Perhaps he had taken too long, or perhaps the fellow felt his cold gaze, but suddenly Slayer became a blur, streaking away east.
With a curse, Perrin pursued, three strides to the Sand Hills, another into the Westwood. Among the oaks and leatherleaf and underbrush, Slayer seemed to vanish.
Halting, Perrin listened. Silence. The squirrels and birds had gone still. He inhaled deeply. A small herd of deer had passed that way not long since. And a faint tinge of something, human but too cold for a man, too emotionless, a scent that tickled his mind with familiarity. Slayer was somewhere close. The air lay as still as the forest; no stir of breeze to tell him which way that scent came.
"A neat trick, Goldeneyes, locking the Waygate."
Perrin tensed, ears straining. No telling from where in this dense growth that voice had come. Not so much as a leaf rustled.
"If you knew how many of the Shadowwrought died trying to get out of the Ways there, it would lift your heart. Machin Shin feasted at that gate, Goldeneyes. But not a good enough trick. You saw: the gate is open now."
There, off to the right. Perrin slipped through the trees as silently as he had when he had hunted here.
"It was only a few hundred to begin, Goldeneyes. Just enough to keep those fool Whitecloaks off balance and see that the renegade died." Slayer's voice became angry. "The Shadow consume me if that man does not have more luck than the White Tower." Abruptly he chuckled. "But you, Goldeneyes. Your presence was a surprise. There are those who want your head on a pike. Your precious Two Rivers will be harrowed from end to end, now, to root you out. What do you say to that, Goldeneyes?"
Perrin froze close beside the gnarled trunk of a great oak. Why was the man talking so much? Why was he talking at all? He's drawing me right to him.
Putting his back against the oak's thick bole, he studied the forest. No movement. Slayer wanted him to come nearer. No doubt into an ambush. And he wanted to find the man and rip his throat out. Yet it could easily be himself who died, and if that happened, no one would know the Waygate was open, and Trollocs coming by hundreds, maybe even thousands. He would not play Slayer's game.
With a mirthless smile he stepped out of the wolf dream, telling himself to wake, and…
…Faile twined her arms around his neck and nipped his beard with small white teeth, while Tinkers' fiddles sang some wild, heated tune around the campfires. Ila's powder. I can't wake up! Awareness that it was a dream faded. Laughing, he scooped Faile up in his arms and carried her into the shadows, where the grass was soft.
Waking was a slow process wrapped around the dull pain filling his side. Daylight streamed in at the small windows. Bright light. Morning. He tried to sit up, and fell back with a groan.
Faile sprang up from a low stool; her dark eyes looked as if she had not slept. "Lie still," she said. "You did enough thrashing in your sleep. I have not kept you from rolling over and driving that thing the rest of the way through you just to watch you do it now you're awake." Ihvon stood leaning against the doorframe like a dark blade.
"Help me up," Perrin said. Talking hurt, but so did breathing, and he had to talk. "I have to get to the mountains. To the Waygate."
She put a hand to his forehead, frowning. "No fever," she murmured. Then, more strongly, "You are going to Emond's Field, where one of the Aes Sedai can Heal you. You are not going to kill yourself trying to ride into the mountains with an arrow in you. Do you hear me? If I hear one more word about mountains or Waygates, I will have Ila mix something that will put you back to sleep, and you will travel on a litter. I'm not certain you should not anyway."
"The Trollocs, Faile! The Waygate is open again! I have to stop them!"
The woman did not even hesitate before shaking her head. "You can do nothing about it, the state you are in. It is Emond's Field for you."
"But —!"
"But me no buts, Perrin Aybara. Not another word on it."
He ground his teeth. The worst was that she was right. If he could not rise from a bed alone, how could he stay in the saddle as far as Manetheren? "Emond's Field," he said graciously, but she still sniffed and muttered something about "pigheaded." What did she want? I was bloody gracious, burn her for stubborn!
"So there will be more Trollocs," Ihvon said musingly. He did not ask how Perrin knew. Then he shook his head as if dismissing Trollocs. "I will tell the others you are awake." He slipped out, closing the door behind him.
"Am I the only one who sees the danger?" Perrin muttered.
"I see an arrow in you," Faile said firmly.
The reminder gave him a twinge; he just stifled a groan. And she gave a satisfied nod. Satisfied!
He wanted to be up and on the way immediately; the sooner he was Healed, the sooner he could see to closing the Waygate again, permanently this time. Faile insisted on feeding him breakfast, a broth thick with mashed vegetables suitable for a toothless infant, one spoon at a time, with pauses to wipe his chin. She would not let him feed himself, and whenever he protested or asked her to go faster, she shoved the words back into his mouth with a spoonful of pap. She would not even let him wash his own face. By the time she got around to brushing his hair and combing his beard, he had settled on dignified silence.
"You are pretty when you sulk," she said. And pinched his nose!
Ila, in green blouse and blue skirt this morning, climbed into the wagon with his coat and shirt, both cleaned and mended. To his irritation, he had to let the two women help him don them. He had to let them help him sit up to don them, the coat unbuttoned and the shirt not tucked in, but bunched around the arrow stub.
"Thank you, Ila," he said, fingering the neat darns. "This is fine needlework."
"It is," she agreed. "Faile has a deft touch with a needle."
Faile colored, and he grinned, thinking of how fiercely she had told him she would never mend his clothes. A glint in her eye held his tongue. Sometimes silence was the wiser course. "Thank you, Faile," he said gravely instead. She blushed even redder.
Once they had him on his feet he reached the door easily enough, but he had to let the two women half-support him to climb down the wooden steps. At least the horses were saddled, and all the Two Rivers lads gathered, bows slung on their backs. With clean faces and clothes, and only a few bandages out where they showed.
A night with the Tuatha'an had obviously been good for their spirits, too, even those who still looked as though they could not walk a hundred paces. The haggardness that had been in their eyes yesterday was only a shadow now. Wil had each arm around a pretty, big-eyed Tinker girl, of course, and Ban al'Seen, with his nose and a bandage around his head making his dark hair stand up in a brush, held hands with another smiling shyly. Most of the others held bowls of thick vegetable stew and spoons, shoveling away.
"This is good, Perrin," Dannil said, giving up his empty bowl to a Tinker woman. She gestured as if to ask the beanpole fellow whether he wanted more, and he shook his head, but said, "I don't think I could ever get enough of it, do you?"
"I had my fill," Perrin told him sourly. Mashed vegetables and broth.
"The Tinker girls danced last night," Dannil's cousin Tell said, wide-eyed. "All the unmarried women, and some of the married! You should have seen it, Perrin."
"I've seen Tinker women dance before, Tell."
Apparently he had not kept his voice clear of what he had felt watching them, for Faile said dryly, "You've seen the tiganza, have you? Someday, if you are good, I may dance the sa'sara for you, and show you what a dance really is." Ila gasped in recognition of the name, and Faile went even redder than she had inside.
Perrin pursed his lips. If this sa'sara set the heart pounding any harder than the Tinker women's swaying, hip-rolling dance — the tiganza, was it? — he definitely would like to see Faile dance it. He carefully did not look at her.
Raen came, in the same bright green coat but trousers redder than any red Perrin had ever seen before. The combination made his head ache. "Twice you have visited ou
r fires, Perrin, and for the second time you go without a farewell feast. You must come again soon so we can make up for it."
Pushing away from Faile and Ila — he could stand by himself, at least — he put a hand on the wiry man's shoulder. "Come with us, Raen. No one in Emond's Field will harm you. At worst it's safer than out here with the Trollocs."
Raen hesitated, then shook himself, muttering, "I do not know how you can even make me consider such things." Turning, he spoke loudly. "People, Perrin has asked us to come with him to his village, where we will be safe from Trollocs. Who wishes to go?" Shocked faces stared back at him. Some women gathered their children close, and the children hid in their skirts, as if the very idea frightened them. "You see, Perrin?" Raen said: "For us, safety lies in moving, not in villages. I assure you, we do not spend two nights in one place, and we will travel all day before stopping again."
"That may not be enough, Raen."
The Mahdi shrugged. "Your concern warms me, but we will be safe, if the Light wills it."
"The Way of the Leaf is not only to do no violence," Ila said gently, "but to accept what comes. The leaf falls in its proper time, uncomplaining. The Light will keep us safe for our time."
Perrin wanted to argue with them, but behind all the warmth and compassion on their faces lay a stony firmness. He thought he would get Bain and Chiad to don dresses and give up their spears — or Gaul to! — before he made these people budge an inch.
Raen shook Perrin's hand, and with that the Tinker women began hugging the Two Rivers lads, and Ihvon, too, and the Tinker men began shaking hands, all laughing and saying goodbyes and wishing everyone a safe journey, hoping they would come again. Almost all the men did. Aram stood off to one side, frowning to himself, hands thrust into his coat pockets. The last time Perrin met him he had seemed to have a sour streak, odd for a Tinker.
The men did not content themselves with shaking Faile's hand, but hugged her. Perrin kept his face smooth when some of the younger men became overly enthusiastic, only grinding his teeth a little; he managed to smile. No woman much younger than Ila hugged him. Somehow, even while Faile was letting some skinny, gaudy-coated Tinker fold his arms around her and try to squeeze her flat, she stood guard on him like a mastiff. Women without gray in their hair took one look at her face and chose someone else. Meanwhile Wil appeared to be kissing every woman in the camp. So was Ban, and his nose. Even Ihvon was enjoying himself, for that matter. It would serve Faile right if one of those fellows cracked a rib for her.
Finally the Tinkers moved back, except for Raen and Ila, opening a space around the Two Rivers folk. The wiry, gray-haired man-bowed formally, hands to chest. "You came in peace. Depart now in peace. Always will our fires welcome you. The Way of the Leaf is peace."
"Peace be on you always," Perrin replied, "and on all the People." Light, let it be so. "I will find the song, or another will find the song, but the song will be sung, this year or in a year to come." He wondered if there ever had been a song, or if the Tuatha'an had begun their endless journey seeking something else. Elyas had told him they did not know what song, only that they would know it when they found it. Let them find safety, at least. At least that. "As it once was, so shall it be again, world without end."
"World without end," the Tuatha'an responded in a solemn murmur. "World and time without end."
A few final hugs and handshakes were handed 'round while Ihvon and Faile were helping Perrin up on Stepper. A few last kisses collected by Wil. And Ban. Ban! And his nose! Others, the badly wounded, were half-lifted onto their horses, with Tinkers waving as if to old neighbors off on a long journey.
Raen came to shake Perrin's hand. "Will you not reconsider?" Perrin asked. "I remember hearing you say once there was wickedness loose in the world. It's worse now, Raen, and here."
"Peace be on you, Perrin," Raen replied, smiling.
"And on you," he said sadly.
The Aiel did not appear until they were a mile north of the Tinker camp, Bain and Chiad looking to Faile before trotting ahead to their usual place. Perrin was not sure what they thought might have happened to her among Tuatha'an.
Gaul moved in beside Stepper, striding easily. The party was not moving very fast, with nearly half the men walking. He glanced at Ihvon measuringly as usual, before turning to Perrin. "Your injury is well?"
His injury hurt like fury; every step his horse took jolted that arrowhead. "I feel fine," he said, not gritting his teeth. "Maybe we'll have a dance in Emond's Field tonight! And you? Did you pass a good night playing Maidens' Kiss?" Gaul stumbled and nearly fell on his face. "What is the matter?"
"Who did you hear suggest this game?" the Aielman said quietly, staring straight ahead.
"Chiad. Why?"
"Chiad," Gaul muttered. "The woman is Goshien. Goshien! I should take her back to Hot Springs as gai'shain." The words sounded angry, but not his odd tone. "Chiad."
"Will you tell me what is the matter?"
"A Myrddraal has less cunning than a woman," Gaul said in a flat voice, "and a Trolloc fights with more honor." After a moment he added, in a fierce undertone, "And a goat has more sense." Quickening his pace, he ran forward to join the two Maidens. He did not speak to them, as far as Perrin could make out, only slowed to walk alongside.
"Did you understand any of that?" Perrin asked Ihvon. The Warder shook his head. Faile sniffed. "If he thinks to make trouble for them, they will hang him by his heels from a branch to cool off."
"Did you understand it?" Perrin asked her. She walked along, neither looking at him nor answering, which he took to mean she did not. "I think I might have to find Raen's camp again. It has been a long time since I saw the tiganza. It was … interesting."
She muttered something under her breath, but he caught it: "You could do with hanging by the heels yourself!"
He smiled down at the top of her head. "But I won't have to. You promised to dance this sa'sara for me." Her face went crimson. "Is it anything close to the tiganza? I mean, there is no point, otherwise."
"You muscle-brained oaf!" she snapped, glaring up at him. "Men have thrown their hearts and fortunes at the feet of women who danced the sa'sara. If Mother suspected I knew it—" Her teeth clicked shut as though she had said too much, and her head whipped back to face forward; scarlet mortification covered her from her dark hair down to the neck of her dress.
"Then there isn't any reason for you to dance it," he said quietly. "My heart and fortune, such as they are, already lie at your feet."
Faile missed a step, then laughed softly and pressed her cheek against his booted calf. "You are too clever for me," she murmured. "One day I will dance it for you, and boil the blood in your veins."
"You already do that," he said, and she laughed again. Pushing her arm behind his stirrup, she hugged his leg to her as she walked.
After a while even the thought of Faile dancing — he extrapolated from the Tinker dance; it must be something to top that — could not compete with the pain in his side. Every stride Stepper took was agony. He held himself upright. It seemed to hurt a fraction less, that way. Besides, he did not want to spoil the lift the Tuatha'an had given everyone's spirits. The other men were sitting up straight in their saddles, too, even those who had been hunched over and clinging the day before. And Ban and Dannil and the others walked with heads up. He would not be the first to slump.
Wil began to whistle "Coming Home from Tarwin's Gap," and three or four more took it up. After a time, Ban began to sing in a clear, deep voice:
"My home is waiting there for me,
and the girl I left behind.
Of all the treasure that waits for me,
that's what I want to find.
Her eyes so merry, and her smile so sweet,
her hugs so warm, and her ankle neat,
her kisses hot, now there's a treat.
If there's a treasure greater, it lies not in my mind."
More joined in on the second verse, until everyone sang, even
Ihvon. And Faile. Not Perrin, of course; he had been told often enough that he sounded like a stepped-on frog, singing. Some even fell into step with the music.
"Oh, I have seen stark Tarwin's Gap,
and the Trollocs' raving horde.
I have stood 'fore the Halfman's charge,
and walked on death's cold borde.
But a winsome lass, she waits for me,
for a dance, and a kiss 'neath the apple tree…"
Perrin shook his head. A day before they had been ready to run and hide. Today they sang, about a battle so long ago that it had left no memory but this song in the Two Rivers. Perhaps they were becoming soldiers. They would have to, unless he managed to close that Waygate.
Farms began to appear more often, closer together, until they traveled along hard-packed dirt between fields bordered by hedges or low, rough stone walls. Abandoned farms. No one here clung to the land.
They came to the Old Road, which ran north from the White River, the Manetherendrelle, through Deven Ride to Emond's Field, and at last began to see sheep in the pastures, great clumps like a dozen men's flocks gathered together, with ten shepherds where there once would have been one, and half of them grown men. Bow-armed shepherds watched them pass, singing at the tops of their lungs, not knowing quite what to make of it.
Perrin did not know what to make of his first view of Emond's Field, and neither did the other Two Rivers men, from the way their singing faltered and died.
The trees, fences and hedges closest to the village were simply gone, cleared away. The westernmost houses of Emond's Field had once stood among the trees on the edge of the Westwood. The oaks and leatherleaf between the houses remained, but now the forest's brim stood five hundred paces away, a long bowshot, and axes rang loud as men pushed it back farther. Row on row of waist-high stakes, driven into the ground at an angle, surrounded the village a little out from the houses and presented a continuous hedge of sharpened points, except where the road ran in. At intervals behind the stakes men stood like sentries, some wearing bits of old armor or leather shirts sewn with rusty steel discs, a few in dented old steel caps, with boar spears, or halberds rooted out of attics, or bush hooks fitted to long poles. Other men, and boys, were up on some of the thatched roofs with bows; they stood when they saw Perrin and the others coming, and shouted to people below.
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