Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson - [Wheel of Time 13]

by Towers of Midnight (v1. 2) (epub)

  She moved past him, smelling worried, though her expression was pleasant. He had expended all options for a peaceful resolution with the Whitecloaks. It looked like, want it or not, killing would be his lot again very soon.

  He stripped to his smallclothes and lay down, then started drifting off before Faile had finished changing.

  He entered the wolf dream beneath the great sword impaling the ground. In the distance, he could make out the hill that Gaul had named a "fine watchpoint." The campsite was supplied from behind by a stream.

  Perrin turned and sped toward the Whitecloak camp. They sat like a dam in a river, stopping him from continuing onward.

  "Hopper?" he called, looking around the Whitecloak camp, still tents standing on an open field. There was no response, so Perrin searched the camp a while longer. Balwer had not recognized the seal Perrin had described. Who led these Whitecloaks?

  An hour or so later, Perrin had come to no conclusion about that. However, he was fairly certain which tents they kept their supplies in; those might not be as well guarded as the prisoners, and with gateways he might be able to burn their supplies.

  Maybe. Their Lord Captain Commander's letters were filled with phrases like: "I am giving your people the benefit of believing they knew not of your nature" and "My patience for your delays wears thin" and "There are only two options. Surrender yourself for proper trial, or bring your army to suffer the Light's judgment."

  There was a strange sense of honor to this man, one Perrin had seen hinted at when he'd met the man, but could sense even more through the letters. But who was he? He signed each letter only "Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light."

  Perrin moved out onto the roadway. Where was Hopper? Perrin took

  off at a brisk run. After a few moments, he moved off onto the grass. The earth was so soft, each step seemed to spring his foot back up into the air.

  He reached out and thought he sensed something to the south. He ran toward it; he wished to go faster, so he did. Trees and hills zipped past.

  The wolves were aware of him. It was Oak Dancer's pack, with Boundless, Sparks, Morninglight, and others. Perrin could feel them sending to one another, distant whispers of images and scent. Perrin moved faster, feeling the wind become a roar around him.

  The wolves began to move away farther south. Wait! he sent. / must meet with you!

  They returned only amusement. Suddenly, they were heading east, and he pulled to a stop, then turned. He ran as quickly as he knew how, but when he got near, they were suddenly elsewhere. They'd shifted, vanishing from the south and appearing north of him.

  Perrin growled, and suddenly he was on all fours. His fur blew, his mouth open as he dashed to the north, drinking in the hissing wind. But the wolves stayed ahead, distant.

  He howled. They sent back taunts.

  He pushed himself faster, leaping from hilltop to hilltop, bounding over trees, the ground a blur. In moments, the Mountains of Mist sprang up to his left, and he passed along them in a rush.

  The wolves turned east. Why couldn't he catch them? He could smell them ahead. Young Bull howled at them, but got no response.

  Do not come too strongly, Young Bull.

  Young Bull pulled to a halt and the world lurched around him. The main pack continued on to the east, but Hopper sat on his haunches beside a large curving stream. Young Bull had been here before; it was near the den of his sires. He had traveled along the river itself on the back of one of the humans' floating trees. He

  No . . . no . . . remember Faile!

  His fur became clothing and he found himself on hands and knees. He glared at Hopper. "Why did you run away?" Perrin demanded.

  You wish to learn, Hopper sent. You grow more skilled. Faster. You stretch your legs and run. This is good.

  Perrin looked back the way he had come, thinking of his speed. He'd bounded from hilltop to hilltop. It had been wonderful. "But I had to become the wolf to do that," Perrin said. "And that threatened to make me here 'too strongly' What use is training if it makes me do things you've forbidden?"

  You are quick to blame, Young Bull. A young wolf howling and yapping outside the den, making a racket. This is not a thing of wolves.

  Hopper was gone in an eyeblink.

  Perrin growled, looking eastward, where he sensed the wolves. He took off after them, going more cautiously. He couldn't afford to let the wolf consume him. He'd end up like Noam, trapped in a cage, his humanity gone. Why would Hopper encourage him to that?

  This is not a thing of wolves. Had he meant the accusations, or had he meant what was happening to Perrin?

  The others all knew to end the hunt, Young Bull, Hopper sent from a distance. Only you had to be stopped.

  Perrin froze, pulling to a halt on the bank of the river. The hunt for the white stag. Hopper was there, suddenly, beside the river with him.

  "This started when I began to sense the wolves," Perrin sent. "The first time I lost control of myself was with those Whitecloaks."

  Hopper lay down, resting his head on his paws. You often are here too strongly, the wolf sent. It is what you do.

  Hopper had told him that, off and on, since he'd known the wolf and the wolf dream. But suddenly, Perrin saw a new meaning to it. It was about coming to the wolf dream, but it was also about Perrin himself.

  He'd begun to blame the wolves for what he did, the way he was when fighting, the way he'd become when searching for Faile. But were the wolves the cause of that? Or was it some part of him? Was it possible that that was what caused him to become a wolfbrother in the first place?

  "Is it possible," Perrin said, "to run on four legs, but not come here too strongly?"

  Of course it is, Hopper sent, laughing after the way of wolves as if what Perrin had discovered was the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it was.

  Perhaps he wasn't like the wolves because he was a wolfbrother. Perhaps he was a wolfbrother because he was like the wolves. He didn't need to control them. He needed to control himself.

  "The pack," Perrin said. "How do I catch them? Move more quickly?"

  That is one way. Another is to be where you want.

  Perrin frowned. Then he closed his eyes and used the direction the wolves were running to guess where they would be. Something shifted.

  When he opened his eyes, he was standing on a sandy hillside, tufts of long-bladed grass peeking out of the soil. An enormous mountain with a broken tip shattered as if it had been slapped by the hand of a giant rose to his right.

  A pack of wolves burst out of the forest. Many of them were laughing. Young Bull, hunting when he should seek the end! Young Bull, seeking

  the end when he should enjoy the hunt! He smiled, trying to feel good natured about the laughter, though in truth he felt much as he had on the day that his cousin Wil had planted a bucket of wet feathers to drop on Perrin.

  Something fluttered in the air. A chicken feather. Wet around the edges. Perrin started, realizing that they were spread around him on the ground. As he blinked, they vanished. The wolves smelled greatly amused, sending images of Young Bull dusted with feathers.

  Get lost in dreams here, Young Bull, Hopper sent, and those dreams become this dream.

  Perrin scratched his beard, fighting down his embarrassment. He'd experienced before the unpredictable nature of the wolf dream. "Hopper," he said, turning to the wolf. "How much could I change about my surroundings, if I wanted?"

  If you wanted? Hopper said. It's not about what you want, Young Bull. It's about what you need. What you know.

  Perrin frowned. Sometimes the wolf's meanings still confused him.

  Suddenly, the other wolves in the group turned as if one and looked to the southwest. They vanished.

  They went here. Hopper sent an image of a distant wooded hollow. The wolf prepared to follow.

  "Hopper!" Perrin said, stepping forward. "How did you know? Where they went? Did they tell you?"

  No. But I can follow.

  "How
?" Perrin said.

  It is a thing I've always known, Hopper sent. Like walking. Or jumping. "Yes, but how?"

  The wolf smelled confused. It is a scent, he finally replied, though "scent" was much more complex than that. It was a feeling, an impression, and a smell all in one.

  "Go somewhere," Perrin said. "Let me try to follow."

  Hopper vanished. Perrin walked up to where the wolf had been.

  Smell it, Hopper sent distantly. He was near enough to give a sending. By reflex, Perrin reached out. He found dozens of wolves. In fact, he was amazed by how many of them were here, on the slopes of Dragonmount. Perrin had never felt so many gathered in one place before. Why were they here? And did the sky look more stormy in this place than it had in other areas of the wolf dream?

  He couldn't sense Hopper; the wolf had closed himself off, somehow, making Perrin unable to place where he was. Perrin settled down. Smell it,

  Hopper had sent. Smell it how? Perrin closed his eyes and let his nose carry the scents of the area to him. Pine cones and sap, quills and leaves, leather-leaf and hemlock.

  And . . . something else. Yes, he could smell something. A distant, lingering scent that seemed out of place. Many of the scents were the same the same fecund sense of nature, the same wealth of trees. But those were mixed with the scents of moss and of wet stone. The air was different. Pollen and flowers.

  Perrin squeezed his eyes tight, breathing in deeply. Somehow, he built a picture in his mind from those scents. The process was not unlike the way a wolf sending translated into words.

  There, he thought. Something shifted.

  He opened his eyes. He was sitting on a stone outcropping amid pines; he was on the side of Dragonmount, several hours' hike up from where he had been. The stone outcropping was covered in lichen, and it jutted out over the trees spreading below. A patch of violet springbreath grew here, where sunlight could reach the blossoms. It was good to see flowers that weren't wilted or dying, if only in the wolf dream.

  Come, Hopper sent. Follow.

  And he was gone.

  Perrin closed his eyes, breathing in. The process was easier this time. Oak and grass, mud and humidity. It seemed each place had its own specific scent.

  Perrin shifted, then opened his eyes. He crouched in a field near the Je-hannah Road. This was where Oak Dancer's pack had gone earlier, and Hopper moved about the meadow, smelling curious. The pack had moved on, but they were still close.

  "Can I always do that?" Perrin asked Hopper. "Smell where a wolf went in the dream?"

  Anyone can, Hopper said. If they can smell as a wolf does. He grinned.

  Perrin nodded thoughtfully.

  Hopper loped back across the meadow toward him. We must practice, Young Bull. You are still a cub with short legs and soft fur. We- Hopper froze suddenly. "What?" Perrin asked.

  A wolf suddenly howled in pain. Perrin spun. It was Morninglight. The howl cut off, and the wolf's mind winked out, vanishing. Hopper growled, his scents panicked, angry, and sorrowful. "What was that?" Perrin demanded. We are hunted. Go, Young Bull! We must go.

  The minds of the other members of the pack leaped away. Perrin growled. When a wolf died in the wolf dream, it was forever. No rebirth, no running with nose to the wind. Only one thing hunted the spirits of the wolves.

  Slayer.

  Young Bull! Hopper sent. We must go!

  Perrin continued to growl. Morninglight had sent one last burst of surprise and pain, her last vision of the world. Perrin formed an image from that jumble. Then closed his eyes.

  Young Bull! No! He

  Shift. Perrin snapped his eyes open to find himself in a small glade near where in the real world his people made camp. A muscular, tanned man with dark hair and blue eyes squatted in the center of the glade, a wolf's corpse at his feet. Slayer was a thick-armed man, and his scent was faintly inhuman, like a man mixed with stone. He wore dark clothing; leather and black wool. As Perrin watched, Slayer began to skin the corpse.

  Perrin charged forward. Slayer looked up in surprise. He resembled Lan in an almost eerie fashion, his hard face all angles and sharp lines. Perrin roared, hammer suddenly in his hands.

  Slayer vanished in a blink of an eye, and Perrin's hammer passed through empty air. Perrin breathed deeply. The scents were there! Brine, and wood, wet with water. Seagulls and their droppings. Perrin used his newfound skill to hurl himself at that distant location.

  Shift.

  Perrin appeared on an empty dock in a city he didn't recognize. Slayer stood nearby, inspecting his bow.

  Perrin attacked. Slayer brought his head up, eyes widening, his scent growing amazed. He raised the bow to block, but Perrin's swing shattered it.

  With a roar, Perrin pulled his weapon back and swung again, this time for Slayer's head. Oddly, Slayer smiled, dark eyes glittering with amusement. He smelled eager, suddenly. Eager to kill. A sword appeared in his raised hand, and he twisted it to block Perrin's blow.

  The hammer bounced off too hard, as if it had hit stone. Perrin stumbled, and Slayer reached out, placing a hand against Perrin's shoulder. He shoved.

  His strength was immense. The shove tossed Perrin backward to the dock, but the wood disappeared as he hit. Perrin passed through empty air and splashed into the water beneath. His bellow became a gurgle; dark liquid surrounded him.

  He struggled to swim upward, dropping his hammer, but found that

  the surface inexplicably became ice. Ropes snaked up from the depths, whipping up around Perrin's arms, yanking him downward. Through the frozen surface above, he could see a shadow moving. Slayer, raising his reformed bow.

  The ice vanished and the water parted. Water streamed off Perrin, and he found himself staring up at arrow pointed directly at his heart. Slayer released. Perrin willed himself away.

  Shift. He gasped, hitting the stone outcropping where he had been with Hopper. Perrin fell to his knees, seawater streaming from his body. He sputtered, wiping his face, heart pounding.

  Hopper appeared beside him, panting, his scent angry. Foolish cub! Stupid cub! Chase down a lion when you're barely weaned?

  Perrin shivered and sat up. Would Slayer follow? Could he? As minutes stretched and nobody appeared, Perrin began to relax. The exchange with Slayer had happened so quickly that it felt like a blur. That sttength ... it was more than any man could have. And the ice, the ropes . . .

  "He changed things," Perrin said. "Made the dock vanish beneath me, created ropes to bind me, pushed the water back so that he could get a clear shot at me."

  He is a lion. He kills. Dangerous.

  "I need to learn. I must face him, Hopper."

  You are too young. These things are beyond you.

  "Too young?" Perrin said, standing. "Hopper, the Last Hunt is nearly upon us!"

  Hopper lay down, head on paws.

  "You always tell me that I'm too young," Perrin said. "Or that I don't know what I'm doing. Well, what is the point of teaching me, if not to show me how to fight men like Slayer?"

  We will see, Hopper sent. For tonight, you will go. We are done.

  Perrin sensed a mournful cast to the sending, and also a finality. Tonight, Oak Dancer's pack and Hopper would grieve for Morninglight.

  Sighing, Perrin sat with his legs crossed. He concentrated, and managed to imitate the things that Hopper had done in tossing him from the dream.

  It faded around him.

  He woke on the pallet in his darkened tent, Faile snuggled up beside him. Perrin lay for a time, staring up at the canvas. The darkness reminded

  him of the tempestuous sky in the wolf dream. Sleep seemed as far off as Caemlyn. Eventually he rose carefully extricating himself from Faile and pulled on his trousers and shirt.

  The camp was dark outside, but there was enough light for his eyes. He nodded to Kenly Maerin and Jaim Dawtry, the Two Rivers men who guarded his tent tonight.

  "What's the time?" he asked one of them.

  "After midnight, Lord Perrin," Jaim said.


  Perrin grunted. Distant lightning lit the landscape. He walked off, and the men started to follow. "I'll be fine without guards," he told them. "Watch over my tent Lady Faile still sleeps."

  His tent was near the edge of camp. He liked that; it gave him a little more sense of seclusion, nestled near the hillside at the western side of the camp. Though it was late, he passed Gaul sharpening his spear near a fallen log. The tall Stone Dog stood up and began to follow, and Perrin didn't dismiss him. Gaul felt he hadn't been fulfilling his self-appointed duty of watching after Perrin lately, and had stepped up his efforts. Perrin thought he really just wanted an excuse to stay away from his own tent and the pair of gai'shain women who had taken up residence there.

  Gaul kept his distance, and Perrin was glad. Was this how all leaders felt? No wonder so many nations ended up at war with one another their leaders never had any time to think by themselves, and probably attacked to get people to stop pestering them!

  A short distance away, he entered a stand of trees with a small pile of logs. Denton his serving man until they got Lamgwin back had frowned when Perrin had asked for them. Once a minor lord of Cairhien, Denton had refused to return to his station. He thought of himself as a servant now, and would not let anyone convince him otherwise.

  There was an axe. Not the deadly half-moon blade he had once carried to battle, but a sturdy woodsman's axe with a fine steel head and a haft smoothed by the sweaty hands of workers. Perrin rolled up his sleeves, then spat on his hands and picked up the axe. It felt good to hold the worked wood in his hands. He raised it to his shoulder, stood the first log in front of him, then stepped back and swung.

  He hit the log straight on, splinters flipping into the dark night air, the log falling into two pieces. He split one of the halves next. Gaul took a seat beside a tree, getting out a spear and continuing to sharpen its head. The rasping of metal against metal accompanied Perrin's thunk of axe against wood.

  It felt good. Why was it that his mind worked so much better when he was doing something? Loial spoke much of sitting and thinking. Perrin didn't think he himself could figure anything out that way.

  He split another log, the axe cutting clear. Was it really true? Could his own nature be to blame for the way he acted, not the wolves? He'd never acted like that back in the Two Rivers.