She hastened toward the tent. On her way, she passed Flann Barstere, Jon Gaelin and Marek Cormer checking over their bowstrings and arrow fletchings. All three looked up at her and waved. There seemed to be a sense of relief in their eyes, which was a good sign. Once, these men had looked ashamed when they’d seen her, as if they felt bad for the way Perrin had seemingly dallied with Berelain during Faile’s absence.
Faile spending time with Berelain, mixed with the formal denunciation of the rumors, was working to convince the camp that nothing inappropriate had happened. Interesting; it seemed that Faile saving Berelain’s life during the bubble of evil had had the strongest effect in changing people’s minds. They assumed because of that event that there was no grudge between the two women.
Of course, Faile hadn’t saved the woman’s life, just helped her. But that wasn’t what the rumors said, and Faile was pleased to see them working in her and Perrin’s favor for once.
She reached the tent and hurriedly washed up with a damp cloth and their basin. She put on some perfume, then dressed in her nicest gown—a deep gray-green with embroidered vine patterns across the bodice and around the hem. Finally, she checked herself in the mirror. Good. She was hiding her anxiety. Perrin would be all right. He would be.
She slipped a few knives into her belt and up her sleeves anyway. Outside, a groom had brought Daylight for her. She climbed up—missing Swallow, who had been killed by the Shaido. Even her finest dress had skirts divided for riding; she wouldn’t carry anything else on the road. Her mother had taught her that nothing destroyed a woman’s credibility with soldiers more quickly than riding sidesaddle. And, should the unthinkable happen and Perrin fall, Faile might need to take command of their forces.
She trotted up to the front of the gathering army. Perrin sat in his saddle there. How dare he look so patient!
Faile didn’t let her annoyance show. There was a time to be a tempest, and a time to be a tender breeze. She had already let Perrin know, in no uncertain terms, what she thought of this trial. For the moment, she needed to be seen supporting him.
She rode up beside Perrin as the Aes Sedai gathered behind, walking like the Wise Ones. No Maidens. Where were they? It must be important to keep them from the trial. To Sulin and the others, protecting Perrin was a duty given them by their Car’a’carn, and it would be a grave matter of toh to them if he fell.
Scanning the camp, she noted two gai’shain in hooded white robes hurrying to the front of the line. Gaul, who stood beside Perrin’s horse, scowled. One of the figures bowed to him, holding forth a collection of spears wrapped in cloth. “Freshly sharpened,” Chiad said.
“And newly fletched arrows,” Bain added.
“I have arrows and spears already,” Gaul said.
“Yes,” the women said, kneeling before him, still holding their offerings.
“What?” he asked.
“We were simply worried for your safety,” Bain said. “You prepared those weapons yourself, after all.” She said it earnestly, no hint of mockery or insincerity. Yet the words themselves were close to patronizing.
Gaul started laughing. He took the weapons offered and gave the women his own. Despite the troubles of the day, Faile found herself smiling. There was a devious complexity to Aiel interactions. What should have pleased Gaul regarding his gai’shain often seemed to frustrate him, and yet that which should have been insulting was met with amusement.
As Bain and Chiad retreated, Faile looked over the gathering army. Everyone was coming, not just captains or token forces. Most wouldn’t be able to watch the trial, but they needed to be there. In case.
Faile pulled up beside her husband. “Something worries you,” she said to him.
“The world holds its breath, Faile,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head. “The Last Hunt is here. Rand is in danger. More than any of us, he is in danger. And I can’t go to him, not yet.”
“Perrin, you’re not making any sense. How can you know Rand is in danger?”
“I can see him. Any time I mention his name or think on him, a vision of him opens to my eyes.”
She blinked.
He turned toward her, his yellow eyes thoughtful. “I’m connected to him. He…pulls at me, you see. Anyway, I told myself I was going to be open with you about things like this.” He hesitated. “My armies here, they’re being herded, Faile. Like sheep being driven to the butcher.”
He suddenly remembered his vision from the wolf dream. Sheep running in front of wolves. He’d thought himself one of the wolves. But could he have been wrong?
Light! He had been wrong about that. He knew what it meant, now. “I can feel it on the wind,” he said. “The problem with gateways, it’s related to something happening in the wolf dream. Somebody wants us to be unable to escape this place.”
A cold breeze, odd in the noonday heat, washed over them. “Are you certain?” Faile asked.
“Yes,” Perrin said. “Oddly, I am.”
“That’s where the Maidens are? Scouting?”
“Someone wants to trap us and attack. Makes most sense to let us clash with the Whitecloaks, then kill whoever survives. But that would require an army, of which there is no sign. Just us and the Whitecloaks. I have Elyas hunting out signs of a Waygate in the area, but he hasn’t found anything yet. So maybe there’s nothing, and I’m just jumping at shadows.”
“Lately, husband, it’s become likely that those shadows can bite. I trust your instincts.”
He looked to her, then smiled deeply. “Thank you.”
“So what do we do?”
“We ride to this trial,” Perrin said. “And do whatever we can to keep from going to battle with the Whitecloaks. Then tonight, I see if I can stop the thing that is preventing the gateways. We can’t just ride far enough away to escape it; the thing can be moved. I saw it in two places. I’ll have to destroy it, somehow. After that, we escape.”
She nodded, and Perrin gave the call to march. Though the force behind still seemed chaotic—like a rope that had been tangled—the army began to move. The various groups sorted themselves out, unraveling.
They made the short trip down the Jehannah Road, approaching the field with the pavilion. The Whitecloaks had already arrived; they were in formation. It looked as if they’d brought their entire army as well.
This was going to be a tense afternoon.
Gaul ran beside Perrin’s horse, and he didn’t seem worried, nor did he have his face veiled. Faile knew he thought it honorable for Perrin to go to trial. Perrin either had to defend himself or admit toh and accept judgment. Aiel had walked freely to their own executions to meet toh.
They rode down to the pavilion. A chair had been set on a low platform at the northern end, its back to the distant forest of leatherleaf. Morgase sat in the elevated chair, looking every inch a monarch, wearing a gown of red and gold that Galad must have found for her. How had Faile ever mistaken this woman for a simple lady’s maid?
Chairs had been placed in front of Morgase, and Whitecloaks filled half of them. Galad stood beside her makeshift throne of judgment. His every lock of hair was in place, his uniform without blemish, his cloak falling behind him. Faile glanced to the side and caught Berelain staring at Galad and blushing, looking almost hungry. She had not given up on her attempts to persuade Perrin to let her go make peace with the Whitecloaks.
“Galad Damodred,” Perrin called, dismounting before the pavilion. Faile dismounted and walked beside him. “I want you to promise me something before this begins.”
“And what would that be?” the young commander called from the open-sided tent.
“Vow not to let this turn to battle,” Perrin said.
“I could promise that,” Galad said. “But, of course, you’d have to promise me that you’re not going to run if the judgment falls against you.”
Perrin fell silent. Then he rested his hand upon his hammer.
“Not willing to promi
se it, I see,” Galad said. “I give you this chance because my mother has persuaded me that you should be allowed to speak in your defense. But I would sooner die than allow a man who has murdered Children to walk away unchallenged. If you do not wish this to turn to battle, Perrin Aybara, then present your defense well. Either that, or accept punishment.”
Faile glanced at her husband; he was frowning. He looked as if he wanted to speak the requested promise. She laid a hand on his arm.
“I should do it,” he said quietly. “How can any man be above the law, Faile? I killed those men in Andor when Morgase was Queen. I should abide by her judgment.”
“And your duty to the people of your army?” she asked. “Your duty to Rand, and to the Last Battle?” And to me?
Perrin hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right.” Then, louder, he continued, “Let’s be on with this.”
Perrin strode into the pavilion, joined immediately by Neald, Dannil and Grady. Their presence made Perrin feel like a coward; the way they stood made it obvious that they had no intention of letting Perrin be taken.
What was a trial, if Perrin would not abide by its determination? Nothing more than a sham.
The Whitecloaks watched tensely, their officers standing in the shade of the pavilion, their army at parade rest. They looked as if they had no intention of standing down during the proceedings. Perrin’s own forces—larger, but less orderly—responded by standing at the ready opposite the Whitecloaks.
Perrin nodded, and Rowan Hurn moved off to make certain Galad had released the captives. Perrin walked to the front of the pavilion, stopping just before Morgase’s elevated seat. Faile stayed by his side. There were chairs for him here, and he sat. Several steps to his left was Morgase’s stand. To his right, the people sat to watch the trial. His back was toward his army.
Faile—smelling wary—sat next to him. Others filed in. Berelain and Alliandre sat with their guards near him; the Aes Sedai and Wise Ones stood at the back, refusing seats. The last few seats were taken by a few of the Two Rivers men and some of the senior former refugees.
The Whitecloak officers sat down opposite them, facing Faile and Perrin. Bornhald and Byar at the front. There were about thirty chairs, likely taken from Perrin’s supplies that the Whitecloaks had appropriated.
“Perrin,” Morgase said from her seat. “Are you certain you want to go through with this?”
“I am,” he said.
“Very well,” she said, her face impassive, though she smelled hesitant. “I formally begin this trial. The accused is Perrin Aybara, known as Perrin Goldeneyes.” She hesitated. “Lord of the Two Rivers,” she added. “Galad, you will present the charges.”
“There are three,” Galad said, standing. “The first two are the unlawful murder of Child Lathin and the unlawful murder of Child Yamwick. Aybara is also accused of being a Darkfriend and of bringing Trollocs into the Two Rivers.”
There were angry murmurs from the Two Rivers men at that last charge. Those Trollocs had killed Perrin’s own family.
Galad continued, “The last charge cannot be substantiated yet, as my men were forced out of the Two Rivers before they could gather proof. As to the first two charges, Aybara has already admitted his guilt.”
“Is this so, Lord Aybara?” Morgase asked.
“I killed those men, sure enough,” Perrin said. “But it wasn’t murder.”
“Then this is what the court will determine,” Morgase said formally. “And this is the dispute.”
Morgase seemed a completely different person from Maighdin. Was this how people expected Perrin to act when they came to him for judgment? He had to admit, she did lend the proceedings a measure of needed formality. After all, the trial was happening in a tent on a field with the judge’s chair elevated by what appeared to be a small stack of boxes with a rug thrown over them.
“Galad,” Morgase said. “Your men may tell their side of the story.”
Galad nodded to Byar. He stood, and another Whitecloak—a young man with a completely bald head—stepped forward to join him. Bornhald remained seated.
“Your Grace,” Byar said, “it happened about two years ago. During the spring. An unnaturally cold spring, I remember. We were on our way back from important business at the command of the Lord Captain Commander, and we were passing through the wilderness of central Andor. We were going to camp for the night at an abandoned Ogier stedding, at the base of what was once an enormous statue. The kind of place you assume will be safe.”
Perrin remembered that night. A chill east wind blowing across him, ruffling his cloak as he stood by a pool of fresh water. He remembered the sun dying silently in the west. He remembered staring at the pool in the waning light, watching the wind ruffle its surface, holding the axe in his hands.
That blasted axe. He should have thrown it away right then. Elyas had persuaded him to keep it.
“When we arrived,” Byar continued, “we found that the campsite had been used recently. That concerned us; few people knew of the stedding. We determined, from the single firepit, that there were not many of these mysterious wayfarers.”
His voice was precise, his description methodical. That wasn’t how Perrin remembered the night. No, he remembered the hiss of the flames, sparks fluttering angrily into the air as Elyas dumped the teapot’s contents into the firepit. He remembered a hasty sending from the wolves flooding his mind, confusing him.
The wolves’ wariness had made it hard to separate himself from them. He remembered the smell of fear on Egwene, the way he fumbled with Bela’s saddle as he cinched it. And he remembered hundreds of men who smelled wrong. Like the Whitecloaks in the pavilion. They smelled like sick wolves who snapped at anything that got too close.
“The Lord Captain was worried,” Byar continued. He was obviously not mentioning the captain’s name, perhaps to spare Bornhald. The young Whitecloak captain sat perfectly still, staring at Byar as if he didn’t trust himself to look at Perrin. “He thought that maybe the camp had been used by brigands. Who else would douse their fire and vanish the moment someone else approached? That’s when we saw the first wolf.”
Hiding, breath coming in quick short gasps, Egwene huddled beside him in the dark. The scent of campfire smoke rising from her clothing and from his. Bela breathing in the darkness. The sheltering confines of an enormous stone hand, the hand of Artur Hawkwing’s statue, which had broken free long before.
Dapple, angry and worried. Images of men in white with flaming torches. Wind, darting between the trees.
“The Lord Captain thought the wolves were a bad sign. Everyone knows they serve the Dark One. He sent us to scout. My team searched to the east, looking through the rock formations and shards of the enormous broken statue.”
Pain. Men shouting. Perrin? Will you dance with me at Sunday? If we’re home by then….
“The wolves started to attack us,” Byar said, voice growing hard. “It was obvious that they were no ordinary creatures. There was too much coordination to their assaults. There seemed to be dozens of them, moving through the shadows. There were men among them, striking and killing our mounts.”
Perrin had watched it with two sets of eyes. His own, from the vantage of the hand. And the eyes of the wolves, who only wanted to be left alone. They had been wounded earlier by an enormous flock of ravens. They’d tried to drive the men away. Scare them.
So much fear. Both the fear of the men and the fear of the wolves. It had ruled that night, controlling both sides. He could remember fighting to remain himself, bewildered by the sendings.
“That night stretched long,” Byar said, voice growing softer, yet full of anger. “We passed a hillside with a massive flat rock at the top, and Child Lathin said he thought he saw something in the shadows there. We stopped, holding forward our lights, and saw the legs of a horse beneath the overhang. I gave Lathin a nod, and he stepped forward to order whoever was in there down to identify themselves.
“Well, that man—Aybara—came out o
f the darkness with a young woman. He was carrying a wicked axe, and he walked calmly right up to Lathin, ignoring the lance pointed at his chest. And then….”
And then the wolves took over. It was the first time it had happened to Perrin. Their sendings had been so strong that Perrin had lost himself. He could remember crushing Lathin’s neck with his teeth, the warm blood bursting into his mouth as if he’d bitten into a fruit. That memory had been Hopper’s, but Perrin couldn’t separate himself from the wolf for the moments of that fight.
“And then?” Morgase prompted.
“And then there was a fight,” Byar said. “Wolves leaped from the shadow and Aybara attacked us. He didn’t move like a man, but like a beast, growling. We subdued him and killed one of the wolves, but not before Aybara had managed to kill two of the Children.”
Byar sat down. Morgase asked no questions. She turned to the other Whitecloak who had stood with Byar.
“I have little to lend,” the man said. “I was there, and I remember it exactly the same way. I want to point out that when we took Aybara into custody, he was already judged guilty. We were going to—”
“That judgment is of no concern to this trial,” Morgase said coldly.
“Well, then, allow my voice to be the testimony of a second witness. I saw it all, too.” The bald Whitecloak sat down.
Morgase turned to Perrin. “You may speak.”
Perrin stood up slowly. “Those two spoke truly, Morgase. That’s about how it happened.”
“About?” Morgase asked.
“He’s nearly right.”
“Your guilt or innocence hangs on his ‘nearly,’ Lord Aybara. It is the measure by which you will be judged.”
Perrin nodded. “That it does. Tell me something, Your Grace. When you judge someone like this, do you try to understand their different pieces?”
She frowned. “What?”
“My master, the man who trained me as a blacksmith, taught me an important lesson. To create something, you have to understand it. And to understand something, you have to know what it is made of.” A cool breeze blew through the pavilion, ruffling cloaks. That matched the quiet sounds from the plains outside—men shifting in armor and horses stamping, coughs and occasional whispers as his words were passed through the ranks.
The Wheel of Time Page 1171