The Shadow Rising

  That was easy to solve, a matter of remembering an old bugle, tarnished nearly black, that Cenn Buie had hanging on his wall, and settling on a signal of three long blasts that the farthest shepherd could hear. It did bring up signals for other things, of course, such as sending everyone to their places if an attack was expected. Which led to how to know when an attack was expected. Bain and Chiad and the Warders turned out to be more than amenable to scouting, but four were hardly enough, so good woodsmen and trackers had to be found, and provided with horses so they could reach Emond’s Field ahead of any Trollocs they spotted.

  After that, Buel Dowtry had to be settled down. The white-haired old fletcher, with a nose nearly as sharp as a broadhead point, knew very well that most farmers usually made their own arrows, but he was adamantly opposed to anyone helping him here in the village, as if he could keep every quiver filled by himself. Perrin was not sure how he smoothed Buel’s ruffled temper, but somehow he left the man happily teaching a knot of boys to tie and glue goose-feather fletchings.

  Eward Candwin, the stout cooper, had a different problem. With so many folks needing water, he had more buckets and barrels to make than he could hoop in weeks, alone. It did not take long to find him hands he trusted to chamfer staves at least, but more people came with questions and problems they seemed to think only Perrin had the answers for, from where to burn the bodies of the dead Trollocs to whether it was safe to return to their farms to save what they could. That last he answered with a firm no whenever it was asked—and it was asked more often than any other, by men and women frowning at the smoke rising in the countryside—but most of the time he simply inquired what the questioner thought was a good solution and told him to do that. It was seldom he really had to come up with an answer; people knew what to do, they just had this fool notion they had to ask him.

  Dannil and Ban and the others found him and insisted on riding about at his heels with that banner, as if the big one over the Green was not bad enough, until he sent them off to guard the men who had gone back to felling trees along the Westwood. It seemed that Tam had told them some tale about something called the Companions, in Illian, soldiers who rode with the general of an Illianer army and were thrown in wherever the battle was hottest. Tam, of all people! At least they took the banner with them. Perrin felt a right fool with that thing trailing after him.

  In the middle of the morning, Luc rode in, all golden-haired arrogance, nodding slightly to acknowledge a few cheers, though why anyone wanted to cheer him seemed a mystery. He brought a trophy that he pulled out of a leather bag and had set on a spear at the edge of the Green for everyone to gawk at. A Myrddraal’s eyeless head. The fellow was modest enough, in a condescending sort of way, but he did let slip that he had killed the Fade when he ran into a band of Trollocs. An admiring train took him around to see the scene of the battle here—they were calling it that—where horses were dragging Trollocs off to great pyres already sending up pillars of oily black smoke. Luc was properly admiring in turn, making only one or two criticisms of how Perrin had disposed his men; that was how the Two Rivers folk told it, with Perrin lining everybody up and giving orders he certainly never had.

  To Perrin, Luc gave a patronizing smile of approval. “You did very well, my boy. You were lucky, of course, but there is such a thing as the luck of the beginner, is there not.”

  When he went off to his room in the Winespring Inn, Perrin had the head taken down and buried. Not a thing people should be staring at, especially the children.

  The questions continued as the day wore on, until he suddenly realized the sun stood straight overhead, he had had nothing to eat, and his stomach was talking to him in no uncertain terms. “Mistress al’Caar,” he said wearily to the long-faced woman at his stirrup, “I suppose the children can play anywhere, so long as somebody watches to make sure they don’t go beyond the last houses. Light, woman, you know that. You certainly know children better than I do! If you don’t, how have you managed to raise four of your own?” Her youngest was six years older than he was!

  Nela al’Caar frowned and tossed her head, gray-streaked braid swinging. For a moment he thought she was going to snap his nose off, talking that way to her. He almost wished she would, for a change from everybody wanting to know what he thought should be done. “Of course I know children,” she said. “I just want to make sure it’s done the way you want. That’s what we’ll do, then.”

  Sighing, he only waited for her to turn away before reining Stepper around toward the Winespring Inn. Two or three voices called to him, but he refused to listen. What he wanted done. What was wrong with these people? Two Rivers folk did not follow this way. Certainly not Emond’s Fielders. They wanted a say in everything. Arguments in front of the Village Council, arguments among the Council, had to come to blows before they occasioned comment. And if the Women’s Circle thought they kept their own affairs more circumspect, there was not a man who did not know the meaning of tight-jawed women stalking about with their braids all but bristling like angry cats’ tails.

  What I want? he thought angrily. What I want is something to eat, someplace where no one is jabbering in my ear. Stepping down in front of the inn, he staggered, and thought he could add a bed to that short list. Only midday, with Stepper doing all the work, and he already felt bone-weary. Maybe Faile had been right after all. Maybe going after Loial and Gaul really was a bad idea.

  When he walked into the common room, Mistress al’Vere took one look at him and all but pushed him into a chair with a motherly smile. “You can just give over handing out orders for a while,” she told him firmly. “Emond’s Field can very well survive an hour by itself while you put some food inside you.” She bustled away before he could say Emond’s Field could very well survive by itself without him at all.

  The room was almost empty. Natti Cauthon sat at one table, rolling bandages and adding them to the pile in front of her, but she also managed to keep an eye on her daughters, across the room, though both were old enough to be wearing their hair in a braid. The reason was plain enough. Bode and Eldrin sat on either side of Aram, coaxing the Tinker to eat. Feeding him, actually, and wiping his chin, too. From the way they were grinning at the fellow, Perrin was surprised Natti was not at the table with them, braids or no. The fellow was good-looking, he supposed; maybe handsomer than Wil al’Seen. Bode and Eldrin certainly seemed to think so. For his part, Aram smiled back occasionally—they were plumply pretty girls; he would have to be blind not to see it, and Perrin did not think Aram was ever blind to a pretty girl—but he hardly swallowed without running a wide-eyed gaze over the spears and polearms against the walls. For a Tuatha’an, it had to be a horrible sight.

  “Mistress al’Vere said you had finally gotten tired of your saddle,” Faile said, popping in through the door to the kitchen. Startlingly, she wore a long white apron like Marin’s; her sleeves were pushed up above her elbows, and she had flour on her hands. As if just realizing it, she whipped the apron off, wiping her hands hastily, and laid it across the back of a chair. “I have never baked anything before,” she said, shoving her sleeves down as she joined him. “It is rather fun kneading dough. I might like to do it again someday.”

  “If you don’t bake,” he said, “where are we going to get bread? I don’t intend to spend my whole life traveling, buying meals or eating what I can snare or fetch with bow or sling.”

  She smiled as if he had said something very pleasing, though he could not for the life of him see what. “The cook will bake, of course. One of her helpers, really, I suppose, but the cook will oversee it.”

  “The cook,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Or one of her helpers. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “What is the matter, Perrin? You look worried. I don’t think the defenses could be any sounder without a fortress wall.”

  “It isn’t that. Faile, this Perrin Goldeneyes business is getting out of hand. I do not know who they think I am, but they keep asking me what to d
o, asking if it’s all right, when they already know what has to be done, when they could figure it out with two minutes’ thought.”

  For a long moment she studied his face, those dark, tilted eyes thoughtful, then said, “How many years has it been since the Queen of Andor ruled here in fact?”

  “The Queen of Andor? I don’t really know. A hundred years, maybe. Two hundred. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “These people do not remember how to deal with a queen—or a king. They are trying to puzzle it out. You must be patient with them.”

  “A king?” he said weakly. He let his head drop down onto his arms on the table. “Oh, Light!”

  Laughing softly, Faile ruffled his hair. “Well, perhaps not that. I doubt very much that Morgase would approve. A leader, at least. But she would very definitely approve a man who brought lands back to her that her throne has not controlled in a hundred years or more. She would surely make that man a lord. Perrin of House Aybara, Lord of the Two Rivers. It has a good sound.”

  “We do not need any lords in the Two Rivers,” he growled at the oak tabletop. “Or kings, or queens. We are free men!”

  “Free men can have a need to follow someone, too,” she said gently. “Most men want to believe in something larger than themselves, something wider than their own fields. That is why there are nations, Perrin, and peoples. Even Raen and Ila see themselves as part of something more than their own caravan. They have lost their wagons and most of their family and friends, but other Tuatha’an still seek the song, and they will again, too, because they belong to more than a few wagons.”

  “Who owns these?” Aram asked suddenly.

  Perrin raised his head. The young Tinker was on his feet, staring uneasily at the spears lining the walls. “They belong to anybody who wants one, Aram. Nobody is going to hurt you with any of them, believe me.” He was not sure if Aram did believe, not the way he began walking slowly around the room with his hands stuffed into his pockets, eyeing spears and halberds sideways.

  Perrin was more than grateful to dig in when Marin brought him a plate of sliced roast goose, with turnips and peas and good crusty bread. At least, he would have dug in, if Faile had not tucked a flower-embroidered napkin under his chin and snatched the knife and fork out of his hands. She seemed to find it amusing to feed him the way Bode and Eldrin had been feeding Aram. The Cauthon girls giggled at him, and Natti and Marin wore little smiles, too. Perrin did not see what was so funny. He was willing to indulge Faile, though, even if he could have fed himself more easily. She kept making him stretch his neck to take what she had on the fork.

  Aram’s slow wandering took him around the room three times before he stopped at the foot of the stairs, staring at the barrel of ill-assorted swords. Then he reached out and pulled a sword from the cluster, hefting it awkwardly. The leather-wrapped hilt was long enough for both of his hands. “Can I use this one?” he asked.

  Perrin nearly choked.

  Alanna appeared at the head of the stairs, with Ila; the Tuatha’an woman looked weary, but the bruise was gone from her face. “ … best thing is sleep,” the Aes Sedai was saying. “It is shock to his mind that troubles him most, and I cannot Heal that.”

  Ila’s eyes fell on her grandson, on what he held, and she screamed as if that blade had gone into her flesh. “No, Aram! Nooooo!” She almost fell in her haste to get down the stairs and flung herself on Aram, trying to pull his hands from the sword. “No, Aram,” she panted breathlessly. “You must not. Put it down. The Way of the Leaf. You must not! The Way of the Leaf! Please, Aram! Please!”

  Aram danced with her, fending her off clumsily, trying to hold the sword away from her. “Why not?” he shouted angrily. “They killed Mother! I saw them! I might have saved her, if I had had a sword. I could have saved her!”

  The words sliced at Perrin’s chest. A Tinker with a sword seemed an unnatural thing, almost enough to make his hackles stand, but those words … . His mother. “Leave him alone,” he said, more roughly than he intended. “Any man has a right to defend himself, to defend his … . He has a right.”

  Aram pushed the sword toward Perrin. “Will you teach me how to use it?”

  “I don’t know how,” Perrin told him. “You can find someone, though.”

  Tears rolled down Ila’s contorted face. “The Trollocs took my daughter,” she sobbed, her entire body shaking, “and all my grandchildren but one, and now you take him. He is Lost, because of you, Perrin Aybara. You have become a wolf in your heart, and now you will make him one, too.” Turning, she stumbled back up the steps, still racked with sobs.

  “I could have saved her!” Aram called after her. “Grandmother! I could have saved her!” She never looked back, and when she vanished around the corner, he slumped against the banister, weeping. “I could have saved her, grandmother. I could have … .”

  Perrin realized Bode was crying, too, with her face in her hands, and the other women were frowning at him as though he had done something wrong. No, not all of them. Alanna studied him from the head of the stairs with that unreadable Aes Sedai calm, and Faile’s face was nearly as blank.

  Wiping his mouth, he tossed the napkin on the table and got up. There was still time to tell Aram to put the sword back, to go ask Ila’s pardon. Time to tell him … what? That maybe next time he would not be there to watch his loved ones die? That maybe he could just come back to find their graves?

  He put a hand on Aram’s shoulder, and the man flinched, hunching around the sword as if expecting him to take it. The Tinker’s scent carried a wash of emotions, fear and hate and bone-deep sadness. Lost, Ila had called him. His eyes looked lost. “Wash your face, Aram. Then go find Tam al’Thor. Say I ask him to teach you the sword.”

  Slowly the other man raised his face. “Thank you,” he stammered, scrubbing at the tears on his cheeks with his sleeve. “Thank you. I will never forget this. Never. I swear it.” Suddenly he hoisted the sword to kiss the straight blade; the hilt had a brass wolfhead for a pommel. “I swear. Is that not how it is done?”

  “I suppose it is,” Perrin said sadly, wondering why he should feel sad. The Way of the Leaf was a fine belief, like a dream of peace, but like the dream it could not last where there was violence. He did not know of a place without that. A dream for some other man, some other time. Some other Age perhaps. “Go on, Aram. You have a lot to learn, and there may not be much time.” Still bubbling thanks, the Tinker did not wait to wash his tears away, but ran straight out of the inn, carrying the sword upright before him in both hands.

  Conscious of Eldrin’s scowl and Marin’s fists on her hips and Natti’s frown, not to mention Bode’s weeping, Perrin walked back to his chair. Alanna had gone from her place at the top of the stairs. Faile watched him pick up his knife and fork. “You disapprove?” he said quietly. “A man has a right to defend himself, Faile. Even Aram. No one can make him follow the Way of the Leaf if he doesn’t want to.”

  “I do not like to see you in pain,” she said very softly.

  His knife paused in cutting a piece of goose. Pain? That dream was not for him. “I am just tired,” he told her, and smiled. He did not think she believed him.

  Before he had time to take a second mouthful, Bran stuck his head in at the front door. He wore his round steel cap again. “Riders coming from the north, Perrin. A lot of riders. I think it must be the Whitecloaks.”

  Faile darted away as Perrin rose, and by the time he was outside on Stepper, with the Mayor muttering to himself about what he meant to say to the Whitecloaks, she came riding her black mare around the side of the inn. More people were running north than stayed at their tasks. Perrin was in no particular hurry. The Children of the Light might well be there to arrest him. They probably were. He did not mean to go along in chains, but he was not anxious to ask people to fight Whitecloaks for him. He followed behind Bran, joining the stream of men and women and children crossing the Wagon Bridge across the Winespring Water, Stepper’s and Swallow’s ho
oves clattering on the thick planks. A few tall willows grew here along the water. The bridge was where the North Road began, then ran to Watch Hill and beyond. Some of the distant smoke plumes had thinned to wisps as fires burned themselves out.

  Where the road left the village, he found a pair of wagons blocking the road and men gathered behind pointed, slanting stakes with their bows and spears and such, smelling of excitement, murmuring to each other and all jammed together to watch what was coming down the road: a long double column of white-cloaked horsemen trailing a cloud of dust, conical helmets and burnished plate-and-mail shining in the afternoon sun, steel-tipped lances all at the same angle. At their head rode a youngish man, stiff-backed and stern-faced, who looked vaguely familiar to Perrin. With the arrival of the Mayor, the murmurs hushed expectantly. Or maybe it was Perrin’s arrival that quieted them.

  Two hundred paces or so from the stakes, the stern-faced man raised a hand, and the column halted with sharp orders echoing down the files. He came on with just half a dozen Whitecloaks for company, running his eyes over the wagons and sharp stakes and the men behind. His manner would have named him a man of importance even without the knots of rank beneath the flaring sunburst on his cloak.

  Luc had appeared from somewhere, resplendent on his shiny black stallion in rich red wool and golden embroidery. Perhaps it was natural enough that the Whitecloak officer chose to address himself to Luc, though his dark eyes continued to probe. “I am Dain Bornhald,” he announced, reining in, “Captain of the Children of the Light. You have done this for us? I have heard that Emond’s Field is closed to the Children, yes? Truly a village of the Shadow if it is closed to the Children of the Light.”

  Dain Bornhald, not Geofram. A son, perhaps. Not that it made any difference. Perrin supposed one would try to arrest him as soon as another. Sure enough, Bornhald’s gaze swept past him, then jerked back. A convulsion seemed to seize the man; one gauntleted hand darted to his sword, his lips peeled back in a silent snarl, and for a moment Perrin was sure the man was about to charge, fling his horse onto the spiky barrier, to reach him. The man looked as if he bore Perrin a personal hatred. Up close, that hard face had a touch of slackness to it, a shine in those eyes that Perrin was used to seeing in Bili Congar’s. He thought he could smell brandy fumes.