The Shadow Rising (The Wheel of Time 4)

“I mean to free the Luhhans and the Cauthons,” he told her angrily. “That’s all!” Except for the Trollocs. He let his head drop back against the bole of the leatherleaf and closed his eyes. “All I’m doing is what I have to do. The Two Rivers will stay right where it always has.”

“Of course,” Verin said.

He heard her moving away, her and Tomas, slipper and boots alike soft on ground strewn with last year’s leaves. He opened his eyes. Faile was staring after the pair, and not best pleased.

“She will not leave you alone,” she muttered. The plaited crown of heartsblush he had left on his saddle dangled from her hand.

“Aes Sedai never do,” he told her.

She turned on him with a challenging look. “I suppose you mean to try bringing them out tonight?”

It had to be done now. Because he had been passing his warning about, and folks knew who had told them. Maybe the Whitecloaks would not hurt their prisoners. Maybe. He trusted Whitecloak mercy as far as he could throw a horse. He glanced at Gaul, who nodded.

“Tam al’Thor and Abell Cauthon move well for wetlanders, but these Whitecloaks are too stiff to see everything that moves in the dark, I think. I think they expect their enemies to come in numbers, and where they can be seen.”

Chiad turned amused gray eyes on the Aielman. “Do you mean to move like wind then, Stone Dog? It will be diverting to see a Stone Dog try to move lightly. When my spear-sister and I have rescued the prisoners, perhaps we will go back for you, if you are too old to find your own way.” Bain touched her arm, and she looked at the flame-haired woman in surprise. After a moment, she flushed slightly under her tan. Both women shifted their eyes to Faile, who was still watching Perrin, her head up and her arms crossed now.

He took a long breath. If he told her he did not want her to come, Bain and Chiad almost certainly would not, either. They were still making a point of being with her, not him. Maybe Faile was, too. Perhaps he and Gaul could do it alone, but he could not see how to make her stay if she did not want to. Faile being Faile, she would just as likely sneak after them. “You will stay close to me,” he said firmly. “I want to rescue prisoners, not leave another behind.”

Laughing, she dropped down beside him, snuggling her shoulder under his arm. “Staying close to you sounds a fine idea.” She flipped the crown of red flowers onto his head, and Bain chuckled.

He rolled his eyes up; he could just see the edge of the thing hanging over his forehead. He must look a fool. He left it there, though.

The sun slid down as slowly as a bead in honey. Abell brought some bread and cheese—over half those would-be heroes had not brought anything to eat after all—and they ate and waited. Night came, lit by a moon already high but obscured by scurrying clouds. Perrin waited. Lights vanished in the Whitecloak camp, and in Watch Hill, too, leaving a sprinkling of glowing windows across the otherwise dark mound, and he gathered Tam and Faile and the Aiel around him. Everyone’s face was clear, to him. Verin stood close enough to listen. Abell and Tomas were with the other Two Rivers folk, keeping them quiet.

He felt a little odd giving instructions, so kept them simple. Tam was to have everyone ready to ride the moment Perrin returned with the prisoners. The Whitecloaks would be after them as soon as they discovered what was up, so a place to hide was needed. Tam knew one, an empty farmhouse in the edge of the Westwood.

“Try not to kill anybody, if you can manage it,” Perrin cautioned the Aiel. “The Whitecloaks will be hot enough at losing their prisoners. They’ll set the sun afire if they lose men, too.” Gaul and the Maidens nodded as if they looked forward to it. Strange people. They vanished into the night.

“Have a care,” Verin told him softly as he slung his bow across his back. “Ta’veren does not

mean immortal.”

“Tomas might be a help, you know.”

“Do you think one more would make a difference?” she said musingly. “Besides, I have other uses for him.”

Shaking his head, he moved out from the thicket, going to elbows and knees, almost flat to the ground, as soon as he was beyond the brush. Faile imitated him at his side. The grass and wildflowers stood high enough to screen them. He was glad she could not see his face. He was desperately afraid. Not for himself, but if anything happened to her … .

Like two more shifting moonshadows they crawled across the open ground, stopping at Perrin’s signal about ten paces from where guards paced up and down, cloaks gleaming in the moonlight, a little way out from the first row of tents. Two came face-to-face almost in front of them, stomping to a halt.

“All is well with the night,” one announced. “The Light illumine us, and protect us from the Shadow.”

“All is well with the night,” the other replied. “The Light illumine us, and protect us from the Shadow.”

Turning on their heels, they marched away, looking neither left nor right.

Perrin let each take a dozen paces, then touched Faile’s shoulder and rose, barely letting himself breathe. He could hardly hear her breathing, either. Almost tiptoeing, they hurried in among the tents, dropping low again as soon as they were past the first. Men snored inside, or muttered in their sleep. Except for that, the camp was silent. The tramp of the guards’ boots was plainly audible. The smell of doused cook fires hung in the air, the scents of canvas and horses and men.

Silently he motioned for Faile to follow him. Tent ropes made snares for unwary feet in the darkness. They were clear to him, though, and he wove a path through for them.

He had the location of the prisoners’ tent marked in his head, and he started toward it cautiously. Near the center of the camp. A long way there, and a long way back.

The crunch of boots on the ground and a grunt from Faile spun him around just in time to be knocked down by the rush of a big shape in a white cloak, a man as thick as Master Luhhan himself. Iron fingers dug into his throat as the two of them rolled. Perrin seized the man’s chin with one hand, forcing his head back, trying to push him off. Prying at the grip on his throat, he pounded at the fellow’s ribs with his fist, producing grunts and no other effect he could tell. Blood roared in his ears; his vision narrowed, black creeping in from the sides. He fumbled for his axe, but his fingers felt numb.

Suddenly the man jerked and collapsed atop him. Perrin pushed the limp form off himself and drew in deep lungfuls of sweet night air.

Faile tossed aside a chunk of firewood and rubbed the side of her head. “He did not think I was worth worrying about, beyond knocking down,” she whispered.