Shadow Rising, The (66 page)
Read Shadow Rising, The Online
Authors: Robert Jordan
“Perrin?” Mistress al’Vere murmured disbelievingly. “It
is
you. I almost didn’t know you, with that beard, and—Your cheek. Were you—? Is Egwene with you?”
is
you. I almost didn’t know you, with that beard, and—Your cheek. Were you—? Is Egwene with you?”
Perrin touched the half-healed slash across his cheek self-consciously, wishing he had cleaned up, or at least left the bow and axe in the kitchen. He had not considered how his appearance might frighten them. “No. This has nothing to do with her. She is safe.” Safer on her way back to Tar Valon, perhaps, than if still in Tear with Rand, but safe in either case. He supposed he had to give Egwene’s mother something more than that bald statement. “Mistress al’Vere, Egwene is studying to be Aes Sedai. Nynaeve, too.”
“I know,” she said quietly, touching the pocket on her apron. “I have three letters from her in Tar Valon. From what she writes she sent more, and Nynaeve at least one, but only three of Egwene’s have reached us. She tells something of her training, which I must say sounds very hard.”
“It is what she wants.” Three letters? Guilt made him shrug uncomfortably. He had not written a letter to anyone, not since the notes he had left for his family and Master Luhhan the night Moiraine took him away from Emond’s Field. Not one.
“So it seems, though not what I had envisioned for her. It isn’t something I can tell many people about, now is it? She says she’s made friends, anyway, nice girls by the sound of them. Elayne, and Min. Do you know them?”
“We have met. I think you could call them nice girls.” How much had Egwene told in those letters? Not much, evidently. Let Mistress al’Vere think what she would; he had no intention of worrying her over things she could do nothing about. What was past, was past. Egwene was safe enough now.
Abruptly realizing that Gaul was just standing there, he made hasty introductions. Bran blinked when Gaul was named Aiel, and frowned at his spears and the black veil hanging down his chest from his
shoufa
, but his wife merely said, “Be welcome to Emond’s Field, Master Gaul, and to the Winespring Inn.”
shoufa
, but his wife merely said, “Be welcome to Emond’s Field, Master Gaul, and to the Winespring Inn.”
“May you always have water and shade, roofmistress,” Gaul said formally, bowing to her. “I ask leave to defend your roof and hold.”
She barely hesitated before replying as if that were exactly what she was used to hearing. “A gracious offer. But you must allow me to decide when it is needed.”
“As you say, roofmistress. Your honor is mine.” From under his coat, Gaul produced a gold saltcellar, a small bowl balanced on the back of a cunningly made lion, and extended it to her. “I offer this small guest gift to your roof.”
Marin al’Vere made over it as she would have any gift, hardly showing her shock. Perrin doubted there was a piece to equal it in the whole Two Rivers, certainly not in gold. There was little enough gold coin in the Two Rivers, much less gold ornaments. He hoped she never found out it had been looted from the Stone of Tear; at least he would have wagered that it had.
“My boy,” Bran said, “perhaps I should be saying ‘welcome home,’ but why did you return?”
“I heard about the Whitecloaks, sir,” Perrin replied simply.
The Mayor and his wife shared somber looks, and Bran said, “Again, why did you return? You cannot stop anything, my boy, or change anything. Best that you go. If you don’t have a horse, I will give you one. If you do, climb back in your saddle and ride north. I thought the Whitecloaks were guarding Taren Ferry … . Did they give you that decoration on your face?”
“No. It—”
“Then it doesn’t matter. If you got past them coming in, you can get past to leave. Their main camp is up at Watch Hill, but their patrols can be anywhere. Do it, my boy.”
“Don’t wait, Perrin,” Mistress al’Vere added quietly but firmly, in that voice that usually ended with people doing as she said. “Not even an hour. I’ll make you a bundle to take with you. Some fresh bread and cheese, some ham and roast beef, pickles. You must go, Perrin.”
“I cannot. You know they are after me, or you’d not want me to go.” And they had not commented on his eyes, even to ask if he was ill. Mistress al’Vere had barely been surprised. They knew. “If I give myself up, I can stop some of it. I can keep my family—” He jumped as the hall door banged open to admit Faile, followed by Bain and Chiad.
Master al’Vere ran a hand over his bald head; even taking in the Aiel women’s garb and obviously identifying them with Gaul, he only seemed a little bemused that they were women. Mainly he looked irritated at the intrusion. Scratch sat up to stare suspiciously at all these strangers. Perrin wondered whether the cat considered him one, as well. He wondered how they had found him, too, and where Loial was. Anything to avoid wondering how he was going to manage Faile now.
She gave him little time to ponder, planting herself in front of him with fists on hips. Somehow she managed that trick women had, making herself seem taller through pure quivering outrage. “Give yourself up? Give yourself up! Have you been planning this from the start? You have, haven’t you? You utter idiot! Your brain has frozen solid, Perrin Aybara. It was nothing but muscle and hair to begin, but now it isn’t even that. If Whitecloaks are hunting you, they will hang you if you surrender to them. Why should they want you?”
“Because I killed Whitecloaks.” Looking down at her, he ignored Mistress al’Vere’s gasp. “Those the night I met you, and two before that. They know about those two, Faile, and they think I’m a Darkfriend.” She would learn that much soon enough. Brought to the point of it, he might have told her why, had they been alone. At least two Whitecloaks, Geofram Bornhald and Jaret Byar, suspected something of his connection with wolves. Not nearly all, but for them the little was enough. A man who ran with wolves had to be a Darkfriend. Maybe one or both was with the Whitecloaks here. “They believe it for true.”
“You are no more a Darkfriend than I,” she whispered harshly. “The sun could be a Darkfriend first.”
“It makes no difference, Faile. I have to do what I have to do.”
“You addle-brained lummox! You don’t
have
to do any such crackpate thing! You goose-brain! If you try it, I’ll hang you myself!”
have
to do any such crackpate thing! You goose-brain! If you try it, I’ll hang you myself!”
“Perrin,” Mistress al’Vere said quietly, “would you introduce me to this young woman who thinks so highly of you?”
Faile’s face went bright red when she realized she had been ignoring Master and Mistress al’Vere, and she began making elaborate curtsies and offered flowery apologies. Bain and Chiad did as Gaul had, asking leave to defend Mistress al’Vere’s roof and giving her a small golden bowl worked in leaves and an ornate silver pepper mill bigger than Perrin’s two fists, topped by some fanciful creature half horse, half fish.
Bran al’Vere stared and frowned, rubbed his head and muttered to himself. Perrin caught the word “Aiel” more than once in an incredulous tone. The Mayor kept glancing at the windows, too. Not wondering about more Aiel; he had been surprised to learn Gaul was Aiel. Maybe he was worried about Whitecloaks.
Marin al’Vere, on the other hand, took it all in stride, treating Faile and Bain and Chiad the same as any other young women travelers who came to the inn, commiserating with them over how tiring travel was, complimenting Faile on her riding dress—dark blue silk, today—and telling the Aiel women how she admired the color and sheen of their hair. Perrin suspected that Bain and Chiad, at least, did not know quite what to make of her, but in short order, with a sort of calm motherly firmness, she had all three women settled at a table with damp towels to wipe journey dust from hands and faces, sipping tea she poured from a large red-striped pot he remembered well.
It might have been amusing seeing those fierce women—he certainly included Faile—suddenly eager to assure Mistress al’Vere that they were more than comfortable, was there nothing they could do to help, she was doing too much, all of them wide-eyed as children, with a child’s chance of resisting her. It would have been amusing if she had not included himself and Gaul, sweeping them just as firmly to the table, insisting on clean hands and clean faces before they got a cup of tea. Gaul wore a small grin the whole time; Aiel had a strange sense of humor.
Surprisingly, she never glanced at his bow or axe, or the Aiel’s weapons. People seldom carried even a bow in the Two Rivers, and she always insisted such be set aside before anyone took a place at one of her tables. Always. But she just ignored them now.
Another surprise came when Bran placed a silver cup of apple brandy at Perrin’s elbow, not the small tot that men usually drank at the inn,
barely enough to cover the last joint of the thumb, but half-full. When he had left he would have been offered cider if not milk, or perhaps well-watered wine, a half-cup with a meal or a full one on a feastday. It was gratifying to be recognized as a grown man, but he only held it. He was used to wine now, but he seldom drank anything stronger.
barely enough to cover the last joint of the thumb, but half-full. When he had left he would have been offered cider if not milk, or perhaps well-watered wine, a half-cup with a meal or a full one on a feastday. It was gratifying to be recognized as a grown man, but he only held it. He was used to wine now, but he seldom drank anything stronger.
“Perrin,” the Mayor said as he took a chair beside his wife, “no one believes you a Darkfriend. No one with any sense. There is no reason for you to let yourself be hanged.”
Faile nodded in fierce agreement, but Perrin ignored her. “I won’t be turned aside, Master al’Vere. The Whitecloaks want me, and if they do not get me, they might turn to the next Aybara they can find. Whitecloaks don’t need much to decide somebody is guilty. They are not pleasant people.”
“We know,” Mistress al’Vere said softly.
Her husband stared at his hands on the table. “Perrin, your family is gone.”
“Gone? You mean the farm is burned already?” Perrin’s fist tightened around the silver cup. “I hoped I was in time. I should have known better, I suppose. Too long before I heard. Maybe I can help my da and Uncle Eward rebuild. Who are they staying with? I want to see them first, at least.”
Bran grimaced, and his wife stroked his shoulder comfortingly. But strangely her eyes stayed on Perrin, all sadness and comfort.
“They are dead, my boy,” Bran said in a rush.
“Dead? No. They can’t be—” Perrin frowned as wetness suddenly slopped over his hand, stared at the crumpled cup as though wondering where it had come from. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He pulled at the flattened silver, trying to force it back out with his fingers. That would not work. Of course not. Very carefully, he put the ruined cup in the middle of the table. “I will replace it. I can—” He wiped his hand on his coat, and suddenly found he was caressing the axe hanging at his belt. Why was everyone looking at him so oddly? “Are you sure?” His voice sounded far away. “Adora and Deselle? Paet? My mother?”
“All of them,” Bran told him. “Your aunts and uncles, too, and your cousins. Everybody on the farm. I helped bury them, my boy. On that low hill, the one with the apple trees.”
Perrin stuck his thumb in his mouth. Fool thing to do, cutting himself on his own axe. “My mother likes apple blossoms. The Whitecloaks. Why would they—? Burn me, Paet was only nine. The girls … .” His voice was
very flat. He thought he should have had some emotion in those words. Some emotion.
very flat. He thought he should have had some emotion in those words. Some emotion.
“It was Trollocs,” Mistress al’Vere said quickly. “They have come back, Perrin. Not the way they did when you went away, not attacking the village, but out in the countryside. Most farms without close neighbors have been abandoned. No one goes outside at night, even near to the village. It is the same down to Deven Ride and up to Watch Hill, maybe to Taren Ferry. The Whitecloaks, bad as they are, are our only real protection. They’ve saved two families that I know, when Trollocs attacked their farms.”
“I wished—I hoped—” He could not quite remember what it was he had wished. Something about Trollocs. He did not want to remember. The Whitecloaks protecting the Two Rivers? It was almost enough to make him laugh. “Rand’s father. Tam’s farm. Was that Trollocs, too?”
Mistress al’Vere opened her mouth, but Bran cut her off. “He deserves the truth, Marin. That was Whitecloaks, Perrin. That, and the Cauthon place.”
“Mat’s people too. Rand’s, and Mat’s, and mine.” Strange. He sounded as if he were talking about whether it might rain. “Are they dead, too?”
“No, my boy. No, Abell and Tam are hiding in the Westwood somewhere. And Mat’s mother and sisters … . They’re alive, too.”
“Hiding?”
“There is no need to go into that,” Mistress al’Vere said briskly. “Bran, bring him another cup of brandy. And you drink this one, Perrin.” Her husband sat where he was, but she only frowned at him and went on. “I would offer you a bed, but it isn’t safe. Some people are like as not to run off hunting for Lord Bornhald if they find out you are here. Eward Congar and Hari Coplin fawn after the Whitecloaks like heel-hounds, eager to please and name names, and Cenn Buie isn’t much better. And Wit Congar will carry tales, too, if Daise doesn’t stop him. She is the Wisdom, now. Perrin, it is best for to go. Believe me.”
Perrin shook his head slowly; it was too much to take in. Daise Congar the Wisdom? The woman was like a bull. Whitecloaks protecting Emond’s Field. Hari and Eward and Wit cooperating. Not much more could be expected from Congars or Coplins, but Cenn Buie was on the Village Council. Lord Bornhald. So Geofram Bornhald was there. Faile was watching him, her eyes large and moist. Why should she be on the edge of tears?
“There is more, Brandelwyn al’Vere,” Gaul said. “Your face says so.”
“There is,” Bran agreed. “No, Marin,” he added firmly when she gave a small shake of her head. “He deserves the truth. The whole truth.” She folded her hands with a sigh; Marin al’Vere very nearly always got her way—except when Bran’s face was set, as now, with his eyebrows drawn down hard as a plow.
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