The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “I don’t want this mantle, Faile. I never have.”

  “I know.”

  “Sometimes I wish I’d never left the Two Rivers. I wish I’d let Rand run off to his destiny, leaving regular folk behind to live their lives.”

  He caught a scent of annoyance from her.

  “But if I’d stayed,” he added hastily, “I’d never have met you. So I’m glad I left. I’m just saying I’ll be glad when this is all through and finished, and I can go back to someplace simple.”

  “You think the Two Rivers will ever go back to being the way you remember it?”

  He hesitated. She was right—when they’d gone, it had already been showing signs of change. Refugees from across the mountains moving in, the villages swelling. Now, with so many men joining him in war, getting ideas into their heads about having a lord…

  “I could find someplace else,” he said, feeling stubborn. “There are other villages. They won’t all change.”

  “And you’d drag me off to one of these villages, Perrin Aybara?” she said.

  “I…” What would happen if Faile, his beautiful Faile, were confined to a sleepy village? He always insisted that he was only a blacksmith. But was Faile a blacksmith’s wife? “I would never force you to do anything, Faile,” he said, cupping her face in his hand. He always felt awkward when touching her satin cheeks with his thick, callused fingers.

  “I’d go, if you really wanted me to,” she replied. That was odd. He’d normally expect a snap from her at his awkward tongue. “But is it what you want? Is it really?”

  “I don’t know what I want,” he said frankly. No, he didn’t want to drag Faile off to a village. “Maybe…life as a blacksmith in a city, somewhere?”

  “If you wish it,” she repeated. “Of course, that would leave the Two Rivers without a lord. They’d have to find someone else.”

  “No. They don’t need a lord. That’s why I have to stop them treating me like one.”

  “And you think they’d give up on the idea that quickly?” Faile asked, smelling amused. “After they’ve seen how everyone else does it? After the way they fawned over that fool Luc? After welcoming in all of those people from Almoth Plain, who are used to lords?”

  What would the Two Rivers folk do if he stepped down as their lord? In a sinking moment of realization, he knew that Faile was right. Surely they’d pick someone who’d do a better job of it than me, he thought. Maybe Master al’Vere.

  But could Perrin trust that? Men like Master al’Vere or Tam might turn down the position. Might they end up picking someone like old Cenn Buie? Would they have a choice? If Perrin stepped aside, might some person who figured himself highborn seize power?

  Don’t be a fool, Perrin Aybara, he thought. Almost anyone would be better than you.

  Still, the thought of someone else taking control—someone else being lord—filled him with intense anxiety. And a surprising amount of sadness.

  “Now,” Faile said, “stop your brooding. I have grand intentions for this evening.” She clapped her hands loudly three times, and movements began below. Soon, servants crested the hillside. Perrin recognized them as people she’d appropriated from among the refugees, a group as loyal to her as Cha Faile.

  They carried canvas, which they spread on the ground. Then they covered that with a blanket. And what was that he smelled coming up from below? Ham?

  “What is this, Faile?” he asked.

  “At first,” she said, “I assumed that you had something special planned for our shanna’har. I grew nervous when you didn’t mention it, however, and so I asked. It appears that you do not celebrate it in the Two Rivers, odd though that is.”

  “Shanna’har?” Perrin asked, scratching his head.

  “In the coming weeks,” Faile said, “we will have been married one year. This is our first shanna’har, our marriage celebration.” She folded her arms, watching as her servants arranged a meal on the blanket. “In Saldaea, we celebrate the shanna’har each year in the early summer. It is a festival to mark another year together, another year with neither husband nor wife fallen to the Trollocs. Young couples are told to savor their first shanna’har, much as one savors the first taste of a succulent meal. Our marriage will only be new to us once.”

  The servants laid out a meal, including several glass bowls with candles in them. Faile dismissed the servants with a smile and a wave, and they retreated down the side of the hill. Faile had obviously taken care to make the meal look lavish. The blanket was embroidered, perhaps taken from Shaido spoils. The meal was served on silver plates and platters, ham over a bed of boiled barley and capers across the top. There was even wine.

  Faile stepped closer to him. “I realize that there has been much, this year, that is not worth savoring. Malden, the Prophet, that harsh winter. But if these things are the cost for being with you, Perrin, then I would pay them freely a dozen times over.

  “If all were well, we would spend this next month giving gifts to one another, affirming our love, celebrating our first summer as husband and wife. I doubt we will have the month of ease that is our right, but at least we should spend and enjoy this evening together.”

  “I don’t know if I can, Faile,” he said. “The Whitecloaks, the sky…Light! The Last Battle itself is almost here. The Last Battle, Faile! How can I feast while my people are being held under threat of execution and while the world itself may die?”

  “If the world itself is going to die,” Faile said, “is this not the time when a man must take time to appreciate what he has? Before it is all taken?”

  Perrin hesitated. She laid a hand on his arm, her touch so soft. She hadn’t raised her voice. Did she want him to yell? It was so hard to tell when she wanted an argument and when she didn’t. Maybe Elyas would have advice for him.

  “Please,” she said softly. “Try to relax for one evening. For me.”

  “All right,” he said, laying his hand on hers.

  She led him to the blanket and they settled down, side by side before the array of silver dishes. Faile lit more candles off of the lit ones the servants had left. The night was chilly—the clouds seemed to draw summer warmth away. “Why do this outside?” Perrin said. “And not in our tent?”

  “I asked Tam what you do in the Two Rivers for shanna’har,” she said. “And as I feared, I learned that you don’t celebrate it. That is really quite backward, you realize—we’ll need to change the custom, once things settle down. Regardless, Tam said that the closest they had was something he and his wife did. Once a year, they would pack up a full meal—as extravagant as they could afford—and hike to a new place in the woods. They would dine there and spend the day with one another.” She snuggled up against him. “Our wedding was done in the Two Rivers fashion, so I wished this day to be after that fashion as well.”

  He smiled. Despite his earlier objections his tension was easing. The food smelled good, and his stomach growled, prompting Faile to sit up and take his plate and hand it to him.

  He dug in. He tried to keep his manners, but the food was excellent, and it had been a long day. He found himself ripping into the ham with ferocity, though he tried to take care not to drip on the fancy blanket.

  Faile ate more slowly, the scent of amusement mixing with that of her soap.

  “What?” Perrin asked, wiping his mouth. She was lit only by the candles, now that the sun was fully down.

  “There’s much of the wolf in you, my husband.”

  He froze, noticing that he’d been licking his fingers. He growled at himself, wiping them instead on a napkin. As much as he liked wolves, he wouldn’t invite them to the dinner table with him. “Too much of the wolf in me,” he said.

  “You are what you are, my husband. And I happen to love what you are, so that is well.”

  He continued to chew on his cut of the ham. The night was quiet, the servants having retreated far enough away that he couldn’t smell or hear them. Likely Faile had left orders that they weren’t to be dis
turbed, and with the trees at the base of the hillside, they wouldn’t have to worry about being observed.

  “Faile,” he said softy, “you need to know what I did while you were captive. I did things I worried would turn me into someone you would no longer want. It wasn’t only the deal with the Seanchan. There were people in a city, So Habor, that I can’t stop thinking of. People that maybe I should have helped. And there was a Shaido, with his hand—”

  “I heard about that. It seems that you did what you had to.”

  “I’d have gone much farther,” Perrin admitted. “Hating myself all the way. You spoke of a lord being strong enough to resist letting himself be manipulated. Well, I’ll never be that strong. Not if you’re taken.”

  “We shall have to make certain I don’t get taken.”

  “It could ruin me, Faile,” he said softly. “Anything else, I think I could handle. But if you are used against me, nothing will matter. I’d do anything to protect you, Faile. Anything.”

  “Perhaps you should wrap me up in soft cloth, then,” she said dryly, “and tuck me away in a locked room.” Oddly, her scent was not offended.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Perrin said. “You know I wouldn’t. But this means I have a weakness, a terrible one. The type a leader can’t have.”

  She snorted. “You think other leaders don’t have weaknesses, Perrin? Every King or Queen of Saldaea has had their own. Nikiol Dianatkhah was a drunkard, despite being known as one of our greatest kings, and Belairah married and put her husband away four times. Her heart always did lead her to trouble. Jonasim had a son whose gambling ways nearly brought her House to ruin, and Lyonford couldn’t keep his temper if challenged. Each and every one was a great monarch. And all had their share of weaknesses.”

  Perrin continued to chew on his food, thoughtful.

  “In the Borderlands,” Faile said, “we have a saying. ‘A polished sword reflects the truth.’ A man can claim to be diligent in his duties, but if his sword isn’t polished, you know that he’s been idle.

  “Well, your sword is bright, my husband. These last few weeks, you keep saying that you led poorly during my captivity. You’d have me believe that you led the entire camp to ruin and dust! But that’s not true at all. You kept them focused; you inspired them, maintained a strong presence, and kept the air of a lord.”

  “Berelain’s behind some of that,” he said. “I half think the woman would have bathed me herself if I’d gone another day without.”

  “I’m certain that wouldn’t have been good for the rumors,” Faile noted dryly.

  “Faile, I—”

  “I’ll deal with Berelain,” Faile said. Her voice sounded dangerous. “That’s one duty you needn’t distract yourself with.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll deal with her,” Faile said, her voice more firm. It was not wise to challenge her when she smelled that way, not unless he wanted to start a full argument. She softened, taking another bite of barley. “When I said you were like a wolf, my husband, I wasn’t talking about the way you eat. I was talking about the way you give your attention. You are driven. Given a problem to solve, no matter how grand, and you will see it done.

  “Can’t you understand? That’s a wonderful trait in a leader. It is exactly what the Two Rivers will need. Assuming, of course, that you have a wife to care for some of the smaller issues.” She frowned. “I wish you’d spoken to me about the banner before burning it. It will be difficult to raise it again without looking foolish.”

  “I don’t want to raise it again,” Perrin said. “That’s why I had them burn it.”

  “But why?”

  He took another bite of his ham, pointedly not watching her. She smelled curious, almost desperately so.

  I can’t lead them, he thought. Not until I know if I can master the wolf. How could he explain? Explain that he feared the way it took control when he fought, when he wanted something too badly?

  He would not rid himself of the wolves; they had become too much a part of him. But where would he leave his people, where would he leave Faile, if he lost himself to what was inside of him?

  He again remembered a dirty creature, once a man, locked in a cage. There is nothing left in this one that remembers being a man…

  “My husband,” Faile said, resting a hand on his arm. “Please.” She smelled of pain. That twisted his heart about.

  “It has to do with those Whitecloaks,” Perrin said.

  “What? Perrin, I thought I said—”

  “It has to do,” Perrin said firmly, “with what happened to me the first time I met with them. And what I’d begun to discover in the days before.”

  Faile frowned.

  “I’ve told you that I killed two Whitecloaks,” he said. “Before I met you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Settle back,” he said. “You need to know the whole story.”

  And so he told her. Hesitantly at first, but the words soon grew easier. He spoke of Shadar Logoth, and of their group being scattered. Of Egwene letting him take the lead, perhaps the first time he’d been forced to do that.

  He’d already told her of his meeting with Elyas. She knew much about Perrin, things that he’d never told anyone else, things he’d never even spoken of with Elyas. She knew about the wolf. She knew that he feared he’d lose himself.

  But she didn’t know what he felt in battle. She didn’t know what it had felt like to kill those Whitecloaks, to taste their blood—either in his own mouth, or through his link with the wolves. She didn’t know what it had been like to be consumed by anger, fear and desperation when she’d been taken. These were the things he haltingly explained.

  He told her of the frenzy he’d gone into when searching for her in the wolf dream. He spoke of Noam and what he feared would happen to him. And of how it related to how he acted when he fought.

  Faile listened, sitting quietly atop the hilltop, arms wrapped around her legs, lit by candlelight. Her scents were subdued. Perhaps he should have held some things back. No woman wanted to know what a beast her husband became when he killed, did she? But now that he was speaking, he wanted to be rid of his secrets. He was tired of them.

  Each word spoken made him relax more. It did what the meal—touching though it had been—hadn’t been able to. In telling her of his struggles, he felt some of his burden lift.

  He finished by speaking of Hopper. He wasn’t certain why he’d saved the wolf for last; Hopper was part of much Perrin had told before—the Whitecloaks, the wolf dream. But it felt right to reserve Hopper until the end, so he did.

  As he finished, he stared at the flame of one of the candles. Two of them had gone out, leaving others still to flicker. That wasn’t dim light to his eyes. He had trouble remembering what the days had been like when his senses had been as weak as an ordinary man’s.

  Faile leaned against him, wrapping his arm around her. “Thank you,” she said.

  He let out a deep sigh, leaning back against the stump behind him, feeling her warmth.

  “I want to tell you about Malden,” she said.

  “You don’t have to,” he said. “Just because I—”

  “Hush. I was quiet while you spoke. It’s my turn.”

  “All right.”

  It should have been worrying for him to hear about Malden. He lay with his back to the stump, sky crackling with energy above, the Pattern itself in danger of unraveling, while his wife spoke of being captured and beaten. Yet it was one of the most oddly relaxing things he’d ever experienced.

  The events in that city had been important to her, maybe even good for her. Though he was angered at hearing how Sevanna had trussed Faile up naked and left her overnight. Someday he’d hunt that woman down.

  Not today, however. Today he had his wife in his arms, and her strong voice was a comfort. He should have realized she would have planned her own escape. In fact, listening to her careful preparation, he began to feel a fool. She’d been worried that he’d get himself killed t
rying to rescue her—she didn’t say it, but he could infer it. How well she knew him.

  Faile left some things out. He didn’t mind. Faile would be like a penned and caged animal without her secrets. He got a good hint of what she was hiding, though. It was something to do with that Brotherless who had captured her, something about Faile’s plans to trick the man and his friends into helping her escape. Perhaps she’d felt a fondness for him, and didn’t wish Perrin to regret killing him. That wasn’t necessary. Those Brotherless had been with the Shaido, and they had attacked and killed men under Perrin’s protection. No act of kindness would redeem that. They deserved their deaths.

  That gave him pause. The Whitecloaks probably said very similar things about him. But the Whitecloaks had attacked first.

  She finished. It was very late, now, and Perrin reached over to a bundle that Faile’s servants had brought up, pulling out a blanket.

  “Well?” Faile asked as he settled back, putting his arm around her again.

  “I’m surprised that you didn’t give me an earful for barreling in like a wild bull and stomping all over your plans.”

  That made her smell satisfied. It wasn’t the emotion he’d expected, but he’d long ago stopped trying to decipher the ways of women’s thought.

  “I almost brought the matter up tonight,” Faile said, “so that we could have a proper argument and a proper reconciliation.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I decided that this night should be done in the Two Rivers way.”

  “And you think husbands and wives don’t argue in the Two Rivers?” he asked, amused.

  “Well, perhaps they do. But you, husband, always seem uncomfortable when we yell. I’m very glad you’ve begun to stand up for yourself, as is proper. But I have asked much from you to adapt to my ways. I thought, tonight, I would try to adapt to yours.”

  Those were words that he had never expected to hear from Faile. It seemed the most personal thing she could ever have given him. Embarrassingly, he felt tears in his eyes, and he pulled her tight.