“The lads are wondering, Perrin,” Tam said, a little less formal now that they were alone. “Did you mean what you said about giving up on Manetheren?”
“Aye,” Perrin said. “That banner has been nothing but trouble since it first came out. The Seanchan, and everyone else, might as well know. I’m no king.”
“You have a queen who’s sworn you as her liege.”
He considered Tam’s words, working out the best response. Once that kind of behavior had made people think he was slow of thought. Now people assumed his thoughtfulness meant that Perrin was crafty and keen minded. What a difference a few fancy words in front of your name made!
“I think you’re right, in what you did,” Tam said, surprisingly. “Calling the Two Rivers Manetheren would not only have antagonized the Seanchan, but the Queen of Andor herself. It would imply that you meant to hold more than just the Two Rivers, that perhaps you wanted to conquer all that Manetheren once held.”
Perrin shook his head. “I don’t mean to conquer anything, Tam. Light! I don’t mean to hold what people say I’ve got. The sooner that Elayne takes her throne and sends a proper lord out to the Two Rivers, the better. We can be done with all of this Lord Perrin business and things can go back to normal.”
“And Queen Alliandre?” Tam asked.
“She can swear to Elayne instead,” Perrin said stubbornly. “Or maybe directly to Rand. He seems to like scooping up kingdoms. Like a child playing a game of wobbles.”
Tam smelled concerned. Troubled. Perrin looked away. Things should be simpler. They should be. “What?”
“I just thought you were over this,” Tam said.
“Nothing has changed from the days before Faile was taken,” Perrin said. “I still don’t like that wolf head banner either. I think maybe it’s time to take that one down too.”
“The men believe in that banner, Perrin, lad,” Tam said quietly. He had a soft way about him, but that made you listen when he spoke. Of course, he also usually spoke sense. “I pulled you aside because I wanted to warn you. If you provide a chance for the lads to return to the Two Rivers, some will go. But not many. I’ve heard most swear that they’ll follow you to Shayol Ghul. They know the Last Battle is coming—who couldn’t know that, with all of the signs lately? They don’t intend to be left behind.” He hesitated. “And neither do I, I reckon.” He smelled of determination.
“We’ll see,” Perrin said, frowning. “We’ll see.”
He sent Tam off with orders to requisition a wagon and take it for those water barrels. The soldiers would listen; Tam was Perrin’s First Captain, though that seemed backward to Perrin. He didn’t know much of the man’s past, but Tam had fought in the Aiel War, long ago; he’d held a sword before Perrin had been born. And now he followed Perrin’s orders.
They all did. And they wanted to keep doing so! Hadn’t they learned? He rested back against the wall, not walking back to his attendants, standing in the shadow.
Now that he seized upon it, he realized that was a part of what was bothering him. Not the whole of it, but some, tied in with what was troubling him. Even now that Faile had returned.
He hadn’t been a good leader lately. He’d never been a model one, of course, not even when Faile had been there to guide him. But during her absence, he’d been worse. Far worse. He’d ignored his orders from Rand, ignored everything, all to get her back.
But what else was a man supposed to do? His wife had been kidnapped!
He’d saved her. But in doing so, he’d abandoned everyone else. And because of him, men were dead. Good men. Men who had trusted in him.
Standing in that shadow, he remembered a moment—only a day past—when an ally had fallen to Aiel arrows, his heart poisoned by Masema. Aram had been a friend, one that Perrin had discarded in his quest to save Faile. Aram had deserved better.
I should never have let that Tinker pick up a sword, he thought, but he didn’t want to deal with this problem right now. He couldn’t. There was too much to do. He moved away from the wall, planning to inspect the last wagon in line.
“Next!” he barked as he began again.
Aravine Carnel stepped forward. The Amadician woman no longer wore her gai’shain robes; instead she had on a simple light green dress, not clean, that had been pulled out of the salvage. She was plump but her face still bore a haggard cast from her days as a captive. There was a determination about her. She was surprisingly good at organization, and Perrin suspected she was of noble heritage. She had the scent of it about her: self-confidence, an ease giving commands. It was a wonder those things had survived her captivity.
As he knelt down to look at the first wheel, he figured it was odd that Faile had chosen Aravine to supervise the refugees. Why not one of the youths from Cha Faile? Those dandies could be annoying, but they’d shown a surprising measure of competence.
“My Lord,” Aravine said, her practiced curtsy another indication of her background. “I have finished organizing the people for departure.”
“So soon?” Perrin asked, looking up from the wheel.
“It was not so difficult as we expected, my Lord. I commanded them to gather by nationality, then by town of birth. Not surprisingly, the Cairhienin form the largest bulk of them, followed by Altarans, then Amadicians, with some smattering of others. A few Domani, some Taraboners, the occasional Borderlander or Tairen.”
“How many can stand a day or two of marching without a ride in the wagons?”
“Most of them, my Lord,” she said. “The sick and elderly were expelled from the city when the Shaido took it. The people here are accustomed to being worked hard. They’re exhausted, Lord, but none too eager to be waiting here with those other Shaido camped not half a day’s march away.”
“All right,” Perrin said. “Start them marching immediately.”
“Immediately?” Aravine asked with surprise.
He nodded. “I want them on that road, marching northward, as soon as you can get them going. I’ll send Alliandre and her guard to lead the way.” That ought to keep Arganda from complaining, and it would get the refugees out of the way. The Maidens would be far better, and far more efficient, at gathering supplies alone. The scavenging was nearly finished anyway. His people would have to survive on the road for only a few weeks. After that, they could jump via gateway to someplace more secure. Andor, perhaps, or Cairhien.
Those Shaido behind had him anxious. They could decide to attack at any time. Better to get away and remove the temptation.
Aravine curtsied and hurried away to make preparations, and Perrin thanked the Light for someone else who didn’t see a need to question or second-guess him. He sent a boy to inform Arganda of the impending march, then finished his inspection of the wagon. After that, he stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Next!” he said.
Nobody stepped forward. The only people remaining around him were guards, messenger boys and a few wagoneers waiting to hitch up their oxen and move the wagons off for loading. The Maidens had made a large pile of foodstuffs and supplies in the middle of the former camp, and Perrin could make out Faile there working to organize it.
Perrin sent the ring of attendants with him over to help her, then found himself alone. With nothing to do.
Just what he’d wanted to avoid.
The wind blew past again, carrying that awful stench of death. It also carried memories. The fury of the battle, the passion and thrill of each swing. Aiel were excellent warriors—the best the land knew. Each exchange had been close, and Perrin had earned his share of cuts and bruises, though those had since been Healed.
Fighting the Aiel had made him feel alive. Each one he’d slain had been an expert with the spears; each one could have killed him. But he’d won. During those moments of fighting, he’d felt a driving passion. The passion of finally doing something. After two months of waiting, each blow had meant a step closer to finding Faile.
No more talking. No more planning. He’d found purpose. And now it w
as gone.
He felt hollow. It was like . . . like the time when his father had promised him something special as a gift for Winternight. Perrin had waited months, eager, doing his chores to earn the unknown gift. When he’d finally received the small wooden horse, he’d been excited for a moment. But the next day, he’d been shockingly melancholy. Not because of the gift, but because there had no longer been anything to strive for. The excitement was gone, and only then had he realized how much more precious he’d found that anticipation than the gift itself.
Soon after that he’d begun visiting Master Luhhan’s forge, eventually becoming his apprentice.
He was glad to have Faile back. He rejoiced. And yet, now what was there for him? These blasted men saw him as their leader. Some even thought of him as their king! He’d never asked for that. He’d had them put away the banners every time they put them out, up until Faile had persuaded him that using them would be an advantage. He still didn’t believe that the wolfhead banner belonged there, flapping insolently above his camp.
But could he take it down? The men did look to it. He could smell pride on them every time they passed it. He couldn’t turn them away. Rand would need their aid—he’d need everyone’s aid—at the Last Battle.
The Last Battle. Could a man like him, a man who didn’t want to be in charge, lead these forces to the most important moment in their lives?
The colors swirled, showing him Rand, sitting in what appeared to be a stone Tairen home. Perrin’s old friend had a dark cast to his expression, like a man troubled by weighty thoughts. Even sitting like that, Rand looked regal. He was what a king was supposed to be, with that rich red coat, that noble bearing. Perrin was just a blacksmith.
He sighed, shaking his head and dispelling the image. He needed to seek out Rand. He could feel something tugging at him, pulling him.
Rand needed him. That had to be his focus now.
CHAPTER 10
The Last of the Tabac
Rodel Ituralde puffed quietly on his pipe, smoke curling from it like the sinuous coils of a snake. The smoke tendrils wrapped around themselves, pooling at the ceiling above him, then leaking out through cracks in the roof of the ramshackle shed. The boards in the walls were warped from age, opening slits to the outside, and the gray wood was cracked and splintering. A brazier burned in the corner and winds whistled through the cracks in the walls. Ituralde faintly worried those winds would blow over the entire building.
He sat on a stool, several maps on the table before him. At the corner of the table, his tabac pouch weighed down a wrinkled piece of paper. The small square was weathered and folded from being carried in his inside coat pocket.
“Well?” Rajabi asked. Thick of neck and determined of attitude, he was brown-eyed, with a wide nose and a bulbous chin. He was completely bald now, and faintly resembled a large boulder. He tended to act like a boulder, too. It could take a lot of work to get him rolling, but once you did, he was bloody hard to stop. He had been one of the first to join Ituralde’s cause, for all the fact that he had been poised to rebel against the king just a short time before.
It had been nearly two weeks since Ituralde’s victory at Darluna. He’d extended himself far for that victory. Perhaps too far. Ah, Alsalam, he thought. I hope this was all worth it, old friend. I hope you haven’t just gone mad. Rajabi might be a boulder, but the Seanchan are an avalanche, and we’ve brought them thundering down upon us.
“What now?” Rajabi prodded.
“We wait,” Ituralde said. Light, but he hated waiting. “Then we fight. Or maybe we run again. I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“The Taraboners—”
“Won’t come,” Ituralde said.
“They promised!”
“They did.” Ituralde had gone to them himself, had roused them, had asked them to fight the Seanchan just one more time. They’d yelled and cheered, but had not followed with any haste. They would drag their feet. He’d gotten them to fight “one last time” on half a dozen different occasions now. They could see where this war was going, and he could no longer depend on them. If he’d ever been able to in the first place.
“Bloody cowards,” Rajabi muttered. “Light burn them, then! We’ll do it alone. We have before.”
Ituralde took a long, contemplative puff on his pipe. He’d chosen to finally use the Two Rivers tabac. This pipeful was the last in his store; he’d been saving it for months, now. Good flavor. Best there was.
He studied his maps again, holding a smaller one up before him. He could use better maps, that was certain. “This new Seanchan general,” Ituralde said, “is marshaling over three hundred thousand men, with a good two hundred damane.”
“We’ve beat large forces before. Look what we did at Darluna! You crushed them, Rodel!”
And doing so had required every bit of craftiness, skill and luck Ituralde could muster. Even then, he’d lost well over half his men. Now he ran, limping, before this second, larger force of Seanchan.
This time, they weren’t making any mistakes. The Seanchan didn’t rely solely on their raken. His men had intercepted several foot scouts, and that meant dozens hadn’t been caught. This time, the Seanchan knew Ituralde’s true numbers and his true location.
His enemies were done being herded and goaded; instead they hunted him, relentlessly, avoiding his traps. Ituralde had planned to retreat deeper and deeper into Arad Doman; that would favor his forces and stretch the Seanchan supply lines. He’d figured he could keep it up for another four or five months. But those plans were useless now; they’d been made before Ituralde had discovered there was an entire bloody army of Aiel running about Arad Doman. If the reports were to be believed—and reports about Aiel were often exaggerations, so he wasn’t sure how much to believe—there were upwards of a hundred thousand of them holding large sections of the north, Bandar Eban included.
A hundred thousand Aiel. That was as good as two hundred thousand Domani troops. Perhaps more. Ituralde well remembered the Blood Snow twenty years ago, when it had seemed he’d lost ten men for each Aiel who fell.
He was trapped, a walnut crushed between two stones. The best he’d been able to do was retreat here, to this abandoned stedding. That would give him an edge against the Seanchan. But only a small one. The Seanchan had a force six times the size of his own, and the greenest of commanders knew that fighting those odds was suicide.
“Have you ever seen a master juggler, Rajabi?” Ituralde asked, studying the map.
From the corner of his eye, Ituralde saw the bull-like man frown in confusion. “I’ve seen gleemen who—”
“No, not a gleeman. A master.”
Rajabi shook his head.
Ituralde puffed in thought before speaking. “I did, once. He was the court bard of Caemlyn. Spry fellow, with a wit that might better have belonged in a common room, for all the way he was decorated. Bards don’t often juggle; but this fellow didn’t mind the request. He liked juggling to please the young Daughter-Heir, so I understand.”
He removed the pipe from his mouth, tapping down the tabac.
“Rodel,” Rajabi said. “The Seanchan. . . .”
Rodel held up a finger, situating his pipe before continuing. “The bard started by juggling three balls. Then he asked us if we thought he could do another. We cheered him on. He went to four, then five, then six. With each ball he added, our applause grew greater, and he always asked if we thought he could do another. Of course we said yes.
“Seven, eight, nine. Soon he had ten balls going in the air, flying in a pattern so complex that I couldn’t track them. He had to strain to keep them going; he kept having to reach down and grab balls that he nearly missed. He was too lost in concentration to ask us if he should add another, but the crowd called for it. Eleven! Go for eleven! And so, his assistant tossed another ball into the mess.”
Ituralde puffed.
“He dropped them?” Rajabi asked.
Rodel shook his head. “That last ‘ball’ wasn’t
actually a ball at all. It was some kind of Illuminator’s trick; once it got halfway to the bard, it flashed and gave off a sudden burst of light and smoke. By the time our vision cleared, the bard was gone, and ten balls were lined up on the floor. When I looked around, I found him sitting at one of the tables with the rest of the diners, drinking a cup of wine and flirting with Lord Finndal’s wife.”
Poor Rajabi looked completely dumbfounded. He liked his answers neat and straightforward. Ituralde usually felt the same way, but these days—with their unnaturally overcast skies and sense of perpetual gloom—made him philosophic.
He reached out and took the worn, folded sheet of paper off the table from beneath his tabac pouch. He handed it to Rajabi.
“ ‘Strike hard against the Seanchan,’ ” Rajabi read. “ ‘Push them away, force them into their boats and back across their bloody ocean. I’m counting on you, old friend. King Alsalam.’ ” Rajabi lowered the letter. “I know of his orders, Rodel. I didn’t come into this because of him. I came because of you.”
“Yes, but I fight because of him,” Ituralde said. He was a king’s man; he always would be. He stood up, tapping out his tabac and grinding the embers beneath the heel of his boot. He set the pipe aside and took the letter from Rajabi, then walked to the door.
He needed to make a decision. Stay and fight, or flee for a worse location, but gain a little more time?
The shack groaned and wind shook the trees as Ituralde stepped outside into the overcast morning. The shed wasn’t Ogier-built, of course. It was too flimsy for that. This stedding had been abandoned for a long time. His men camped amid the trees. Hardly the best location for a war camp, but one made soup with the spices on hand; the stedding was far too useful to pass up. Another man might have fled to a city and hidden behind its walls, but here in these trees, the One Power was useless. Negating the Seanchan damane was better than walls, no matter how high.