“We’ll go even slower if a horse breaks a leg,” the Warder would tell Moiraine when she complained.
Her reply was always very much the same. “If you cannot move any faster than this, perhaps I should send you off to Myrelle before you get any older. Well, perhaps that can wait, but you must move us faster.”
She half sounded as if the threat were irritated truth, half as if she were making a joke. There was something of a threat in it, or maybe a warning, Perrin was sure, from the way Lan’s mouth tightened even when she smiled afterwards and reached up to pat his shoulder soothingly.
“Who is Myrelle?” Perrin asked suspiciously, the first time it happened. Loial shook his head, murmuring something about unpleasant things happening to those who pried into Aes Sedai affairs. The Ogier’s hairy-fetlocked horse was as tall and heavy as a Dhurran stallion, but with Loial’s long legs dangling to either side, the animal looked undersized, like a large pony.
Moiraine gave an amused, secretive smile. “Just a Green sister. Someone to whom Lan must one day deliver a package for safekeeping.”
“No day soon,” Lan said, and surprisingly, there was open anger in his voice. “Never, if I can help it. You will outlive me long, Moiraine Aes Sedai!”
She has too many secrets, Perrin thought, but asked no more about a subject that could crack the Warder’s iron self-control.
The Aes Sedai had a blanket-wrapped bundle tied behind her saddle: the Dragon banner. Perrin was uneasy about having it with them, but Moiraine had neither asked his opinion nor listened when he offered it. Not that anyone was likely to recognize it if he saw it, yet he hoped she was as good at keeping secrets from other people as she was at keeping them from him.
In the beginning, at least, it was a boring journey. One cloud-capped mountain was very much like another, one pass little different from the next. Supper was usually rabbit, dropped by stones from Perrin’s sling. He did not have so many arrows as to risk shooting at rabbits in that rocky country. Breakfast was cold rabbit, more often than not, and the midday meal the same, eaten in the saddle.
Sometimes when they camped near a stream and there was still light enough to see, he and Loial caught mountain trout, lying on their bellies, hands elbow-deep in the cold water, tickling the green-backed fish out from under the rock ledges where they hid. Loial’s fingers, big as they were, were even more deft at it than Perrin’s.
Once, three days after setting out, Moiraine joined them, stretching herself out on the streamside and undoing rows of pearl buttons to roll up her sleeves as she asked how the thing was done. Perrin exchanged surprised looks with Loial. The Ogier shrugged.
“It is not that hard, really,” Perrin told her. “Just bring your hand up from behind the fish, and underneath, as if you’re trying to tickle its belly. Then you pull it out. It takes practice, though. You might not catch anything the first few times you try.”
“I tried for days before I ever caught anything,” Loial added. He was already easing his huge hands into the water, careful to keep his shadow from scaring the fish.
“As difficult as that?” Moiraine murmured. Her hands slipped into the water—and a moment later came out with a splash, holding a fat trout that thrashed the surface. She laughed with delight as she tossed it up onto the bank.
Perrin blinked at the big fish flopping in the fading sunlight. It must have weighed at least five pounds. “You were very lucky,” he said. “Trout that size don’t often shelter under a ledge this small. We’ll have to move upstream a bit. It will be dark before any of them settle under this ledge again.”
“Is that so?” Moiraine said. “You two go ahead. I think I will just try here again.”
Perrin hesitated a moment before moving up the bank to another overhang. She was up to something, but he could not imagine what. That troubled him. Belly down, and careful not to let his shadow fall on the water, he peered over the edge. Half a dozen slender shapes hung suspended in the water, barely moving a fin to hold their places. All of them together would not weigh as much as Moiraine’s fish, he decided with a sigh. If they were lucky, he and Loial might take two apiece, but the shadows of trees on the far bank already stretched across the water. Whatever they caught now would be it, and Loial’s appetite was big enough by itself to swallow those four and most of the bigger fish, too. Loial’s hands were already easing up behind one of the trout.
Before Perrin could even slide his hands into the water, Moiraine gave a shout. “Three should be enough, I think. The last two are bigger than the first.”
Perrin gave Loial a startled look. “She can’t have!”
The Ogier straightened, sending the small trout scattering. “She is Aes Sedai,” he said simply.
Sure enough, when they returned to Moiraine, three big trout lay on the bank. She was already buttoning her sleeves up again.
Perrin thought about reminding her that whoever took the fish was supposed to clean them, too, but just at that moment she caught his eye. There was no particular expression on her smooth face, but her dark eyes did not waver, and they appeared to know what he was going to say, and to have dismissed it out of hand already. When she turned away, it seemed somehow too late to say anything.
Muttering to himself, Perrin pulled out his beltknife and set to the gutting and heading. “All of a sudden she’s forgotten about sharing the chores, it seems. I suppose she’ll want us to do the cooking, as well, and the cleaning up after.”
“No doubt she will,” Loial said without pausing over the fish he was working on. “She is Aes Sedai.”
“I seem to remember hearing that somewhere.” Perrin’s knife ripped into the fish. “The Shienarans might have been willing to run around fetching and carrying for her, but there are only four of us now. We should keep on turn and turn about. It’s only fair.”
Loial gave a great snort of laughter. “I doubt she sees it that way. First she had to put up with Rand arguing with her all the time, and now you’re ready to take over for him. As a rule, Aes Sedai do not let anyone argue with them. I expect she means to have us back in the habit of doing what she says by the time we reach the first village.”
“A good habit to be in,” Lan said, throwing back his cloak. In the fading light he had appeared out of nowhere.
Perrin nearly fell over from surprise, and Loial’s ears went stiff with shock. Neither of them had heard the Warder’s step.
“A habit you should never have lost,” Lan added, then strode off toward Moiraine and the horses. His boots barely made a sound, even on that rocky ground, and once he was a few paces away the cloak hanging down his back gave him the uneasy appearance of a disembodied head and arms drifting up from the stream.
“We need her to find Rand,” Perrin said softly, “but I am not going to let her shape my life anymore.” He went back to his cleaning vigorously.
He meant to keep that promise—he really did—but during the days that followed, in some way he did not quite understand, he found that he and Loial were doing the cooking, and the cleaning up, and any other little chore that Moiraine thought of. He even discovered that somehow or other he had taken over tending Aldieb every night, unsaddling the mare and rubbing her down while Moiraine settled herself, apparently deep in thought.
Loial gave in to it as inevitable, but not Perrin. He tried refusing, resisting, but it was hard to resist when she made a reasonable suggestion, and a small one at that. Only there was always another suggestion behind it, as reasonable and small as the first, and then another. The simple force of her presence, the strength of her gaze, made it difficult to protest. Her dark eyes would catch his at the moment he opened his mouth. A lift of her eyebrow to suggest he was being rude, a surprised widening of her eyes that he could object to so small a request, a level stare that held in it everything that was Aes Sedai, all these things could make him hesitate, and once he hesitated there was never any recovering lost ground. He accused her of using the One Power on him, though he did not really think that wa
s it, and she told him not to be a fool. He began to feel like a piece of iron trying to stop a smith from hammering it into a scythe.
The Mountains of Mist gave way abruptly to the forested foothills of Ghealdan, to land that seemed all up and down, but never very high. Deer, which in the mountains had often watched them warily, as if uncertain what a man was, began to bound away, white tails flickering, at the first sight of the horses. Even Perrin now caught only the faintest glimpses of the gray-striped mountain cats that seemed to fade away like smoke. They were coming into the lands of men.
Lan stopped wearing his color-shifting cloak and began riding back to the rest of them more often, telling them what lay ahead. In many places the trees had all been cut down. Soon, fields encircled by rough stone walls and farmers plowing ’round the sides of hills were common sights, if not exactly frequent, along with lines of people moving across the plowed ground, sowing seed from sacks slung from their shoulders. Scattered farmhouses and barns of gray stone sat on hilltops and ridges.
The wolves should not have been there. Wolves avoided places where men were, but Perrin could still sense them, an unseen screen and escort ringing the mounted party. Impatience filled him; impatience to reach a village or a town, any place where there were enough men to make the wolves go away.
A day after sighting the first field, just as the sun touched the horizon behind them, they came to the village of Jarra, not far north of the border with Amadicia.
CHAPTER
8
Jarra
Gray stone houses with slate roofs lay clustered along the few narrow streets of Jarra, clinging to a hillside above a little stream spanned by a low wooden bridge. The muddy streets were empty, and so was the sloping village green, except for one man sweeping the steps of the village’s only inn, standing beside its stone stable; but it looked as if there had been a good many people on the green not long before. Half a dozen arches, woven of green branches and dotted with such few flowers as could be found this early in the year, stood in a circle in the middle of the grass. The ground had a trampled look, and there were other signs of a gathering; a woman’s red scarf lying tangled at the foot of one of the arches, a child’s knitted cap, a pewter pitcher tumbled on its side, a few half-eaten scraps of food.
The aromas of sweet wine and spiced cakes clung about the green, mixed in with smoke from dozens of chimneys and evening meals cooking. For an instant Perrin’s nose caught another odor, one he could not identify, a faint trail that raised the hair on the back of his neck with its vileness. Then it was gone. But he was sure something had passed that way, something—wrong. He scrubbed at his nose as if to rub away the memory of it. That can’t be Rand. Light, even if he has gone mad, that can’t be him. Can it?
A painted sign hung above the inn door, a man standing on one foot with his arms thrown in the air: Harilin’s Leap. As they drew rein in front of the square stone building, the sweeper straightened, yawning fiercely. He gave a start at Perrin’s eyes, but his own already protruding eyes went wide when they fell on Loial. With his wide mouth and no chin to speak of, he looked something like a frog. There was an old smell of sour wine about him—to Perrin, at least. The fellow had certainly been part of the celebration.
The man gave himself a shake, and turned it into a bow with one hand resting on the double row of wooden buttons running down his coat. His eyes flickered from one to another of them, popping even more every time they rested on Loial. “Welcome, good mistress, and the Light illumine your way. Welcome, good masters. You wish food, rooms, baths? All to be had, here at the Leap. Master Harod, the innkeeper, keeps a good house. I am called Simion. If you wish anything, ask for Simion, and he will get it for you.” He yawned again, covering his mouth in embarrassment and bowing to hide it. “I beg your pardon, good mistress. You have come far? Have you word of the Great Hunt? The Hunt for the Horn of Valere? Or the false Dragon? It’s said there’s a false Dragon in Tarabon. Or maybe Arad Doman.”
“We have not come that far,” Lan said, swinging down from his saddle. “No doubt you know more than I.” They all began dismounting.
“You have had a wedding here?” Moiraine said.
“A wedding, good mistress? Why, we’ve had a lifetime of weddings. A plague of them. All in the last two days. There isn’t a woman old enough to speak the betrothal remains unmarried, not in the whole village, not for a mile in any direction. Why, even Widow Jorath dragged old Banas through the arches, and they’d both sworn they’d never marry again. It was like a whirlwind just snatched everybody up. Rilith, the weaver’s daughter, she started it, asking Jon the blacksmith to marry her, and him old enough to be her father and more. The old fool just took off his apron and said yes, and she demanded the arches be put up right then and there. Wouldn’t hear of a proper wait, and all the other women sided with her. Since then we’ve had marriages day and night. Why, nobody’s had any sleep at all hardly.”
“That’s very interesting,” Perrin said when Simion paused to yawn again, “but have you seen a young—”
“It is very interesting,” Moiraine said, cutting him off, “and I would hear more of it later, perhaps. For now, we would like rooms, and a meal.” Lan made a small gesture toward Perrin, down low, as if telling him to hold his tongue.
“Of course, good mistress. A meal. Rooms.” Simion hesitated, eyeing Loial. “We’ll have to push two beds together for—” He leaned closer to Moiraine and dropped his voice. “Pardon, good mistress, but—uh—what exactly—is he? Meaning no disrespect,” he added hastily.
He had not spoken softly enough, for Loial’s ears twitched irritably. “I am an Ogier! What did you think I was? A Trolloc?”
Simion took a step back at the booming voice. “Trolloc, good—uh—master? Why, I’m a grown man. I don’t believe in children’s tales. Uh, did you say Ogier? Why, Ogier are childr—I mean . . . that is. . . .” In desperation, he turned to bellow toward the stable next to the inn. “Nico! Patrim! Visitors! Come see to their horses!” After a moment two boys with hay in their hair tumbled out of the stable, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Simion gestured to the steps, bowing, as the boys gathered reins.
Perrin slung his saddlebags and blanketroll over his shoulder and carried his bow as he followed Moiraine and Lan inside, with Simion bowing and bobbing ahead of them. Loial had to duck low under the lintel, and the ceiling inside only cleared his head by a foot. He kept rumbling to himself about not understanding why so few humans remembered the Ogier. His voice was like distant thunder. Even Perrin, right in front of him, could only understand half of his words.
The inn smelled of ale and wine, cheese and weariness, and the aroma of roasting mutton drifted from somewhere in the back. The few men in the common room sagged over their mugs as if they would really like to lie down on the benches and go to sleep. One plump serving woman was drawing a mug of ale from one of the barrels at the end of the room. The innkeeper himself, in a long white apron, sat on a tall stool in the corner, leaning against the wall. As the newcomers entered, he lifted his head, bleary-eyed. His jaw dropped at the sight of Loial.
“Visitors, Master Harod,” Simion announced. “They want rooms. Master Harod? He’s an Ogier, Master Harod.” The serving woman turned and saw Loial, and dropped the mug with a clatter. None of the weary men at the tables even looked up. One had put his head down on the table and was snoring.
Loial’s ears twitched violently.
Master Harod got to his feet slowly, eyes fastened on Loial, smoothing his apron all the while. “At least he isn’t a Whitecloak,” he said at last, then gave a start as if surprised he had spoken aloud. “That is to say, welcome, good mistress. Good masters. Forgive my lack of manners. I can only plead tiredness, good mistress.” He darted another glance at Loial, and mouthed “Ogier?” with a look of disbelief.
Loial opened his mouth, but Moiraine forestalled him. “As your man said, good innkeeper, I wish rooms for my party for the night, and a meal.”
“Oh
! Of course, good mistress. Of course. Simion, show these good people to my best rooms, so they can put down their belongings. I’ll have a fine meal laid out for you when you return, good mistress. A fine meal.”
“If it pleases you to follow me, good mistress,” Simion said. “Good masters.” He bowed the way to stairs at one side of the common room.
Behind them, one of the men at the tables suddenly exclaimed, “What in the name of the Light is that?” Master Harod began explaining about Ogier, making it sound as if he were quite familiar with them. Most of what Perrin heard before they left the voices behind was wrong. Loial’s ears twitched without stop.
On the second floor, the Ogier’s head came near to brushing along the ceiling. The narrow corridor was growing dark, with only the sharp light of sunset through a window next to the door at the far end.
“Candles in the rooms, good mistress,” Simion said. “I should have brought a lamp, but my head is still spinning from all those weddings. I’ll send someone up to light the fire, if you wish. And you’ll want wash water, of course.” He pushed open a door. “Our best room, good mistress. We don’t have many—not many strangers, you see—but this is our best.”
“I’ll take the one next to it,” Lan said. He had Moiraine’s blanketroll and saddlebags on his shoulder as well as his own, and the bundle containing the Dragon banner, too.
“Oh, good master, that’s not a very good room at all. Narrow bed. Cramped. Meant for a servant, I suspect, as if we’d ever have anybody here who had a servant. Begging your pardon, good mistress.”
“I will take it anyway,” Lan said firmly.
“Simion,” Moiraine said, “does Master Harod dislike the Children of the Light?”
“Well, he does, good mistress. He didn’t, but he does. It isn’t good policy, disliking the Children, not so close to the border as we are. They come through Jarra all the time, like there wasn’t any border at all. But there was trouble, yesterday. A fistful of trouble. And with the weddings going on, and all.”
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