“So they are here,” Elayne said, but Nynaeve shook her head.
“Perhaps. More than one woman can have a white streak in her hair.”
“He could not say how old she was,” Juilin said, hiding a yawn behind his hand. “No age at all, he claimed. He joked that maybe she was Aes Sedai.”
“You go too fast,” Nynaeve told him in a tight voice. “You do us no good if you bring them down on us.”
Juilin flushed darkly. “I am careful. I have no wish for Liandrin to put her hands on me again. I do not ask questions; I talk. Sometimes of women I used to know. Two men bit on that white streak, and neither ever knew it was more than a scrap of idle talk over cheap ale. Tonight maybe another will swim into my net, only this time maybe it will be a fragile woman from Cairhien with very big blue eyes.” That would be Temaile Kinderode. “Bit by bit, I will narrow where they have been seen, until I know where they are. I will find them for you.”
“Or I will.” Thom sounded as if he thought that much more likely. “Rather than thieves, would they not be meddling with nobles and politics? Some lord in this city will begin doing what he usually does not, and he will draw me to them.”
The two men eyed one another. In another moment Elayne expected one of them to offer to wrestle. Men. First Juilin and Domon, now Juilin and Thom. Very likely Thom and Domon would get in a fistfight to complete it. Men. That was the only comment she could think of.
“Perhaps Elayne and I will succeed without either of you,” Nynaeve said dryly. “We will begin looking ourselves, today.” Her eyes barely shifted toward Elayne. “At least, I will. Elayne may need a little more rest to recover from … the voyage.”
Setting the cloth down carefully, Elayne used both hands to pick up the cup in front of her. The thick, gray-green liquid tasted worse than it smelled. Shuddering, she made herself keep swallowing. When it hit her stomach, for an instant she felt like a cloak flapping in a high wind. “Two pairs of eyes can see better than one,” she told Nynaeve, setting the empty cup back down with a clink.
“A hundred pairs can see even better,” Juilin said hastily, “and if that Illianer eel truly sends his people out, we will have at least that many, what with the thieves and cutpurses.”
“I—we—will find these women for you if they can be found,” Thom said. “There is no need for you to stir from the inn. This city has a dangerous feel even if Liandrin is not here.”
“Besides which,” Juilin added, “if they are here, they know the two of you. They know your faces. Much better if you stay here at the inn, out of sight.”
Elayne stared at them in amazement. A moment gone they had been trying to stare each other down, and now they were shoulder to shoulder. Nynaeve had been right about them causing trouble. Well, the Daughter-Heir of Andor was not about to hide behind Master Juilin Sandar and Master Thom Merrilin. She opened her mouth to tell them so, but Nynaeve spoke first.
“You are right,” she said calmly. Elayne stared at her incredulously; Thom and Juilin looked surprised, and at the same time disgustingly satisfied. “They do know us,” Nynaeve went on. “I took care of that this morning, I think. Ah, here is Mistress Rendra with our breakfast.”
Thom and Juilin exchanged disconcerted frowns, but they could say nothing with the innkeeper smiling at them all through her veil.
“About what I asked you?” Nynaeve said to her as the woman placed a bowl of honeyed porridge in front of her.
“Ah, yes. It will be no problem to find the clothes to fit both of you. And the hair—you have such lovely hair; so long—it will be the work of no time to put it up.” She fingered her own deep golden braids.
Thom’s and Juilin’s faces made Elayne smile. They might have been ready for arguments; they had no defense against being ignored. Her head was actually feeling a little better; Nynaeve’s vile mixture seemed to be working. As Nynaeve and Rendra discussed costs and cut and fabric—Rendra wanted to duplicate her clinging dress, pale green today; Nynaeve was opposed, but seemed to be wavering—Elayne took a spoon of porridge to wash the taste from her mouth. It reminded her that she was hungry.
There was one problem none of them had mentioned yet, one that Thom and Juilin did not know. If the Black Ajah was in Tanchico, then so was whatever it was that endangered Rand. Something able to bind him with his own Power. Finding Liandrin and the others was not enough. They had to find that, too. Suddenly her newfound appetite was completely gone.
CHAPTER 40
Hunter of Trollocs
Remnants of the early-morning rain still dripped from the leaves of the apple trees, and a purple finch hopped along a limb where fruit was forming that would not be harvested this year. The sun was well up, but hidden behind thick gray clouds. Seated cross-legged on the ground, Perrin unconsciously tested his bowstring; the tightly wrapped, waxed cords had a tendency to go slack in wet weather. The storm Verin had called up to hide them from pursuit the night of the rescue had surprised even her with its ferocity, and beating rains had come three more times in the six days since. He believed it was six days. He had not really thought since that night, only drifted as events took him, reacting to what presented itself. The flat of his axe blade dug into his side, but he hardly noticed.
Low, grassy mounds marked generations of Aybaras buried here. The oldest among the carved wooden headpieces, cracked and barely legible, bore dates nearly three hundred years old, over graves indistinguishable from undisturbed ground. It was the mounds smoothed by rains but barely covered by grass that stabbed him. Generations of Aybaras buried here, but surely never fourteen at one time. Aunt Neain over by Uncle Carlin’s older grave, with their two children beside her. Great Aunt Ealsin in the row with Uncle Eward and Aunt Magde and their three children, the long row with his mother and his father. Adora and Deselle and little Paet. A long row of mounds with bare, wet earth still showing through the grass. He counted the arrows remaining in his quiver by touch. Seventeen. Too many had been damaged, worth recovering only for the steel arrowheads. No time to make his own; he would have to see the fletcher in Emond’s Field soon. Buel Dowtry made good arrows, even better than Tam.
A faint rustle behind his back made him sniff the air. “What is it, Dannil?” he said without looking around.
There was a catch of breath, a moment of startled surprise, before Dannil Lewin said, “The Lady is here, Perrin.” None of them had gotten used to him knowing who was who before he saw them, or in the dark, but he no longer really cared what they found strange.
He frowned over his shoulder. Dannil looked leaner than he had; farmers could only feed so many at once, and food had been feast or famine as the hunting went. Mostly famine. “The Lady?”
“The Lady Faile. And Lord Luc, too. They came from Emond’s Field.”
Perrin rose smoothly, taking long strides that made Dannil hurry to keep up. He managed not to look at the house. The charred timbers and sooty chimneys that had been the house where he grew up. He did scan the trees for his lookouts, those nearest the farm. Close to the Waterwood as it was, the land held plenty of tall oak and hemlock, and good-sized ash and bay. Thick foliage hid the lads well—drab farm clothes made for good hiding—so even he had difficulty picking them out. He would have to talk with those farther out; they were supposed to see that no one came close without a warning. Even Faile and this Luc.
The camp, in a large thicket where he had once pretended to be in a far wilderness, was a rough place among the undergrowth, with blankets strung between trees to make shelters, and more scattered on the ground between the small cook fires. The branches dripped here, too. Most of the nearly fifty men in the camp, all young, were unshaven, either in imitation of Perrin or because it was unpleasant shaving in cold water. They were good hunters—he had sent home any who were not—but unaccustomed to more than a night or two outdoors at a time. And not used to what he had them doing, either.
Right then they were standing around gaping at Faile and Luc, and only four or five had longbow i
n hand. The rest of the bows lay with the bedding, and the quivers, too, more often than not. Luc stood idly flipping the reins of a tall black stallion, the very pose of indolent, red-coated arrogance, cold blue eyes ignoring the men around him. The man’s smell stood out among the others, cold and separate, too, almost as if he had nothing in common with the men around him, not even humanity.
Faile came hurrying to meet Perrin with a smile, her narrow divided skirts making a soft whisk-whisk as gray silk brushed silk. She smelled faintly of sweet herbal soap, and of herself. “Master Luhhan said we might find you here.”
He meant to demand what she was doing there, but found himself putting his arms around her and saying into her hair, “It’s good to see you. I have missed you.”
She pushed back enough to look up at him. “You look tired.”
He ignored that; he had no time to be tired. “You got everyone safely to Emond’s Field?”
“They are at the Winespring Inn.” She grinned suddenly. “Master al’Vere found an old halberd and says if the Whitecloaks want them, they will have to go through him. Everyone’s in the village now, Perrin. Verin and Alanna, the Warders. Pretending to be someone else, of course. And Loial. He certainly created a sensation. Even more than Bain and Chiad.” The grin faded into a frown. “He asked me to deliver a message to you. Alanna vanished twice without a word, once alone. Loial said Ihvon seemed surprised to find her gone. He said I wasn’t to let anyone else know.” She studied his face. “What does it mean, Perrin?”
“Nothing, maybe. Just that I can’t be sure I can trust her. Verin warned me against her, but can I trust Verin? You say Bain and Chiad are in Emond’s Field? I suppose that means he knows about them.” He jerked his head toward Luc. A few of the men had approached him, asking diffident questions, and he was answering with a condescending smile.
“They came with us,” she said slowly. “They are scouting around your camp now. I do not think they have a very high opinion of your sentries. Perrin, why don’t you want Luc to know about the Aiel?”
“I’ve talked to a number of people who were burned out.” Luc was too far to overhear, but he held his voice low. “Counting Flann Lewin’s place, Luc was at five on the day they were attacked, or the day before.”
“Perrin, the man’s an arrogant fool in some ways—I hear he’s hinted at a claim to one of the Borderland thrones, for all he told us he’s from Murandy—but you cannot really believe he is a Darkfriend. He gave some very good advice in Emond’s Field. When I said everyone was there, I meant everyone.” She shook her dark head wonderingly. “Hundreds and hundreds of people have come in from north and south, from every direction, with their cattle and their sheep, all talking of Perrin Goldeneyes’s warnings. Your little village is preparing to defend itself if need be, and Luc has been everywhere the last days.”
“Perrin who?” he gasped, wincing. Trying to change the subject, he said, “From the south? But this is as far south as I’ve gone. I haven’t talked to a farmer more than a mile below the Winespring Water.”
Faile tugged at his beard with a laugh. “News spreads, my fine general. I think half of them expect you to form them into an army and chase the Trollocs all the way back to the Great Blight. There will be stories about you in the Two Rivers for the next thousand years. Perrin Goldeneyes, hunter of Trollocs.”
“Light!” he muttered.
Hunter of Trollocs. There had been little so far to justify that. Two days after freeing Mistress Luhhan and the others, the day after Verin and Tomas rode on their own way, they had come on the still-smoking ruins of a farmhouse, he and the fifteen Two Rivers lads with him then. After burying what they found in the ashes, it was easy enough to follow the Trollocs, between Gaul’s tracking and his own nose. The sharp fetid stink of the Trollocs had not had time to fade away, not to him. Some of the lads had grown hesitant when they realized he meant what he had said about hunting Trollocs. If they had had to go very far, he suspected most would have drifted away when no one was looking, but the trail led to a thicket no more than three miles off. The Trollocs had not bothered with sentries—they had no Myrddraal with them to overawe their laziness—and the Two Rivers men knew how to stalk silently. Thirty-two Trollocs died, many in their filthy blankets, pierced through with arrows before they could raise a howl, much less sword or axe. Dannil and Ban and the others had been ready to celebrate a great triumph—until they found what was in the Trollocs’ big iron cookpot sitting in the ashes of the fire. Most dashed away to throw up, and more than one wept openly. Perrin dug the grave himself. Only one: there was no way to tell what had belonged to whom. Cold as he felt inside, he was not sure he could have stood it himself if there had been.
Late the next day no one hesitated when he picked up another fetid trail, though a few mutters wondered what he was following, until Gaul found the tracks of hooves and boots too big for men. Another thicket, close to the Waterwood, held forty-one Trollocs and a Fade, with sentries set, though most snored at their posts. It would have made no difference had they all been awake. Gaul killed those that were, sliding through the trees like a shadow, and the Two Rivers men were nearly thirty themselves by then. Besides, those who had not seen the cookpot had heard of it; they shouted as they shot, with a satisfaction not much less savage than the guttural Trolloc howls. The black-garbed Myrddraal had been last to die, a porcupine quilled with arrows. No one cared to recover a shaft from that, even after it finally stopped thrashing.
That evening the second rain came, hours of drenching downpour with a sky full of roiling black clouds and stabbing lightning. Perrin had not smelled Trolloc scent since, and the ground had been washed clean of tracks. Most of their time had been spent avoiding Whitecloak patrols, which everyone said were more numerous than in the past. The farmers Perrin had spoken to said the patrols seemed more interested in finding their prisoners again and those who had broken them free than in looking for Trollocs.
Quite a few of the men had gathered around Luc now. He was tall enough for his red-gold hair to show above their darker heads. He seemed to be talking, and they listening. And nodding.
“Let’s see what he has to say,” Perrin said grimly.
The Two Rivers men gave way before Faile and him with only a little prodding. They were all intent on the red-coated lord, who was indeed holding forth.
“ … so the village is quite secure, now. Plenty of people gathered together to defend it. I must say I enjoy sleeping under a roof when I can. Mistress al’Vere, at the inn, provides a tasty meal. Her bread is among the best I have ever eaten. There truly is nothing like fresh-baked bread and fresh-churned butter, and putting your feet up of an evening with a fine mug of wine, or some of Master al’Vere’s good brown ale.”
“Lord Luc was saying we should go to Emond’s Field, Perrin,” Kenley Ahan said, scrubbing his reddened nose with the back of a grimy hand. He was not the only one who had been unable to wash as often as he would like, and not the only one coming down with a cold, either.
Luc smiled at Perrin much the way he would have at a dog he expected to see do a trick. “The village is quite secure, but there is always a need for more strong backs.”
“We are hunting Trollocs,” Perrin said coolly. “Not everyone has left their farms yet, and every band we find and kill means farms not burned and more people with a chance to reach safety.”
Wil al’Seen barked a laugh. He was not so pretty with a red puffy nose and a spotty, six-day growth of beard. “We’ve not smelled a Trolloc in days. Be reasonable, Perrin. Maybe we’ve killed them all already.” There were mutters of agreement.
“I do not mean to spread dissension.” Luc spread his hands guilelessly. “No doubt you have had many great successes beside those we have heard of. Hundreds of Trollocs killed, I expect. You may well have chased them all away. I can tell you, Emond’s Field is ready to give you all a hero’s welcome. The same must be true at Watch Hill for those who live up that way. Any Deven Riders?” Wil nodded, and
Luc clapped him on the shoulder with a hollow good fellowship. “A hero’s welcome, without a doubt.”
“Anyone who wants to go home, can,” Perrin said in a level voice. Faile directed a warning frown at him; this was no way to be a general. But he did not want anyone with him who did not want to be there. He did not want to be a general, for that matter. “Myself, I don’t think the job is done yet, but it is your choice.”
No one took him up, though Wil at least looked ready to, but twenty more stared at the ground and scuffed their boots in last year’s leaves.
“Well,” Luc said casually, “if you have no Trollocs left to chase, perhaps it is time to turn your attentions to the Whitecloaks. They are not happy at you Two Rivers folk deciding to defend yourselves. And I understand they meant to hang the lot of you in particular, as outlaws, for stealing their prisoners.”
Anxious frowns passed between a good many of the Two Rivers lads.
It was then that Gaul came pushing through the crowd, followed close by Bain and Chiad. Not that the Aiel had to push, of course; the men cleared aside as soon as they realized who it was. Luc frowned at Gaul thoughtfully, perhaps disapprovingly; the Aielman stared back stony-faced. Wil and Dannil and the others brightened at sight of the Aiel; most still believed hundreds more were hiding somewhere in the thickets and forests. They never questioned why all those Aiel stayed hidden, and Perrin certainly never brought it up. If believing in a few hundred Aiel reinforcements helped them keep their courage, well and good.
“What did you find?” Perrin asked. Gaul had been gone since the day before; he could move as fast as a man on horseback, faster in woods, and he could see more.
“Trollocs,” Gaul replied as though reporting the presence of sheep, “moving up through this well-named Waterwood to the south. They number no more than thirty, and I believe they mean to make camp on the edge of the forest and strike tonight. There are men still holding to the soil to the south.” He gave a sudden, wolfish grin. “They did not see me. They will have no warning.”
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