She had been pleased there was no need to change the precedence they had established. Selande was the brightest of them except perhaps for Parelean, and only Arella and Camaille were quicker. And Selande had something extra, a steadiness, as if she had already faced the worst fear in her life and nothing could ever be that bad again. Of course, she wanted a scar like those some of the Maidens had. Faile possessed several small scars, badges of honor most of them, but actually seeking one was idiocy. At least the woman was not too very eager in the matter.
“We made a map, as you required, my Lady,” the diminutive woman finished with a last, warning glance at Meralda. “We marked out Lord Telabin’s palace on the back as much as we could, but I fear that is not much more than the gardens and stables.”
Faile did not try to make out the lines on the paper she unfolded in the moonlight. A pity she had not been able to go herself; she could have mapped the interior, too. No. Done was done, as Perrin liked to say. And it was enough. “You are certain no one searches wagons leaving the city?” Even in the pale light, she could see confusion on many of the faces in front of her. None knew why she had sent some of them into Bethal.
Selande did not look confused. “Yes, my Lady,” she said calmly. Quite bright, and more than quick enough.
The wind gusted for a moment, rustling leaves on the trees, rustling dead leaves on the ground, and Faile wished she had Perrin’s ears. His nose and eyes, too. It did not matter if anyone saw her here with her retainers, but eavesdroppers would be something else. “You’ve done very well, Selande. All of you have.” Perrin knew the dangers here, as real as any farther south; he knew, but like most men, he thought with his heart as often as his head. A wife had to be practical, to keep her husband out of trouble. That had been her mother’s very first piece of advice on married life. “At first light, you will return to Bethal, and if you receive word from me, this is what you will do . . . “
Even Selande’s eyes widened in shock as she went on, but no one murmured the slightest protest. Faile would have been surprised if anyone had. Her instructions were to the point. There would be some danger, but under the circumstances, not nearly what might have been.
“Are there any questions?” she said finally. “Does everyone understand?”
With one voice, Cha Faile answered. “We live to serve our Lady Faile.” And that meant they would serve her beloved wolf, whether he wanted them to or not.
Maighdin shifted in her blankets on the hard ground, sleep eluding her. That was her name, now; a new name for a new life. Maighdin, for her mother, and Dorlain, for a family on an estate that had been hers. A new life for an old life gone, but ties of the heart could not be cut. And now . . . Now . . .
A faint crackle of dead leaves brought her head up, and she watched a dim shape pass through the trees. The Lady Faile, returning to her tent from wherever she had gone. A pleasant young woman, kindhearted and well spoken. Whatever her husband’s stock, she almost certainly was nobly born. But young. Inexperienced. That might be a help.
Maighdin let her head fall back on the cloak she had wadded up for a pillow. Light, what was she doing here? Taking service as a lady’s maid! No. She would hold on to her confidence in herself, at least. She could still find that. She could. If she dug deeply. Her breath caught at the sound of footsteps close by.
Tallanvor knelt gracefully at her side. He was shirtless, moonlight gleaming on the smooth muscles of his chest and shoulders, his face in shadows. A slight breeze ruffled his hair. “What madness is this?” he asked softly. “Entering service? What are you up to? And don’t tell me that nonsense about making a new life; I don’t believe it. No one does.”
She tried to turn away, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. He exerted no pressure, yet it stopped her as surely as a halter. Light, please let her not tremble. The Light did not listen, but at least she managed to keep her voice steady. “If you haven’t noticed, I must make my way in the world, now. Better as a lady’s maid than a tavern maid. You may feel free to go on alone if service here doesn’t suit.”
“You didn’t abdicate your wits or your pride when you gave up the throne,” he muttered. Burn Lini for revealing that! “If you mean to pretend that you did, I suggest you avoid letting Lini get you alone.” The man chuckled at her! He chuckled, oh, so richly! “She wants a word with Maighdin, and I suspect she won’t be as gentle with Maighdin as she was with Morgase.”
Angrily she sat up, brushing his hand away. “Are you blind, and deaf as well? The Dragon Reborn has plans for Elayne! Light, I wouldn’t like it if he simply knew her name! It must be more than chance that brought me to one of his henchmen, Tallanvor. It has to be!”
“Burn me, I knew it must be that. I hoped I was wrong, but . . . ” He sounded as angry as she. He had no right to be angry! “Elayne is safe in the White Tower, the Amyrlin Seat won’t let her anywhere near a man who can channel, even if he is the Dragon Reborn — especially if he is! — and Maighdin Dorlain can do nothing about the Amyrlin Seat, the Dragon Reborn, or the Lion Throne. All she can do is get her neck snapped, or her throat cut, or —!”
“Maighdin Dorlain can watch!” she broke in, at least partly to stop that awful litany. “She can listen! She can . . .!” Irritably, she trailed off. What could she do? Suddenly she realized she was sitting there in a thin shift and hurriedly folded her blankets around her. The night actually seemed a little cool. Or maybe the goose bumps on her skin were from Tallanvor’s unseen eyes on her. The thought roused a flush in her cheeks she hoped he could not see. Luckily, it put a heat in her voice, too. She was not a girl, to go blushing because a man looked at her! “I will do what I can, whatever that is. The chance will come to learn something or do something that will help Elayne, and I will take it!”
“A dangerous decision,” he told her calmly. She wished she could make out his face in the darkness. Only to read his expression, of course. “You heard him threaten to hang anyone who looked at him the wrong way. I can believe it, in a man with those eyes. Like a beast. I was surprised he let that fellow go; I thought he’d rip his throat out! If he discovers who you are, who you used to be . . . Balwer might betray you. He never really explained why he helped us escape Amador. Maybe he thought Queen Morgase would give him a new position. Now he knows there’s no chance of that, and he might want to curry favor with his new master and mistress.”
“Are you afraid of Lord Perrin Goldeneyes?” she demanded contemptuously. Light, the man frightened her! Those eyes belonged on a wolf. “Balwer knows enough to hold his tongue. Anything he says will reflect on him; he came with me, after all. If you’re afraid, then ride on!”
“You always fling that in my face,” he sighed, settling back on his heels. She could not see his eyes, but she could feel them. “Ride on if you wish, you say. Once, there was a soldier loved a queen from afar, knowing it was hopeless, knowing he could never dare speak. Now the queen is gone, and only a woman remains, and I hope. I burn with hope! If you want me to leave, Maighdin, say it. One word. ‘Go!’ A simple word.”
She opened her mouth. A simple word, she thought. Light, it’s only one word! Why can’t I say it! Light, please! For the second time that night, the Light failed to hear. She sat there huddled in her blankets like a fool, her mouth open, her face growing hotter and hotter.
If he had chuckled again, she would have put her belt knife in him. If he had laughed, or given any sign of triumph . . . Instead, he leaned forward and gently kissed her eyes. She made a sound deep in her throat; she could not seem to move. Wide-eyed, she watched him stand. He loomed in the moonlight. She was a queen — she had been a queen — used to command, used to hard decisions in hard times, but right then the pounding of her heart drummed thought from her head.
“Had you said ‘go,’” he told her, “I’d have buried hope, but I could never leave you.”
Not until he was back in his own blankets could she make herself lie down and draw hers around her. She breathed as if she had been
running. The night was cool; she was shivering, not trembling. Tallanvor was too young. Too young! Worse, he was right. Burn him for that! A lady’s maid could do nothing to affect events, and if the Dragon Reborn’s wolf-eyed killer learned that he had Morgase of Andor in his hands, she could be used against Elayne instead of helping her. He had no right to be right when she wanted him to be wrong! The illogic of that thought infuriated her. There was a chance she might do some good! There had to be!
In the back of her head, a small voice laughed. You can’t forget that you’re Morgase Trakand, it told her scornfully, and even after she’s abdicated her throne, Queen Morgase can’t stop trying her hand in the affairs of the mighty, no matter how much ruin she’s made of it so far. And she can’t tell a man to go away, either, because she can’t stop thinking how strong his hands are, and how his lips curve when he smiles, and —
Furious, she pulled the blanket over her head, trying to shut out the voice. She was not staying because she could not walk away from power. As for Tallanvor . . . She would set him firmly in his place. This time she would! But . . . What was his place, with a woman who was no longer a queen? She tried to put him out of her mind and tried to ignore that mocking voice that would not be quiet, yet when sleep finally came, she could still feel the pressure of his lips on her eyelids.
Chapter 9
Tangles
* * *
Perrin woke before first light as usual, and as usual, Faile was already up and about. She could make a mouse seem noisy when she wanted to, and he suspected that if he woke an hour after lying down, she would still manage to be up first. The doorflaps were tied back, the side panels raised a little at the bottom, and a stir of air rose through the venthole in the peak, enough to create an illusion of coolness. Perrin actually shivered while searching for his shirt and breeches. Well, it was supposed to be winter, even if the weather did not know it.
He dressed in the dark and scrubbed his teeth with salt, needing no lamps, and when he left the tent, stamping his feet into his boots, Faile had her new servants gathered around her in the deep grayness of early morning, some holding lighted lanterns. A lord’s daughter needed servants; he should have arranged for it before this. There were Two Rivers folk in Caemlyn that Faile had trained herself, but with the need for secrecy there had been no way to fetch them along. Master Gill would want to go home as soon as possible, and Lamgwin and Breane with him, but maybe Maighdin and Lini would stay.
Aram straightened from where he had been sitting cross-legged beside the tent, and waited silently on Perrin. If Perrin had not stopped him, Aram would have slept across the entrance. This morning his coat was striped red-and-white, though the white was a trifle dingy, and even here that wolfhead-pommeled sword hilt rose over his shoulder. Perrin had left his axe in the tent, and grateful to be rid of it. Tallanvor still wore his sword belted over his coat, but not Master Gill or the other two.
Faile must have been watching, because no sooner did Perrin come out than she gestured toward the tent, clearly issuing orders. Maighdin and Breane came bustling past him and Aram with lanterns, their jaws set, smelling of determination for some reason. Neither curtsied, a pleasant surprise. Lini did, a quick bend of the knee before she darted after the other two muttering about “knowing their place.” Perrin suspected Lini was one of those women who saw her “place” as being in charge. Come to think of it, most women did. That was the way of the world, it seemed, not just the Two Rivers.
Tallanvor and Lamgwin followed close behind the women, and Lamgwin was as serious about bowing as Tallanvor, who was almost grim. Perrin sighed and bowed back, and they both gave a start, gaping at him. A curt shout from Lini jerked them into the tent.
With only a quickly flashed smile for him, Faile strode off toward the carts, talking alternately to Basel Gill on one side of her and Sebban Balwer on the other. The men each held a lantern out to light her way. Of course, a double handful of those idiots kept pace where they could hear if she raised her voice, strutting and stroking sword hilts and staring about in the dimness as though they expected an attack or hoped for one. Perrin tugged at his short beard. She always found plenty of work to fill her hours, and nobody took it out of her hands. Nobody would dare.
Not so much as the first fingers of dawn showed on the horizon yet, but the Cairhienin were beginning to stir around the carts, and moving more quickly the closer Faile came. By the time she reached them, they appeared to be trotting, their lanterns bobbing and swinging in the dimness. The Two Rivers men, used to farmers’ days, were already making breakfast, some laughing and roughhousing around their cook fires, some grumping, but most getting the work done. A few tried to stay in their blankets and were unceremoniously tumbled out. Grady and Neald were up, too, as always off by themselves, shadows in black coats among the trees. Perrin could not recall seeing them without those coats, always buttoned to the neck, always clean and unwrinkled come sunrise, whatever they had looked like the night before. Stepping through the forms in unison, the pair were practicing the sword as they did every morning. That was better than their evening practice, when they would sit cross-legged, hands on knees, staring at some distant nothing. They never did anything then that anyone could see, yet not a man in the camp but knew what they were about and kept as far off as possible. Not even the Maidens would step into their line of sight then.
Something was missing, Perrin realized with a start. Faile always had one of the men meet him first thing with a bowl of the thick porridge they breakfasted on, but it seemed she had been too busy this morning. Brightening, he hurried toward the cook fires, hoping at least to be able to dip up his own porridge for once. A small hope.
Flann Barstere, a lanky fellow with a dent in his chin, met him halfway and shoved a carved bowl into his hands. Flann was from up toward Watch Hill, and Perrin did not know him well, but they had been hunting together a time or two, and once Perrin had helped him dig one of his father’s cows out of a bog-hole in the Waterwood. “The Lady Faile told me to bring this to you, Perrin,” Flann said anxiously. “You won’t tell her I forgot, will you? You won’t tell? I found some honey, and I put in a good dollop.” Perrin tried not to sigh. At least Flann had remembered his name.
Well, maybe he could not get away with doing the simplest chores for himself, but he was still responsible for the men eating beneath the trees. Without him, they would be with their families, getting ready for the day’s chores around the farm, milking cows and cutting firewood instead of wondering whether they might have to kill or be killed before sunset. Gulping down the honeyed porridge quickly, he told Aram to take his ease over breakfast, but the man looked so miserable that he relented, so Aram followed as he made his way around the camp. The journey was not one Perrin enjoyed.
Men put down their bowls when he approached, or even stood until he passed. He gritted his teeth whenever somebody he had grown up with, or worse, a man who had sent him on errands as a boy, called him Lord Perrin. Not everyone did, but too many. Far too many. After a time, he gave up telling them to stop out of sheer weariness; all too often the reply was “Oh! Whatever you say, Lord Perrin.” It was enough to make a man howl!
Despite that, he made himself pause to speak a word or two to every man. Mainly, though, he kept his eyes open. And his nose. They all knew enough to keep their bows in good repair and tend the fletching and points on their arrows, but some would wear the soles out of their boots or the bottom out of their breeches without noticing, or let blisters fester because they could not be bothered to do anything about them just yet. Several had the habit of picking up brandy when they could, and two or three of those had no head for it at all. There had been a small village the day before reaching Bethal that held no fewer than three inns.
It was very strange. Having Mistress Luhhan or his mother tell him he needed new boots or his breeches mended had always been embarrassing, and he was sure he would have been irritated at the same from anybody else, but from grizzled old Jondyn Barran on d
own, the Two Rivers men just said “Why, right you are, Lord Perrin; I’ll see to it straight away” or some such. He caught a number of them grinning at one another when he moved on. And they smelled pleased! When he rooted a clay jar of pear brandy out of Jori Congar’s saddlebags — a skinny fellow who ate twice as much as anyone else and always looked as if he had not had a bite in a week, Jori was a good shot with a bow, but given a chance he would drink until he could not stand, and he had light fingers besides — Jori gave him a wide-eyed look and spread his hands as if he did not know where the jar had come from. But as Perrin walked on, emptying the brandy onto the ground, Jori laughed, “You can’t put anything over on Lord Perrin!” He sounded proud! Sometimes, Perrin thought he was the only sane person left.
Another thing, he noticed. One and all, they were very interested in what he did not say. Man after man cast an eye toward the two banners that occasionally flapped atop their poles in a brief gust, Red Wolfhead and Red Eagle. They eyed the banners and watched him, waiting for the order he had given every time the things had come out since reaching Ghealdan. And often enough before that. Except that he had said nothing yesterday, and he said nothing today, and he saw speculation blooming on men’s faces. He left behind clusters of men peering at the banners and at him, murmuring excitedly among themselves. He did not try to listen. What would they say if he was wrong, if the Whitecloaks or King Ailron decided they could look away from the Prophet and the Seanchan long enough to snuff out a supposed rebellion? They were his responsibility, and he had already gotten too many of them killed.
The sun was more than peeking above the horizon, spreading a sharp morning light, by the time he finished, and over at the tent, Tallanvor and Lamgwin were lugging out chests under Lini’s direction, while Maighdin and Breane appeared to be sorting the contents out on a broad patch of dead grass, blankets and linens mainly, and long bright swaths of silk satin that had been intended to drape the bed he had misplaced. Faile must have been inside, because that gaggle of idiots were cooling their heels not far off. No carrying and hauling for them. Useful as rats in the barn.
The Path of Daggers Page 22