The Shadow Rising (The Wheel of Time 4)

tairs held swords all jumbled together, most without scabbards and no two alike. Every attic within five miles must have been turned out for relics dust-covered for generations. Perrin would not have suspected there were five swords in the whole Two Rivers. Before the Whitecloaks and Trollocs came, anyway.

Gaul took a place off to one side, near the stairs that led up to the inn’s rooms and the al’Veres’ living quarters, watching Perrin but plainly aware of Verin and every move she made. On the other side of the room, watching Faile and all else, the two Maidens cradled their spears in the crook of an elbow and took a hipshot stance that seemed at once casual and yet balanced on the toes. The three young fellows who had carried Perrin in shifted their feet by the door, staring at him and the Aes Sedai and the Aiel with equally wide eyes. That was all.

“The others,” Perrin said. “They need—”

“They will be taken care of,” Verin interrupted smoothly, seating herself at another table. “They will want to be with their families. Much better to have loved ones close.”

Perrin felt a stab of pain—the graves below the apple trees flashed in his mind—but he pushed it down. Take care of the living, he reminded himself harshly. The Aes Sedai brought out her pen and ink and began making notes in that small book in a precise hand. He wondered whether she cared how many Two Rivers folk died, so long as he lived, to be used in the White Tower’s plans for Rand.

Faile squeezed his hand, but it was to the Aes Sedai that she spoke. “Should we not take him up to a bed?”

“Not yet,” Perrin told her irritably. Verin looked up and opened her mouth, and he repeated in a firmer voice, “Not yet.” The Aes Sedai shrugged and went back to her note-taking. “Does anyone know where Loial is?”

“The Ogier?” one of the three by the door said. Dav Ayellin was stockier than Mat, but he had that same twinkle in his dark eyes. He had the same rumpled, uncombed look about him as Mat, too. In the old days, what little mischief Mat did not get up to, Dav did, though Mat usually led the way. “He’s out with the men clearing back the Westwood. You’d think we were cutting down his brother every time we cut a tree, but he clears three to anybody else’s one with that monstrous axe he had Master Luhhan make. If you want him, I saw Jaim Thane running to tell them you had come in. I’ll bet they all come to get a look at you.” Peering at the broken-off arrow, he winced and rubbed his own side in sympathy. “Does it hurt much?”

“It hurts enough,” Perrin said curtly. Coming to get a look at him. What am I, a gleeman? “What about Luc? I don’t want to see him, but is he here?”

“I’m afraid not.” The second man, Elam Dowtry, rubbed his long nose. Incongruous with his farmer’s wool coat and his cowlick, he wore a sword at his belt; the hilt had been freshly wrapped in rawhide and the leather scabbard flaked and peeling. “Lord Luc is off hunting the Horn of Valere, I think. Or maybe Trollocs.”

Dav and Elam were Perrin’s friends, or had been, companions in hunting and fishing, both his age near enough, but their thrilled grins made them seem younger. Either Mat or Rand could have passed for five years older at least. Maybe he could, too.

“I hope he comes back soon,” Elam went on. “He has been showing me how to use a sword. Did you know he’s a Hunter for the Horn? And a king, if he had his rights. Of Andor, I hear.”

“Andor has queens,” Perrin muttered absently, meeting Faile’s gaze, “not kings.”

“So he is not here,” she said. Gaul shifted slightly; he looked ready to go hunting for Luc, his eyes blue ice. It would not have surprised Perrin to see Bain and Chiad veil themselves on the spot.

“No,” Verin said vaguely, manifestly more intent on her notes than what she was saying. “Not that he hasn’t been a help sometimes, but he does have a way of causing trouble when he is here. Yesterday, before anyone knew what he was doing, he led a delegation out to meet a Whitecloak patrol and told them Emond’s Field was closed to them. He apparently told them not to come within ten miles. I cannot approve of Whitecloaks, but I do not suppose they took that very well. Not wise to antagonize them more than is strictly necessary.” Frowning at what she had written, she rubbed her nose, seemingly unaware of leaving a smudge of ink.

Perrin did not much care how the Whitecloaks took anything. “Yesterday,” he breathed. If Luc had come back to the village yesterday, it was not likely he could have had anything to do with Trollocs being where they were not expected. The more Perrin thought about how that ambush turned around, the more he thought the Trollocs must have been expecting them. And the more he wanted to blame Luc. “Wanting won’t make a stone cheese,” he muttered. “But he still smells like cheese to me.”

Dav and the other two looked at each other doubtfully. Perrin supposed he must not seem to be making much sense.

“It was a bunch of Coplins, mainly,” the third fellow said in a startlingly deep voice. “Darl and Hari and Dag and Ewal. And Wit Congar. Daise gave him a fit over it.”

“I heard they all liked the Whitecloaks.” Perrin thought the bass-voiced fellow seemed familiar. He was younger than Elam and Dav by two or three years yet an inch taller, lean-faced but with wide shoulders.

“They did.” The fellow laughed. “You know them. They drift naturally toward anything that makes trouble for somebody else. Since Lord Luc has been talking, they’re all for marching up to Watch Hill and telling the Whitecloaks to get out of the Two Rivers. Anyway, they’re for somebody else marching up there. I think they mean to be well back in the pack.”

If that face had been pudgy, and half a foot or more nearer the ground … . “Ewin Finngar!” Perrin exclaimed. It could not be; Ewin was a stout, squeaky little nuisance who tried to crowd in whenever the older fellows got together. This lad would be as big as he was, or bigger, by the time he stopped growing. “Is that you?”

Ewin nodded with a broad grin. “We’ve been hearing all about you, Perrin,” he said in that surprising bass, “fighting Trollocs, and having all kinds of adventures out in the world, so they say. I can still call you Perrin, can’t I?”

“Light, yes!” Perrin barked. He was more than tired of this Goldeneyes business.

“I wish I’d gone with you last year.” Dav rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Coming home with Aes Sedai, and Warders, and an Ogier.” He made them sound like trophies. “All I ever do is herd cows and milk cows, herd cows and milk cows. That and hoe, and chop wood. You’ve had all the luck.”

“What was it like?” Elam put in breathlessly. “Alanna Sedai said you’ve been all the way to the Great Blight, and I hear you’ve seen Caemlyn, and Tear. What’s a city like? Are they really ten times as big as Emond’s Field? Did you see a palace? Are there Darkfriends in the cities? Is the Blight really full of Trollocs and Fades and Warders?”

“Did a Trolloc give you that scar?” Voice like a bull or not, Ewin managed a sort of squeaky excitement. “I wish I had a scar. Did you see a queen? Or a king? I think I’d rather see a queen, but a king would be grand. What is the White Tower like? Is it as big as a palace?”

Faile smiled, amused, but Perrin blinked at the onslaught. Had they forgotten the Trollocs on Winternight, forgotten the Trollocs in the countryside right then? Elam clutched his sword hilt as if he wanted to be off for the Blight on the instant, and Dav was up on his toes, eyes gleaming, and Ewin looked ready to grab Perrin’s collar. Adventure? They were idiots. Yet there were hard times coming, harder than the Two Rivers had seen so far, he was afraid. It could not hurt if they had a little while longer before they learned the truth.

His side hurt, but he tried to answer. They seemed disappointed he had never seen the White Tower, or a king or a queen. He thought Berelain might suffice for a queen, but with Faile there he was not about to mention her. Some other things he shied away from: Falme, and the Eye of the World, the Forsaken, Callandor. Dangerous subjects, those, leading inevitably to the Dragon Reborn. He could tell them a little of Caemlyn, though, and Tear, of the Borderlands and the Blight. It was odd what they accepted and what not. The corrupted landscape of the Blight, seeming to rot while you looked at it, they ate up, and top-knotted Shienaran soldiers, and Ogier stedding where Aes Sedai could not wield the Power and Fades were reluctant to enter. But the size of the Stone of Tear, or the immensity of cities … .

About his own supposed adventures, he said, “Mainly I’ve just tried to keep from having my head split open. That’s what adventures are, that and finding a place to sleep for the night, and something to eat. You go hungry a lot having adventures, and sleep cold or wet or both.”

They did not like that very much, or appear to believe it any more than they believed that the Stone was as big as a small mountain. He reminded himself that he had known as little of the world before he left the Two Rivers. It did not help much. He had never been this wide-eyed. Had he? The common room seemed to be hot. He would have taken his coat off, but moving seemed too much effort.