"What about Rand and Mat?" Ewin demanded. "If it's all being hungry and getting rained on, why didn't they come home, too?"
Tam and Abell had come in, Tam with a sword belted on over his coat and both men with bows — oddly, the sword looked right on Tam, farm coat or no — so he told it much as he had before, Mat gambling and carousing in taverns and chasing girls, and Rand in his fine coat with a pretty, yellow-haired girl on his arm. He made Elayne a lady, expecting they would never believe the Daughter-Heir of Andor, and was proved right when they expressed incredulity. Still, it all seemed satisfactory, the kind of thing they wanted to hear, and disbelief faded a bit when Elam pointed out that Faile was a lady and seemed to be dancing attendance on Perrin pretty sharp. That made Perrin grin; he wondered what they would say if he told them she was cousin to a queen.
Faile no longer appeared to be amused for some reason. She turned on them with a stare to match Elayne's haughtiest, stiff-backed and frosty-faced. "You have badgered him enough. He is wounded. Off with you, now."
For a wonder, they bowed clumsily — Dav made an awkward leg, looking a complete fool — and murmured hasty apologies — to her, not him! — and turned to go. Their departure was delayed by the arrival of Loial, stooping through the doorway with his shaggy hair brushing the transom. They stared at the Ogier almost as if seeing him for the first time — then glanced at Faile and hurried on their way. That cold, lady's stare of hers did work.
When Loial straightened, his head came just short of the ceiling. His capacious coat pockets bore the usual squared bulges of books, but he carried a huge axe. Its haft stood as tall as he did, and its head, shaped like a wood-axe, was at least as big as Perrin's battle-axe. "You are hurt," he boomed as soon as his eyes fell on Perrin. "They told me you had returned, but they did not say you were hurt, or I would have come faster."
The axe gave Perrin a start. Among Ogier, "putting a long handle on your axe" meant being hasty, or angry — Ogier seemed to see the two as much the same thing for some reason. Loial did look angry, tufted ears drawing back, frowning so his dangling eyebrows hung down on his broad cheeks. At having to cut trees, no doubt. Perrin wanted to get him alone and find out if he had seen anything more concerning Alanna's doings. Or Verin's. He rubbed his face and was surprised to find it dry; he felt as if he should be sweating.
"He is also stubborn," Faile said, turning on Perrin with the same commanding look she had used on Dav and Elam and Ewin. "You should be in a bed. Where is Alanna, Verin? If she is to Heal him, where is she?"
"She will come." The Aes Sedai did not look up. She was back into her little book again, frowning thoughtfully, pen poised.
"He should still be in a bed!"
"I will have time for that later," Perrin said firmly. He smiled at her to soften it, but all that did was make her look worried and mutter "stubborn" under her breath. He could not ask Loial about the Aes Sedai in front of Verin, but there was something else at least as important. "Loial, the Waygate is unlocked, and Trollocs coming through. How can that be?"
The Ogier's brows sank even deeper, and his ears wilted. "My fault, Perrin," he rumbled mournfully. "I put both Avendesora leaves on the outside. That locked the Waygate on the inside, but from the outside, anyone could still open it. The Ways have been dark for long generations, yet we grew them. I could not bring myself to destroy the Gate. I am sorry, Perrin. It is all my fault."
"I did not believe a Waygate could be destroyed," Faile said.
"I did not mean destroy, exactly." Loial leaned on his long-handled axe. "A Waygate was destroyed once, less than five hundred years after the Breaking, according to Damelle, daughter of Ala daughter of Soferra, because the Gate was near a stedding that had fallen to the Blight. There are two or three Gates lost in the Blight as it is. But she wrote that it was very difficult, and required thirteen Aes Sedai working together with a sa'angreal. Another attempt she wrote of, by only nine, during the Trolloc Wars, damaged the Gate in such a way that the Aes Sedai were pulled into—" He cut off, ears wriggling with embarrassment, and knuckled his wide nose. Everyone was staring at him, even Verin and the Aiel. "I do let myself be carried away, sometimes. The Waygate. Yes. I cannot destroy it, but if I remove both Avendesora leaves completely, they will die." He grimaced at the thought. "The only means of opening the Gate again will be for the Elders to bring the Talisman of Growing. Though I suppose an Aes Sedai could cut a hole in it." This time he shuddered. Damaging a Waygate must have seemed like tearing up a book to him. A moment later, he was grim-faced once more. "I will go now."
"No!" Perrin said sharply. The arrowhead seemed to throb, but it did not really hurt anymore. He was talking too much; his throat was dry. "There are Trollocs up there, Loial. They can fit an Ogier into a cookpot as well as a human."
"But, Perrin, I—"
"No, Loial. How are you going to write your book if you go off and get yourself killed?"
Loial's ears twitched. "It is my responsibility, Perrin."
"The responsibility is mine," Perrin said gently. "You told me what you were doing with the Waygate, and I didn't suggest anything different. Besides, the way you jump every time your mother is mentioned, I don't want her coming after me. I will go, as soon as Alanna Heals this arrow out of me." He wiped his forehead, then frowned at his hand. Still no sweat. "Can I have a drink of water?"
Faile was there in an instant, her cool fingers where his hand had been. "He is burning up! Verin, we cannot wait for Alanna. You must—!"
"I am here," the dark Aes Sedai announced, appearing from the door at the back of the common room, Marin al'Vere and Alsbet Luhhan at her heels, and Ihvon right behind them. Perrin felt the tingle of the Power before Alanna's hand replaced Faile's, and she added in a cool, serene voice, "Carry him into the kitchen. The table there is large enough to lay him out. Quickly. There is not much time."
Perrin's head spun, and abruptly he realized Loial had leaned his axe beside the door and picked him up, cradling him in his arms. "The Waygate is mine, Loial." Light, I'm thirsty. "My responsibility."
The arrowhead truly did not seem to hurt as much as it had, but he ached all over. Loial was carrying him somewhere, bending through doorways. There was Mistress Luhhan, biting her lip, eyes squinched as if about to cry. He wondered why. She never cried. Mistress al'Vere looked worried, too.
"Mistress Luhhan," he murmured, "Mother says I can come be apprenticed to Master Luhhan." No. That was a long time ago. That was… What was? He could not seem to remember.
He was lying on something hard, listening to Alanna speak. "…barbs are caught on bone as well as flesh, and the arrowhead has twisted. I must realign it with the first wound and pull it out. If the shock does not kill him, I can then Heal the damage I have done as well as the rest. There is no other way. He is near the brink now." Nothing to do with him.
Faile smiled down at him tremulously, her face upside down. Had he really once thought her mouth was too wide? It was just right. He wanted to touch her cheek, but Mistress al'Vere and Mistress Luhhan were holding his wrists for some reason, leaning with all their weight. Someone was lying across his legs, too, and Loial's big hands swallowed his shoulders, pressing them flat to the table. Table. Yes. The kitchen table.
"Bite down, my heart," Faile said from far away. "It will hurt."
He wanted to ask her what would hurt, but she was pressing a leather-wrapped stick into his mouth. He smelled the leather and the spicewood and her. Would she come hunting with him, running across the endless grassy plains after endless herds of deer? Icy cold shivered through him; vaguely he recognized the feel of the One Power. And then there was pain. He heard the stick snap between his teeth before blackness covered everything.
Chapter 44
(Horned Skull)
The Breaking Storm
Perrin opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the plain white plastered ceiling. It took a moment to realize he was in a four-posted bed, lying on a feather mattress with a blanket over him
and a goose-down pillow under his head. A myriad of scents danced in his nose; the feathers and the wool of the blanket, a goose roasting, bread and honeycakes baking. One of the Winespring Inn's rooms. With unmistakable bright morning light streaming in at the white-curtained windows. Morning. He fumbled at his side. Unbroken skin met his fingers, but he felt weaker than at any time since being shot. A small enough price, though, and a fair enough exchange. His throat felt parched, too.
When he moved, Faile leaped up from a chair beside the small stone fireplace, tossing aside a red blanket and stretching. She had changed to a darker narrow-skirted riding dress, and wrinkles in the gray silk said she had slept in that chair. "Alanna said you needed sleep," she said. He reached toward the white pitcher on the small table beside the bed, and she hurriedly poured a cup of water and held it for him to drink. "You need to stay right here for another two or three days, until you have your strength back."
The words sounded normal, except for an undercurrent he barely caught, a tightness at the corners of her eyes. "What is wrong?"
She replaced the cup carefully on the bedside table and smoothed her dress. "Nothing is wrong." The taut underlying tone was even clearer.
"Faile, don't lie to me."
"I do not lie!" she snapped. "I will have some breakfast brought up to you, and you're lucky I do that, calling me—"
"Faile." He said her name as sternly as he could, and she hesitated, her most arrogant, chin-up glare changing to forehead-creasing worry and back again. He met her gaze straight on; she was not going to get away with any fine lady's haughty tricks with him.
At last, she sighed. "I suppose you have a right to know. But you are still staying in that bed until Alanna and I say you can get up. Loial and Gaul are gone."
"Gone?" He blinked in confusion. "What do you mean gone? They left?"
"In a way. The sentries saw them go, this morning at first light, trotting off into the Westwood together. None of them thought anything of it; certainly none tried to stop them, an Ogier and an Aiel. I heard of it less than an hour ago. They were talking about trees, Perrin. About how the Ogier sing to trees."
"Trees?" Perrin growled. "It's that bloody Waygate! Burn me, I told him not to… They'll get themselves killed before they reach it!"
Throwing off the blanket, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, wobbling to his feet. He had nothing on, he realized, not even his smallclothes. But if they expected to keep him caged under a blanket, they were sadly mistaken. He could see everything folded neatly on the tall-backed chair by the door, with his boots beside it and his axe hanging by its belt from a peg on the wall. Stumbling to his clothes, he began dressing as quickly as he could.
"What are you doing?" Faile demanded. "You put yourself back in that bed!" One fist on her hip, she pointed commandingly, as if her finger could transport him there.
"They can't have gotten that far," he told her. "Not afoot. Gaul won't ride, and Loial always did claim he trusted his own feet more than any horse. I can catch them up on Stepper by midday latest." Pulling his shirt over his head he left it hanging loose over his breeches and sat down — dropped, actually — to draw on his boots.
"You are mad, Perrin Aybara! What chance you can even find them in that forest?"
"I am not so bad at tracking, myself. I can find them." He smiled at her, but she was not having any.
"You can get yourself killed, you hairy fool! Look at you. You can hardly stand. You would fall out of the saddle before you had gone a mile!"
Hiding the effort involved, he stood and stamped his feet to settle them in his boots. Stepper would do all the work; he only needed to hold on. "Nonsense. I'm strong as a horse. Stop trying to bully me." Shrugging into his coat, he snatched up his axe and belt. Faile caught his arm as he opened the door, and was pulled along, vainly trying to haul him back.
"Sometimes you have the brains of a horse," she panted. "Less! Perrin, you must listen to me. You must—"
The room lay only a few steps along the narrow hallway from the stairs leading down to the empty common room, and it was the stairs that betrayed him. When his knee bent to lower him that first step, it kept right on bending; he toppled forward, vainly trying to catch the banister, pulling a yelling Faile with him. Rolling over and over, they thumped down the stairs to come up with a final thud against the barrel at the bottom, Faile lying stretched full-length atop him. The barrel teetered and spun, rattling the swords inside, before settling with a final clank.
It took a moment for Perrin to gather enough breath to speak. "Are you all right?" he said anxiously. She was sprawled limply on his chest. He shook her gently. "Faile, are you —?"
Slowly she raised her head and brushed a few short strands of dark hair from her face, then stared at him intently. "Are you all right? Because if you are, I may very well do something violent to you."
Perrin snorted; she was probably hurt less than he. Gingerly, he felt at where the arrow had been, but that was in no worse shape than the rest of him. Of course, the rest of him seemed bruised from head to toe. "Get off of me, Faile. I need to fetch Stepper."
Instead, she seized his collar with both hands and leaned very close, until their noses almost touched. "Listen to me, Perrin," she said urgently. "You — can — not — do — everything. If Loial and Gaul have gone to lock the Waygate, you must let them. Your place is here. Even if you were strong enough — and you are not! Do you hear me? You are not strong enough! — but even if you were, you must not go after them. You cannot do everything!"
"Why, whatever are you two doing?" Marin al'Vere said. Wiping her hands on her long white apron, she came from the back door of the common room. Her eyebrows looked to be trying to climb into her hair. "I expected Trollocs after all that racket, but not this." She sounded half scandalized, and half amused.
What they looked like, Perrin realized, with Faile lying on him that way, their heads close together, was a couple playing kissing games. On the floor of the common room.
Faile's cheeks reddened and she got up very quickly, dusting her dress. "He is as stubborn as a Trolloc, Mistress al'Vere. I told him he was too weak to rise. He must go back to his bed immediately. He has to learn he cannot do everything himself, especially when he cannot even walk down a flight of steps."
"Oh, my dear," Mistress al'Vere said, shaking her head, "that is quite the wrong way." Leaning close to the younger woman, she whispered softly, but Perrin heard every word. "He was an easy little boy to manage most of the time, if you handled him properly, but when you tried to push him, he was as muley as any in the Two Rivers. Men don't really change that much, only grow taller. If you go telling him what he must and musn't do, he will surely lay his ears back and dig his heels in. Let me show you." Marin turned a beaming smile on him, ignoring his glare. "Perrin, don't you think one of my good goose-feather mattresses is better than that floor? I'll bring you some of my kidney pie just as soon as we have you tucked in. You must be hungry, after no supper last night. Here. Why don't let me help you up?"
Pushing their hands away, he stood on his own. Well, with the aid of the wall. He thought he might have sprained half the muscles in his body. Muley? He had never been muley in his life. "Mistress al'Vere, would you have Hu or Tad saddle Stepper?"
"When you're better," she said, trying to turn him toward the stairs. "Don't you think you could do with just a little more rest?" Faile took his other arm.
"Trollocs!" The cry from outside came muffled through the walls, echoed by a dozen voices. "Trollocs! Trollocs!"
"That needn't concern you today," Mistress al'Vere said, firm and soothing at the same time. It made him want to grit his teeth. "The Aes Sedai will handle things nicely. In a day or two we'll have you back on your feet. You will see."
"My horse," he said, trying to pull free. They had good holds on his coatsleeves; all he accomplished was swinging them back and forth. "For the love of the Light, will you stop tugging at me and let me get my horse? Let go of me."
Looking at his face, Faile sighed and released his arm. "Mistress al'Vere, will you have his horse saddled and brought around?"
"But my dear, he really needs—"
"If you please, Mistress al'Vere," Faile said firmly. "And my horse, too." The two women looked at each other as if he did not exist. At last Mistress al'Vere nodded.
Perrin frowned at her back as she hurried across the common room and vanished toward the kitchen, and the stable. What had Faile said different from what he had? Turning his attention to her, he said, "Why did you change your mind?"
Tucking his shirt in for him, she muttered under her breath. Doubtless he was not supposed to hear well enough to understand. "I musn't say must, must I? When he is too stubborn to see straight, I must lead him with honey and smiles, must I?" She shot him a glare that surely had no honey in it, then abruptly changed to a smile so sweet he very nearly backed away. "My dear heart," she almost cooed, pulling his coat straight, "whatever is happening out there, I do hope you will stay in your saddle, and as far from Trollocs as you can. You really are not up to facing a Trolloc just yet, are you? Maybe tomorrow. Please remember you are a general, a leader, and every bit as much a symbol to your people as that banner out there. If you are up where people can see you, it will lift everyone's heart. And it is much easier to see what needs doing and give orders if you aren't in the fighting yourself." Picking his belt off the floor, she buckled it around his waist, settling the axe carefully on his hip. She also batted her eyes at him! "Please say you will do that. Please?"
She was right. He would not last two minutes against a Trolloc. More like two seconds against a Fade. And much as he hated to admit it, he would not last two miles in the saddle chasing after Loial and Gaul. Fool Ogier. You're a writer, not a hero. "All right," he said. A mischievous impulse seized him. The way she and Mistress al'Vere had been talking over his head, and batting her eyes as if he were a fool. "I can't refuse you anything when you smile so prettily."
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