“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.

“What about Rand and Mat?” Ewin demanded. “If it’s all being hungry and getting rained on, why didn’t they come home, too?”

Tam and Abell had come in, Tam with a sword belted on over his coat and both men with bows—oddly, the sword looked right on Tam, farm coat or no—so he told it much as he had before, Mat gambling and carousing in taverns and chasing girls, and Rand in his fine coat with a pretty, yellow-haired girl on his arm. He made Elayne a lady, expecting they would never believe the Daughter-Heir of Andor, and was proved right when they expressed incredulity. Still, it all seemed satisfactory, the kind of thing they wanted to hear, and disbelief faded a bit when Elam pointed out that Faile was a lady and seemed to be dancing attendance on Perrin pretty sharp. That made Perrin grin; he wondered what they would say if he told them she was cousin to a queen.

Faile no longer appeared to be amused for some reason. She turned on them with a stare to match Elayne’s haughtiest, stiff-backed and frosty-faced. “You have badgered him enough. He is wounded. Off with you, now.”

For a wonder, they bowed clumsily—Dav made an awkward leg, looking a complete fool—and murmured hasty apologies—to her, not him!—and turned to go. Their departure was delayed by the arrival of Loial, stooping through the doorway with his shaggy hair brushing the transom. They stared at the Ogier almost as if seeing him for the first time—then glanced at Faile and hurried on their way. That cold, lady’s stare of hers did work.

When Loial straightened, his head c

ame just short of the ceiling. His capacious coat pockets bore the usual squared bulges of books, but he carried a huge axe. Its haft stood as tall as he did, and its head, shaped like a wood-axe, was at least as big as Perrin’s battle-axe. “You are hurt,” he boomed as soon as his eyes fell on Perrin. “They told me you had returned, but they did not say you were hurt, or I would have come faster.”

The axe gave Perrin a start. Among Ogier, “putting a long handle on your axe” meant being hasty, or angry—Ogier seemed to see the two as much the same thing for some reason. Loial did look angry, tufted ears drawing back, frowning so his dangling eyebrows hung down on his broad cheeks. At having to cut trees, no doubt. Perrin wanted to get him alone and find out if he had seen anything more concerning Alanna’s doings. Or Verin’s. He rubbed his face and was surprised to find it dry; he felt as if he should be sweating.

“He is also stubborn,” Faile said, turning on Perrin with the same commanding look she had used on Dav and Elam and Ewin. “You should be in a bed. Where is Alanna, Verin? If she is to Heal him, where is she?”

“She will come.” The Aes Sedai did not look up. She was back into her little book again, frowning thoughtfully, pen poised.

“He should still be in a bed!”

“I will have time for that later,” Perrin said firmly. He smiled at her to soften it, but all that did was make her look worried and mutter “stubborn” under her breath. He could not ask Loial about the Aes Sedai in front of Verin, but there was something else at least as important. “Loial, the Waygate is unlocked, and Trollocs coming through. How can that be?”

The Ogier’s brows sank even deeper, and his ears wilted. “My fault, Perrin,” he rumbled mournfully. “I put both Avendesora leaves on the outside. That locked the Waygate on the inside, but from the outside, anyone could still open it. The Ways have been dark for long generations, yet we grew them. I could not bring myself to destroy the Gate. I am sorry, Perrin. It is all my fault.”

“I did not believe a Waygate could be destroyed,” Faile said.

“I did not mean destroy, exactly.” Loial leaned on his long-handled axe. “A Waygate was destroyed once, less than five hundred years after the Breaking, according to Damelle, daughter of Ala daughter of Soferra, because the Gate was near a stedding that had fallen to the Blight. There are two or three Gates lost in the Blight as it is. But she wrote that it was very difficult, and required thirteen Aes Sedai working together with a sa’angreal. Another attempt she wrote of, by only nine, during the Trolloc Wars, damaged the Gate in such a way that the Aes Sedai were pulled into—” He cut off, ears wriggling with embarrassment, and knuckled his wide nose. Everyone was staring at him, even Verin and the Aiel. “I do let myself be carried away, sometimes. The Waygate. Yes. I cannot destroy it, but if I remove both Avendesora leaves completely, they will die.” He grimaced at the thought. “The only means of opening the Gate again will be for the Elders to bring the Talisman of Growing. Though I suppose an Aes Sedai could cut a hole in it.” This time he shuddered. Damaging a Waygate must have seemed like tearing up a book to him. A moment later, he was grim-faced once more. “I will go now.”

“No!” Perrin said sharply. The arrowhead seemed to throb, but it did not really hurt anymore. He was talking too much; his throat was dry. “There are Trollocs up there, Loial. They can fit an Ogier into a cookpot as well as a human.”

“But, Perrin, I—”

“No, Loial. How are you going to write your book if you go off and get yourself killed?”

Loial’s ears twitched. “It is my responsibility, Perrin.”

“The responsibility is mine,” Perrin said gently. “You told me what you were doing with the Waygate, and I didn’t suggest anything different. Besides, the way you jump every time your mother is mentioned, I don’t want her coming after me. I will go, as soon as Alanna Heals this arrow out of me.” He wiped his forehead, then frowned at his hand. Still no sweat. “Can I have a drink of water?”

Faile was there in an instant, her cool fingers where his hand had been. “He is burning up! Verin, we cannot wait for Alanna. You must—!”

“I am here,” the dark Aes Sedai announced, appearing from the door at the back of the common room, Marin al’Vere and Alsbet Luhhan at her heels, and Ihvon right behind them. Perrin felt the tingle of the Power before Alanna’s hand replaced Faile’s, and she added in a cool, serene voice, “Carry him into the kitchen. The table there is large enough to lay him out. Quickly. There is not much time.”

Perrin’s head spun, and abruptly he realized Loial had leaned his axe beside the door and picked him up, cradling him in his arms. “The Waygate is mine, Loial.” Light, I’m thirsty. “My responsibility.”

The arrowhead truly did not seem to hurt as much as it had, but he ached all over. Loial was carrying him somewhere, bending through doorways. There was Mistress Luhhan, biting her lip, eyes squinched as if about to cry. He wondered why. She never cried. Mistress al’Vere looked worried, too.

“Mistress Luhhan,” he murmured, “Mother says I can come be apprenticed to Master Luhhan.” No. That was a long time ago. That was … . What was? He could not seem to remember.

He was lying on something hard, listening to Alanna speak. “ … barbs are caught on bone as well as flesh, and the arrowhead has twisted. I must realign it with the first wound and pull it out. If the shock does not kill him, I can then Heal the damage I have done as well as the rest. There is no other way. He is near the brink now.” Nothing to do with him.

Faile smiled down at him tremulously, her face upside down. Had he really once thought her mouth was too wide? It was just right. He wanted to touch her cheek, but Mistress al’Vere and Mistress Luhhan were holding his wrists for some reason, leaning with all their weight. Someone was lying across his legs, too, and Loial’s big hands swallowed his shoulders, pressing them flat to the table. Table. Yes. The kitchen table.

“Bite down, my heart,” Faile said from far away. “It will hurt.”

He wanted to ask her what would hurt, but she was pressing a leather-wrapped stick into his mouth. He smelled the leather and the spicewood and her. Would she come hunting with him, running across the endless grassy plains after endless herds of deer? Icy cold shivered through him; vaguely he recognized the feel of the One Power. And then there was pain. He heard the stick snap between his teeth before blackness covered everything.

CHAPTER 44

The Breaking Storm

Perrin opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the plain white plastered ceiling. It took a moment to realize he was in a four-posted bed, lying on a feather mattress with a blanket over him and a goose-down pillow under his head. A myriad of scents danced in his nose; the feathers and the wool of the blanket, a goose roasting, bread and honeycakes baking. One of the Winespring Inn’s rooms. With unmistakable bright morning light streaming in at the white-curtained windows. Morning. He fumbled at his side. Unbroken skin met his fingers, but he felt weaker than at any time since being shot. A small enough price, though, and a fair enough exchange. His throat felt parched, too.

When he moved, Faile leaped up from a chair beside the small stone fireplace, tossing aside a red blanket and stretching. She had changed to a darker narrow-skirted riding dress, and wrinkles in the gray silk said she had slept in that chair. “Alanna said you needed sleep,” she said. He reached toward the white pitcher on the small table beside the bed, and she hurriedly poured a cup of water and held it for him to drink. “You need to stay right here for another two or three days, until you have your strength back.”

The words sounded normal, except for an undercurrent he barely caught, a tightness at the corners of her eyes. “What is wrong?”

She replaced the cup carefully on the bedside table and smoothed her dress. “Nothing is wrong.” The taut underlying tone was even clearer.

“Faile, don’t lie to me.”

“I do not lie!” she snapped. “I will have some breakfast brought up to you, and you’re lucky I do th

at, calling me—”

“Faile.” He said her name as sternly as he could, and she hesitated, her most arrogant, chin-up glare changing to forehead-creasing worry and back again. He met her gaze straight on; she was not going to get away with any fine lady’s haughty tricks with him.

At last, she sighed. “I suppose you have a right to know. But you are still staying in that bed until Alanna and I say you can get up. Loial and Gaul are gone.”

“Gone?” He blinked in confusion. “What do you mean gone? They left?”

“In a way. The sentries saw them go, this morning at first light, trotting off into the Westwood together. None of them thought anything of it; certainly none tried to stop them, an Ogier and an Aiel. I heard of it less than an hour ago. They were talking about trees, Perrin. About how the Ogier sing to trees.”

“Trees?” Perrin growled. “It’s that bloody Waygate! Burn me, I told him not to … . They’ll get themselves killed before they reach it!”

Throwing off the blanket, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, wobbling to his feet. He had nothing on, he realized, not even his small-clothes. But if they expected to keep him caged under a blanket, they were sadly mistaken. He could see everything folded neatly on the tall-backed chair by the door, with his boots beside it and his axe hanging by its belt from a peg on the wall. Stumbling to his clothes, he began dressing as quickly as he could.

“What are you doing?” Faile demanded. “You put yourself back in that bed!” One fist on her hip, she pointed commandingly, as if her finger could transport him there.