CHAPTER 53
The Price of a Departure
Only three candles and two lamps lit the common room of the Winespring Inn, since candles and oil both were in short supply. The spears and other weapons were gone from the walls; the barrel that had held old swords was empty. The lamps stood on two of the tables pushed together in front of the tall stone fireplace, where Marin al’Vere and Daise Congar and others of the Women’s Circle were going over lists of the scanty food remaining in Emond’s Field. Perrin tried not to listen.
At another table Faile’s honing stone made a soft, steady whisk-whisk as she sharpened one of her knives. A bow lay in front of her, and a bristling quiver hung at her belt. She had turned out to be a fairly good shot, but he hoped she never discovered that it was a boy’s bow; she could not draw a man’s Two Rivers longbow, though she refused to admit it.
Shifting his axe so it would not dig into his side, he tried to put his mind back on what he was discussing with the men around the table with him. Not that all of them were keeping their own attention where it should be.
“They have lamps,” Cenn muttered, “and we make do with tallow.” The gnarled old man glared at the pair of candles in brass candlesticks.
“Give over, Cenn,” Tam said wearily, pulling pipe and tabac pouch from behind his sword belt. “For once, give over.”
“If we had to read or write,” Abell said, his voice less patient than the words, “we’d have lamps.” A bandage was wound around his temples.
As if to remind the thatcher that he was Mayor, Bran adjusted the silver medallion hanging on his wide chest, showing a pair of scales. “Keep your mind to the business at hand, Cenn. I’ll have none of your wasting Perrin’s time.”
“I just think we should have lamps,” Cenn complained. “Perrin would tell me if I was wasting his time.”
Perrin sighed; the night tried to drag his eyelids down. He wished it were someone else’s turn to represent the Village Council, Haral Luhhan or Jon Thane or Samel Crawe, or anybody but Cenn with his carping. But then, sometimes he wished one of these men would turn to him and say, “This is business for the Mayor and the Council, young fellow. You go on back to the forge. We’ll let you know what to do.” Instead they worried about wasting his time, deferred to him. Time. How many attacks had there been in the seven days since the first? He was not sure any longer.
The bandage on Abell’s head irritated Perrin. The Aes Sedai only Healed the most serious wounds now; if a man could manage without, they let him. It was not that there were many badly wounded yet, but as Verin pointed out wryly, even as Aes Sedai only had so much strength; apparently their trick with the catapult stones took as much as Healing. For once he did not want to be reminded of limits to Aes Sedai strength. Not many badly wounded. Yet.
“How are the arrows holding out?” he asked. That was what he was supposed to be thinking about.
“Well enough,” Tam said, puffing his pipe alight from one of the candles. “We still recover most of what we shoot, in daylight at least. They drag a lot of their dead away at night—fodder for the cookpots, I suppose—and we lose those.” The other men were digging out their pipes, too, from pouches and coat pockets, Cenn muttering that he seemed to have forgotten his pouch. Grumbling, Bran passed his across, his bald pate gleaming in the candlelight.
Perrin rubbed at his forehead. What had he meant to ask next? The stakes. There was fighting at the stakes in most attacks now, especially at night. How many times had the Trollocs nearly broken through? Three? Four? “Does everyone have a spear or some sort of polearm now? What’s left to make more?” Silence answered him, and he lowered his hand. The other men were staring at him.
“You asked that yesterday,” Abell said gently. “And Haral told you then there isn’t a scythe or pitchfork left in the village that hasn’t been made into a weapon. We’ve more than we have hands for, in truth.”
“Yes. Of course. It just slipped my mind.” A snatch of conversation from the Women’s Circle caught his ear.
“ … mustn’t let the men know,” Marin was saying softly, as if repeating a caution voiced before.
“Of course not,” Daise snorted, but not much louder. “If the fools find out the women are on half rations, they’ll insist on eating the same, and we can’t … .”
Perrin closed his eyes, tried to close his ears. Of course. The men did the fighting. The men had to keep their strength up. Simple. At least none of the women had had to fight yet. Except the two Aiel women, of course, and Faile, but she was smart enough to stay back when it came to pushing spears among the stakes. That was the reason he had found the bow for her. She had the heart of a leopard, and more courage than any two men.
“I think it is time you went to bed, Perrin,” Bran suggested. “You cannot go on like this, sleeping an hour here and an hour there.”
Scrubbing his beard vigorously, Perrin tried to look alert. “I’ll sleep later.” When it was over. “Are the men getting enough sleep? I’ve seen some sitting up when they should be—”
The front door banged open to admit skinny Dannil Lewin out of the night, bow in hand and all in a lather. He wore one of the swords from the barrel on his hip; Tam had been giving classes when he had the time, and sometimes one of the Warders did as well.
Before Dannil could open his mouth, Daise snapped, “Were you raised in a barn, Dannil Lewin?”
“You can certainly treat my door a little more gently.” Marin divided her meaning look between the lanky man and Daise, a reminder that it was her door.
Dannil ducked his head, clearing his throat. “Pardon, Mistress al’Vere,” he said hastily. “Pardon, Wisdom. Sorry to burst in, but I’ve a message for Perrin.” He hurried to the table of men as if afraid the women would stop him again. “The Whitecloaks brought in a man who wants to talk to you, Perrin. He won’t talk to anybody else. He’s hurt bad, Perrin. They only brought him to the edge of the village. I don’t think he could make it as far as the inn.”
Perrin pushed himself to his feet. “I’m coming.” Not another attack, at any rate. They were worst at night.
Faile snatched up her bow and joined him before he reached the door. And Aram stood up, hesitating, from the shadows on the foot of the stairs. Sometimes Perrin forgot the man was there, he kept so still. He looked odd with that sword strapped on his back atop his grimy, yellow-striped Tinker coat, his eyes so bright, hardly ever seeming to blink, and his face without expression. Neither Raen or Ila had spoken to their grandson since the day he picked up that sword. Nor to Perrin, either.
“If you’re coming, come,” he said gruffly, and Aram fell in at his heels. The man followed him like a hound whenever he was not pestering Tam or Ihvon or Tomas to teach him that sword. It was as if he had replaced his family and people with Perrin. Perrin would have done without the responsibility if he could, but there it was.
Moonlight shone down on thatched roofs. Few houses had a light in more than one window. Stillness clung to the village. Some thirty of the Companions stood guard outside the inn with their bows, as many wearing swords as could find them; everyone had adopted that name, and Perrin found himself using it, too, to his private disgust. The reason for guards on the inn, or wherever Perrin was, lay on the Green, no longer so crowded with sheep and cows. Campfires crowded above the Winespring, beyond where that fool wolfhead banner hung limp now, bright pools in the darkness surrounded by pale cloaks gleaming with the moon.
No one had wanted Whitecloaks in their homes, already crowded, and Bornhald did not want his soldiers split up in any case. The man seemed to think the village would turn on him and his men any moment; if they followed Perrin, they must be Darkfriends. Even Perrin’s eyes could not make out faces around the fires, but he thought he could feel Bornhald’s stare, waiting, hating.
Dannil readied ten Companions to escort Perrin, all young men who should have been laughing and carousing with him, all with bows ready to see him safe. Aram did not join them as Dannil led the wa
y down the dark, dirt street; it was Perrin he was with and no one else. Faile kept hard by Perrin’s side, dark eyes shining in the moonlight, scanning the surroundings as though she were his whole protection.
Where the Old Road entered Emond’s Field the blocking wagons had been drawn aside to admit the Whitecloak patrol, twenty snowy-cloaked men with lances who sat their horses in burnished armor, no less impatient than their stamping mounts. They stood out in the night for any eye, and most Trollocs could see as well in darkness as Perrin, but the Whitecloaks insisted on their patrols. Sometimes their scouting had brought warnings, and maybe their harrassment kept the Trollocs a little off balance. It would have been good, though, if he had known what they were doing before it was done.
A cluster of villagers and farmers wearing bits of old armor and a few rusty helmets stood clustered around a man in a farmer’s coat lying in the roadway. They gave way for Faile and him, and he went to one knee beside the man.
The odor of blood was strong; sweat glistened on the man’s moon-shadowed face. A thumb-thick Trolloc arrow like a small spear was stuck through his chest. “Perrin—Goldeneyes,” he muttered hoarsely, laboring for breath. “Must—get through—to Perrin—Goldeneyes.”
“Has someone sent for one of the Aes Sedai?” Perrin demanded, lifting the man as gently as he could, cradling his head. He did not listen for the answer; he did not think this man would last till an Aes Sedai came. “I am Perrin.”
“Goldeneyes? I—cannot see—very well.” His wide, wild stare was right at Perrin’s face; if he could see at all, the fellow must see his eyes shining golden in the dark.
“I am Perrin Goldeneyes,” he said reluctantly.
The man seized his collar, pulling his face close with surprising strength. “We are—coming. Sent to—tell you. We are co—” His head fell back, eyes staring at nothing now.
“The Light be with his soul,” Faile murmured, slinging her bow across her back.
After a moment Perrin pried the man’s fingers loose. “Does anyone know him?” The Two Rivers men exchanged glances, shook their heads. Perrin looked up at the mounted Whitecloaks. “Did he say anything else while you were bringing him in? Where did you find him?”
Jaret Byar stared down at him, gaunt-faced and hollow-eyed, an image of death. The other Whitecloaks looked away, but Byar always made himself meet Perrin’s yellow eyes, especially at night, when they glowed. Byar growled under his breath—Perrin heard “Shadowspawn!”—and booted his horse in the ribs. The patrol galloped into the village, as eager to be away from Perrin as from Trollocs. Aram stared after them, expressionless, one hand over his shoulder to finger his sword hilt.
“They said they found him three or four miles south.” Dannil hesitated, then added, “They say the Trollocs are all scattered out in little bunches, Perrin. Maybe they’re finally giving up.”
Perrin laid the stranger back down. We are coming. “Keep a close watch. Maybe some family who tried to hold on to their farm is finally coming in.” He did not believe anyone could have survived out there this long, but it might be so. “Don’t shoot anybody by mistake.” He staggered to his feet, and Faile put a hand on his arm.
“It is time you were in bed, Perrin. You have to sleep sometime.”
He only looked at her. He should have made her stay in Tear. Somehow, he should have made her. If he had only thought well enough he could have.
One of the runners, a curly-haired boy about chest-high, slipped through the Two Rivers men to tug at Perrin’s sleeve. Perrin did not know him; there were many families in from the countryside. “There’s something moving in the Westwood, Lord Perrin. They sent me to tell you.”
“Don’t call me that,” Perrin told him sharply. If he did not stop the children, the Companions were going to start using it, too. “Go tell them I will be there.” The boy darted away.
“You belong in your bed,” Faile said firmly. “Tomas can handle any attack very well.”
“It isn’t an attack, or the boy would have said so, and somebody would be sounding Cenn’s bugle.”
She hung on to his arm, trying to pull him toward the inn, and so she was dragged along when he started the opposite way. After a few futile minutes she gave up and pretended she had been merely holding his arm all along. But she muttered to herself. She still seemed to think that if she spoke softly enough he could not hear. She began with “foolish,” “mule-headed,” and “muscle-brained”; after that it escalated. It was quite a little procession, her muttering at him, Aram heeling him, Dannil and the ten Companions surrounding him like a guard of honor. If he had not been so tired, he would have felt a proper fool.
There were guards spaced in small clusters all along the sharp stake fence to watch the night, each with a boy for a runner. At the west end of the village the men on guard were all gathered up against the inside of the broad barrier, fingering spears and bows as they peered toward the Westwood. Even with the moonlight, the trees had to be blackness in their eyes.
Tomas’s cloak seemed to make parts of him vanish in the night. Bain and Chiad were with him; for some reason the two Maidens had spent every night at this end of Emond’s Field since Loial and Gaul left. “I’d not have bothered you,” the Warder said to Perrin, “but there only seems to be one out there, and I thought you might be able to … .”
Perrin nodded. Everyone knew about his vision, especially in darkness. The Two Rivers people seemed to think it something special, something that marked him out an idiot hero. What the Warders thought, or the Aes Sedai, he had no idea. He was too tired to care tonight. Seven days, and how many attacks?
The edge of the Westwood lay five hundred paces away. Even to his eyes the trees ran together in shadows. Something moved. Something big enough to be a Trolloc. A big shape carrying … . The burden lifted an arm. A human. A tall shadow carrying a human.
“We will not shoot!” he shouted. He wanted to laugh; in fact, he realized he was laughing. “Come on! Come on, Loial!”
The dim shape lumbered forward faster than a man could run, resolving into the Ogier, speeding toward the village, carrying Gaul.
Two Rivers men shouted encouragement as if it were a race. “Run, Ogier! Run! Run!” Perhaps it was a race; more than one assault had come out of those woods.
Short of the stakes Loial slowed with a lurch; there was barely room for his thick legs to edge through the barrier sideways. Once on the village side, he let the Aielman down and sank to the ground, leaning back against the hedge, panting, tufted ears drooping wearily. Gaul limped on one leg until he could sit, too, with Bain and Chiad both fussing over his left thigh, where his breeches were ripped and black with dry blood. He only had two spears left, and his quiver gaped emptily. Loial’s axe was gone, too.
“You fool Ogier,” Perrin laughed fondly. “Going off like that. I ought to let Daise Congar switch you for a runaway. At least you’re alive. At least you’re back.” His voice sank at that. Alive. And back in Emond’s Field.
“We did it, Perrin,” Loial panted, a tired drumlike boom. “Four days ago. We closed the Waygate. It will take the Elders or an Aes Sedai to open it again.”
“He carried me most of the way from the mountains,” Gaul said. “A Nightrunner and perhaps fifty Trollocs chased us the first three days, but Loial outran them.” He was trying to push the Maidens away without much success.
“Lie still, Shaarad,” Chiad snapped, “or I will say I have touched you armed and allow you to choose how your honor stands.” Faile gave a delighted laugh. Perrin did not understand, but the remark reduced the imperturbable Aielman to splutters. He let the Maidens tend his leg.
“Are you all right, Loial?” Perrin asked. “Are you hurt?”
The Ogier pulled himself up with an obvious effort, swaying for a moment like a tree about to fall. His ears still hung limp. “No, I am not hurt, Perrin. Only tired. Do not worry yourself about me. A long time out of the stedding. Visits are not enough.” He shook his head as if his thoughts had
wandered. His wide hand engulfed Perrin’s shoulder. “I will be fine after a little sleep.” He lowered his voice. For an Ogier, he did; it was still a huge bumblebee rumble. “It is very bad out there, Perrin. We followed the last bands down, for the most part. We locked the gate, but I think there must be several thousand Trollocs in the Two Rivers already, and maybe as many as fifty Myrddraal.”
“Not so,” Luc announced loudly. He had galloped up along the edge of the houses from the direction of the North Road. He reined his rearing black stallion to a flashy halt, forehooves pawing. “You are no doubt fine at singing to trees, Ogier, but fighting Trollocs is something different. I estimate less than a thousand now. A formidable force to be sure, but nothing these stout defenses and brave men cannot hold at bay. Another trophy for you, Lord Perrin Goldeneyes.” Laughing, he tossed a bulging cloth bag at Perrin. The bottom gleamed darkly wet in the moonlight.
Perrin caught it out of the air and hurled it well over the stakes despite its weight. Four or five Trolloc heads, no doubt, and perhaps a Myrddraal. The man brought in his trophies every night, still seeming to expect them to be put up for everyone to admire. A bunch of the Coplins and Congars had given him a feast the night he came in with a pair of Fades’ heads.
“Do I also know nothing of fighting?” Gaul demanded, struggling to his feet. “I say there are several thousand.”
Luc’s teeth showed white in a smile. “How many days have you spent in the Blight, Aiel? I have spent many.” Perhaps it was more snarl than smile. “Many. Believe what you wish, Goldeneyes. The endless days will bring what they bring, as they always have.” He pulled the stallion up on its hind legs again to whirl about, and galloped in among the houses and the trees that had once been the rim of the Westwood. The Two Rivers men shifted uneasily, peering after him or out into the night.