The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “Perrin Aybara,” a voice called from outside his tent. “Do you give me leave to enter?”

  “Come in, Gaul,” he called. “My shade is yours.”

  The tall Aiel strode in. “Thank you, Perrin Aybara,” he said, glancing at the ham. “Quite a feast. Do you celebrate?”

  “Nothing besides breakfast.”

  “A mighty victory,” Gaul said, laughing.

  Perrin shook his head. Aiel humor. He’d stopped trying to make sense of it. Gaul settled himself on the ground and Perrin sighed inwardly before picking up his plate and moving to sit on the rug across from Gaul. Perrin placed the meal in his lap and continued to eat.

  “You need not sit on the floor because of me,” Gaul said.

  “I’m not doing it because I need to, Gaul.”

  Gaul nodded.

  Perrin cut off another bite. This would be so much easier if he grabbed the whole thing in his fingers and started ripping off chunks. Eating was simpler for wolves. Utensils. What was the point?

  Thoughts like that gave him pause. He was not a wolf, and didn’t want to think like one. Maybe he should start having fruit for a proper breakfast, as Faile said. He frowned, then turned back to his meat.

  “We fought Trollocs in the Two Rivers,” Byar said, lowering his voice. Galad’s porridge cooled, forgotten on the table. “Several dozen men in our camp can confirm it. I killed several of the beasts with my own sword.”

  “Trollocs in the Two Rivers?” Galad said. “That’s hundreds of leagues from the Borderlands!”

  “They were there nonetheless,” Byar said. “Lord Captain Commander Niall must have suspected it. We were sent to the place on his orders. You know that Pedron Niall would not have simply jumped at nothing.”

  “Yes. I agree. But the Two Rivers?”

  “It is full of Darkfriends,” Byar said. “Bornhald told you of Goldeneyes. In the Two Rivers, this Perrin Aybara was raising the flag of ancient Manetheren and gathering an army from among the farmers. Trained soldiers may scoff at farmers pressed into service, but get enough of them together, and they can be a danger. Some are skilled with the staff or the bow.”

  “I am aware,” Galad said flatly, recalling a particularly embarrassing lesson he’d once been given.

  “That man, this Perrin Aybara,” Byar continued. “He’s Shadowspawn, as plain as day. They call him Goldeneyes because his eyes are golden, no shade that any person has ever known. We were certain that Aybara was bringing the Trollocs in, using them to force the people of the Two Rivers to join his army. He eventually ran us out of the place. Now he’s here, before us.”

  A coincidence, or something more?

  Byar was obviously thinking along the same lines. “My Lord Captain Commander, perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier, but the Two Rivers wasn’t my first experience with this creature Aybara. He killed two of the Children on a forgotten road in Andor some two years ago. I was traveling with Bornhald’s father. We met Aybara in a campsite off a main road. He was running with wolves like a wildman! He killed two men before we could subdue him, then escaped into the night after we had him captured. My Lord, he was to be hanged.”

  “There are others who can confirm this?” Galad asked.

  “Child Oratar can. And Child Bornhald can confirm what we saw in the Two Rivers. Goldeneyes was at Falme, too. For what he did there alone he should be brought to justice. It is clear. The Light has delivered him to us.”

  “You’re certain our people are among the Whitecloaks?” Perrin asked.

  “I could not see faces,” Gaul said, “but Elyas Machera’s eyes are very keen. He says he’s certain he saw Basel Gill.”

  Perrin nodded. Elyas’ golden eyes would be as good as Perrin’s own.

  “Sulin and her scouts have similar reports,” Gaul said, accepting a cup of ale poured from Perrin’s pitcher. “The Whitecloak army has a large number of carts, much like the ones we sent ahead. She discovered this early in the morning, but asked me to pass these words to you once you awoke, as she knows that wetlanders are temperamental when disturbed in the morning.”

  Gaul obviously had no idea that he might be giving offense. Perrin was a wetlander. Wetlanders were temperamental, at least in the opinion of the Aiel. So Gaul was stating an accepted fact.

  Perrin shook his head, trying one of the eggs. Overcooked, but edible. “Did Sulin spot anyone she recognized?”

  “No, though she saw some gai’shain,” Gaul said. “However, Sulin is a Maiden, so perhaps we should send someone to confirm what she said—someone who won’t demand the opportunity to wash our smallclothes.”

  “Trouble with Bain and Chiad?” Perrin asked.

  Gaul grimaced. “I swear, those women will drive the mind from me. What man should be expected to suffer such things? Almost better to have Sightblinder himself as a gai’shain than those two.”

  Perrin chuckled.

  “Regardless, the captives look unharmed and healthy. There is more to the report. One of the Maidens saw a flag flying over the camp that looked distinctive, so she copied it down for your secretary, Sebban Balwer. He says that it means the Lord Captain Commander himself rides with this army.”

  Perrin looked down at the last chunk of ham. That was not good news. He’d never met the Lord Captain Commander, but he had met one of the Whitecloak Lords Captain once. That had been the night when Hopper had died, a night that had haunted Perrin for two years.

  That had been the night when he had killed for the first time.

  “What more do you need?” Byar leaned in close, sunken eyes alight with zeal. “We have witnesses who saw this man murder two of our own! Do we let him march by, as if innocent?”

  “No,” Galad said. “No, by the Light, if what you say is true then we cannot turn our backs on this man. Our duty is to bring justice to the wronged.”

  Byar smiled, looking eager. “The prisoners revealed that the Queen of Ghealdan has sworn fealty to him.”

  “That could present a problem.”

  “Or an opportunity. Perhaps Ghealdan is precisely what the Children need. A new home, a place to rebuild. You speak of Andor, my Lord Captain Commander, but how long will they suffer us? You speak of the Last Battle, but it could be months away. What if we were to free an entire nation from the grip of a terrible Darkfriend? Surely the Queen—or her successor—would feel indebted to us.”

  “Assuming we can defeat this Aybara.”

  “We can. Our forces are smaller than his, but many of his soldiers are farmers.”

  “Farmers you just pointed out can be dangerous,” Galad said. “They should not be underestimated.”

  “Yes, but I know we can defeat them. They can be dangerous, yes, but they will break before the might of the Children. This time, finally, Goldeneyes won’t be able to hide behind his little village fortifications or his ragtag allies. No more excuses.”

  Was this part of being ta’veren? Could Perrin not escape that night, years ago? He set his plate aside, feeling sick.

  “Are you well, Perrin Aybara?” Gaul said.

  “Just thinking.” The Whitecloaks would not leave him alone, and the Pattern—burn it!—was going to keep looping them into his path until he dealt with them.

  “How large is their army?” Perrin asked.

  “There are twenty thousand soldiers among them,” Gaul replied. “There are several thousand others who have likely never held a spear.”

  Servants and camp followers. Gaul kept the amusement from his voice, but Perrin could smell it on him. Among the Aiel, nearly every man—all but blacksmiths—would pick up a spear if they were attacked. The fact that many wetlanders were incapable of defending themselves either befuddled or infuriated the Aiel.

  “Their force is large,” Gaul continued, “but ours is larger. And they have no algai’d’siswai nor Asha’man, nor channelers of any type, if Sebban Balwer’s word is not in error. He seems to know much of these Whitecloaks.”

  “He’s right. Whitecloaks ha
te Aes Sedai and think anyone who can use the One Power is a Darkfriend.”

  “We move against him, then?” Byar asked.

  Galad stood. “We have no choice. The Light has delivered him into our hands. But we need more information. Perhaps I should go to this Aybara and let him know that we hold his allies, and then ask his army to meet with us on the field of battle. I’d rather draw him out to make use of my cavalry.”

  “What do you want, Perrin Aybara?” Gaul asked.

  What did he want? He wished he could answer that.

  “Send more scouts,” Perrin said. “Find us a better place to camp. We’ll want to offer parley, but there’s no way under the Light I’m leaving Gill and the others in the hands of the Whitecloaks. We’ll give the Children a chance to return our people. If they don’t…well, then we’ll see.”

  Chapter 8

  The Seven-Striped Lass

  Mat sat on a worn stool, his arms leaning against a dark wooden bar counter. The air smelled good—of ale, smoke, and of the washcloth that had recently wiped the counter. He liked that. There was something calming about a good, rowdy tavern that was also kept clean. Well, clean as was reasonable, anyway. Nobody liked a tavern that was too clean. That made a place feel new. Like a coat that had never been worn or a pipe that had never been smoked.

  Mat flipped a folded letter between two fingers of his right hand. That letter, on thick paper, was sealed with a glob of blood-red wax. He had been carrying it only a short time, but it was already a source of as much aggravation to him as any woman. Well, maybe not an Aes Sedai, but most any other woman. That was saying a lot.

  He stopped spinning the letter and tapped it on the counter. Burn Verin for doing this to him! She held him by his oath like a fish caught on a hook.

  “Well, Master Crimson?” asked the tavernkeeper. That was the name he was using these days. Best to be safe. “You want a refill or not?”

  The tavernkeeper leaned down before him, crossing her arms. Melli Craeb was a pretty woman, with a round face and auburn hair that curled quite fetchingly. Mat would have given her his best smile—there was not a woman he had met who did not melt for his best smile—but he was a married man now. He could not go breaking hearts; it would not be right.

  Though, leaning as she did showed some ample bosom. She was a short woman, but she kept the area behind the bar raised. Yes, a nice bosom indeed. He figured she would be good for a bit of kissing, perhaps tucked into one of the booths at the back of the tavern. Of course, Mat did not look at women anymore, not like that. He did not think about her for him to kiss. Maybe for Talmanes. He was so stiff, a good kiss and cuddle would do him good.

  “Well?” Melli asked.

  “What would you do if you were me, Melli?” His empty mug sat beside him, a few suds clinging to the rim.

  “Order another round,” she said immediately. “For the entire bar. It would be downright charitable of you. People like a charitable fellow.”

  “I meant about the letter.”

  “You promised not to open it?” she said.

  “Well, not exactly. I promised that if I opened it, I’d do exactly what it said inside.”

  “Gave an oath, did you?”

  He nodded.

  She snatched it from his fingers, causing him to yelp. He reached to take it back but she pulled away, turning it over in her fingers. Mat suppressed an urge to reach for it again; he had played more than a few games of take-away, and had no urge to look the buffoon. A woman liked nothing more than to make a man squirm, and if you let her do it, she would only keep going.

  Still, he began to sweat. “Now, Melli…”

  “I could open it for you,” she said, leaning back against the other side of the bar, looking over the letter. Nearby, a man called for another mug of ale, but she waved him down. The red-nosed man looked as if he had had enough anyway. Melli’s tavern was popular enough that she had a half-dozen serving girls taking care of the patrons. One would get to him eventually. “I could open it,” she continued to Mat, “and could tell you what’s inside.”

  Bloody ashes! If she did that, he would have to do what it said. Whatever it bloody said! All he had to do was wait a few weeks, and he would be free. He could wait that long. Really, he could.

  “It wouldn’t do,” Mat said, sitting up with a jerk as she reached her thumb between two sides of the letter, as if to rip it. “I’d still have to do what it said, Melli. Don’t you do that, now. Be careful!”

  She smiled at him. Her tavern, The Seven-Striped Lass, was one of the best in western Caemlyn. Ale with a robust flavor, games of dice when you wanted them, and not a rat to be seen. They probably did not want to risk running afoul of Melli. Light, but the woman could shame the whiskers off a man’s cheeks without much trying.

  “You never did tell me who it was from,” Melli said, turning the letter over. “She’s a lover, isn’t she? Got you tied up in her strings?”

  She had the second part right enough, but a lover? Verin? It was ridiculous enough to make Mat laugh. Kissing Verin would have been about as much fun as kissing a lion. Of the two, he would have chosen the lion. It would have been much less likely to try to bite him.

  “I gave my oath, Melli,” Mat said, trying not to show his nervousness. “Don’t you go opening that, now.”

  “I didn’t give any oath,” she said. “Maybe I’ll read it, and then not tell you what it says. Just give you hints, now and then, as encouragement.”

  She eyed him, full lips smiling. Yes, she was a pretty one. Not as pretty as Tuon, though, with her beautiful skin and large eyes. But Melli was still pretty, particularly those lips of hers. Being married meant he could not stare at those lips, but he did give her his best smile. It was called for, this time, though it could break her heart. He could not let her open that letter.

  “It’s the same thing, Melli,” Mat said winningly. “If you open that letter and I don’t do what it says, my oath is as good as dishwater.” He sighed, realizing there was one way to get the letter back. “The woman who gave it to me was Aes Sedai, Melli. You don’t want to anger an Aes Sedai, do you?”

  “Aes Sedai?” Melli suddenly looked eager. “I’ve always fancied going up to Tar Valon, to see if they’ll let me join them.” She looked at the letter, as if more curious about its contents.

  Light! The woman was daft. Mat had taken her for the sensible type. He should have known better. He began to sweat more. Could he reach the letter? She was holding it close….

  She set it down on the bar before him. She left one finger on the letter, directly in the middle of the wax seal. “You’ll introduce me to this Aes Sedai, when you next meet her.”

  “If I see her while I’m in Caemlyn,” Mat said. “I promise it.”

  “Can I trust you to keep your word?”

  He gave her an exasperated look. “What was this whole bloody conversation about, Melli?”

  She laughed, turning and leaving the letter on the bar, going to help the gap-toothed man who was still calling for more ale. Mat snatched the letter, tucking it carefully into his coat pocket. Bloody woman. The only way for him to stay free of Aes Sedai plots was to never open this letter. Well, not exactly free. Mat had plenty of Aes Sedai plotting around him; he had them coming out of his ears. But only a man with sawdust for brains would ask for another.

  Mat sighed, turning on his stool. A varied crowd clogged The Seven-Striped Lass. Caemlyn was fuller than a lionfish at a shipwreck these days, practically bursting at the seams. That kept the taverns busy. In the corner, some farmers in workcoats fraying at the collars played at dice. Mat had played a few rounds with them earlier, and had paid for his drink with their coins, but he hated gambling for coppers.

  The bluff-faced man in the corner was still drinking—must be fourteen mugs sitting empty beside him now—his companions cheering him onward. A group of nobles sat off from the rest, and he would have asked them for a nice game of dice, but the expressions on their faces could have frightene
d away bears. They had probably been on the wrong side of the Succession war.

  Mat wore a black coat with lace at the cuffs. Only a little lace, and no embroidery. Reluctantly, he had left his wide-brimmed hat back in camp, and he had grown a few days’ scrub on his chin. That itched like he had fleas, and he looked a bloody fool. But the scrub made him harder to recognize. With every footpad in the city having a picture of him, it was best to be safe. He wished being ta’veren would help him for once, but it was best not to count on that. Being ta’veren had not been good for anything he could tell.

  He kept his scarf tucked low and his coat buttoned, the high collar up nearly to his chin. He had already died once, he was fairly certain, and was not eager to try again.

  A pretty serving girl walked by, slender and wide-hipped, with long dark hair she let hang free. He moved to the side, allowing his empty mug to look lonely and obvious on the counter, and she walked over with a smile to refill it. He grinned at her and tipped a copper. He was a married man, and could not afford to charm her, but he could keep an eye out for his friends. Thom might like her. A girl might make him stop moping about so much, at least. Mat watched the girl’s face for a time to be certain he would recognize her again.

  Mat sipped at his ale, one hand feeling at the letter in his pocket. He did not speculate at what was in it. Do that, and he would be only one step from ripping it open. He was a little like a mouse staring at a trap with moldy cheese in it. He did not want that cheese. It could rot, for all he cared.

  The letter would probably instruct him to do something dangerous. And embarrassing. Aes Sedai had a fondness for making men look like fools. Light, he hoped that she had not left instructions for him to help someone in trouble. If that were the case, surely she would have seen to it herself.

  He sighed and took another pull on his ale. In the corner, the drinking man finally toppled over. Sixteen mugs. Not bad. Mat set aside his own drink, left a few coins as payment, then nodded farewell to Melli. He collected his winnings on the wager regarding the drinking man from a long-fingered fellow in the corner. Mat had bet on seventeen mugs, which was close enough to win some. Then he was on his way, taking his walking stick from the stand by the door.