Authors: Robert Jordan
Aram shifted on his horse. He was even more prickly about Perrin’s supposed honor than Faile, which was saying something, but thank the Light, he would not unsheathe his sword unless Perrin said to.
Perrin spoke over his shoulder. “Dannil, take everybody back to that meadow we passed about three miles back and make camp. If a farmer shows up to complain, give him some gold and smooth him down. Let him know he’ll be paid for any damage. Aram, you go with them.”
Dannil Lewin, a beanpole of a man with a thick mustache that almost hid his mouth, knuckled his forehead despite all the times Perrin had told him a simple “all right” would do, and immediately began giving orders to turn everyone around. Aram stiffened, of course—he never liked being far from Perrin—but he said nothing, equally of course. Sometimes Perrin thought he had acquired a wolfhound in the former Tinker. Not good for a man to be that way, but he did not know what to do about it.
He expected Faile to say a good deal about sending everyone back—he expected her to bring up what was due his so-called position and insist on the twenty Barada had mentioned, and as close to the fifty as they could manage as well—but she was leaning out of her saddle to speak in whispers with Bain and Chiad. He made a point of not listening, though he could still make out parts of words. Something about men, sounding amused; women always seemed either amused or angry when they talked of men. Faile was the reason he had all these people trailing after him, and the banner to boot, though he had not yet figured out exactly how she had done it. There were
servants
back in the wagons, men and women wearing
livery
with a wolf’s head on the shoulder. Even the Two Rivers folk had not complained; they seemed as proud of it as any of the refugees.
“Does that satisfy?” he asked Barada. “You can escort the rest of us to Rand, if you don’t want us running loose.”
“I think. . . .” Barada’s dark eyes darted to Faile and away. “I think that would be best.”
As Faile straightened, Bain and Chiad trotted to the line of horsemen and pushed through as if they were not there. The Saldaeans did not even look surprised, but then, they must be used to Aiel; all the rumors said Caemlyn was full of Aiel already.
“I must find my spear-brothers,” Gaul said abruptly. “May you always
find water and shade, Perrin Aybara.” And away he darted after the women. Faile hid an amused smile behind a gray-gloved hand.
Perrin shook his head. Gaul wanted Chiad to marry him, but by Aiel custom, she had to ask him, and though according to Faile she was willing to become his lover, she would not give up the spear and marry. He seemed as affronted as a Two Rivers girl would have been in the same circumstance. Bain seemed to be part of it too, somehow; Perrin did not understand how. Faile professed not to know, if a bit too quickly, and Gaul grew sullen when asked. An odd people.
The Saldaeans made a way through the crowds, but Perrin paid little mind to crowds or city. He had seen Caemlyn once, some of it, and he did not much like cities anymore. Wolves seldom came close to a city; he had not sensed one for two days. What he did do was study his wife with sideways looks, trying not to let her notice. He might as well have stared. She always rode erect, but now she was stiff in her saddle, glaring at Barada’s back. The man’s shoulders were hunched as if he could feel her eyes. A falcon could not glare as well as Faile.
Perrin expected she was thinking of the same thing as he, though maybe not along the same lines. Her father. She might have a few explanations to make—she had run away, after all, to become a Hunter for the Horn—but Perrin was the one who had to face the Lord of Bashere, Tyr and Sidona and tell the man a blacksmith had married his daughter and heir. It was not something Perrin looked forward to. He did not think he was particularly brave—doing what you had to do was not bravery—but he had never really thought he might be a coward until now. The thought of Faile’s father dried his mouth. Maybe he should see to setting up the camp. A letter sent to Lord Bashere could explain everything. A carefully composed letter might take two or three days to write. Maybe more. He was no hand with words.
A glimpse of the crimson banner waving lazily above the Royal Palace brought him back with a thump. The rumors had spoken of that. Perrin knew it was not the Dragon banner, whatever the rumors said—some claimed it meant the Aes Sedai served Rand; others that he served them—and he wondered why Rand was not flying the Dragon banner itself. Rand. He could still feel Rand pulling at him, greater
ta’veren
tugging at lesser. It did not tell him where Rand was; it was not that kind of pull. He had left the Two Rivers expecting to ride to Tear or maybe the Light alone knew where, and only a river of rumors and tales flowing west across Andor had brought him here. Some very disturbing tales and rumors. No, what he felt
was more a need to be near Rand, or maybe Rand’s need for him, like an itch between his shoulders he could not scratch. Now it was close to being scratched, and he almost wished it was not. He had a dream, one that Faile would laugh at, adventurous as she was. He dreamed of living in a small house with her, somewhere in the country, far from cities and strife. There was always strife around Rand. But Rand needed him, and he would do what he had to.
In a great, column-ringed courtyard overlooked by marble balconies and pointed spires, Perrin slung his belt, weighted by his axe, on the saddle—it was a relief to be rid of it for a while—and a white-robed man and woman took Stepper and Swallow. With a few words Barada turned Faile and him over to cold-eyed Aielmen, many wearing scarlet headbands marked with the black-and-white disc, who led them inside and with even fewer words handed them to Maidens who were just as frosty. Perrin did not recognize any of them from the Stone, and his efforts at making conversation were met with blank looks. Their hands flashed Maiden handtalk, and one was chosen out to take him and Faile deeper into the Palace, a lean sandy-haired woman he thought might be about Faile’s age. She named herself Lerian, the only words she spoke except to warn them not to wander. He wished Bain or Chiad were there; a familiar face would have been pleasant. Faile glided down the corridors like the grand lady she was, yet at every crossing hallway she looked both ways quickly. Plainly she did not want to be surprised by her father.
Finally they reached a pair of doors, each carved with a lion, where two more Maidens rose from squatting on their heels and still more handtalk flickered before the sandy-haired Maiden went in without knocking.
Perrin was wondering whether it was always like this around Rand now, Aiel guards and nobody speaking, when suddenly the doors were flung open, and there was Rand in his shirtsleeves.
“Perrin! Faile! The Light shine on your wedding day,” he laughed, kissing Faile lightly. “I wish I could have been there for it.” She looked as confused as Perrin felt.
“How did you know?” he exclaimed, and Rand laughed again, clapping him on the shoulder
“Bode’s here, Perrin. Bode and Jancy and all of them. In Caemlyn, anyway. This is as far as Verin and Alanna got them before they heard about the Tower.” He looked tired, his eyes drawn, though his laughter did not sound it. “Light, Perrin, the things they told me you’ve been up to. Lord Perrin of the Two Rivers. What does Mistress Luhhan say to that?”
“She calls me Lord Perrin,” Perrin muttered wryly. Alsbet Luhhan had smacked his bottom more often growing up than his mother had. “She curtsies, Rand. She actually curtsies.” Faile eyed him askance. She said he embarrassed people when he tried to stop all the bowing and curtsying, as for his embarrassment when they did, she said it was part of the price he had to pay.
The Maiden who had gone in squeezed by Rand coming out, and he gave a start. “Light, I’m keeping you in the door. Come in; come in. Lerian, tell Sulin I need more punch. The melon. And tell her to hop.” For some reason the three Maidens laughed as if Rand had said something funny.
One step inside the sitting room, a floral scent of perfume told Perrin there was another woman there before he saw her. When he did, he stared. “Min?” The hair in short curls, the embroidered blue coat and breeches were wrong, but the face was right. “Min, it is you!” Laughing, he caught her up in a hug. “We are gathering everybody, aren’t we? Faile, this is Min. I told you about her.”
That was when he realized what he was smelling from his wife, and put Min down while she was still grinning at him. Suddenly he was too much aware that those tight breeches showed the shape of Min’s legs very well. Faile had very few faults, but she did have a slight tendency toward jealousy. He was not supposed to know she had chased Calle Coplin half a mile with a stick, as if he would ever look twice at another woman when he had her.
“Faile?” Min said, holding out her hands. “Any woman who can put up with this hairy lummox long enough to marry him has my admiration. I suppose he might make a good husband at that, once you house break him.”
Faile took Min’s hands smiling, but oh, that acrid, bristly scent. “I’ve not succeeded in the house breaking yet, Min, but I intend to keep him at least until I do.”
“Mistress Luhhan curtsies?” Rand shook his head in disbelief. “I will have to see that to believe it. Where’s Loial? Did he come? You didn’t leave him outside?”
“He came,” Perrin said, trying to keep an eye on Faile without being obvious, “but not all the way, not yet. He said he was tired, and needed a
stedding
, so I told him one I know of, an abandoned one north of the road from Whitebridge, and he set off for it afoot. He said he would be able to feel it once he was within ten miles or so.”
“I suppose you know Rand and Perrin very well?” Faile asked, and Min glanced at Rand.
“For a while, anyway. I met them right after they first left the Two Rivers. They thought Baerlon was a grand city.”
“On foot?” Rand said.
“Yes,” Perrin said slowly. Faile’s scent was changing, the thorny jealousy dwindling away. Why? “He would rather use his feet, you know. He bet me a gold crown he would be here in Caemlyn no more than ten days after us.” The two women were looking at one another, Faile smiling and Min coloring slightly; Min smelled faintly embarrassed, Faile pleased. And surprised, though only a hint showed on her face. “I didn’t want to take his coin—he has to go fifty miles or more out of his way—but he insisted. He wanted to make it five days.”
“Loial always did say he could outrun a horse,” Rand laughed, but there had been a pause. Laughter faded. “I hope he makes it safely,” he said more seriously. He
was
tired, and different in other ways, too. The Rand Perrin had last seen in Tear had not been soft, far from it, but this Rand made that one look an innocent farmboy. He did not blink often enough, as if a blink might hide what he needed to see. Perrin recognized something of that look; he had seen it on the faces of Two Rivers men after the Trolloc attacks, after the fifth, the tenth, when it seemed hope was gone but you went on fighting because the cost of giving up was too great.
“My Lord Dragon,” Faile said, startling Perrin; she had always called him Rand before, though they had been hearing the title since White-bridge, “if you will forgive me, I will just have a word with my husband then leave you two to talk.”
She hardly waited for Rand’s surprised assent to close on Perrin, turning him so her back was to Rand. “I will not go far, my dear heart. Min and I will have our own conversation about things that would very likely bore you.” Fussing with his lapels, she began speaking hurriedly under her breath, so softly that anyone except him would have had to strain their ears. She did recall his hearing sometimes. “Remember he is not your boyhood friend any longer, Perrin. At least, not only that. He is the Dragon Reborn, the Lord Dragon. But you are Lord of the Two Rivers. I know you will stand up for yourself, and for the Two Rivers.” The smile she gave him was full of love and confidence; he wanted to kiss her right there. “There,” she said in a normal tone. “You are all straight again.” She no longer gave off the slightest scent of jealousy.
Offering Rand a graceful curtsy and a murmur of “My Lord Dragon,” she held out a hand to Min. “Come, Min.” Min’s curtsy was considerably less practiced, and made Rand start.
Before they reached the doorway, one of the doors banged open and a tall liveried woman entered with a silver tray holding goblets and a pitcher that gave off the smell of wine and honeymelon juice. Perrin almost stared. Despite the red-and-white dress, she could have been Chiad’s mother, or maybe grandmother with that short curled white hair. Frowning at the departing women, she stalked to the nearest table and set down the tray, her face a mask of meekness that seemed frozen in place. “I was told four, my Lord Dragon,” she said oddly; he thought she might be trying for humble respect but had something caught in her throat, “so I brought for four.” Her curtsy made Min’s look elegant, and she slammed the door on her way out.
Perrin looked at Rand. “Do you ever think women are . . . strange?”
“Why are you asking me? You are the married man.” Rand filled a silver-chased goblet with punch and handed it to him. “If you don’t know, you will have to ask Mat. I know less every day.”
“So do I,” Perrin sighed. The punch was certainly cooling, Rand did not seem to be sweating at all. “Where is Mat, anyway? If I had to guess, I would say in the nearest tavern, and odds or evens whether he has a dice cup in his hands or a girl on his knee.”
“He had better have neither,” Rand said grimly, setting down his punch untouched. “He is supposed to be bringing Elayne here to be crowned. And Egwene and Nynaeve, I hope. Light, there’s so much to do before she gets here.” His head swung like a bear’s, at bay; then he fixed on Perrin. “Would you go to Tear for me?”
“Tear! Rand, I have been over two months on the road. My bottom’s taken on the shape of the saddle.”
“I can have you there tonight. Today. You can sleep in a general’s tent, and stay away from saddles as long as you like.”
Perrin stared at him; the man seemed serious. Suddenly he found himself wondering how Rand’s sanity was holding. Light, it had to hold, at least until Tarmon Gai’don. He took a long swallow of the punch to wash the bitter thought out of his mouth. What a way to think about a friend. “Rand, if you could set me down in the Stone of Tear right now, I would still say no. I have to talk to someone here in Caemlyn. And I’d like to see Bode and the others.”