the Prophet as soon as they receive my letter. They are terrified of him, and the Light alone knows what he might do.” Just the response Faile had hoped for.
“Which is why you will write him also, saying that you have gathered a few soldiers to deal with this man personally. After all, the Prophet of the Lord Dragon is too important to have to turn his attention to such a minor matter.”
“Very good,” Annoura murmured. “No one will know who is who.”
Berelain laughed in delighted approval, burn her!
“My Lady,” Alliandre breathed, “I said that my Lord Perrin is formidable. May I add that his wife is every bit as formidable?”
Faile tried not to bask too visibly. Now she had to send word to her people in Bethal. In a way, she regretted that. Explaining to Perrin would have been more than difficult, but even he could not have kept his temper if she had kidnapped the Queen of Ghealdan.
Most of the Winged Guards appeared to be gathered on the edge of their camp, surrounding ten of their number on horseback. The absence of lances said the riders were scouts. The men afoot milled and pushed, trying to get closer. Perrin thought he heard thunder again, not so distant, but it only touched the edge of awareness.
As he prepared to push his way through, Gallenne roared, “Make way, you mangy hounds!” Heads whipped around, and men wriggled sideways in the mass, opening a narrow path. Perrin wondered what would happen if he called the Two Rivers men mangy hounds. Probably earn him a punch in the nose. It might be worth a try.
Nurelle and the other officers were with the scouts. So were seven men afoot with their hands tied behind them and lead ropes around their necks, all shuffling their feet and hunching their shoulders and scowling defiance or fear or both. Their clothes were stiff with old filth, though some had been fine once. Strangely, they smelled heavily of woodsmoke. For that matter, some of the mounted soldiers had soot on their faces, and one or two seemed to be nursing burns. Aram stood studying the prisoners, frowning slightly.
Gallenne took a stance with his feet apart and fists on his hips, his one eye doing as good a job of glaring as most men’s two. “What happened?” he demanded. “My scouts are supposed to bring back information, not ragpickers!”
“I will let Ortis report, my Lord,” Nurelle said. “He was there. Squadman Ortis!”
A soldier in his middle years scrambled down from his saddle to bow, gauntleted hand pressed to heart. His helmet was plain, without the thin plumes and wings that were worked in the sides of officers’ helmets. Beneath the rim, a livid burn stood out plainly on his face. The other cheek had a scar that pulled up the corner of his mouth. “My Lord Gallenne, my Lord Aybara,” he said in a gravelly voice. “We came on these turnip-eaters about two leagues to the west, my Lords. Burning a farm, with the farm folk inside. A woman tried to get out a window, and one of these scum bashed her head in. Knowing how Lord Aybara feels, we put a stop to it. We were too late to save anybody, but we caught these seven. The rest got away.”
“People are often tempted to slide back into the Shadow,” one of the prisoners said suddenly. “They must be reminded of the cost.” A tall, lean man with a stately air, his voice was smooth and educated, but his coat was as dirty as any of the others, and he had not shaved in two or three days. The Prophet did not seem to approve of wasting time on things like razors. Or washing. With his hands bound and a rope around his neck, he glared at his captors without the least bit of fear. He was all supercilious defiance. “Your soldiers do not impress me,” he said. “The Prophet of the Lord Dragon, blessed be his name in the Light, has destroyed greater armies by far than your tag end. You may kill us, but we will be avenged when the Prophet spills your blood on the ground. None of you will survive us long. He will triumph in fire and in blood.” He finished on a ringing tone, his back straight as an iron rod. Murmurs ran through the listening soldiers. They knew very well that Masema had destroyed larger armies than theirs.
“Hang them,” Perrin said. Again, he heard that thunder.
Having given the order, he made himself watch. Despite the murmurs, there was no lack of ready hands. Some of the prisoners began to weep as their lead ropes were thrown over tree limbs. A once-fat man whose wattles hung in folds shouted that he repented, that he would serve any master they named. A bald-headed fellow who looked as tough as Lamgwin thrashed and screamed until the rope cut off his howls. Only the smooth-voiced man did not kick or fight, even when the noose drew tight on his neck. To the end he glared defiance.
“At least one of them knew how to die,” Gallenne growled as the last body went limp. He frowned at the men decorating the trees as if regretting they had not put up more fight.
“If those people were serving the Shadow,” Aram began, then hesitated. “Forgive me, Lord Perrin, but will the Lord Dragon approve of this?”
Perrin gave a start and stared at him, aghast. “Light, Aram, you heard what they did! Rand would’ve put the ropes on their necks himself!” He thought Rand would have, hoped he would have. Rand was fixed on welding the nations together before the Last Battle, and he had done little counting of cost to do so.
Men’s heads jerked up as thunder pealed loud enough for all to hear, then closer, and again closer still. A wind gusted, fell, rose again, tugging Perrin’s coat as it slashed this way and that. Lightning forked in a cloudless sky. In the Mayener camp, horses whinnied and reared at their ties. Thunder tolled repeatedly, and lightning writhed in silver-blue snakes, and beneath a burning sun, rain fell, fat scattered drops that splashed fountains of dust where they hit bare ground. Perrin wiped one from his cheek and peered at damp fingers in amazement.
In moments the storm was gone, thunder and lightning rolling on eastward. Thirsty ground absorbed the raindrops that had fallen, the sun baked as fiercely as ever, and only flickering lights in the sky and fading booms said that anything had happened. Soldiers stared at each other uncertainly. Gallenne pried his fingers from the hilt of his sword with an obvious effort.
“This . . . this can’t be the Dark One’s work,” Aram said, and flinched. No one had ever seen a natural storm like that. “It means the weather is changing, doesn’t it, Lord Perrin? The weather is going to be right again?”
Perrin opened his mouth to tell the man not to call him that, but he closed it again with a sigh. “I don’t know,” he said. What was it Gaul had said? “Everything changes, Aram.” He had just never thought that he would have to change, too.