The hollow-cheeked man beside Bornhald was more than familiar. Perrin would never forget those deep-set eyes, like dark burning coals. Tall and gaunt and hard as an anvil, Jaret Byar truly did look at him with hate. Whether or not Bornhald was a zealot, Byar surely was.

Luc apparently had the sense not to try usurping Bran’s place—indeed, he appeared intent on examining the white-cloaked column as the dust settled, revealing more Children stretching up the road—to Perrin’s disgust, though Bran looked to him—to the blacksmith’s apprentice—waited for his nod before answering. He was the Mayor! Bornhald and Byar plainly took note of the silent exchange.

“Emond’s Field is not precisely closed to you,” Bran said, standing up straight with his spear propped out to one side. “We have decided to defend ourselves, and have this very morning. If you want to see our work, look there.” He pointed toward the smoke rising from the Trollocs’ pyres. A sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh drifted in the air, but no one except Perrin seemed to notice.

“You have killed a few Trollocs?” Bornhald said contemptuously. “Your luck and skill amaze me.”

“More than a few!” somebody called out of the Two Rivers crowd. “Hundreds!”

“We had a battle!” another voice cried, and dozens more shouted angrily on top of one another.

“We fought them and won!”

“Where were you?”

“We can defend ourselves without any Whitecloaks!”

“The Two Rivers!”

“The Two Rivers and Perrin Goldeneyes!”

“Goldeneyes!”

“Goldeneyes!”

Leof, who should have been over guarding the woodsmen, started waving that crimson wolfhead banner.

Bornhald’s hot-eyed hate took them all in, but Byar danced his bay gelding forward with a snarl. “Do you farmers think you know battle?” he roared. “Last night one of your villages was all but wiped out by Trollocs! Wait until they come at you in numbers, and you will wish your mother had never kissed your father!” He fell silent at a weary gesture from Bornhald, a fierce-trained dog obeying his master, but his words had quieted the Two Rivers people.

“Which village?” Bran’s voice was dignified and troubled both. “We all know people in Watch Hill, and Deven Ride.”

“Watch Hill has not been troubled,” Bornhald replied, “and I know nothing of Deven Ride. This morning a rider brought me word that Taren Ferry hardly exists any longer. If you have friends there, many people did escape across the river. Across the river.” His face tightened momentarily. “I myself lost nearly fifty good soldiers.”

The news produced a few queasy murmurs; no one liked to hear that sort of thing, but on the other hand, no one here knew anyone in Taren Ferry. Likely none of them had ever been that far.

Luc pushed his horse forward, the stallion snapping at Stepper. Perrin reined his own mount tightly before the two began fighting, but Luc appeared not to notice or care. “Taren Ferry?” he said in a flat voice. “Trollocs attacked Taren Ferry last night?”

Bornhald shrugged. “I said it, did I not? It seems that the Trollocs have at last decided to raid the villages. How providential that you here were warned in time to prepare these fine defenses.” His stare ran over the pointed hedge and the men behind it before settling on Perrin.

“Was the man called Ordeith at Taren Ferry last night?” Luc asked.

Perrin stared at him. He had not known Luc even knew of Padan Fain, or the name he used now. But people did talk, especially when someone they knew as a peddler came back with authority among Whitecloaks.

Bornhald’s reaction was as strange as the question. His eyes glittered a hate as strong as he had shown for Perrin, but his face went pale, and he scrubbed at slack lips with the back of his hand as though he had forgotten he wore steel-backed gauntlets. “You know Ordeith?” he said, leaning toward Luc in his saddle.

It was Luc’s turn to shrug casually. “I have seen him here and there since coming to the Two Rivers. A disreputable-looking man, and those who follow him no less. The sort who might have been careless enough to allow a Trolloc attack to succeed. Was he there? If so, one can hope he died for his folly. If not, one hopes you have him here with you, close under your eye.”

“I do not know where he is,” Bornhald snapped. “Or care! I did not come here to talk of Ordeith!” His horse pranced nervously as Bornhald flung out a hand, pointing at Perrin. “I arrest you as a Darkfriend. You will be taken to Amador, and there tried under the Dome of Truth.”

Byar stared at his Captain in disbelief. Behind the barrier separating the Whitecloaks from the Two Rivers men, angry mutters rose, spears and bills were hefted, bows raised. The farther Whitecloaks began spreading out in a gleaming line under shouted orders from a fellow as big in his armor as Master Luhhan, sliding lances into holders along their saddles, unlimbering short horsebows. At that range they could do little more than cover the escape of Bornhald and the men with him, if they did indeed manage an escape, but Bornhald appeared oblivious of any danger, and of anything at all save Perrin.

“There will be no arrests,” Bran said sharply. “We have decided that. No more arrests without proof of some crime, and proof we believe. You’ll never show me anything to convince me Perrin is a Darkfriend, so you might as well put your hand down.”

“He betrayed my father to his death at Falme,” Bornhald shouted. Rage shook him. “Betrayed him to Darkfriends and Tar Valon witches who murdered a thousand of the Children with the One Power!” Byar nodded vigorously.

Some of the Two Rivers folk shifted uncertainly; word had spread of what Verin and Alanna had done that morning, and the deeds had grown in spreading. Whatever they thought about Perrin, a hundred tales of Aes Sedai, almost all wrong, made for easy belief in Aes Sedai destroying a thousand Whitecloaks. And if they believed that, they might come to believe the rest.

“I betrayed no one,” Perrin said in a loud voice, so everyone could hear. “If your father died at Falme, those who killed him are called the Seanchan. I don’t know whether they are Darkfriends, but I do know they use the One Power in battle.”

“Liar!” Spittle flew from Bornhald’s lips. “The Seanchan are a tale concocted by the White Tower to hide their foul lies! You are a Darkfriend!”

Bran shook his head wonderingly, pushing his steel cap over to one side so he could scratch his fringe of gray hair. “I don’t know anything about these—Seanchan?—about these Seanchan. What I do know is that Perrin is no Darkfriend, and you are not arresting anybody.”

The situation was growing more dangerous by the minute, Perrin realized. Byar saw it and tugged at Bornhald’s arm, whispering to him, but the Whitecloak captain would not, or perhaps could not, back away now that he had Perrin in front of his eyes. Bran and the Two Rivers men had their heels planted, too; they might not be willing to let the Whitecloaks take him even if he confessed to everything Bornhald claimed. Unless someone tossed some water fast, everything was going to explode like a fistful of dry straw tossed on a forge-fire.

He hated having to think quickly. Loial had the right of it. Hasty thinking led to people being hurt. But he thought he saw a way here. “Are you willing to hold off my arrest, Bornhald? Until the Trollocs are done with? I won’t be going anywhere before then.”

“Why should I hold off?” The man was blind with hate. If he went on, a good many men were going to die, including him most likely, and he could not see. There was no use pointing it out.

“Haven’t you noticed all the farms burning this morning?” Perrin said instead. He made a sweeping gesture that took in all the dwindling plumes of smoke. “Look around. You said it yourself. The Trollocs aren’t content with raiding a farm or two each night anymore. They’re up to raiding villages. If you try to make it back to Watch Hill, you may not get there. You were lucky to come this far. But if you stay here, in Emond’s Field …” Bran rounded on him, and other men shouted loud noes; Faile rode close and seized his arm, but he ignored a

ll of them. “ … you will know where I am, and your soldiers will be welcome to help our defenses.”

“Are you sure about this, Perrin?” Bran said, grabbing Stepper’s stirrup, while from the other side Faile said urgently, “No, Perrin! It is too great a risk. You must not—I mean … please don’t—Oh, the Light burn me to bloody ash! You must not do this!”

“I won’t have men fighting men if I can stop it,” he told them firmly. “We are not going to do the Trollocs’ work for them.”

Faile practically flung his arm away. Scowling at Bornhald, she produced a sharpening stone from her pouch and a knife from somewhere, and began honing the blade with a silk-soft whisk-whisk.

“Hari Coplin won’t know what to think, now,” Bran said wryly. Straightening his round helmet, he turned back to the Whitecloaks and planted his spear butt. “You have heard his terms. Now hear mine. If you come into Emond’s Field, you arrest no one without the say-so of the Village Council, which you will not get, so you arrest no one. You don’t go into anybody’s house unless you are asked. You make no trouble, and you share in the defense where and when you’re asked. And I don’t want to so much as smell a Dragon’s Fang! Will you agree? If not, you can ride back as you came.” Byar stared at the round man as if a sheep had reared up on its hind legs and offered to wrestle.

Bornhald never took his eyes off Perrin. “Done,” he said at last. “Until the Trolloc threat is gone, done!” Wrenching his horse around, he galloped back toward the line of his men, snowy cloak billowing behind him.

As the Mayor ordered the wagons rolled aside, Perrin realized that Luc was looking at him. The fellow sat slumped easily in his saddle, a languorous hand on his sword hilt, blue eyes amused.

“I thought you would object,” Perrin said, “the way I hear you’ve been talking people up against the Whitecloaks.”

Luc spread his hands smoothly. “If these people want Whitecloaks among them, let them have Whitecloaks. But you should be careful, young Goldeneyes. I know something of taking an enemy into your bosom. His blade goes in quicker when he is close.” With a laugh, he pushed his stallion off through the crowd, back into the village.

“He is right,” Faile said, still stropping her knife on the stone. “Perhaps this Bornhald will keep his word not to arrest you, but what is to stop one of his men from putting a blade in your back? You should not have done this.”

“I had to,” he told her. “Better than doing the Trollocs’ work.”

The Whitecloaks were beginning to ride in, Bornhald and Byar at their head. Those two glared at him with unabated hatred, and the others, riding by in pairs … . Cold, hard eyes in cold, hard faces swung to regard him as they passed. They did not hate, but they saw a Darkfriend when they saw him. And Byar, at least, was capable of anything.

He had had to do it, but he thought maybe it would not be such a bad idea to let Dannil and Ban and the others follow him around the way they wanted to. He was not going to be able to sleep easy without somebody guarding his door. Guards. Like some fool lord. At least Faile would be happy. If only he could make them lose that banner somewhere.

CHAPTER 46

Veils

The crowds were thick in the confined winding streets of the Calpene near the Great Circle; the smoke of countless cook fires rising above the high white walls gave the reason. Sour smells of smoke and cooking and long unwashed sweat hung heavy in the humid morning air with the crying of children and the vague murmurs that always clung to large masses of people, together enough to muffle the shrill caws of the gulls sailing overhead. The shops in this area had long since locked the iron grilles over their doors for good.

Disgusted, Egeanin threaded her way through the throng afoot. It was dreadful that order had broken down enough for penniless refugees to take over the circles, sleeping among the stone benches. It was as bad as their rulers letting them starve. Her heart should have been gladdened—this dispirited rabble could never resist the Corenne, and then proper order would be restored—but she hated looking at it.

Most of the ragged people around her seemed too apathetic to wonder at a woman in their midst in a clean, well-tended blue riding dress, silk if plainly cut. Men and women in once fine garb, soiled and wrinkled now, speckled the crowd, so perhaps she did not stand out enough for contrast. The few who seemed to wonder whether her clothes meant coins in her purse were dissuaded by the competent way she carried her stout staff, as tall as she was. Guards and chair and bearers had had to be left behind today. Floran Gelb would surely have realized he was being followed by that array. At least this dress with its divided skirts gave her a little freedom of movement.

Keeping the weasely little man in sight was easy even in this mass of people, despite having to dodge oxcarts or the occasional wagon, hauled by sweating bare-chested men more often than animals. Gelb and seven or eight companions, burly rough-faced men all, shoved through in a knot, an eddy of curses following them. Those fellows angered her. Gelb meant to try kidnapping again. He had found three women since she sent him the gold he had asked for, none more than casually resembling any on her list, and had whined over every one she rejected. She should never have paid him for that first woman he snatched off the street. Greed and the memory of gold had apparently washed out the hide-flaying tongue-lashing she had given him along with the purse.

Shouts from behind pulled her head around and tightened her hands on the staff. A small space had opened up, as it always did around trouble. A bellowing man in a torn, once-fine yellow coat was on his knees in the street, clutching his right arm where it bent the wrong way. Huddling over him protectively, a weeping woman in a tattered green gown was crying at a veiled fellow already melting into the crowd. “He only asked for a coin! He only asked!” The crowd swirled in around them again.

Grimacing, Egeanin turned back. And stopped with an oath that drew a few startled glances. Gelb and his fellows had vanished. Pushing her way to a small stone fountain where water gushed from the mouth of a bronze fish on the side of a flat-roofed wineshop, she roughly displaced two of the women filling pots and leaped up onto the coping, ignoring their indignant curses. From there she could see over the heads of the crowd. Cramped streets ran off in every direction, twisting around the hills. Bends and white-plastered buildings cut her view to less than a hundred paces at best, but Gelb could not have gone farther than that in those few moments.

Abruptly she found him, hiding in a deep doorway thirty paces on, but up on his toes to peer down the street. The others were easy enough to locate then, leaning against buildings to either side of the street, trying not to be noticed. They were not the only ones lining the walls, but where the rest huddled dispiritedly, their scared, broken-nosed faces held expectation.

So it was to be here, their abduction. Certainly no one would interfere, any more than people had when that fellow’s arm was broken. But who? If Gelb had finally found someone on the list, she could go away and wait for him to sell her the woman, wait her chance to see if an a’dam truly could hold other sul’dam besides Bethamin. However, she did not mean to face again the choice between slitting some unfortunate woman’s throat and sending her off to be sold.

There were plenty of women climbing up the street toward Gelb, most in those transparent veils, their hair braided. Without a second glance Egeanin ruled out two in sedan chairs, with bodyguards marching alongside; Gelb’s street toughs would not tangle with near their own number, nor face swords with their fists. Whoever they were after would have no more than two or three men for company if that, and none armed. That seemed to include all the other women in her view, whether in rags or drab country dresses or the more clinging styles Taraboner women favored.

Suddenly two of those women, talking together as they rounded a far bend, seized Egeanin’s eye. With their hair in slender braids and transparent veils across their faces, they appeared to be Taraboners, but they were out of place here. Those thin, scandalously draped dresses, one green, the other blue, were si

lk, not linen or finespun wool. Women clothed like that rode in sedan chairs; they did not walk, especially not here. And they did not carry barrel staves on their shoulders like clubs.

Dismissing the one with red-gold hair, she studied the other. Her dark braids were unusually long, nearly to her waist. At this distance, the woman looked very much like a sul’dam named Surine. Not Surine, though. This woman would have come no higher than Surine’s chin.

Muttering under her breath, Egeanin jumped down and began pushing through the jostling mass between her and Gelb. With luck she could reach him in time to call him off. The fool. The greedy, weasel-brained fool!

“We should have hired chairs, Nynaeve,” Elayne said again, wondering for the hundredth time how Taraboner women talked without catching the veils in their mouths. Spitting it out, she added, “We are going to have to use these things.”

A weedy-faced fellow stopped drifting toward them through the crowd when Nynaeve hefted her barrel stave threateningly. “That is what they are for.” Her glare might have encouraged the man’s loss of interest. She fumbled at the dark braids hanging over her shoulders and made a disgusted sound; Elayne did not know when she would become used to not having that one thick braid to tug. “And feet are for walking. How could we look or ask questions being carried around like pigs to sale? I would feel a complete fool in one of those idiot chairs. In any case, I’d rather trust to my own wits than men I do not know.”

Elayne was sure Bayle Domon could have provided trustworthy men. The Sea Folk certainly would have; she wished Wavedancer had not sailed, but the Sailmistress and her sister had been eager to spread word of the Coramoor to Dantora and Cantorin. Twenty bodyguards would have suited her very well.