Grady and Neald saluted again and strode out to the middle of the treeless area. Perrin had no idea which of them did what was necessary, but suddenly the now-familiar silvery vertical flash in the air rotated into a gateway not quite tall enough to ride through. Trees showed beyond the opening, not that much different from those on the surrounding hills. Grady strode through immediately, but even so he was nearly knocked down by Sulin and a small horde of veiled Maidens. They seemed to have taken the honor of being first through a gateway for themselves, and were not about to let anyone usurp it.
Foreseeing a hundred problems he had not thought of, Perrin led Stepper through into a land not so hilly. There was no clearing, but it was not so thickly treed as the hollow back in Cairhien, either. The scattered trees were taller, but just as sere, even the pines. He did not recognize much else except for oak and leatherleaf. The air seemed a little hotter.
Faile followed him, but when he turned to the left, she took Swallow right. Aram’s head swung worriedly between them until Perrin nodded toward his wife. The onetime Tinker hauled his gelding after her, but quick as he was, he was not before Bain and Chiad, still veiled, and, for all Perrin’s orders that the Two Rivers men were to be next, Selande and a good two dozen young Cairhienin and Tairens poured out of the gateway drawing their horses along. Two dozen! Shaking his head, Perrin stopped beside Grady, who turned this way and that, studying the sparse woodland.
Gaul came stalking up as Dannil finally began leading the Two Rivers men out at a run, pulling their horses. Those bloody banners appeared right behind Dannil, going up as soon as they were clear. The man ought to shave those fool mustaches.
“Women are beyond any belief,” Gaul muttered.
Perrin opened his mouth to defend Faile before he realized it must be Bain and Chiad the man was glaring at. To cover, he said, “Do you have a wife, Grady?”
“Sora,” Grady answered absently, his attention still on the surrounding trees. Perrin would have wagered he held the Power now, for sure. Anyone could see a long way in this, compared to any woods back home, but someone could still sneak up on you. “She’s missing me,” Grady went on, almost to himself. “You learn to recognize that one right off. I wish I knew why her knee hurts, though.”
“Her knee hurts,” Perrin said flatly. “Right this minute, it hurts.”
Grady seemed to realize he was staring, and Gaul was too. He blinked, but went right back to his study. “Forgive me, Lord Perrin. I need to keep a watch.” For a long moment he said nothing, then began slowly, “It’s something a fellow named Canler worked out. The M’Hael doesn’t like us trying to figure out things on our own, but once it was done . . . ” His slight grimace said perhaps Taim had not been all that easy about it even then. “We think maybe it’s something like the bond between Warders and Aes Sedai. Maybe one in three of us is married; anyway, that’s how many wives stayed instead of running off when they learned what their husbands were. This way, when you’re apart from her, you know she’s all right, and she knows you are. A man likes to know his wife’s safe.”
“That he does,” Perrin said. What was Faile up to with those fools? She was mounted on Swallow now, and they were all standing close around, looking up at her. He would not put it past her to leap into this ji’e’toh nonsense herself.
Seonid and Masuri glided behind the last of the Two Rivers men with the three Warders they had between them, and the Wise Ones right behind them, which was no surprise. They were along to keep an eye on the Aes Sedai. Seonid gathered her reins as if to mount, but Edarra said something in a low voice, pointing to a fat lopsided oak, and the two Aes Sedai looked at her, heads swiveling as one, then exchanged glances and led their horses to the tree. Matters would go a deal smoother if that pair was always so meek — well, not meek exactly; Seonid’s neck was stiff as a rod.
After that came the remounts, a herd of spare horses tied ten to a lead, under the watchful eyes of folk from Dobraine’s estates who supposedly knew what they were about. Perrin automatically picked out Stayer, on a lead by himself; the woman taking care of him better know what she was doing. A great many high-wheeled supply carts came through, drivers tugging the horses and shouting as if they feared the gateway might close on them — a great many because carts could not carry as much as wagons, and carts because a wagon and team would not fit through the gateway. It seemed neither Neald nor Grady could make one as big as Rand could, or Dashiva.
When the last cart finally trundled out on a squealing axle, Perrin considered ordering the gateway closed right then, but Neald was the man holding the thing open, and him on the other side of it back in Cairhien. A moment later, it was too late.
Berelain strode through leading a mare as white as Swallow was black, and he offered up small thanks that her gray riding dress had a neck right to her chin. On the other hand, from the waist up, it fit as snugly as any Taraboner dress. Perrin groaned. With her came Nurelle and Bertain Gallenne, the Lord Captain of her Winged Guards, a gray-haired fellow who wore his black eyepatch as another man might a plume in his hat, and then the red-armored Winged Guards themselves, more than nine hundred of them. Nurelle and the rest who had been at Dumai’s Wells wore a yellow cord tied high on the left arm.
Climbing onto her mare, Berelain rode off to one side with Gallenne while Nurelle formed the Winged Guards among the trees. There must have been fifty paces between her and Faile, and dozens of trees, but she placed herself where they could stare at each other. Stare with so little expression that Perrin’s skin crawled. Putting Berelain at the rear, as far from Faile as he could manage, had seemed a good notion, but he was going to face this every bloody evening. Burn Rand!
Now Neald popped out of the gateway, stroking his ridiculous mustache and preening for anyone who might be watching as the opening vanished. No one was, and he climbed onto his horse with a disgruntled expression.
Mounting Stepper, Perrin rode to a slight rise. Not everyone could see him because of the trees, but it was enough they could hear. A stir ran through the assemblage as he reined in, people shifting for a better look.
“As far as anyone’s eyes-and-ears back in Cairhien know,” he said loudly, “I’ve been banished, the First of Mayene is on her way back home, and the rest of you have just disappeared like fog in the sun.”
To his surprise, they laughed. A cry of “Perrin Goldeneyes” went up, and not just from the Two Rivers folk. He waited for it to quiet; that took a while. Faile neither laughed nor shouted, nor did Berelain. Each woman shook her head; neither believed he should tell as much as he intended to. Then they saw each other, and those shaking heads froze as if trapped in amber. They did not like agreeing. It was no surprise when their eyes swung to him with identical expressions. There was an old saying in the Two Rivers, though how you said it and what you meant depended on circumstance and who you were. “It’s always a man’s fault.” One thing, he had learned, women were better at than anything else: teaching a man to si
gh.
“Some of you may be wondering where we are, and why,” he went on when silence fell at last. A smaller ripple of laughter. “This is Ghealdan.” Murmurs of awe, and maybe disbelief, at having crossed fifteen hundred miles or more in a step. “The first thing we have to do is convince Queen Alliandre we aren’t here to invade.” Berelain was supposed to talk to Alliandre, and Faile was going to give him fits for it. “Then we’re going to find a fellow who calls himself the Prophet of the Lord Dragon.” That would not be much pleasure, either; Masema had been no joy before he tipped over the edge. “This Prophet has been causing some problems, but we’re going to let him know Rand al’Thor doesn’t want anybody frightened into following him, and we’ll take him and any of his people who want to come back to the Lord Dragon.” And we’ll frighten the breeches off Masema to do it if need be, he though wryly.
They cheered. They whooped and shouted that they would march this Prophet back to Cairhien for the Lord Dragon till Perrin hoped this spot was even farther from any village than it was supposed to be. Even the cart drivers and horse handlers joined in. More than that, he prayed that everything went smoothly, and quickly. The sooner he could put as much distance as possible between Berelain and himself and Faile, the better. No surprises, that was what he wanted once they rode south. It was about time his being ta’veren showed itself good for something.
Chapter 28
Bread and Cheese
* * *
Mat knew he was in trouble from the day he moved into the Tarasin Palace. He could have refused. Just because the flaming dice started or stopped did not mean he had to do anything; usually when they stopped spinning, it was too late not to do something. The problem was, he wanted to know why. Before very many days, he wished he had taken his curiosity by the throat and throttled it.
After Nynaeve and Elayne left his room, once he could manage to reach his feet without his head falling off, he spread the word among his men. Nobody seemed to see the disadvantages. He just wanted to prepare them, but nobody listened.
“Very good, my Lord,” Nerim murmured, tugging Mat’s boot onto his foot. “My Lord will finally have decent rooms. Oh, very good.” For a moment, he seemed to lose his mournful expression. For just a moment. “I will brush the red silk coat for my Lord; my Lord has stained the blue rather badly with wine.” Mat waited impatiently, put on the coat, and headed down the hall.
“Aes Sedai?” Nalesean muttered as his head popped out at the top of a clean shirt. His round-bellied manservant, Lopin, was hovering behind him. “Burn my soul, I don’t much like Aes Sedai, but . . . The Tarasin Palace, Mat.”
Mat winced; bad enough the man could drink a barrel of brandy with no effect the next morning, but did he have to grin so? “Ah, Mat, now we can forget dice, and play cards with our own kind.” He meant nobles, the only ones who could afford to play except for well-to-do merchants who would not remain well-to-do long if they began betting for the stakes nobles did. Nalesean rubbed his hands briskly while Lopin tried to settle his laces; even his beard seemed eager. “Silk sheets,” he murmured. Whoever heard of silk sheets? Those old memories nudged, but Mat refused to listen.