“As many times as required, I suppose.” He sounded so bitter, clenching his fists. Not angry at her, but at the situation. He always had been a man of such passion.
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No,” she said. “Not again. Tallanvor, look at that sky above. You’ve seen the things that walk the world, felt the Dark One’s curses strike us. This is not a time to be without hope. Without love.”
“But what of duty?”
“Duty can bloody get in line. It’s had its share of me. Everyone’s had their share of me, Tallanvor. Everyone but the man I want.” She stepped over his sword, still lying in the cockleburrs, then couldn’t stop herself. In a blink, she was kissing him.
“All right, you two,” a stern voice said from behind. “We’re going to see Lord Aybara right now.”
Morgase pulled away. It was Lini.
“What?” Morgase tried to regain some composure.
“You’re getting married,” Lini declared. “If I have to pull you to it by the ears.”
“I will make my own choice,” Morgase said. “Perrin tried to get me to—”
“I’m not him,” Lini said. “This is best done before we return to Elayne. Once you’re in Caemlyn there will be complications.” She turned her eyes on Gill, who had the trunk stowed. “And you! Unpack my Lady’s things.”
“But Lini,” Morgase protested, “we’re going to Caemlyn.”
“Tomorrow will be soon enough, child. Tonight, you celebrate.” She eyed them. “And until the marriage is done, I don’t think it’s safe to trust you two alone.”
Morgase flushed. “Lini,” she hissed. “I’m not eighteen anymore!”
“No, when you were eighteen, you were married proper. Do I need to seize your ears?”
“I—” Morgase said.
“We’re coming, Lini,” Tallanvor said.
Morgase glared at him.
He frowned. “What?”
“You haven’t asked.”
He smiled, then held her close. “Morgase Trakand, will you be my wife?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Now let’s find Perrin.”
Perrin tugged on the oak branch. It broke off, powdery wood dust puffing out. As he held the branch up, sawdust streamed out of the end onto the brown grass.
“Happened last night, my Lord,” Kevlyn Torr said, holding his gloves. “The entire stand of hardwood over there, dead and dried in one night. Nearly a hundred trees, I’d guess.”
Perrin dropped the branch, then dusted off his hands. “It’s no worse than what we’ve seen before.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry about this,” Perrin said. “Send some men to harvest this wood for fires; looks as if it will burn really well.”
Kevlyn nodded, then hurried off. Other woodsmen were poking through the trees, looking disturbed. Oak, ash, elm and hickory trees dying overnight was bad enough. But dying, then drying out as though dead for years? That was downright unsettling. Best to take it in stride, though, not let the men grow afraid.
Perrin walked back toward camp. In the distance, anvils rang. They’d bought up raw materials, every bit of iron or steel they could get from Whitebridge. The people had been eager to trade for food, and Perrin had obtained five forges, with men to move them and set them up, along with hammers, tools and coal.
He might just have saved some in the city from starving. For a little while at least.
Smiths continued to pound. Hopefully he wasn’t working Neald and the others too hard. Power-wrought weapons would give his people a critical advantage. Neald hadn’t been able to figure out exactly what he’d done in helping forge Mah’alleinir, but Perrin hadn’t been surprised. That night had been unique. He rested a hand on the weapon, feeling its faint warmth, thinking of Hopper.
Now, Neald had figured out how to make blades that wouldn’t dull or break. The more he practiced, the sharper edges he was able to create. The Aiel had already begun to demand those edges for their spears, and Perrin had given Neald the order to see to them first. It was the least he owed them.
On the Traveling ground at the edge of the large, increasingly entrenched camp, Grady stood in a circle with Annoura and Masuri, holding open a gateway. This was the last group of noncombatants who wanted to leave him, the group traveling to Caemlyn. Among them, he’d sent a messenger to Elayne. He’d need to meet with her soon; he wasn’t certain if he should be worried or not. Time would tell.
Some others were coming back through the gateway, bringing a few carts of food purchased in Caemlyn, where supplies were still available. Eventually he caught sight of Faile picking her way through the camp toward him. He raised a hand, drawing her over.
“Everything all right with Bavin?” Perrin asked. She’d been at the quartermaster’s tent.
“All is well.”
Perrin rubbed his chin. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time—I don’t think he’s particularly honest.”
“I’ll keep special watch on him,” she said, smelling amused.
“Berelain’s been spending more time with the Whitecloaks,” Perrin said. “Seems she has eyes for Damodred. She’s been leaving me alone entirely.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. And she published that proclamation, condemning the rumors about me and her. Light, but people actually seem to believe it. I was worried they’d see it is a sign of desperation!”
Faile smelled satisfied.
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know what you did, but thank you.”
“Do you know the difference between a hawk and a falcon, Perrin?”
“Size, mostly,” he said. “Wing shape, too. The falcon has a more arrow-like look to it.”
“The falcon,” Faile said, “is a better flyer. It kills with the beak, and can fly fast and quick. The hawk is slower and stronger; it excels at getting prey that is moving along the ground. It likes to kill with the claw, attacking from above.”
“All right,” Perrin said. “But doesn’t that mean that if both see a rabbit below, the hawk will be better at snatching it?”
“That’s exactly what it means.” She smiled. “The hawk is better at hunting the rabbit. But, you see, the falcon is better at hunting the hawk. You sent the messenger to Elayne?”
Women. He’d never make sense of them. For once, though, that seemed a good thing. “I did. Hopefully we’ll be able to meet with her soon.”
“There is already talk in camp of whom you might bring with you.”
“Why would there be talk?” Perrin said. “It’ll be you. You’ll be best at knowing how to deal with Elayne, though having Alliandre along probably won’t hurt.”
“And Berelain?”
“She can stay in camp,” Perrin said. “Watch over things here. She got to go last time.”
Faile smelled even more satisfied. “We should—” She cut off, frowning. “Well, it looks like the last leaf finally fell.”
“What?” Perrin said, turning. She was looking toward a group coming at them. Aged Lini, and trailing behind her Morgase and Tallanvor, gazing at one another like a couple just back from their first Bel Tine together. “I thought she didn’t like him,” he said. “Or, if she did, she wasn’t going to marry him anyway.”
“Minds change,” Faile said, “much more quickly than hearts.” Her scent was faintly angry, though she smothered it. She hadn’t completely forgiven Morgase, but she was no longer outright hostile.
“Perrin Aybara,” Morgase said. “You are the closest thing to a lord this camp has, other than my stepson. But it wouldn’t be right for a son to marry his mother, so I suppose you will do. This man has asked my hand in marriage. Will you perform the ceremony for us?”
“You’ve a backhanded way of asking for my help, Morgase,” he said.
The woman narrowed her eyes at him. And Faile looked at him and smelled angry as well. Perrin sighed. Fight among themselves though they might, they were always eager to pounce on a man who said the wrong thing, eve
n if it was the truth.
However, Morgase calmed down. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to insult your authority.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I suppose you have reason to question.”
“No,” Morgase said, standing up taller. Light, but she could look like a queen when she wanted. How had they missed it before? “You are a lord, Perrin Aybara. Your actions show it. The Two Rivers is blessed because of you, and perhaps Andor as well. So long as you remain part of her.”
“I intend to,” Perrin promised.
“Well, if you would do this thing for me,” she said, looking to Tallanvor, “then I would be willing to speak on your behalf with Elayne. Arrangements can be made, and titles—proper titles—can be bestowed.”
“We will take your offer of speaking for us,” Faile said, speaking quickly before Perrin could. “But we will decide, with Her Majesty, whether bestowing titles is the…proper course at this point.”
Perrin eyed her. She wasn’t still considering splitting the Two Rivers off into its own kingdom, was she? They’d never discussed it in such frank terms, but she’d encouraged him to use the flag of Manetheren. Well, they’d have to see about that.
Nearby, he could see Galad Damodred walking toward them, Berelain—as always lately—at his side. It appeared that Morgase had sent a messenger for him. Galad was tucking something into his pocket. A small letter, it appeared, with a red seal. Where had he gotten that? He looked troubled, though his expression lightened as he arrived. He didn’t seem surprised by the news of the marriage; he had a nod for Perrin and a hug for his mother, then a stern-eyed—but cordial—greeting for Tallanvor.
“What kind of ceremony would you like?” Perrin asked Morgase. “I only know the Two Rivers way.”
“I believe simple oaths before you will suffice,” Morgase said. “I’m old enough to be tired of ceremony.”
“Sounds appropriate to me,” Perrin said.
Galad stepped to the side and Morgase and Tallanvor clasped hands. “Martyn Tallanvor,” she said. “I’ve had more from you than I deserve, for longer than I’ve known that I’ve had it. You’ve claimed that the love of a simple soldier is nothing before the mantle of a queen, but I say the measure of a man is not in his title, but in his soul.
“I’ve seen from you bravery, dedication, loyalty, and love. I’ve seen the heart of a prince inside of you, the heart of a man who would remain true when hundreds around him failed. I swear that I love you. And before the Light, I swear not to leave you. I swear to cherish you forever and have you as my husband.”
Berelain took out a kerchief and dabbed the corners of her eyes. Well, women always wept at things like weddings. Though Perrin…well, he felt a little water in his eyes, too. Might have been the sunlight.
“Morgase Trakand,” Tallanvor said, “I fell in love with you for the way you treated those around you as Queen. I saw a woman who took duty with not just a sense of responsibility, but with a passion. Even when you didn’t know me from any other guard, you treated me with kindness and respect. You treated all of your subjects that way.
“I love you for your goodness, your cleverness, your strength of mind and will. One of the Forsaken couldn’t break you; you escaped him when he thought you completely under control. The most terrible of tyrants couldn’t break you, even when he held you in his palm. The Shaido couldn’t break you. Another would be hateful in your place, if they had been through what you had. But you…you have grown, increasingly, into someone to admire, cherish, and respect.
“I swear that I love you. And before the Light, I swear that I will never, never leave you. I swear to cherish you forever and have you as my wife. I swear it, Morgase, though part of me fails to believe that this could really be happening.”
And then they stood like that, staring into one another’s eyes, as if Perrin weren’t even there.
He coughed. “Well, so be it, then. You’re married.” Should he give advice? How did one give advice to Morgase Trakand, a queen with children his own age? He just shrugged. “Off with you, then.”
Beside him, Faile smelled amused and faintly dissatisfied. Lini snorted at Perrin’s performance, but ushered Morgase and Tallanvor away. Galad nodded to him, and Berelain curtsied. They walked away, Berelain remarking on the suddenness of it.
Faile smiled at him. “You’ll have to get better at that.”
“They wanted it simple.”
“Everyone says that,” Faile replied. “But you can have an air of authority while keeping things brief. We’ll talk about it. Next time you’ll do a much better job.”
Next time? He shook his head as Faile turned and walked toward the camp.
“Where are you going?” Perrin asked.
“To Bavin. I need to requisition some casks of ale.”
“For what?”
“The festivities,” Faile said, looking over her shoulder. “Ceremony can be skimped if needed. But the celebration should not be skimped.” She glanced upward. “Particularly at times like this.”
Perrin watched her go, disappearing into the enormous camp. Soldiers, farmers, craftsmen, Aiel, Whitecloaks, refugees. Almost seventy thousand strong, despite those who had left or fallen in battle. How had he ended up with such a force? Before leaving the Two Rivers, he’d never seen more than a thousand people gathered in one place.
The largest portion was the group of former mercenaries and refugees who had been training under Tam and Dannil. The Wolf Guard, they were calling themselves, whatever that was supposed to mean. Perrin began walking to check on the supply carts, but something small struck him softly on the back of the head.
He froze, turning, scanning the forest behind him. To the right, it stood brown and dead; to his left, the tree cover dwindled. He couldn’t see anyone.
Have I been pushing myself too hard? he wondered, rubbing his head as he turned to continue walking. Imagining things that—
Another little strike on the back of his head. He spun and caught sight of something dropping to the grass. Frowning, he knelt down and picked it up. An acorn. Another one smacked him in the forehead. It had come from the forest.
Perrin growled and strode into the trees. One of the camp’s few children, perhaps? Ahead was a large oak tree; the trunk thick and wide enough to hide someone. Once he grew close, he hesitated. Was this some kind of trap? He laid his hand on his hammer and inched forward. The tree was downwind, and he couldn’t catch the scent of—
A hand suddenly jutted out from behind the trunk, holding a brown sack. “I caught a badger,” a familiar voice said. “Want to let it go on the village green?”
Perrin froze, then let out a bellowing laugh. He rounded the tree’s trunk and found a figure in a high-collared red coat—trimmed with gold—and fine brown trousers sitting on the tree’s exposed roots, the sack squirming near his ankles. Mat was chewing idly on a long length of jerky, and wore a broad-brimmed black hat. A black polearm with a broad blade at the top leaned against the tree beside him. Where had he gotten such fine clothing? Hadn’t he once complained about Rand wearing outfits like that?
“Mat?” Perrin asked, nearly too stunned to speak. “What are you doing here?”
“Catching badgers,” Mat said, shaking the sack. “Bloody hard to do, you know, particularly on short notice.”
The sack rustled and Perrin heard a faint growl from inside. He could smell that there was, indeed, something alive in that sack. “You actually caught one?”
“Call me nostalgic.”
Perrin didn’t know whether to chastise Mat or laugh at him—that particular mix of emotions was common when Mat was around. No colors, fortunately, spun in Perrin’s eyes now that they were near one another. Light, that would have been confusing. Perrin did feel a…rightness, however.
The long-limbed man smiled, setting the sack down and standing, offering a hand. Perrin took it, but pulled Mat into a hearty hug.
“Light, Mat,” Perrin said. “It seems like it’s been forever!”
“A lifetime,” Mat said. “Maybe two. I lose count. Anyway, Caemlyn already is buzzing with news of your arrival. Figured the only way to get in a word of welcome was to slip through that gateway and find you before everyone else.” Mat picked up his spear and rested it on his shoulder, blade to the back.
“What have you been doing? Where have you been? Is Thom with you? What about Nynaeve?”
“So many questions,” Mat said. “How safe is this camp of yours?”
“Safe as any place.”
“Not safe enough,” Mat grew solemn. “Look, Perrin, we’ve got some mighty dangerous folks after us. I came because I wanted to warn you to take extra care. Assassins will find you soon enough, and you’d best be ready for them. We need to catch up. But I don’t want to do it here.”
“Where, then?”
“Meet me in an inn called The Happy Throng, in Caemlyn. Oh, and if you don’t mind, I’ll be wanting to borrow one of those black-coated fellows of yours for a few shakes. Need a gateway.”
“For what purpose?”
“I’ll explain. But later.” Mat tipped his hat, turning to jog back toward the still-open gateway to Caemlyn. “Really,” he said, turning and jogging backward for a moment. “Be careful, Perrin.”
With that, he ducked past a few refugees and through the gateway. How had he gotten past Grady? Light! Perrin shook his head to himself, then bent to untie the sack and ease the poor badger Mat had captured.
Chapter 45
A Reunion
Elayne woke in her bed, bleary-eyed. “Egwene?” she said, disoriented. “What?”
The last memories of the dream were dissolving like honey consumed by warm tea, but Egwene’s words remained firm in Elayne’s mind. The serpent has fallen, Egwene had sent. Your brother’s return was timely.
Elayne sat up, feeling a surge of relief. She had spent the entire night trying to channel enough to make her dream ter’angreal work, to no avail. When she’d found out that Birgitte had turned away Gawyn—while Elayne sat inside, furious but unable to attend the meeting with Egwene—she’d been livid.
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