The bridge guards frowned and fingered their weapons as Stayer’s hooves thudded hollowly onto the wooden planking. They were the usual odd mix that followed the Prophet, dirty-faced fellows in silk coats too big for them, scar-faced street toughs and pink-cheeked apprentices, former merchants and craftsmen who looked as if they had slept in their once fine woolens for months. Their weapons appeared well cared for, though. Some of the men had a fever in their eyes; the rest wore guarded, wooden faces. Along with unwashed, they smelled eager, anxious, fervent, afraid, all jumbled together.
They made no move to bar passage, just watched, hardly blinking. By what Perrin had heard, all sorts from ladies in silks to beggars in rags came to the Prophet hoping that submitting to him in person might gain added blessings. Or maybe added protection. That was why he had come this way, with only a handful of companions. He would frighten Masema if he had to, if Masema could be frightened, but it had seemed better to try reaching the man without fighting a battle. He could feel the guard’s eyes on his back until he and the others were all across the short bridge and onto the paved streets of Abila. When that pressure left, though, it brought no sense of relief.
Abila was a goodly sized town, with several tall watch towers and many buildings rising four stories, every last one roofed in slate. Here and there, mounded stone and timbers filled a gap between two structures where an inn or some merchant’s house had been pulled down. The Prophet disapproved of wealth gained by trade as much as he did carousing or what his followers called lewd behavior. He disapproved of a great many things, and made his feelings known with sharp examples.
The streets were jammed with people, but Perrin and his companions were the only ones on horseback. The snow had long since been trampled to half-frozen ankle-deep mush. Plenty of oxcarts made their slow way through the throng, but very few wagons, and not a single carriage. Except for those wearing worn castoffs or possibly stolen clothes, everyone wore drab woolens. Most people hurried, but like the folk on the road, with heads down. Those who did not hurry were straggling groups of men carrying weapons. In the streets, the smell was mainly dirt and fear. It made Perrin’s hackles rise. At least, if it came to that, getting out of a town with no wall would not prove harder than getting in.
“My Lord,” Balwer murmured as they came abreast of one of those heaps of rubble. He barely waited for Perrin’s nod before turning his hammer-nosed mount aside and making his way in another direction, hunched in his saddle with his brown cloak held tight around him. Perrin had no worries about the dried-up little man going off alone, even here. For a secretary, he managed to learn a surprising amount on these forays of his. He seemed to know what he was about.
Dismissing Balwer from his thoughts, Perrin set to what he was there about.
It took only one question, put to a lanky young man with an ecstatic light on his face, to learn where the Prophet was staying, and three more to other folk in the streets to find the merchant’s house, four stories of gray stone with white marble moldings and window frames. Masema disapproved of grubbing for money, but he was willing to accept accommodations from those who did. On the other hand, Balwer said he had slept in a leaky farmhouse as often and been as satisfied. Masema drank only water, and wherever he went, he hired a poor widow and ate the food she prepared, fair or foul, without complaint. The man had made too many widows for that charity to count far with Perrin.
The throng that packed the streets elsewhere was absent in front of the tall house, yet the number of armed guards like those at the bridge almost made up for it. They stared at Perrin sullenly, those who did not sneer insolently. The two Aes Sedai kept their faces hidden in their deep hoods and their heads down, white breath rising from the cowls like steam. From the corner of his eye, Perrin saw Elyas thumbing the hilt of his long knife. It was hard not to stroke his axe.
“I’ve come with a message for the Prophet from the Dragon Reborn,” he announced. When none of the men moved, he added, “My name is Perrin Aybara. The Prophet knows me.” Balwer had cautioned him about the dangers of using Masema’s name, or calling Rand anything but the Lord Dragon Reborn. He was not there to start a riot.
The claim of knowing Masema seemed to put a spark into the guards. Several exchanged wide-eyed looks, and one went running inside. The rest stared at him as if he were a gleeman. In a few moments, a woman came to the door. Handsome, with white at her temples, in a high-necked dress of blue wool that was fine if unadorned, she might have been the merchant herself. Masema did not throw those who offered him hospitality into the streets, but their servants or farmhands usually ended up with one of the bands “spreading the glories of the Lord Dragon.”
“If you will come with me, Master Aybara,” the woman said calmly, “you and your friends, I will take you to the Prophet of the Lord Dragon, may the Light illumine his name.” Calm she might sound, but terror filled her scent.
Telling Neald and the Warders to watch the horses until they returned, Perrin followed her inside with the others. The interior was dark, with few lamps lit, and not much warmer than outside. Even the Wise Ones seemed subdued. They did not smell afraid, but almost as close to it as the Aes Sedai, and Grady and Elyas smelled of wariness, of raised hackles and ears laid back. Strangely, Aram’s scent was eager. Perrin hoped the man did not try to draw that sword on his back.
The large, carpeted room the woman led them to, with fires blazing on hearths at either end, might have been a general’s study, every table and half the chairs covered with maps and papers, and warm enough that Perrin tossed his cloak back and regretted wearing two shirts under his coat. But it was Masema standing in the middle of the room who drew his eyes immediately, like iron filings to a lodestone, a dark, scowling man with a shaven head and a pale triangular scar on one cheek, in a wrinkled gray coat and scuffed boots. His deep-set eyes burned with a black fire, and his scent . . . The only name Perrin could give that smell, steel-hard and blade-sharp and quivering with wild intensity, was madness. And Rand thought he could put a leash on this?
“So, it is you,” Masema growled. “I did not think you would dare show your face. I know what you’ve been up to! Hari told me more than a week ago, and I have kept myself informed.” A man shifted in a corner of the room, a narrow-eyed fellow with a thrusting nose, and Perrin upbraided himself for not noticing him before. Hari’s green silk coat was much finer than what he had worn when he denied collecting ears. The fellow rubbed his hands together and grinned at Perrin viciously, but he kept silent as Masema went on. The Prophet’s voice grew hotter by the word, not with anger, but as though he meant to burn every syllable deep into Perrin’s flesh. “I know about you murdering men who have come to the Lord Dragon. I know about you trying to carve out your own kingdom! Yes, I know about Manetheren! About your ambition! Your greed for glory! You have turned your back on —!”
Suddenly Masema’s eyes bulged, and for the first time, anger flamed in his scent. Hari made a strangled sound and tried to back through the wall. Seonid and Masuri had lowered their hoods and stood with bare faces, calm and cool, and plainly Aes Sedai to anyone who knew the look. Perrin wondered whether they held the Power. He would have wagered that the Wise Ones did. Edarra and Carelle were quietly watching every direction at once, and smooth faces or no, if he had ever seen anyone ready to fight, it was them. For that matter, Grady wore readiness like his black coat; maybe he held the Power, too. Elyas was leaning against the wall beside the open doors, outwardly as composed as the sisters, but he smelled ready to bite. And Aram stood gazing at Masema with his mouth hanging open! Light!
“So that is true, too!” Masema snapped, spittle flying from his lips. “With filthy rumors spreading against the holy name of the Lord Dragon, you dare to ride with these . . . these . . .!”
“They’ve sworn fealty to the Lord Dragon, Masema,” Perrin cut in. “They serve him! Do you? He sent me to stop the killing. And to bring you to him.” No one was offering him a chair, so he pushed a stack of papers from one
and sat. He wished the rest would sit, too; shouting seemed harder when you were sitting down.
Hari goggled at him, and Masema was practically shaking. Because he had taken a chair without being asked? Oh. Yes.
“I have given up the names of men,” Masema said coldly. “I am simply the Prophet of the Lord Dragon, may the Light illumine him and the world come to kneel before him.” By his tone, the world and the Light would regret failure equally. “There is much to do here, yet. Great works. All must obey when the Lord Dragon calls, but in winter, travel is always slow. A delay of a few weeks will make little difference.”
“I can have you in Cairhien today,” Perrin said. “Once the Lord Dragon has spoken to you, you can return the same way and be back here in a few days.” If Rand let him return.
Masema actually recoiled. Baring his teeth, he glared at the Aes Sedai. “Some contrivance of the Power? I will not be touched with the Power! It is blasphemy for mortals to touch it!”
Perrin came close to gaping. “The Dragon Reborn channels, man!”
“The blessed Lord Dragon is not as other men, Aybara!” Masema snarled. “He is the Light made flesh! I will obey his summons, but I will not be touched by the filth these women do!”
Slumping back in the chair, Perrin sighed. If the man was this bad over Aes Sedai, how would he be when he learned that Grady and Neald could channel? For a moment, he considered simply knocking Masema over the head, and . . . Men were passing by in the corridor, pausing to glance in before hurrying on. All it took was one of them raising a shout, and Abila could become a slaughterhouse. “Then we ride, Prophet,” he said sourly. Light, Rand had said to keep this secret until Masema stood in front of him! How to manage that riding all the way to Cairhien? “But no delays. The Lord Dragon is very anxious to talk with you.”
“I am anxious to speak with the Lord Dragon, may his name be blessed by the Light.” His eyes flickered toward the two Aes Sedai. He tried to hide it, actually smiling at Perrin. But he smelled . . . grim. “I am very anxious indeed.”
“Would my Lady like me to ask one of the handlers to bring her a hawk?” Maighdin asked. One of Alliandre’s four hawk handlers, all men as lean as their birds, urged a sleek duckhawk wearing a feathered hood onto his heavy gauntlet from the wooden stand in front of his saddle and lifted the gray bird toward her. The falcon, with its blue-tipped wings, was on Alliandre’s green-gloved wrist. That bird was reserved to her, unfortunately. Alliandre knew her place as a vassal, but Faile understood not wanting to relinquish a favorite bird.
She merely shook her head, and Maighdin bowed in her saddle and moved her roan mare away from Swallow, far enough not to intrude but close enough to be at hand without Faile raising her voice. The dignified golden-haired woman had proved to be every bit as good a lady’s maid as Faile had hoped, knowledgeable, capable. At least, she had once she learned that whatever their relative positions with their former mistress, Lini was first among Faile’s serving women, and willing to use her authority. Surprisingly, that had actually taken an episode with a switch, but Faile pretended not to know. Only an utter fool embarrassed her servants. There was still the matter of Maighdin and Tallanvor, of course. She was certain Maighdin had begun sharing his bed, and if she found proof, they would marry if she had to turn Lini loose on both of them. Still, that was a small matter, and could not spoil her morning.
Hawking had been Alliandre’s idea, but Faile had not objected to a ride through this sparse forest, where snow made a rolling blanket over everything and lay thick and white on bare branches. The green of the trees that still held their leaves seemed sharper. The air was crisp, and it smelled new and fresh.
Bain and Chiad had insisted on accompanying her, but they squatted nearby, shoufa wrapped around their heads, watching her with disgruntled expressions. Sulin had wanted to come with all of the Maidens, but with a hundred stories of Aiel depredations floating everywhere, the sight of an Aiel was enough to send most people in Amadicia running or reaching for a sword. There must be some truth in those tales, or so many would not know an Aiel, though the Light alone knew who they were or where they had come from, yet even Sulin agreed that whoever they were, they had moved on east, perhaps into Altara.
In any case, this close to Abila, twenty of Alliandre’s soldiers and as many Mayener Winged Guards provided sufficient escort. The streamers on their lances, red or green, lifted like ribbons when the breeze stirred. Berelain’s presence was the only blight. Though watching the woman shiver in her fur-trimmed red cloak, thick enough for two blankets, was certainly amusing. Mayene did not have a real winter. This was like the last days of autumn. In Saldaea, the heart of winter could freeze exposed flesh hard as wood. Faile took a deep breath. She felt like laughing.
By some miracle, her husband, her beloved wolf, had begun behaving as he should. Instead of shouting at Berelain or running from her, Perrin now tolerated the jade’s blandishments, plainly tolerated them the way he would a child playing around his knees. And best of all, there was no longer any need to tamp down her anger when she wanted to let it loose. When she shouted, he shouted back. She knew he was not Saldaean, but it had been so hard, thinking in her heart of hearts that he believed her too weak to stand up to him. A few nights ago at supper, she had almost pointed out to him that Berelain was going to fall out of her dress if she leaned over the table any further. Well, she was not going to that far, not with Berelain; the trull still thought she could win him. And that very morning, he had been commanding, quietly brooking no argument, the sort of man a woman knew she had to be strong to deserve, to equal. Of course, she would have to nip him over that. A commanding man was wonderful, so long as he did not come to believe he could always command. Laugh? She could have sung!
“Maighdin, I think after all I will . . . ” Maighdin was there immediately with an inquiring smile, but Faile trailed off at the sight of three riders ahead of her, plowing through the snow as fast as they could push their horses.
“At least there are plenty of hares, my Lady,” Alliandre said, walking her tall white gelding up beside Swallow, “but I had hoped . . . Who are they?” Her falcon shifted on her thick glove, the bells on its jesses jingling. “Why, it looks like some of your people, my Lady.”
Faile nodded grimly. She recognized them, too. Parelean, Arrela and Lacile. But what were they doing here?
The three drew rein before her, their horses panting steam. Parelean looked as wide-eyed as his dapple. Lacile, her pale face nearly hidden in the deep cowl of her cloak, was swallowing anxiously, and Arrela’s dark face seemed gray. “My Lady,” Parelean said urgently, “dire news! The Prophet Masema has been meeting with the Seanchan!”
“The Seanchan!” Alliandre exclaimed. “Surely he cannot believe they will come to the Lord Dragon!”
“It might be simpler,” Berelain said, heeling her too-showy white mare up on Alliandre’s other side. Without Perrin about for her to try to impress, her dark blue riding dress was cut quite modestly, with a neck up under her chin. She still shivered. “Masema dislikes Aes Sedai, and the Seanchan keep women who can channel as prisoners.”
Faile clicked her tongue in vexation. Dire news indeed, if true. And she could only hope Parelean and the others retained enough of their wits to at least pretend they had simply overheard talk by chance. Even so, she had to be sure, and quickly. Perrin might already have reached Masema. “What proof do you have, Parelean?”
“We talked to three farmers who saw a large flying creature land four nights ago, my Lady. It brought a woman who was taken to Masema and remained with him for three hours.”
“We were able to trace her all the way to where Masema stays in Abila,” Lacile added.
“The three men all thought the creature was Shadowspawn,” Arrela put in, “but they seemed fairly reliable.” For her to say any man not of Cha Faile was fairly reliable was the same as anyone else saying they thought he was honest as a bell.
“I think I must ride into Abila,” Faile sa
id, gathering Swallow’s reins. “Alliandre, take Maighdin and Berelain with you.” Any other time, the tightening of Berelain’s lips over that would have been amusing. “Parelean, Arrela and Lacile will accompany me — ” A man screamed, and everyone jerked.
Fifty paces away, one of Alliandre’s green-coated soldiers was toppling from his saddle, and a moment later, a Winged Guard fell with an arrow standing out from his throat. Aiel appeared among the trees, veiled and wielding bows as they ran. More soldiers fell. Bain and Chiad were on their feet, dark veils hiding their faces to the eyes; their spears were thrust through the straps of the bow cases on their back, and they worked their bows smoothly, but they cast glances toward Faile, too. There were Aiel all around, hundreds it seemed, a great noose closing in. Mounted soldiers lowered lances, pulling back in their own circle around Faile and the others, but gaps appeared immediately as Aiel arrows struck home.
“Someone must get this news of Masema to Lord Perrin,” Faile told Parelean and the two women. “One of you must reach him! Ride like fire!” Her sweeping gaze took in Alliandre and Maighdin. And Berelain, too. “All of you, ride like fire, or die here!” Barely waiting for their nods, she suited actions to words, and dug her heels into Swallow’s flanks, bursting through the useless ring of soldiers. “Ride!” she shouted. Someone had to get the news to Perrin. “Ride!”
Leaning low on Swallow’s neck, she urged the black mare for speed. Fleet hooves splashed snow as Swallow ran, light as her namesake. For a hundred strides, Faile thought she might break free. And then Swallow screamed and stumbled, pitching forward with the sharp snap of a breaking leg. Faile flew through air and struck hard, most of the breath driven out of her as she plunged facedown into the snow. Fighting for air, she struggled to her feet and snatched a knife from her belt. Swallow had screamed before she stumbled, before that awful crack.