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.”
What was still called the new sickhouse, where people were taken to be tended if their illness was contagious, had stood east of the village, beyond Master Thane’s mill, since Perrin was a small boy. The old one, in the Westwood, had been all but destroyed in a fierce windstorm back then. Perrin remembered it as half-covered by vines and briars, with birds roosting in what was left of the thatch and a badger’s den under the back steps. It would be a good place to hide.
Mistress al’Vere gave Bran a sharp look, as though startled he had thought of it. “That will do, I suppose. For tonight, at least. That is where I will take them.”
“No need for you to do it, Marin. I can lead them easy enough, if Perrin doesn’t remember the way.”
“Sometimes you forget you’re the Mayor, Bran. You attract eyes; people wonder where you’re going and what you are up to. Why don’t you stay here, and if anyone drops by, see they go away thinking everything is just as it should be. There’s mutton stew in the kettle, and lentil soup that just needs heating. Now don’t mention the sickhouse to anyone, Bran. Best if no one even remembers it exists.”
“I am not a fool, Marin,” he said stiffly.
“I know you aren’t, dear.” She patted her husband’s cheek, but her fond look tightened as it shifted from Bran to the rest of them. “You do cause trouble,” she muttered before handing out instructions.
They were to travel in smaller parties so as not to attract attention. She would cross the village by herself and meet them in the woods on the other side. The Aiel assured her they could find the lightning-split oak she described, and slipped out by the back door. Perrin knew it, a huge tree, a mile beyond the edge of the village, that looked as if it had been cleft down the middle by an axe yet somehow continued to live and even flourish. He was sure he could go straight to the sickhouse itself with no trouble, but Mistress al’Vere insisted everyone meet at the oak.
“You go wandering about by yourself, Perrin, and the Light knows what you might stumble into.” She looked up at Loial—standing now, his shaggy hair brushing the ceiling beams—and sighed. “I do wish there was something we could do about your height, Master Loial. I know it is hot, but would you mind wearing your cloak, with the hood up? Even these days most people will soon convince themselves they didn’t see what they saw if it isn’t what they expect, but if they catch a glimpse of your face … . Not that you aren’t quite handsome, I’m sure, but you’ll never pass for Two Rivers folk.”
Loial’s smile split his face in two beneath his wide snout of a nose. “The day doesn’t seem too warm for a cloak at all, Mistress al’Vere.”
Fetching a light, knit shawl with blue fringe, she accompanied Perrin, Faile and Loial out to the stableyard to see them off, and for a moment it appeared all their efforts at secrecy were doomed. Cenn Buie, looking made from gnarled old roots, was examining the horses with beady eyes. Especially Loial’s tall horse, as big as one of Bran’s Dhurrans. Cenn scratched his head, staring at the great saddle on the big horse.
Those eyes widened when they caught sight of Loial, and Cenn’s jaw flapped. “Tr—Tr—Trolloc!” he managed to get out at last.
“Don’t be an old fool, Cenn Buie,” Marin said firmly, stepping off to one side to pull the thatcher’s attention with her. Perrin kept his head down, studying his bow, and did not move. “Would I be standing on my own back doorstep with a Trolloc?” She gave a contemptuous sniff. “Master Loial is an Ogier, as you would know if you weren’t a cantankerous goose who would rather complain than look at what’s under his nose. Passing through, and with no time to be bothered by the likes of you. You be on about your business and leave our guests some peace. You know very well that Corin Ayellin has been after you for months about the poor work you did on her roof.”
Cenn mouthed the word “Ogier,” silent and blinking. For a moment it seemed he might rouse himself in defense of his handiwork, but then his gaze shifted to Perrin and narrowed. “Him! It’s him! They’re after you, you young whelp, rapscallion, running off with Aes Sedai and becoming a Darkfriend. That was when we had Trollocs before. Now you’re back, and so are they. You going to tell me that’s coincidence? What’s wrong with your eyes? You sick? You have some kind of sickness from off you’ve brought back to kill us all, as if Trollocs are not enough? The Children of the Light will settle you. See if they don’t.”
Perrin sensed Faile tensing, and hastily put a hand on her arm when he realized she was drawing a knife. What did she think she was doing? Cenn was an irascible old fool, but that was no reason for knives. She gave an exasperated toss of her head, but at least she left it at that.
“That is enough, Cenn,” Marin said sharply. “You keep this to yourself. Or have you started running to the Whitecloaks with tales, like Hari and his brother Darl? I’ve my suspicions why the Whitecloaks came rummaging through Bran’s books. They took six off with them, and lectured Bran under his own roof about blasphemy. Blasphemy, of all things! Because they didn’t agree with what was in a book. You’re lucky I don’t make you replace those books for him. They burrowed through the whole inn like weasels. Hunting for more blasphemous writings, they said, as if anyone would hide a book. Tumbled all the mattresses from the beds, upset my linen closets. You are lucky I didn’t come haul you back here to put it all to rights again.”
Cenn drew in on himself a little more with each sentence, until he looked to be trying to pull his bony shoulders over his head. “I didn’t tell them anything, Marin,” he protested. “Just because a man mentions—That is, I just happened to say, just in passing—” He shook himself, still avoiding her eye but regaining some of his old manner. “I mean to take this up with the Council, Marin. Him, I mean.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Perrin. “We’re all in danger as long as he’s here. If the Children find out you’re sheltering him, they might blame the rest of us. Upset closets won’t be in it, then.”
“This is Women’s Circle business.” Marin rewrapped her shawl about her shoulders and moved to stand eye to eye with the thatcher. He was a little taller than she, but her sudden air of grave formality gave her the edge. He spluttered, but she rode right over his attempts to slide a word in. “Circle business, Cenn Buie. If you think it isn’t—if you even dare think of calling me a liar—you go flapping your tongue. You breathe a word of Women’s Circle business to anyone, including the Village Council …”
“The Circle has no right interfering in Council affairs,” he shouted.
“ … and see if your wife doesn’t have you sleeping in the barn. And eating what your milk cows leave. You think Council takes precedence over Circle? I’ll send Daise Congar over to convince you different, if you need convincing.”
Cenn flinched, as well he might. If Daise Congar was the Wisdom, she would probably force foul-tasting concoctions down his throat every day for the next year, and Cenn was too scrawny to stop her. Alsbet Luhhan was the only woman in Emond’s Field larger than Daise, and Daise had a mean streak and a temper to go with it. Perrin could not imagine her as Wisdom; Nynaeve would probably have a fit when she found out who had replaced her. Nynaeve had always believed she used sweet reason, herself.
“No need to get nasty, Marin,” Cenn muttered placatingly. “You want me to keep quiet, I’ll keep quiet. But Women’s Circle or no, you’re risking bringing the Children down on all of us.” Marin merely raised her eyebrows, and after a moment he slunk away, grumbling under his breath.
“Well done,” Faile said when Cenn disappeared around the corner of the inn. “I think I need to take lessons from you. I am not half so good at handling Perrin as you are with Master al’Vere and that fellow.” She smiled at Perrin to show she was joking. At least, he hoped that was what it meant.