Shadow Rising, The

by Jordan, Robert

  When Ordeith was gone, Bornhald shivered. What was the Lord Captain Commander up to with this man? But if it put Aybara in his grasp … . Tossing his gauntlets down, he began digging through his belongings. Somewhere he had a flask of brandy.

  The man who called himself Ordeith, even sometimes thought of himself as Ordeith, slunk through the tents of the Children of the Light, watching the white-cloaked men with a wary eye. Useful tools, ignorant tools, but not to be trusted. Especially not Bornhald; that one might have to be disposed of, if he became too troublesome. Byar would be much more easily handled. But not yet. There were other matters more important. Some of the soldiers nodded respectfully as he passed. He showed them his teeth in what they took for a friendly smile. Tools, and fools.

  His eyes skittered hungrily across the tent holding the prisoners. They could wait. For a while yet. A little while longer. They were only tidbits anyway. Bait. He should have restrained himself at the Aybara farm, but Con Aybara had laughed in his face, and Joslyn had called him a filthy-minded little fool for naming her son Darkfriend. Well, they had learned, screaming, burning. In spite of himself he giggled under his breath. Tidbits.

  He could feel one of those he hated out there somewhere, south, toward Emond’s Field. Which one? It did not matter. Rand al’Thor was the only really important one. He would have known if it was al’Thor. Rumor had not drawn him yet, but it would. Ordeith shivered with desire. It had to be so. More tales must be gotten past Bornhald’s guards at Taren Ferry, more reports of the scouring of the Two Rivers, to drift to Rand al’Thor’s ears and sear his brain. First al’Thor, then the Tower, for what they had taken from him. He would have all that was his by right.

  Everything had been ticking along like a fine clock, even with Bornhald impeding, until this new one appeared with his Gray Men. Ordeith scrubbed bony fingers through greasy hair. Why could not his dreams at least be his own? He was a puppet no longer, danced about by Myrddraal and Forsaken, by the Dark One himself. He pulled the strings now. They could not stop him, could not kill him.

  “Nothing can kill me,” he muttered, scowling. “Not me. I have survived since the Trolloc Wars.” Well, a part of him had. He laughed shrilly, hearing madness in the cackle, knowing it, not caring.

  A young Whitecloak officer frowned at him. This time there was nothing of a smile in Ordeith’s bared teeth, and the fuzzy-cheeked lad recoiled. Ordeith hurried on in a slinking shuffle.

  Flies buzzed about his own tents, and sullen, suspicious eyes flinched away from his. The white cloaks were soiled here. But the swords were sharp, and obedience instant and unquestioning. Bornhald thought these men were still his. Pedron Niall believed it, too, believed Ordeith his tame creature. Fools.

  Twitching aside his tent flap, Ordeith went in to examine his prisoner, stretched out between two pegs thick enough to hold a wagon team. Good steel chain quivered as he checked it, but he had calculated how much was needed, then doubled it. As well he had. One loop less, and those stout steel links would have broken.

  With a sigh, he seated himself on the edge of his bed. The lamps were already lit, more than a dozen, leaving no shadow anywhere. The tent was as bright inside as noonday. “Have you thought over my proposal? Accept, and you walk free. Refuse … . I know how to hurt your sort. I can make you scream through endless dying. Forever dying, forever screaming.”

  The chains hummed at a jerk; the stakes driven deep into the ground creaked. “Very well.” The Myrddraal’s voice was dried snakeskin crumbling. “I accept. Release me.”

  Ordeith smiled. It thought him a fool. It would learn. They all would. “First, the matter of … shall we say, agreements and accord?” As he talked, the Myrddraal began to sweat.

  CHAPTER 32

  Questions to Be Asked

  “We should leave for Watch Hill soon,” Verin announced the next morning, with sunrise just pearling the sky outside, “so don’t dawdle.” Perrin looked up from his cold porridge to meet a steady gaze; the Aes Sedai expected no arguments. After a moment, she added thoughtfully, “Do not think this means I will aid you in any foolishness. You are a tricksome young man. Try none of it with me.”

  Tam and Abell paused with spoons halfway to their mouths, exchanging surprised looks; clearly they had gone their own way and the Aes Sedai theirs before this. After a moment they resumed eating, although with pensive frowns. They left any objections unvoiced. Tomas, his Warder’s cloak already packed away in his saddlebags, gave them—and Perrin—a hard-faced stare anyway, as if he anticipated arguments and meant to stamp them out. Warders did whatever was necessary for an Aes Sedai to do what she wanted.

  She intended to meddle, of course—Aes Sedai always did—but having her where he could see her was surely better than leaving her behind his back. Avoiding Aes Sedai entanglements completely was all but impossible when they meant to dabble their fingers in; the only course was to try to use them while they used you, to watch and hope you could jump clear if they decided to stuff you headfirst, like a ferret, down a rabbithole. Sometimes the rabbithole turned out to be a badger’s sett, which was hard on the ferret.

  “You would be welcome, too,” he told Alanna, but she gave him a frosty stare that stopped him in his tracks. She had disdained the porridge, and stood at one of the vine-shrouded windows, peering through the leafy screen.

  He could not say whether she was pleased with his plans for a scout. Reading her seemed near to impossible. Aes Sedai were supposed to be cool serenity itself, and she was that, but Alanna tossed off flashes of fiery temper or unpredictable humor when least expected, like heat lightning, crackling then gone. Sometimes she looked at him so that if she had not been Aes Sedai he would have thought she was admiring him. Other times he might as well have been some complicated mechanism she meant to disassemble in order to puzzle out how it worked. Even Verin had the better of that; most of the time she was just plain unreadable. Unnerving, on occasion, but at least he did not have to wonder if she was going to know how to fit his pieces back together.

  He wished he could make Faile stay there—that was not the same as leaving her behind, just keeping her safe from Whitecloaks—but she had that stubborn set to her jaw and a dangerous light in her tilted eyes. “I look forward to seeing some of your country. My father raises sheep.” Her tone was definite; she was not going to stay unless he tied her up.

  For a moment he came close to considering it. But the danger from Whitecloaks should not be that great; he only intended to look, today. “I thought he was a merchant,” he said.

  “He raises sheep, too.” Spots of crimson bloomed in her cheeks: maybe her father was a poor man and not a merchant at all. He did not know why she would pretend, but if that was what she wanted, he would not try to stop her. Embarrassed or not, however, she looked no less stubborn.

  He remembered Master Cauthon’s method. “I don’t know how much you’ll see. Some farms may be shearing, I suppose. Probably no different from what your father does. I’ll be glad of your company in any case.” The startlement on her face when she realized he was not going to argue was almost worth the worry of her coming along. Maybe Abell had something.

  Loial was another matter altogether.

  “But I want to go,” the Ogier protested when told he could not. “I want to help, Perrin.”

  “You will stand out, Master Loial,” Abell said, and Tam added, “We need to avoid attracting any more attention than we must.” Loial’s ears drooped dejectedly.

  Perrin drew him aside, as far from the others as the room would allow. Loial’s shaggy hair brushed the roof beams until Perrin motioned him to lean down. Perrin smiled, just jollying him along. He hoped everyone else believed that.

  “I want you to keep an eye on Alanna,” he said in a near whisper. Loial gave a start, and he caught the Ogier’s sleeve, still smiling like a fool. “Grin, Loial. We are not talking about anything important, right?” The Ogier managed an uncertain smile. It would have to do. “Aes Sedai do what they do for t
heir own reasons, Loial.” And that might be what you least expected, or not at all what you believed it was. “Who knows what she might take into her head? I’ve had surprises enough since coming home, and I don’t want one of hers added to it. I don’t expect you to stop her, only notice anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Thank you for that,” Loial muttered wryly, ears jerking. “Do you not think it best to just let Aes Sedai do what they want?” That was easy for him to say; Aes Sedai could not channel inside an Ogier stedding. Perrin just looked at him, and after a moment, the Ogier sighed. “I suppose not. Oh, very well. I can never say being around you is not … interesting.” Straightening, he rubbed a thick finger under his nose and told the others, “I suppose I would draw eyes at that. Well, it will give me a chance to work on my notes. I have done nothing on my book in days.”

  Verin and Alanna shared an unreadable look, then turned twin unblinking gazes on Perrin. There was simply no telling what either thought.

  The pack animals had to be left behind, of course. Packhorses would surely occasion comment, speaking of long travel; no one in the Two Rivers traveled very far from home in the best of times. Alanna wore a slight, satisfied smile while watching them saddle their mounts, no doubt believing the animals and wicker hampers tied him to the old sickhouse, to her and Verin. She was in for a surprise, if it came to that. He had lived out of a saddlebag often enough since leaving home. For that matter, he had lived out of his belt pouch and coat pockets.

  He straightened from tightening Stepper’s saddle girth and gave a start. Verin was watching him with a knowing expression, not vague at all, as if she knew what he was thinking and was amused. It was bad enough when Faile did that sort of thing; from an Aes Sedai, it was a hundred times worse. The hammer lashed with his blanket roll and saddlebags seemed to puzzle her, though. He was glad there was something she did not seem to understand. On the other hand, he could have done without her being so intrigued. What could be fascinating to an Aes Sedai about a hammer?

  With only the riding animals to prepare, it took no time at all to be ready to go. Verin had a nondescript brown gelding, as plain to the untrained eye as her garb, but its deep chest and strong rump suggested as much endurance as her Warder’s ferocious-eyed gray, tall and sleek. Stepper snorted at the other stallion until Perrin patted the dun’s neck. The gray was more disciplined—and just as ready to fight, if Tomas let it. The Warder controlled his animal with his knees as much as his reins, the two seeming almost one.

  Master Cauthon watched Tomas’s horse with interest—war-trained mounts were not much seen in these parts—but Verin’s earned an approving nod at first glance. He was as good a judge of horseflesh as there was in the Two Rivers. No doubt he had chosen his and Master al’Thor’s rough-coated animals, not so tall as the other horses, but sturdy, with gaits that spoke of good speed and staying power.

  The three Aiel glided ahead as the party started north, with long strides that carried them out of sight quickly in the woods, early-morning shadows sharp and long in the brightness of sunrise. Now and then a flash of gray-and-brown was visible through the trees, probably on purpose, to let the others know they were there. Tam and Abell took the lead, bows across the tall pommels of their saddles, with Perrin and Faile behind, and Verin and Tomas bringing up the rear.

  Perrin could have done without Verin’s eyes on his back. He could feel them between his shoulder blades. He wondered if she knew about the wolves. Not a comfortable thought. Brown sisters supposedly knew things the other Ajahs did not, obscure things, old knowledge. Perhaps she knew how he could avoid losing himself, what was human in him, to the wolves. Short of finding Elyas Machera again, she might be his best chance. All he had to do was trust her. Whatever she knew she would likely use, certainly to help the White Tower, probably to help Rand. The only trouble was that helping Rand might not bring what he wanted now. Everything would have been so much simpler without any Aes Sedai.

  Mostly they rode in silence except for the sounds of the forest, squirrels and woodpeckers and occasional birdsong. At one point Faile glanced back. “She will not harm you,” she said, her soft tone clashing with the fierce light in her dark eyes.

  Perrin blinked. She meant to protect him. Against Aes Sedai. He was never going to understand her, or know what to expect next. She was about as confusing as the Aes Sedai sometimes.

  They broke out of the Westwood perhaps four or five miles north of Emond’s Field, with the sun standing its own height above the trees to the east. Scattered copses, mainly leatherleaf and pine and oak, lay between them and the nearest hedged fields of barley and oats, tabac and tall grass for hay. Strangely there was no one in sight, no smoke rising from the farmhouse chimneys beyond the fields. Perrin knew the people who lived there, the al’Loras in two of the big houses, the Barsteres in the others. Hardworking folk. If there had been anyone in those houses, they would have been at their labors long since. Gaul waved from the edge of a thicket, then vanished into the trees.

  Perrin heeled Stepper up beside Tam and Abell. “Shouldn’t we stay under cover as long as we can? Six people on horses won’t go unnoticed.” They kept their mounts at a steady walk.

  “Not many to notice us, lad,” Master al’Thor replied, “as long as we stay away from the North Road. Most farms have been abandoned, close by to the woods. Anyway, nobody travels alone these days, not far from their own doorstep. Ten people together wouldn’t be noticed twice nowadays, though mostly folk travel by wagon, if at all.”

  “It’ll take us most of daylight to reach Watch Hill as it is,” Master Cauthon said, “without trying to cover the distance through the woods. Would be a little faster along the road, but more chance of meeting Whitecloaks, too. More chance somebody might turn us in for the rewards.”

  Tam nodded. “But we have friends up this way, too. We figure to stop at Jac al’Seen’s farm about midday to breathe the horses and stretch our legs. We will make it to Watch Hill while there’s still light enough to see.”

  “There will be enough light,” Perrin said absently; there was always light enough for him. He twisted in his saddle to peer back at the farmhouses. Abandoned, but not burned, not ransacked that he could make out. Curtains hung at the windows still. Unbroken windows. Trollocs liked smashing things, and empty houses were an invitation. Weeds stood tall among the barley and oats, but the fields had not been trampled. “Have Trollocs attacked Emond’s Field itself?”

  “No, they have not,” Master Cauthon said in a thankful tone. “They’d have no easy time if they did, mind. People learned to keep a sharp eye out Winternight before last. There’s a bow beside every door, and spears and the like. Besides, the Whitecloaks patrol down to Emond’s Field every few days. Much as I hate to admit it, they do keep the Trollocs back.”

  Perrin shook his head. “Do you have any idea how many Trollocs there are?”

  “One’s too many,” Abell grunted.

  “Maybe two hundred,” Tam said. “Maybe more. Probably more.” Master Cauthon looked surprised. “Think on it, Abell. I don’t know how many the Whitecloaks have killed, but the Warders claim they and the Aes Sedai have finished off nearly fifty, and two Fades. It hasn’t lessened the number of burnings we hear about. I think it has to be more, but you figure it out for yourself.” The other man nodded unhappily.

  “Then why haven’t they attacked Emond’s Field?” Perrin asked. “If two or three hundred came in the night, they could likely burn the whole village and be gone before the Whitecloaks up at Watch Hill even heard about it. Still easier for them to hit Deven Ride. You said the Whitecloaks don’t go down that far.”

  “Luck,” Abell muttered, but he sounded troubled. “That’s what it is. We’ve been lucky. What else could it be? What are you getting at, boy?”

  “What he’s getting at,” Faile said, closing up beside them, “is that there must be a reason.” Swallow was enough taller than the Two Rivers horses to let her look Tam and Abell in the eye, and she made it a fi
rm look. “I have seen the aftermath of Trolloc raids in Saldaea. They despoil what they do not burn, kill or carry off people and farm animals, whoever and whatever is not protected. Entire villages have disappeared in bad years. They seek wherever is weakest, wherever they can kill the most. My father—” She bit it off, drew a deep breath, and went on. “Perrin has seen what you should have.” She flashed him a proud smile. “If the Trollocs have not attacked your villages, they have a reason.”

  “I have thought of that,” Tam said quietly, “but I can’t think why. Until we know, luck is as good an answer as any.”

  “Perhaps,” Verin said, joining them, “it is a lure.” Tomas still hung back a little, dark eyes searching the country they rode through as relentlessly as any Aiel’s. The Warder was watching the sky, too; there was always the chance of a raven. Barely pausing, Verin’s gaze brushed across Perrin to the two older men. “News of continued trouble, news of Trollocs, will draw eyes to the Two Rivers. Andor will surely send soldiers, and perhaps other lands as well, for Trollocs this far south. That is if the Children are allowing any news out, of course. I surmise Queen Morgase’s Guards would be little happier to find so many Whitecloaks than they would to find Trollocs.”

  “War,” Abell muttered. “What we have is bad enough, but you are talking war.”

  “It might be so,” Verin said complacently. “It might be.” Frowning in a preoccupied manner, she dug a steel-nibbed pen and a small cloth-bound book from her pouch, and opened a little leather case at her belt that held an ink bottle and sandshaker. Wiping the pen absentmindedly on her sleeve, she began jotting in the book despite the awkwardness of writing while riding. She seemed completely oblivious of any unease she might have caused. Perhaps she really was.

  Master Cauthon kept murmuring “War,” wonderingly, under his breath, and Faile put a comforting hand on Perrin’s arm, her eyes sad.