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
(Wolf)
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: Hardin'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 fl
oor, 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."
"What happened, Simion?"
The man looked at her sharply before answering. Perrin did not think anyone else saw how sharply, in the dimness. "There was about twenty of them, come day before yesterday. No trouble then. But yesterday… Why, three of them up and announced they weren't Children of the Light anymore. They took off their cloaks and just rode away."
Lan grunted. "Whitecloaks swear for life. What did their commander do?"
"Why, he would have done something, you can be sure, good master, but another of them announced he was off to find the Horn of Valere. Anyway, still another said they should be hunting the Dragon. That one said he was going to Almoth Plain when he left. Then some of them started saying things to women in the streets, things they shouldn't have, and grabbing at them. The women were screaming, and Children yelling at the ones bothering the women. I never saw such commotion."
"Didn't any of you try to stop them?" Perrin said.
"Good master, you carry that axe like you know how to use it, but it isn't so easy to face up to men with swords and armor and all, when all you know how to use is a broom or a hoe. The rest of the Whitecloaks, those as hadn't gone off, put an end to it. Almost came to drawing swords. And that wasn't the worst. Two more just went mad — if the others weren't. Those two started raving that Jarra was full of Darkfriends. They tried to burn the village down — said they would! — beginning with the Leap. You can see the burn marks out back, where they got it started. Fought the other Whitecloaks when they tried to stop them. The Whitecloaks that were left, they helped us put it out, tied those two up tight, and rode out of here, back toward Amadicia. Good riddance, I say, and if they never come back, it'll be too soon."
"Rough behavior," Lan said, "even for Whitecloaks."
Simion bobbed his head in agreement. "As you say, good master. They never acted like that before. Swagger around, yes. Look at you like you were dirt, and poke their noses in where they hadn't any business. But they never caused trouble before. Not like that, anyway."
"They are gone now," Moiraine said, "and troubles with them. I am sure we will pass a quiet night."
Perrin kept his mouth shut, but he was not quiet inside. All these weddings and Whitecloaks are all very well, but I'd sooner know if Rand stopped here, and which way he went when he left. That smell couldn't have been him.
He let Simion guide him on down the hall to another room, with two beds and a washstand, a pair of stools and not much else. Loial stooped to put his head through the doorway. Only a little light came in by the narrow windows. The beds were big enough, with blankets and comforters folded at the foot, but the mattresses looked lumpy. Simion fumbled on the mantel above the fireplace until he found a candle, and a tinderbox to get it alight.
"I'll see about getting some beds put together for you, good — uh — Ogier. Yes, just a moment, now." He showed no sign of hurry to be about it, though, fussing with the candlestick as if he had to place it just right. Perrin thought he looked uneasy.
Well, I'd be more than uneasy if Whitecloaks had been acting like that in Emond's Field. "Simion, has another stranger passed through here in the last day or two? A young man, tall, with gray eyes and reddish hair? He might have played the flute for a meal or a bed."
"I remember him, good master," Simion said, still shifting the candlestick. "Came yesterday morning, early. Looked hungry, he did. He played the flute for all the weddings, yesterday. Good-looking young fellow. Some of the women eyed him, at first, but…" He paused, looking at Perrin sideways. "Is he a friend of yours, good master?"
"I know him," Perrin said. "Why?"
Simion hesitated. "No reason, good master. He was an odd fellow, that's all. He talked to himself, sometimes, and sometimes he laughed when nobody had said anything. Slept in this very room, last night, or part of it. Woke us all in the middle of the night, yelling. It was just a nightmare, but he wouldn't stay any longer. Master Harod didn't make much effort to talk him into it, after all that noise." Simion paused again. "He said something strange when he left."
"What?" Perrin demanded.
"He said somebody was after him. He said…" The chinless man swallowed and went on more slowly. "Said they'd kill him if he didn't go. 'One of us has to die, and I mean it to be him.' His very words."
"He did not mean us," Loial rumbled. "We are his friends."
"Of course, good — uh — good Ogier. Of course, he didn't mean you. I — uh — I don't mean to say anything about a friend of yours, but I — uh — I — think he's sick. In the head, you know."
"We will take care of him," Perrin said. "That's why we're following him. Which way did he go?"
"I knew it," Simion said, bouncing on his toes. "I knew she could help as soon as I saw you. Which way? East, good master. East, like the Dark One himself was on his heels. Do you think she'll help me? Help my brother, that is? Noam's bad sick, and Mother Roon says she can't do anything."
Perrin kept his face expressionless, and bought a little time to think by propping his bow in the corner and setting his blanketroll and saddlebags on one of the beds. The problem was that thinking did not help much. He looked at Loial, but found no help there; consternation had the Ogier's ears drooping and his long eyebrows hanging down on his cheeks. "What makes you think she can help your brother?" Stupid question! The right question is, what does he mean to do about it?
"Why, I traveled to Jehannah, once, good master, and I saw two… two women like her. I couldn't mistake her after that." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It's said they can raise the dead, good master."
"Who else knows this?" Perrin asked sharply, and at the same time Loial said, "If your brother is dead, there is nothing anyone can do."
The frog-faced man looked from one to the other of them anxiously, and his words came in a babble. "No one knows but me, good master. Noam isn't dead, good Ogier, only sick. I swear nobody else could recognize her. Even Master Harod's never been more than twenty miles from here in his life. He's so bad sick. I'd ask her myself, only my knees'd be shaking so hard she couldn't hear me talk. What if she took offense and called down lightning on me? And what if I'd been wrong? It isn't the kind of thing you accuse a woman of without… I mean… ooh…" He raised his hands, half in pleading, half as if to defend himself.
"I can make no promises," Perrin said, "but I'll speak to her. Loial, why don't you keep Simion company till I've spoken to Moiraine?"
"Of course," the Ogier boomed. Simion gave a start when Loial's hand swallowed his shoulder. "He will show me my room, and we will talk. Tell me, Simion, what do you know of trees?"
"T-t-trees, g-good Ogier?"
Perrin did not wait any longer. He hurried back down t
he dark hall and knocked on Moiraine's door, barely waiting for her peremptory "Come!" before pushing in.
Half a dozen candles showed that the Leap's best room was none too good, though the one bed had four tall posts supporting a canopy, and the mattress looked less full of lumps than Perrin's. There was a scrap of carpet on the floor, and two cushioned chairs instead of stools. Other than that, it looked no different from his room. Moiraine and Lan stood in front of the cold hearth as if they had been discussing something, and the Aes Sedai did not look pleased at being interrupted. The Warder's face was as imperturbable as a carving.
"Rand's been here, all right," Perrin started off. "That fellow Simion remembers him." Moiraine hissed through her teeth.
"You were told to keep your mouth shut," Lan growled.
Perrin squared his feet to face the Warder. That was easier than facing Moiraine's glare. "How could we find out whether he had been here without asking questions? Tell me that. He left last night, if you are interested, heading east. And he was carrying on about somebody following him, trying to kill him."
"East." Moiraine nodded. The utter calm of her voice was at odds with her disapproving eyes. "That is good to know, though it had to be so if he is going to Tear. But I was fairly certain he had been here even before I heard about the Whitecloaks, and they made it a certainty. Rand is almost surely right about one thing, Perrin. I cannot believe we are the only ones trying to find him. And if they find out about us, they may well try to stop us. We have enough to contend with trying to catch up to Rand without that. You must learn to hold your tongue until I tell you to speak."
"The Whitecloaks?" Perrin said incredulously. Hold my tongue? Burn me, if I will! "How could they tell you —? Rand's madness. It is catching?"
"Not his madness," Moiraine said, "if he is far enough gone yet to be called mad. Perrin, he is more strongly ta'veren than anyone since the Age of Legends. Yesterday, in this village, the Pattern… moved, shaped itself around him like clay shaped on a mold. The weddings, the Whitecloaks, these were enough to say Rand had been here, for anyone who knew to listen."
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