The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  The scouting party might bring news that Morgase hungered for. She would have to find a way into any meeting discussing their reports, perhaps by offering to serve the tea. The better she grew at her job as Faile’s maid, the closer she’d be able to get to important events.

  As the Wise Ones made their way from the tent, Morgase caught sight of someone outside. Tallanvor, dutiful as always. Tall, broad of shoulder, he wore his sword at his waist and a look of pointed concern in his eyes.

  He’d followed her practically nonstop since Malden, and while she’d complained of it out of principle, she didn’t mind. After two months apart, he wanted to take every opportunity to be together. Looking into those beautiful young eyes of his, she could not entertain the notion of suicide, even for the good of Andor. She felt a fool for that. Hadn’t she let her heart lead her into enough trouble already?

  Malden had changed her, though. She’d missed Tallanvor dearly. And then he’d come for her, when he shouldn’t have risked himself so. He was more devoted to her than to Andor itself. And for some reason, that was exactly what she needed. She began to make her way toward him, balancing eight cups in the crook of her arm while carrying the saucers in her hand.

  “Maighdin,” Perrin said as she passed out of the tent. She hesitated, turning back. Everyone but Perrin and his wife had withdrawn.

  “Come back here, please,” Perrin said. “And Tallanvor, you might as well come in. I can see you lurking out there. Honestly. It’s not as if anyone was going to swoop down and steal her away while she was inside a tent full of Wise Ones and Aes Sedai!”

  Morgase raised an eyebrow. From what she’d seen, Perrin himself had followed Faile around lately nearly as much.

  Tallanvor shot her a smile as he entered. He took some of the cups from her arm, then both of them presented themselves before Perrin. Tallanvor bowed formally, which gave Morgase a stab of annoyance. He was still a member of the Queen’s Guard—the only loyal member, as far as she knew. He shouldn’t be bowing to this rural upstart.

  “I was given a suggestion back when you first joined us,” Perrin said gruffly. “Well, I think it’s about time I took it. Lately, you two are like youths from different villages, mooning over one another in the hour before Sunday ends. It’s high time you were married. We could have Alliandre do it, or maybe I could. Do you have some tradition you follow?”

  Morgase blinked in surprise. Curse Lini for putting that idea in Perrin’s head! Morgase felt a sudden panic, though Tallanvor glanced at her questioningly.

  “Go change into something nicer if you want,” Perrin said. “Gather any you want to witness and be back here in an hour. Then we’ll get this silliness over with.”

  She felt her face grow hot with anger. Silliness? How dare he! And in such a way! Sending her off like a child, as if her emotion—her love—was merely an inconvenience to him?

  He was rolling up his map, but then Faile’s hand placed on his arm caused him to look up and notice that his orders had not been followed.

  “Well?” Perrin asked.

  “No,” Morgase said. She kept her gaze on Perrin; she didn’t want to see the inevitable disappointment and rejection in Tallanvor’s face.

  “What?” Perrin asked.

  “No, Perrin Aybara,” Morgase said. “I will not be back here in an hour to be married.”

  “But—”

  “If you want tea served, or your tent cleaned, or something packed, then call for me. If you wish your clothing washed, I will oblige. But I am your servant, Perrin Aybara, not your subject. I am loyal to the Queen of Andor. You have no authority to give me this sort of command.”

  “I—”

  “Why, the Queen herself wouldn’t demand this! Forcing two people to marry because you’re tired of the way they look at one another? Like two hounds you intend to breed, then sell the pups?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “You said it nonetheless. Besides, how can you be sure of the young man’s intentions? Have you spoken to him, asked him, interviewed him as a lord should in a matter like this?”

  “But Maighdin,” Perrin said. “He does care for you. You should have seen the way he acted when you were taken. Light, woman, but it’s obvious!”

  “Matters of the heart are never obvious.” Pulling herself up to her full height, she almost felt a queen again. “If I choose to marry a man, I will make that decision on my own. For a man who claims he doesn’t like being in charge, you certainly do like giving commands. How can you be sure that I want this young man’s affections? Do you know my heart?”

  To the side, Tallanvor stiffened. Then he bowed formally to Perrin and strode from the tent. He was an emotional one. Well, he needed to know that she would not be shoved around. Not anymore. First Gaebril, then Valda, and now Perrin Aybara? Tallanvor would be ill-served if he were to receive a woman who married him because she was told to do so.

  Morgase measured Perrin, who was blushing. She softened her tone. “You’re young at this yet, so I’ll give you advice. There are some things a lord should be involved in, but others he should always leave untouched. You’ll learn the difference as you practice, but kindly refrain from making demands like this one until you’ve at least counseled with your wife.”

  With that, she curtsied—still carrying the teacups—and withdrew. She shouldn’t have spoken to him so. Well, he shouldn’t have made a command like that! It seemed she had some spark left in her after all. She hadn’t felt that firm or certain of herself since…well, since before Gaebril’s arrival in Caemlyn! Though she would have to find Tallanvor and soothe his pride.

  She returned the cups to the nearby washing station, then went through the camp, looking for Tallanvor. Around her, servants and workers were busy at their duties. Many of the former gai’shain still acted as if they were among the Shaido, bowing and scraping whenever someone so much as looked at them. Those from Cairhien were the worst; they’d been held longest, and Aiel were very good at teaching lessons.

  There were, of course, a few real Aiel gai’shain. What an odd custom. From what Morgase had been able to determine, some of the gai’shain here had been taken by the Shaido, then had been liberated in Malden. They retained the white, and so that meant they were now acting as slaves to their own relatives and friends.

  Any people could be understood. But, she admitted, perhaps the Aiel would take longer than others. Take, for instance, that group of Maidens loping through camp. Why did they have to force everyone out of their way? There was no—

  Morgase hesitated. Those Maidens were heading straight for Perrin’s tent. They looked like they had news.

  Her curiosity getting the better of her, Morgase followed. The Maidens left two guards by the front tent flaps, but the ward against eavesdropping had been removed. Morgase rounded the tent, trying to look as if she was doing anything other than eavesdropping, feeling a stab of shame for leaving Tallanvor to his pain.

  “Whitecloaks, Perrin Aybara,” Sulin’s stout voice reported from inside. “There is a large force of them on the road directly in front of us.”

  Chapter 7

  Lighter than a Feather

  The air felt calmer at night, though the thunder still warned Lan that not all was well. In his weeks traveling with Bulen, that storm above seemed to have grown darker.

  After riding southward, they continued on to the east; they were somewhere near the border between Kandor and Saldaea, on the Plain of Lances. Towering, weathered hills—steep-sided, like fortresses—rose around them.

  Perhaps they’d missed the border. There often was no marker on these back roads, and the mountains cared not which nation tried to claim them.

  “Master Andra,” Bulen said from behind. Lan had purchased a horse for him to ride, a dusty white mare. He still led his packhorse, Scouter.

  Bulen caught up to him. Lan insisted upon being called “Andra.” One follower was bad enough. If nobody knew who he was, they couldn’t ask to come with him. He ha
d Bulen to thank—inadvertently—for the warning of what Nynaeve had done. For that, he owed the man a debt.

  Bulen did like to talk, though.

  “Master Andra,” Bulen continued. “If I may suggest, we could turn south at the Berndt Crossroads, yes? I know a waypoint inn in that direction that serves the very best quail. We could turn eastward again on the road to South Mettler. A much easier path. My cousin has a farm along that road—cousin on my mother’s side, Master Andra—and we could—”

  “We continue this way,” Lan said.

  “But South Mettler is a much better roadway!”

  “And therefore much better traveled too, Bulen.”

  Bulen sighed, but fell silent. The hadori looked good around his head, and he had proven surprisingly capable with the sword. As talented a student as Lan had seen in a while.

  It was dark—night came early here, because of those mountains. Compared to the areas near the Blight, it also felt chilly. Unfortunately, the land here was fairly well populated. Indeed, about an hour past the crossroads they arrived at an inn, windows still glowing with light.

  Bulen looked toward it longingly, but Lan continued on. He had them traveling at night, mostly. The better to keep from being seen.

  A trio of men sat in front of the inn, smoking their pipes in the darkness. The pungent smoke wound in the air, past the inn’s windows. Lan didn’t give them much consideration until—as a group—they broke off their smoking. They unhooked horses from the fence at the side of the inn.

  Wonderful, Lan thought. Highwaymen, watching the night road for weary travelers. Well, three men shouldn’t prove too dangerous. They rode behind Lan at a trot. They wouldn’t attack until they were farther from the inn. Lan reached to loosen his sword in its sheath.

  “My Lord,” Bulen said urgently, looking over his shoulder. “Two of those men are wearing the hadori.”

  Lan spun around, cloak whipping behind him. The three men approached and did not stop. They split around him and Bulen.

  Lan watched them pass. “Andere?” he called. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  One of the three—a lean, dangerous-looking man—glanced over his shoulder, his long hair held back with the hadori. It had been years since Lan had seen Andere. He looked as if he’d given up his Kandori uniform, finally; he was wearing a deep black cloak and hunting leathers underneath.

  “Ah, Lan,” Andere said, the three men pulling up to stop. “I didn’t notice you there.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” Lan said flatly. “And you, Nazar. You put your hadori away when you were a lad. Now you don one?”

  “I may do as I wish,” Nazar said. He was getting old—he must be past his seventieth year—but he carried a sword on his saddle. His hair had gone white.

  The third man, Rakim, wasn’t Malkieri. He had the tilted eyes of a Saldaean, and he shrugged at Lan, looking a little embarrassed.

  Lan raised his fingers to his forehead, closing his eyes as the three rode ahead. What foolish game were they playing? No matter, Lan thought, opening his eyes.

  Bulen started to say something, but Lan quieted him with a glare. He turned southward off the road, cutting down a small, worn trail.

  Before long, he heard muffled hoofbeats from behind. Lan spun as he saw the three men riding behind him. Lan pulled Mandarb to a halt, teeth gritted. “I’m not raising the Golden Crane!”

  “We didn’t say you were,” Nazar said. The three parted around him again, riding past.

  Lan kicked Mandarb forward, riding up to them. “Then stop following me.”

  “Last I checked, we were ahead of you,” Andere said.

  “You turned this way after me,” Lan accused.

  “You don’t own the roads, Lan Mandragoran,” Andere said. He glanced at Lan, face shadowed in the night. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m no longer the boy the Hero of Salmarna berated so long ago. I’ve become a soldier, and soldiers are needed. So I will ride this way if I please.”

  “I command you to turn and go back,” Lan said. “Find a different path eastward.”

  Rakim laughed, his voice still hoarse after all these years. “You’re not my captain any longer, Lan. Why would I obey your orders?” The others chuckled.

  “We’d obey a king, of course,” Nazar said.

  “Yes,” Andere said. “If he gave us commands, perhaps we would. But I don’t see a king here. Unless I’m mistaken.”

  “There can be no king of a fallen people,” Lan said. “No king without a kingdom.”

  “And yet you ride,” Nazar said, flicking his reins. “Ride to your death in a land you claim is no kingdom.”

  “It is my destiny.”

  The three shrugged, then pulled ahead of him.

  “Don’t be fools,” Lan said, voice soft as he pulled Mandarb to a halt. “This path leads to death.”

  “Death is lighter than a feather, Lan Mandragoran,” Rakim called over his shoulder. “If we ride only to death, then the trail will be easier than I’d thought!”

  Lan gritted his teeth, but what was he to do? Beat all three of them senseless and leave them beside the road? He nudged Mandarb forward.

  The two had become five.

  Galad continued his morning meal, noting that Child Byar had come to speak with him. The meal was simple fare: porridge with a handful of raisins stirred in. A simple meal for every soldier kept them all from envy. Some Lords Captain Commander had dined far better than their men. That would not do for Galad. Not when so many in the world starved.

  Child Byar waited inside the flaps of Galad’s tent, awaiting recognition. The gaunt, sunken-cheeked man wore his white cloak, a tabard over mail underneath.

  Galad eventually set aside his spoon and nodded to Byar. The soldier strode up to the table and waited, still at attention. There were no elaborate furnishings to Galad’s tent. His sword—Valda’s sword—lay on the plain table behind his wooden bowl, slightly drawn. The herons on the blade peeked out from beneath the scabbard, and the polished steel reflected Byar’s form.

  “Speak,” Galad said.

  “I have more news about the army, my Lord Captain Commander,” Byar said. “They are near where the captives said they would be, a few days from us.”

  Galad nodded. “They fly the flag of Ghealdan?”

  “Alongside the flag of Mayene.” That flame of zeal glinted in Byar’s eyes. “And the wolfhead, though reports say they took that down late yesterday. Goldeneyes is there. Our scouts are sure of it.”

  “Did he really kill Bornhald’s father?”

  “Yes, my Lord Captain Commander. I have a familiarity with this creature. He and his troops come from a place called the Two Rivers.”

  “The Two Rivers?” Galad said. “Curious, how often I seem to hear of that place, these days. Is that not where al’Thor is from?”

  “So it is said,” Byar replied.

  Galad rubbed his chin. “They grow good tabac there, Child Byar, but I have not heard of them growing armies.”

  “It is a dark place, my Lord Captain Commander. Child Bornhald and I spent some time there last year; it is festering with Darkfriends.”

  Galad sighed. “You sound like a Questioner.”

  “My Lord Captain Commander,” Byar earnestly continued, “my Lord, please believe me. I am not simply speculating. This is different.”

  Galad frowned. Then he gestured toward the other stool beside his table. Byar took it.

  “Explain yourself,” Galad said. “And tell me everything you know of this Perrin Goldeneyes.”

  Perrin could remember a time when simple breakfasts of bread and cheese had satisfied him. That was no longer the case. Perhaps it was due to his relationship with the wolves, or maybe his tastes had changed over time. These days he craved meat, especially in the morning. He couldn’t always have it, and that was fine. But generally he didn’t have to ask.

  That was the case this day. He’d risen, washed his face, and found a servant entering with a large chop
of ham, steaming and succulent. No beans, no vegetables. No gravy. Just the ham, rubbed with salt and seared over the fire, with a pair of boiled eggs. The serving woman set them on his table, then withdrew.

  Perrin wiped his hands, crossing the rug of his tent and taking in the ham’s scent. Part of him felt he should turn it away, but he couldn’t. Not when it was right there. He sat down, took up fork and knife and dug in.

  “I still don’t see how you can eat that for breakfast,” Faile noted, leaving the washing chamber of their tent, wiping her hands on a cloth. Their large tent had several curtained divisions to it. She wore one of her unobtrusive gray dresses. Perfect, because it didn’t distract from her beauty. It was accented by a sturdy black belt—she had sent away all of her golden belts, no matter how fine. He’d suggested finding her one that was more to her liking, and she’d looked sick.

  “It’s food,” Perrin said.

  “I can see,” she said with a snort, looking herself over in the mirror. “What did you think I assumed it was? A rock?”

  “I meant,” Perrin said between bites, “that food is food. Why should I care what I eat for breakfast and what I eat for a different meal?”

  “Because it’s strange,” she said, clasping on a cord holding a small blue stone. She regarded herself in the mirror, then turned, the loose sleeves of her Saldaean-cut dress swishing. She paused beside his plate, grimacing. “I’m having breakfast with Alliandre. Send for me if there is news.”

  He nodded, swallowing. Why should a person have meat at midday, but refuse it for breakfast? It didn’t make sense.

  He’d decided to remain camped beside the Jehannah Road. What else was he to do, with an army of Whitecloaks directly ahead, between him and Lugard? His scouts needed time to assess the danger. He’d spent much time thinking about the strange visions he’d seen, the wolves chasing sheep toward a beast and Faile walking toward a cliff. He hadn’t been able to make sense of them, but could they have something to do with the Whitecloaks? Their appearance bothered him more than he wanted to admit, but he harbored a tiny hope that they would prove insignificant and not slow him too much.