The Gathering Storm

"This doesn't say for certain Elaida has Traveling," Romanda noted from inside the tent. "The Red sister could have gotten to Kandor by other means."

Ashmanaille shook her head. "They saw a gateway made. The chief clerk discovered an accounting error and sent a scribe out after Elaida's delegation to give them a few extra coins. The man described what he saw perfectly. The horses were riding through a black hole in the air. It stunned him so deeply that he called for the guard—but by then Elaida's people were already gone. I interrogated him myself."

"I dislike trusting the word of one man," said Moria, sitting near the front of the group.

"The chief clerk described in detail the woman who took the money from him," Ashmanaille said. "I am confident that it was Nesita. Perhaps we could discover if she is in the Tower? That would give us further proof."

Others raised objections, but Siuan ceased to listen closely. Perhaps this was a very clever ruse intended to distract them, but they couldn't take that chance. Light! Was she the only one with a head on her shoulders?

She grabbed the nearest novice, a mousy girl who was probably older than she looked—she'd have to be, since she looked no older than nine. "I need a courier," Siuan informed her. "Fetch one of the messengers Lord Bryne left at the camp for running news to him. Quickly."

The girl yelped, dashing away.

"What was that about?" Sheriam asked.

"Saving our lives," Siuan said, glaring at the crowding novices. "All right!" she growled. "Enough gawking! If your classes are postponed because of this fiasco, then find some work to do. Any novice still standing on this walkway in ten seconds will find herself doing penance until she can't count straight!"

That initiated a mass exodus of white, the families of women bustling away with hurried steps. In moments, only the small group of Accepted remained, along with Sheriam and Siuan. The Accepted cringed when Siuan glanced at them, but she said nothing. Part of the privilege of being an Accepted was increased freedom. Besides, as long as Siuan could move without bumping someone, she was satisfied.

"Why wasn't this meeting Sealed to the Flame in the first place?" she asked Sheriam.

"I don't know," Sheriam admitted, glancing into the large tent. "It's daunting news, if it's true."

"This was bound to occur eventually," Siuan said, though she was nowhere near that calm on the inside. "News of Traveling has to be spreading."

What happened? she thought. They didn't break Egwene, did they? Light send it wasn't her or Leane who was forced to give up this secret. Beonin. It had to be her. Burn it all!

She shook her head. "Light send that we can keep Traveling secret from the Seanchan. When they do assault the White Tower, we'll want at least that advantage."

fied with his inspection, Perrin walked down into the camp, passing through the Cairhienin tents on the way to his own tents, which were with the Two Rivers men.

He took his enhanced senses for granted, now. They had come along with the yellowing of his eyes. Most people around him didn't seem to notice those anymore, but he was starkly reminded of the contrast when he met anyone new. Many of the Cairhienin refugees, for instance, paused in their labors setting up tents. They watched him as he passed, whispering, "Goldeneyes."

He didn't much care for the name. Aybara was the name of his family, and he bore it proudly. He was one of the few who could pass it on. Trollocs had seen to that.

He shot a glance at a nearby group of the refugees, and they hastily turned back to pounding in tent stakes. As they did, Perrin passed a couple of Two Rivers men—Tod al'Caar and Jori Congar. They saw him and saluted, fists to hearts. To them, Perrin Goldeneyes wasn't a person to fear, but one to respect, although they did still whisper about that night he'd spent in Berelain's tent. Perrin wished he could escape the shadow of that event. The men were still enthusiastic and energized by their defeat of the Shaido, but it hadn't been too long ago that Perrin had felt he wasn't welcome among them.

Still, for the moment, these two seemed to have set aside that displeasure. Instead, they saluted. Had they forgotten that Perrin had grown up with them? What of the times when Jori had made sport of Perrin's slow tongue, or the times when he'd stopped by the forge to brag about which girls he'd managed to steal a kiss from?

Perrin just nodded back. No use in digging up the past, not when their allegiance to "Perrin Goldeneyes" had helped rescue Faile. Though, as he left them, his too-keen ears caught the two of them chatting about the battle, just a few days past, and their part of it. One of them still smelled like blood; he hadn't cleaned his boots. He probably didn't even notice the bloodstained mud.

Sometimes, Perrin wondered if his senses weren't actually any better than anyone else's. He took the time to notice things that others ignored. How could they miss that scent of blood? And the crisp air of the mountains to the north? It smelled of home, though they were many leagues from the Two Rivers. If other men took the time to close their eyes and pay attention, would they be able to smell what he did? If they opened those eyes and looked closer at the world around them, would men call their eyes "keen" as they did Perrin's?

No. That was just fancy. His senses were better; his kinship with the wolves had changed him. He hadn't thought of that kinship in a while— he'd been too focused on Faile. But he'd stopped feeling so self-conscious about his eyes. They were part of him. No use grumbling about them.

And yet, that rage he felt when he fought . . . that loss of control. It worried him, more and more. The first time he'd felt it had been that night, so long ago, fighting Whitecloaks. For a time, Perrin hadn't known if he was a wolf or a man.

And now—during one of his recent visits to the wolf dream—he'd tried to kill Hopper. In the wolf dream, death was final. Perrin had almost lost himself that day. Thinking of it awakened old fears, fears he'd shoved aside. Fears relating to a man, behaving like a wolf, locked in a cage.

He continued down the pathway to his tent, making some decisions. He'd pursued Faile with determination, avoiding the wolf dream as he'd avoided all of his responsibilities. He'd claimed that nothing else had mattered. But he knew that the truth was much more difficult. He'd focused on Faile because he loved her so much, but—in addition—he'd done so because it had been convenient. Her rescue had been an excuse to avoid things like his discomfort with leadership and the blurred truce between himself and the wolf inside of himself.

He had rescued Faile, but so many things were still wrong. The answers might lie in his dreams.

It was time to return.

CHAPTER 18

A Message in Haste