A Crown of Swords (The Wheel of Time 7)

“Of course not,” Loial said stoutly. His ears twitched, and he peered uncomfortably at his axe. “There won’t be, will there, Perrin?”

Perrin shook his head. He did not know. If only the other Wise Ones would leave Feraighin alone, just for a few moments. What did they have to talk about that was so important?

“Women,” Gaul muttered, “are stranger than drunken wetlanders.”

“What?” Perrin said absently. What would happen should he simply push through the circle of Wise Ones?

As if she had read his mind Edarra gave him a pointed frown. So did some of the others; sometimes it did seem women could read men’s minds. Well . . .

“I said women are strange, Perrin Aybara. Chiad told me she would not lay a bridal wreath at my feet; she actually told me.” The Aielman sounded scandalized. “She said she would take me for a lover, her and Bain, but no more.” Another time that would have shocked Perrin, though he had heard it before; Aiel were incredibly . . . free . . . about such things. “As if I am not good enough for a husband.” Gaul snorted angrily. “I do not like Bain, but I would marry her to make Chiad happy. If Chiad will not make a bridal wreath, she should stop trying to entice me. If I cannot catch her interest well enough for her to marry me, she should let me go.”

Perrin frowned at him. The green-eyed Aielman was taller than Rand, nearly a head taller than he. “What are you talking about?”

“Chiad, of course. Have you not been listening? She avoids me, but every time I see her, she pauses long enough to make sure I have seen her. I do not know how you wetlanders do it, but with us, that is one of the ways a woman uses. When you least expect her, she is in your eyes, then gone. I did not even know she was with the Maidens until this morning.”

“You mean she’s here?” Perrin whispered. That icicle was back, now a blade, hollowing him out. “And Bain? Here, too?”

Gaul shrugged. “One is seldom far from the other. But it is Chiad’s interest I want, not Bain’s.”

“Burn their bloody interest!” Perrin shouted. The Wise Ones turned to look at him. In fact, people all over the hillside did. Kiruna and Bera were staring, faces entirely too thoughtful. With an effort he managed to lower his voice. He could do nothing about the intensity, though. “They were supposed to be protecting her! She’s in the city, in the Royal Palace, with Colavaere — with Colavaere! — and they were supposed to be protecting her.”

Scratching his head, Gaul looked at Loial. “Is this wetlander humor? Faile Aybara is out of short skirts.”

“I know she’s not a child!” Perrin drew a deep breath. It was very hard keeping a level tone with his belly full of acid. “Loial, will you explain to this . . . to Gaul, that our women don’t run around with spears, that Colavaere wouldn’t offer to fight Faile, she’d just order somebody to cut her throat or throw her off a wall or . . . ” The images were too much. He was going to empty his stomach in a moment.

Loial patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Perrin, I know you’re worried. I know how I’d feel if I thought anything happened to Erith.” The tufts on his ears quivered. He was a fine one to talk; he would run as hard as he could to avoid his mother and the young Ogier woman she had chosen for him. “Ah. Well. Perrin, Faile is waiting for you, safe and sound. I know it. And you know she can care for herself. Why, she could care for herself and you and me, and Gaul, as well.” His booming laugh sounded forced, and it quickly faded to grave seriousness. “Perrin . . . Perrin, you know you can’t always be there to protect Faile, however much you want to. You are ta’veren; the Pattern spun you out for a purpose, and it will use you for that purpose.”

“Burn the Pattern,” Perrin growled. “It can all burn, if it keeps her safe.” Loial’s ears went rigid with shock, and even Gaul looked taken aback.

What does that make me? Perrin thought. He had been scornful of those who scribbled and scrabbled for their own ends, ignoring the Last Battle and the Dark One’s shadow creeping over the world. How was he different from them?

Rand reined the black in beside him. “Are you coming?”

“I’m coming,” Perrin said bleakly. He had no answer for his own questions, but he knew one thing. To him, Faile was the world.

Chapter 4

Into Cairhien

* * *

Perrin would have set a harder pace than Rand did, though he knew the horses could not have stood it long. Half the time they rode at a trot, the other half ran alongside their animals. Rand seemed unaware of anyone else, except that he always had a hand for Min if she stumbled. For the rest, he was lost in some other world, blinking in surprise when he noticed Perrin, or Loial. Truth to tell, nobody was any better. Dobraine’s men and Havien’s stared straight ahead, chewing their own worries over what they would find. The Two Rivers men had soaked in Perrin’s dark mood. They liked Faile — truth be told, some worshipped her — and if she had been hurt in any way . . . Even Aram’s eagerness grew bleak once he realized that Faile might be in danger. Every man focused on the leagues before them, toward the city ahead. Except for the Asha’man, anyway; close behind Rand like a cluster of ravens, they studied the country the column crossed, still wary of an ambush. Dashiva slumped in his saddle like a sack, and muttered darkly to himself when he had to run; he glared as if he hoped there was an ambush.

Small chance of that. Sulin and a dozen Far Dareis Mai trotted ahead of the column in Perrin’s sight, with as many more farther ahead, probing the way, and an equal number on the flanks. Some had thrust their short spears into the harnesses that held their bow cases on their backs, so the spearheads bobbed above their heads; the short horn bows were out, arrows nocked. They kept equally sharp watch for anything that might threaten the Car’a’carn and on Rand himself, as though they suspected he might vanish again. If any trap waited, any danger approached, they would find it.

Chiad was one of the Maidens with Sulin, a tall woman with dark reddish hair and gray eyes. Perrin stared at her back, willing her to drop behind the others and speak to him. Now and then she spared him a glance, but she avoided him as if he had three diseases, all catching. Bain was not with the column; most of the Maidens followed much the same route with Rhuarc and the algai’d’siswai, but moving more slowly because of the wagons and prisoners.

Faile’s black mare trotted behind Stepper, her reins tied to his saddle. The Two Rivers men had brought Swallow from Caemlyn when they joined him before Dumai’s Wells. Every time he looked at the mare prancing along behind him, his wife’s face swelled in his thoughts, her bold nose and generous mouth, flashing dark eyes tilted above high cheekbones. She loved the animal, maybe almost as much as she did him. A woman as proud as she was beautiful, as fiery as she was proud. Davram Bashere’s daughter would not hide, or even hold her tongue, not for the likes of Colavaere.

Four times they stopped to rest the mounts, and he ground his teeth at the delay. Taking good care of horses was second nature to him; he checked Stepper absently, gave the stallion a little water by rote. Swallow he was more careful with. If Swallow reached Cairhien safely . . . A notion had planted itself in his mind. If he brought her mare to Cairhien, Faile would be all right. It was ludicrous, a boy’s fancy, a small boy’s foolish fancy, and it would not go away.

At each of those stops, Min tried to reassure him. With a bantering grin, she said he looked like death on a winter morning, just waiting for somebody to shovel his grave full. She told him if he approached his wife with a face like that, Faile would slam the door on him. But she had to admit that none of her viewings promised that Faile was unharmed.

“Light, Perrin,” she said at last in exasperated tones, snugging her gray riding gloves, “if anyone tries to harm the woman, she’ll make him wait out in the hall till she has time for him.” He very nearly growled at her. It was not that the two disliked each other, exactly.

Loial reminded Perrin that Hunters for the Horn could tak

e care of themselves, that Faile had survived Trollocs unscathed. “She is well, Perrin,” he boomed heartily, trotting beside Stepper with his long axe across his shoulders. “I know she is.” But he said the same twenty times, and each time he sounded a little less hearty.