“Perrin,” the Mayor said as he took a chair beside his wife, “no one believes you a Darkfriend. No one with any sense. There is no reason for you to let yourself be hanged.”

Faile nodded in fierce agreement, but Perrin ignored her. “I won’t be turned aside, Master al’Vere. The Whitecloaks want me, and if they do not get me, they might turn to the next Aybara they can find. Whitecloaks don’t need much to decide somebody is guilty. They are not pleasant people.”

“We know,” Mistress al’Vere said softly.

Her husband stared at his hands on the table. “Perrin, your family is gone.”

“Gone? You mean the farm is burned already?” Perrin’s fist tightened around the silver cup. “I hoped I was in time. I should have known better, I suppose. Too long before I heard. Maybe I can help my da and Uncle Eward rebuild. Who are they staying with? I want to see them first, at least.”

Bran grimaced, and his wife stroked his shoulder comfortingly. But strangely her eyes stayed on Perrin, all sadness and comfort.

“They are dead, my boy,” Bran said in a rush.

“Dead? No. They can’t be—” Perrin frowned as wetness suddenly slopped over his hand, stared at the crumpled cup as though wondering where it had come from. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He pulled at the flattened silver, trying to force it back out with his fingers. That would not work. Of course not. Very carefully, he put the ruined cup in the middle of the table. “I will replace it. I can—” He wiped his hand on his coat, and suddenly found he was caressing the axe hanging at his belt. Why was everyone looking at him so oddly? “Are you sure?” His voice sounded far away. “Adora and Deselle? Paet? My mother?”

“All of them,” Bran told him. “Your aunts and uncles, too, and your cousins. Everybody on the farm. I helped bury them, my boy. On that low hill, the one with the apple trees.”

Perrin stuck his thumb in his mouth. Fool thing to do, cutting himself on his own axe. “My mother likes apple blossoms. The Whitecloaks. Why would they—? Burn me, Paet was only nine. The girls … .” His voice was very flat. He thought he should have had some emotion in those words. Some emotion.

“It was Trollocs,” Mistress al’Vere said quickly. “They have come back, Perrin. Not the way they did when you went away, not attacking the village, but out in the countryside. Most farms without close neighbors have been abandoned. No one goes outside at night, even near to the village. It is the same down to Deven Ride and up to Watch Hill, maybe to Taren Ferry. The Whitecloaks, bad as they are, are our only real protection. They’ve saved two families that I know, when Trollocs attacked their farms.”

“I wished—I hoped—” He could not quite remember what it was he had wished. Something about Trollocs. He did not want to remember. The Whitecloaks protecting the Two Rivers? It was almost enough to make him laugh. “Rand’s father. Tam’s farm. Was that Trollocs, too?”

Mistress al’Vere opened her mouth, but Bran cut her off. “He deserves the truth, Marin. That was Whitecloaks, Perrin. That, and the Cauthon place.”

“Mat’s people too. Rand’s, and Mat’s, and mine.” Strange. He sounded as if he were talking about whether it might rain. “Are they dead, too?”

“No, my boy. No, Abell and Tam are hiding in the Westwood somewhere. And Mat’s mother and sisters … . They’re alive, too.”

“Hiding?”

“There is no need to go into that,” Mistress al’Vere said briskly. “Bran, bring him another cup of brandy. And you drink this one, Perrin.” Her husband sat where he was, but she only frowned at him and went on. “I would offer you a bed, but it isn’t safe. Some people are like as not to run off hunting for Lord Bornhald if they find out you are here. Eward Congar and Hari Coplin fawn after the Whitecloaks like heel-hounds, eager to please and name names, and Cenn Buie isn’t much better. And Wit Congar will carry tales, too, if Daise doesn’t stop him. She is the Wisdom, now. Perrin, it is best for to go. Believe me.”

Perrin shook his head slowly; it was too much to take in. Daise Congar the Wisdom? The woman was like a bull. Whitecloaks protecting Emond’s Field. Hari and Eward and Wit cooperating. Not much more could be expected from Congars or Coplins, but Cenn Buie was on the Village Council. Lord Bornhald. So Geofram Bornhald was there. Faile was watching him, her eyes large and moist. Why should she be on the edge of tears?

“There is more, Brandelwyn al’Vere,” Gaul said. “Your face says so.”

“There is,” Bran agreed. “No, Marin,” he added firmly when she gave a small shake of her head. “He deserves the truth. The whole truth.” She folded her hands with a sigh; Marin al’Vere very nearly always got her way—except when Bran’s face was set, as now, with his eyebrows drawn down hard as a plow.

“What truth?” Perrin asked. His mother liked apple blossoms.

“First off, Padan Fain is with the Whitecloaks,” Bran said. “He calls himself Ordeith now, and he won’t answer to his own name at all, but it’s him, stare down his nose as he will.”

“He’s a Darkfriend,” Perrin said absently. Adora and Deselle always put apple blossoms in their hair in the spring. “Admitted from his own mouth. He brought the Trollocs, on Winternight.” Paet liked to climb in the apple trees; he would throw apples at you from the branches if you did not watch him.

“Is he, now,” the Mayor said grimly. “Now, that is interesting. He has some authority with the Whitecloaks. The first we heard they were here was after they burned Tam’s farm. That was Fain’s work; he led the Whitecloaks that did it. Tam feathered four or five of them with arrows before he made it to the woods, and he reached the Cauthon farm in the nick to stop them taking Abell. But they arrested Natti and the girls. And Haral Luhhan, and Alsbet, too. I think Fain might have hung them, except Lord Bornhald wouldn’t allow it. Not that he let them go, either. They haven’t been harmed, as far as I can discover, but they’re being held in the Whitecloak camp up at Watch Hill. For some reason, Fain has a hate for you, and Rand, and Mat. He’s offered a hundred pieces of gold for anyone related to the three of you; two hundred for Tam or Abell. And Lord Bornhald seems to have some interest in you, especially. When a Whitecloak patrol comes here, he usually comes, too, and asks questions about you.”

“Yes,” Perrin said. “Of course. He would.” Perrin of the Two Rivers, who ran with wolves. Darkfriend. Fain could have told them the rest. Fain, with the Children of the Light? It was a distant thought. Better than thinking about Trollocs, though. He grimaced at his hands, made them be still on the table. “They protect you from the Trollocs.”

Marin al’Vere leaned toward him, frowning. “Perrin, we need the Whitecloaks. Yes, they burned Tam’s farm, and Abell’s, they’ve arrested people, and they stamp around as if they own everything they see, but Alsbet and Natti and the rest are unharmed, only held, and that can be straightened out somehow. The Dragon’s Fang has been scrawled on a few doors, but nobody except the Congars and Coplins pay any mind, and they’re likely the ones who did the scrawling. Tam and Abell can stay in hiding until the Whitecloaks go. They have to go sooner or later. But as long as there are Trollocs here, we do need them. Please understand. It isn’t that we would not rather have you than them, but we need them and we don’t want them to hang you.”

“You call this being protected, roofmistress?” Bain said. “If you ask the lion to protect you from wolves, you have only chosen to end in one belly instead of another.”

“Can you not protect yourselves?” Chiad added. “I have seen Perrin fight, and Mat Cauthon, and Rand al’Thor. They are the same blood as you.”

Bran sighed heavily. “We are farmers, simple people. Lord Luc talks of organizing men to fight the Trollocs, but that means leaving your family unprotected while you go off with him, and no one much likes that idea.”

Perrin was confused. Who was Lord Luc? He asked as much, and Mistress al’Vere answered.

“He came about the time the Whitecloaks did. He’s a Hunter of the Horn. You know the story, The Great H

unt of the Horn? Lord Luc thinks the Horn of Valere is somewhere in the Mountains of Mist above the Two Rivers. But he gave over his hunt because of our problems. Lord Luc is a great gentleman, with the finest manners.” Smoothing her hair, she gave an approving smile; Bran looked at her sideways and grunted sourly.

Hunters of the Horn. Trollocs. Whitecloaks. The Two Rivers hardly seemed the same place he had left. “Faile is a Hunter of the Horn, too. Do you know this Lord Luc, Faile?”

“I have had enough,” she announced. Perrin frowned as she stood and came around the table to him. Seizing his head, she pulled his face into her midriff. “Your mother is dead,” she said quietly. “Your father is dead. Your sisters are dead, and your brother. Your family is dead, and you cannot change it. Certainly not by dying yourself. Let yourself grieve. Don’t hold it inside where it can fester.”

He took her by the arms, meaning to move her, but for some reason his hands tightened till that grip was the only thing holding him up. It was only then that he realized he was crying, sobbing into her dress like a baby. What must she think of him? He opened his mouth to tell her he was all right, to apologize for breaking down, but what came out was, “I couldn’t get here any faster. I couldn’t—I—” He gritted his teeth to shut himself off.

“I know,” she murmured, stroking his hair for all the world as if he were a child. “I know.”

He wanted to stop, but the more she whispered understanding, the more he wept, as though her hands soft on his head were smoothing the tears out of him.

CHAPTER 30

Beyond the Oak

With Faile holding his head beneath her breasts, Perrin lost track of how long he cried. Images of his family flashed in his thoughts, his father smiling as he showed him how to hold a bow, his mother singing while she spun wool, Adora and Deselle teasing him when he shaved the first time, Paet wide-eyed at a gleeman during Sunday long ago. Pictures of graves, cold and lonely in a row. He wept until there were no more tears in him. When he finally pulled back, the two of them were alone except for Scratch, washing himself atop the ale barrel. He was glad the others had not remained to watch him. Faile was bad enough. In a way he was glad she had stayed; he only wished she had not seen or heard.

Taking his hands in hers, Faile sat in the next chair. She was so beautiful, with her slightly tilted eyes, large and dark, and her high cheekbones. He did not know how he was going to be able to make up to her for the way he had treated her these last few days. No doubt she would find a means to make him pay for it.

“Have you given up the notion of surrendering to the Whitecloaks?” she asked. There was no hint in her voice that she had just watched him cry like a baby.

“It seems it wouldn’t do any good. They’ll be after Rand’s father, and Mat’s, whatever I do. My family … .” He quickly loosened his grip on her hands, but she smiled instead of wincing. “I have to get Master Luhhan and his wife free, if I can. And Mat’s mother and sisters; I promised him I would look after them. And do what I can about the Trollocs.” Maybe this Lord Luc had some ideas. At least the Waygate was blocked; no more would come through the Ways. He especially wanted to do something about the Trollocs. “I can’t manage any of that if I let them hang me.”

“I am very glad you see that,” she told him dryly. “Any more fool notions about sending me away?”

“No.” He braced himself for the storm, but she simply nodded as if the one word were what she expected and all she wanted. A small thing, nothing worth arguing over. She was going to make him pay large.

“We are five, Perrin, six if Loial is willing. And if we can find Tam al’Thor and Abell Cauthon … . Are they as good with a bow as you?”

“Better,” he said truthfully. “Much better.”

She gave him a slight, disbelieving nod. “That will make eight. A beginning. Maybe others will join us. And then there’s Lord Luc. He will probably want to take charge, but if he’s not a crackbrain, it won’t matter. Not everyone who took the Hunter’s Oath is sensible, though. I’ve met some who think they know everything, and are stubborn as mules besides.”

“I know.” She looked at him sharply, and he managed to keep the smile off his face. “That you’ve met some like that, I mean. I saw a pair of them once, remember.”

“Oh, them. Well, we can hope Lord Luc is not a boasting liar.” Her eyes became intent, and her grip tightened on his hands, not uncomfortably, but as though she was trying to add her strength to his. “You will want to visit your family’s farm, your home. I will come with you, if you will let me.”

“When I can, Faile.” Not now, though. Not yet. If he looked at those graves below the apple trees now … . It was strange. He had always taken his own strength for granted, and now it turned out that he was not strong at all. Well, he was done with weeping like a babe. It was past time to be doing something. “First things first. Finding Tam and Abell, I suppose.”

Master al’Vere put his head into the common room, and came the rest of the way when he saw them sitting apart. “There is an Ogier in the kitchen,” he told Perrin with a bemused look. “An Ogier. Drinking tea. The biggest cup looks … .” He held two fingers as though gripping a thimble. “Maybe Marin could pretend Aiel walk in here every day, but she nearly fainted when she saw this Loial. I gave her a double tot of brandy, and she tossed it down like water. Nearly coughed herself to death; she doesn’t take more than wine, usually. I think she’d have drunk another, if I’d given it to her.” He pursed his lips and affected an interest in a nonexistent spot on his long white apron. “Are you all right now, my boy?”

“I’m fine, sir,” Perrin said hastily. “Master al’Vere, we cannot remain here much longer. Someone might tell the Whitecloaks you sheltered me.”

“Oh, there are not many would do that. Not all the Coplins, and not some of the Congars, even.” But he did not suggest they stay.

“Do you know where I can find Master al’Thor and Master Cauthon?”

“In the Westwood somewhere, usually,” Bran said slowly. “That’s all I know for sure. They move about.” Locking his fingers over his broad belly, he tilted his gray-fringed head to one side. “You aren’t leaving, are you? Well. I told Marin you would not, but she doesn’t believe me. She thinks it best for you to go away—best for you—and like most women she’s sure you will see things her way if she talks long enough.”

“Why, Master al’Vere,” Faile said sweetly, “I for one have always found men to be sensible creatures who only need to be shown the wisest path once to choose it.”

The Mayor favored her with an amused smile. “You will be talking Perrin into going then, I take it? Marin’s right; that is wisest, if he wants to avoid a noose. The only reason to stay is that sometimes a man can’t run. No? Well, no doubt you know best.” He ignored her sour look. “Come along, my boy. Let’s tell Marin the good news. Set your teeth and hold on to your intentions, because she won’t give up trying to shift you.”

In the kitchen, Loial and the Aiel were cross-legged on the floor. There was certainly no chair in the inn big enough for the Ogier. He sat with an arm resting on the kitchen table, tall enough sitting to look Marin al’Vere in the eye. Bran had exaggerated the smallness of the cup in Loial’s hands, though on second glance Perrin saw it was a white-glazed soup bowl.

Mistress al’Vere was still doing her best to pretend Aiel and Ogier were normal, bustling about with a tray of bread and cheese and pickles, making sure everyone ate, but her eyes did widen each time they landed on Loial, though he tried to put her at ease with compliments for her baking. His tufted ears twitched nervously whenever she looked at him, and she gave a little jump every time they did, then shook her head, the thick graying braid swaying vigorously. Given a few hours, they might send each other to bed with the shakes.

Loial heaved a deep bass sigh of relief at the sight of Perrin and set his cup—bowl—of tea on the table, but the next instant his broad face sagged sadly. “I am sorry to hear your loss, Perrin. I share

your grief. Mistress al’Vere …” His ears twitched wildly even without looking at her, and she gave another start. “ … has been telling me you will go, now there’s nothing to keep you here. If you wish it, I will sing to the apple trees before we leave.”

Bran and Marin exchanged startled looks, and the Mayor actually reamed at his ear with a finger.

“Thank you, Loial. I will appreciate that, when there’s time. But I have work to do before I can go.” Mistress al’Vere set the tray on the table with a sharp click and stared at him, but he kept on, laying out his plans, such as they were: Find Tam and Abell, and rescue the people the Whitecloaks held. He did not mention Trollocs, though he had vague plans there, too. Perhaps not so vague. He did not mean to leave while there was a Trolloc or Myrddraal alive in the Two Rivers. He fastened his thumbs behind his belt to keep from caressing his axe. “It won’t be easy,” he finished. “I will appreciate your company, but I will understand if you want to go. This isn’t your fight, and you have seen enough trouble through staying close to Emond’s Field folk. And you won’t write much of your book here.”

“Here or there, it is the same fight, I think,” Loial replied. “The book can wait. Perhaps I will have a chapter about you.”

“I said I would come with you,” Gaul put in without being asked. “I did not mean until the journey grew hard. I owe you blood debt.”

Bain and Chiad looked questioningly at Faile, and when she nodded, added their decisions to remain, too.

“Stubborn foolish,” Mistress al’Vere said, “the lot of you. Very likely you will all end up on gallows, if you live that long. You know that, don’t you?” When they only looked at her, she untied her apron and lifted it over her head. “Well, if you are foolish enough to stay, I suppose I had better show you where to hide.”

Her husband looked surprised at her sudden surrender, but he recovered quickly. “I thought perhaps the old sickhouse, Marin. No one ever goes there now, and I think it still has most of its roof.”