He decided to make himself scarce, leaving the two of them alone. He went to scout the area where their gateway was supposed to appear. It had better. They had no supplies, and Mat did not fancy flagging down a ship and riding the long way back to Caemlyn.
It was a short hike across the meadow to the banks of the Arinelle. Once there, he made a small cairn for Noal, then tipped his hat to it and sat down to wait and think.
Moiraine was safe. Mat had survived, though that bloody socket throbbed like nothing else. He still was not certain if the Aeifinn and Eelfinn had strings around him or not, but he had gone into their den and come out unscathed. Mostly, anyway.
One eye lost. What would that do to his ability to fight? That worried him more than anything. He had put on a brave front, but inside he trembled. What would Tuon think of a husband missing an eye? A husband who might not be able to defend himself?
He pulled out a knife, flipping it. Then, on a whim, he tossed it behind him without looking. He heard a soft screech, then turned to see a rabbit slump to the ground, speared by the idly thrown knife.
He smiled, then turned back to the river. There, he noticed something caught between two large river stones along the shore. It was an overturned cooking pot, with a copper bottom, barely used, only dinged on the sides a couple of times. It must have been dropped by a traveler walking up the river.
Yes, he might not be able to judge distance, and he might not be able to see as well. But luck worked better when you were not looking anyway.
He smiled wider, then fetched the rabbit—he would skin that for supper—and plucked the pot out of the river.
Moiraine would get her tea after all.
EPILOGUE
And After
Graendal hurriedly gathered what she needed from her new palace. From her desk, she took a small angreal Mesaana had traded her in exchange for information. It was in the shape of a small, carved ivory knife; she'd lost her gold ring in al'Thor's attack.
Graendal tossed it in her pack, then snatched a sheaf of papers from her bed. Names of contacts, eyes-and-ears—everything she'd managed to remember from what had been destroyed at Natrin's Barrow.
Waves surged against the rocks outside. It was still dark. Only moments had passed since her last tool had failed her, Aybara surviving the battlefield. That was supposed to have worked!
She was in her elegant manor house a few leagues from Ebou Dar. Now that Semirhage was gone, Graendal had begun placing some strings around their new, childlike Empress. She'd have to abandon those schemes now.
Perrin Aybara had escaped. She felt stunned. Plan after perfect plan had fallen in place. And then . . . he'd escaped. How? The prophecy ... it had said . . .
That fool ham, Graendal thought, stuffing the papers in her pack. And that idiot Whitecloak! She was sweating. She shouldn't be sweating.
She tossed a few ter'angreal from her desk into the pack, then rifled her closet for changes of clothing. He could find her anywhere in the world.
But perhaps one of the mirror realms of the Portal Stones. Yes. There, his connections were not—
She turned, arms full of silk, and froze. A figure stood in the room Tall, like a pillar dressed in black robes. Eyeless. Smiling lips the color of death.
Graendal dropped to her knees, throwing aside the clothing. Sweat ran down her temple onto her cheek.
"Graendal," said the tall Myrddraal. His voice was terrible, like the last whispers of a dying man. "You have failed, Graendal."
Shaidar Haran. Very bad. "I . . ." she said, licking her dry lips. How to twist this to a victory? "It is according to plan. It is merely a—"
"I know your heart, Graendal. I can taste your terror"
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Mesaana has fallen," Shaidar Haran whispered. "Three Chosen, destroyed by your actions. The design builds, a lattice of failure, a framework of incompetence."
"I had nothing to do with Mesaana's fall!"
"Nothing? Graendal, the dreamspike was there. Those who fought with Mesaana said that they tried to move, to draw the Aes Sedai to a location where their trap could be sprung. They were not meant to fight in the White Tower. They could not leave. Because of you."
"Isam—"
"A tool given you. The failure is yours, Graendal."
She licked her lips again. Her entire mouth had gone dry. There had to be a way out. "I have a better plan, more bold. You will be impressed. Al'Thor thinks I am dead, and so I can—"
"No." Such a quiet voice, but so horrible. Graendal found she could not speak. Something had taken her voice. "No," Shaidar Haran continued. "This opportunity has been given to another. But Graendal, you shall not be forgotten."
She looked up, feeling a surge of hope. Those dead lips were smiling widely, that eyeless gaze fixed on her. She felt a horrible sinking feeling.
"No," Shaidar Haran said, "I shall not forget you, and you shall not forget that which comes next."
She opened her eyes wide, then howled as he reached for her.
The sky rumbled; the grass around Perrin shivered. That grass was spotted black, just as in the real world. Even the wolf dream was dying.
The air was full of scents that did not belong. A fire burning. Blood drying. The dead flesh of a beast he didn't recognize. Eggs rotting.
No, he thought. No it will not be.
He gathered his will. Those scents would vanish. They did, replaced with the scents of summer. Grass, hedgehogs, beetles, moss, mice, blue-winged doves, purple finches. They appeared, bursting to life in a circle around him.
He gritted his teeth. The reality spread from him like a wave, blackness fading from the plants. Above him, the clouds undulated, then parted. Sunlight streamed down. The thunder calmed.
And Hopper lives, Perrin thought. He does! I can smell his coat, hear him loping in the grass.
A wolf appeared before him, forming as if from mist. Silvery gray, grizzled from years of life. Perrin thrilled in his power. It was real.
And then he saw the wolf's eyes. Lifeless.
The scent turned stale and wrong.
Perrin was sweating from the strain of concentrating so hard. Something within him became disjointed. He was coming into the wolf dream too strongly; to try to control this place absolutely was like trying to contain a wolf in a box.
He cried out, falling to his knees. The misty not-Hopper vanished in a puff and the clouds crashed back into place. Lightning exploded above him and the black spots flooded the grass. The wrong scents returned.
Perrin knelt, sweat dripping from his brow, one hand on the prickly brown and black grass. Too stiff.
Perrin thought of Faile in their tent back in the Field of Merrilor. She was his home. There was much to do. Rand had come, as promised. Tomorrow, he would face Egwene. Thought of the real world grounded Perrin, keeping him from entering the wolf dream too strongly.
Perrin stood. He could do many things in this place, but there were limits. There were always limits.
Seek Boundless. He will explain.
Hopper's last sending to him. What did it mean? Hopper had said that Perrin had found the answer. And yet, Boundless would explain that answer? The sending had been awash with pain, loss, satisfaction at seeing Perrin accept the wolf within him. One final image of a wolf leaping proudly into the darkness, coat shining, scent determined.
Perrin sent himself to the Jehannah Road. Boundless was often there, with the remnants of the pack. Perrin reached out and found him: a
youthful male with brown fur and a lean build. Boundless teased him sending the image of Perrin as a bull trampling a stag. The others had left that image alone, but Boundless continued to remember.
Boundless, Perrin sent. Hopper told me I needed you.
The wolf vanished.
Perrin started, then jumped to the place the wolf had 'been—a cliff top several leagues from the road. He caught the faintest scent of the wolf's destination, and then went there. An open field with a distan
t barn, looking rotted.
Boundless? Perrin sent. The wolf crouched in a pile of brush nearby.
No. No. Boundless sent fright and anger.
What did I do?
The wolf streaked away, leaving a blur. Perrin growled, and went down on all fours, becoming a wolf. Young Bull followed, wind roaring in his ears. He forced it to part before him, increasing his speed further.
Boundless tried to vanish, but Young Bull followed, appearing in the middle of the ocean. He hit the waves, water firm beneath his paws, and continued after Boundless without breaking stride.
Boundless's sendings flashed with images. Forests. Cities. Fields. An image of Perrin, looking down at him, standing outside a cage.
Perrin froze, becoming human again. He stood upon the surging waves, rising slowly into the air. What? That sending had been of a younger Perrin. And Moiraine had been with him. How could Boundless have . . .
And suddenly, Perrin knew. Boundless was always found in Ghealdan in the wolf dream.
Noam, he sent to the wolf, now distant.
There was a start of surprise, and then the mind vanished. Perrin moved to where Boundless had been, and there smelled a small village. A barn. A cage.
Perrin appeared there. Boundless lay on the ground between two houses, looking up at Perrin. Boundless was indistinguishable from the other wolves, for all that Perrin now suspected the truth. This was not a wolf. He was a man.
"Boundless," Perrin said, kneeling down on one knee to look the wolf in the eyes. "Noam. Do you remember me?"
Of course. You are Young Bull.
"I mean, do you remember me from before, when we met in the waking world? You sent an image of it."
Noam opened his jaws, and a bone appeared in them. A large femur
with some meat still on it. He lay on his side, chewing the bone. You are Young hull, he sent, stubborn.
"Do you remember the cage, Noam?" Perrin asked softly, sending the image. The image of a man, his filthy clothing half ripped off, locked in a makeshift wooden cell by his family.
Noam froze, and his image wavered momentarily, becoming that of a man. The wolf image retuned immediately, and he growled a low, dangerous growl.
"I do not bring up bad times to make you angry, Noam," Perrin said. "I... Well, I'm like you."
I am a wolf.
"Yes," Perrin said. "But not always."
Always.
"No," Perrin said firmly. "Once you were like me. Thinking it differently doesn't make it so."
Here it does, Young Bull, Noam sent. Here it does.
That was true. Why was Perrin pressing this issue? Hopper had sent him here, though. Why should Boundless have the answer? Seeing him, knowing who he was, brought back all of Perrin's fears. He'd made peace with himself, yet here was a man who had lost himself completely to the wolf.
This was what Perrin had been terrified of. This was what had driven the wedge between him and the wolves. Now that he'd overcome that, why would Hopper send him here? Boundless scented his confusion. The bone vanished and Boundless set his head on his paws, looking up at Perrin.
Noam—his mind almost gone—had thought only of breaking free and of killing; he'd been a danger to everyone around him. There was none of that now. Boundless seemed at peace. When they'd freed Noam, Perrin had worried that the man would die quickly, but he seemed alive and well. Alive, at least—Perrin couldn't judge much about his wellness from how the man looked in the wolf dream.
Still, Boundless's mind was far better now. Perrin frowned to himself. Moiraine had said there was nothing left of the man Noam in the mind of the creature.
"Boundless," Perrin said. "What do you think of the world of men?"
Perrin was immediately hit with a rapid succession of images. Pain. Sadness. Dying crops. Pain. A large, stout man, half-drunk, beating a pretty woman. Pain. A fire. Fear, sorrow. Vain.
Perrin stumbled back. Boundless kept sending the images. One after
another. A grave. A smaller grave beside it, as if for a child. The fire getting larger. A man—Noam's brother, Perrin recognized him, though the man had not seemed dangerous at the time—enraged.
It was a flood, too much. Perrin howled. A lament for the life that Noam had led, a dirge of sorrow and pain. No wonder this man preferred the life of a wolf.
The images stopped, and Boundless turned his head away. Perrin found himself gasping for breath.
A gift, Boundless sent.
"By the Light," Perrin whispered. "This was a choice, wasn't it? You picked the wolf intentionally."
Boundless closed his eyes.
"I always thought it would take me, if I weren't careful," Perrin said.
The wolf is peace, Boundless sent.
"Yes," Perrin said, laying a hand on the wolf's head. "I understand."
This was the balance for Boundless. Different from the balance for Elyas. And different from what Perrin had found. He understood. This did not mean that the way he let himself lose control was not a danger. But it was the final piece he needed to understand. The final piece of himself.
Thank you, Perrin sent. The image of Young Bull the wolf and Perrin the man standing beside one another, atop a hill, their scents the same. He sent that image outward, as powerfully as he could. To Boundless, to the wolves nearby. To any who would listen.
Thank you.
"Dovie'andi se tovya sagain," Olver said, throwing the dice. They rolled across the canvas floor of the tent. Olver smiled as they came up. All black dots, no wavy lines or triangles. A lucky roll indeed.
Olver moved his piece along the cloth board of the Snakes an.d Foxes game his father had made for him. Seeing that board made Olver hurt every time. It reminded him of his father. But he kept his lip stiff and did not let anyone know. Warriors did not cry. And besides, someday he would find that Shaido who had killed his father. Then Olver would get his vengeance.
That was the sort of thing a man did, when he was a warrior. He figured Mat would help, once he was done with all of this business at the Last Battle. He would owe Olver by then, and not just for all the time Olver
had spent being Mat's personal messenger. For the information he had given him about the snakes and the foxes.
Talmanes sat in a chair beside Olver. The stoic man was reading a book, only paying mild attention to the game. He was not nearly as good to play with as Noal or Thorn. But then, Talmanes had not been sent to play with Olver so much as watch over him.
Mat did not want Olver to know that he had gone to the Tower of Ghenjei, leaving Olver behind. Well, Olver was not a fool, and he knew what was going on. He was not mad, not really. Noal was a good one to take, and if Mat could only take three, well . . . Noal could fight better than Olver. So it made sense for him to go.
But next time, Olver would do the choosing. And then Mat had better be nice, or he would be left behind.
"Your roll, Talmanes," Olver said.
Talmanes mumbled something, reaching over and tossing the handful of dice without losing his place in the book. He was an all-right fellow, though a little stiff. Olver would not choose to have a man like him on a good night of drinking and hunting serving girls. As soon as Olver was old enough to go drinking and hunting serving girls. He figured he would be ready in another year or so.
Olver moved the snakes and foxes, then picked up the dice for his next throw. He had figured it all out. There were a lot of Shaido out there, and he had no idea how to find the one who had killed his parents. But the Aelfinn, they could answer questions. He had heard Mat talking about it. So Olver would go get his answers, then track the man down. Easy as riding a horse. He just had to train with the Band beforehand, so he could fight well enough to see done what needed to be done.
He threw his dice. Another full run. Olver smiled, moving his piece back toward the center of the board, half lost in thought and dreaming of the day when he would finally get his revenge, like was proper.
He moved his piece across one more line, then fr
oze.
His piece was on the center spot.
"I won!" he exclaimed.
Talmanes looked up, pipe lowering in his lips. He cocked his head, staring at the board. "Burn me," he muttered. "We must have counted wrong, or . . ."
"Counted wrong?"
"I mean . . ." Talmanes looked stunned. "You can't win. The game can't be won. It just can't."
That was nonsense. Why would Olver piay if it could not be won? He smiled, looking over the board. The snakes and the foxes were within one toss of getting to his piece and making him lose. But this time, he'd gotten all the way to the outside ring and back. He had won.
Good thing, too. He had started to think he would never manage it!
Olver stood up, stretching his legs. Talmanes climbed off his chair, squatting down beside the game board and scratching his head, smoke idly curling from the end of his pipe.
"I hope Mat will be back soon," Olver said.
"I'm sure he will be," Talmanes said. "His task for Her Majesty shouldn't take much longer." That was the lie they had told Olver—that Mat, Thorn and Noal had gone off on some secret errand for the Queen. Well, that was just another reason that Mat would owe him. Honestly, Mat could be so prim sometimes, acting as if Olver could not take care of himself.
Olver shook his head, strolling over to the side of the tent, where a stack of Mat's papers sat waiting his return. There, peeking from between two of them, Olver noticed something interesting. A bit of red, like blood. He reached up, sliding a worn letter from between two of the sheets. It was sealed closed with a dollop of wax.
Olver frowned, turning the small letter over. He had seen Mat carrying it about. Why had he not opened it? That was downright rude. Setalle had worked hard to explain propriety to Olver, and while most of what she said made no sense—he just nodded his head so she would let him snuggle up to her—he was sure you were supposed to open letters people sent you, then respond kindly.
He turned the letter over again, then shrugged and broke the seal. Olver was Mat's personal messenger, all official and everything. It was no wonder Mat sometimes forgot things, but it was Olver's job to take care of him. Now that Lopin was gone, Mat would need extra taking care of. It was one of the reasons Olver stayed with the Band. He was not sure what Mat would do without him.
Towers of Midnight Page 100