Taking his hands in hers, Faile sat in the next chair. She was so beautiful, with her slightly tilted eyes, large and dark, and her high cheekbones. He did not know how he was going to be able to make up to her for the way he had treated her these last few days. No doubt she would find a means to make him pay for it.
“Have you given up the notion of surrendering to the Whitecloaks?” she asked. There was no hint in her voice that she had just watched him cry like a baby.
“It seems it wouldn't do any good. They'll be after Rand's father, and Mat's, whatever I do. My family...” He quickly loosened his grip on her hands, but she smiled instead of wincing. “I have to get Master Luhhan and his wife free, if I can. And Mat's mother and sisters; I promised him I would look after them. And do what I can about the Trollocs.” Maybe this Lord Luc had some ideas. At least the Waygate was blocked; no more would come through the Ways. He especially wanted to do something about the Trollocs. “I can't manage any of that if I let them hang me.”
“I am very glad you see that,” she told him dryly. “Any more fool notions about sending me away?”
“No.” He braced himself for the storm, but she simply nodded as if the one word were what she expected and all she wanted. A small thing, nothing worth arguing over. She was going to make him pay large.
“We are five, Perrin, six if Loial is willing. And if we can find Tam al'Thor and Abell Cauthon... Are they as good with a bow as you?”
“Better,” he said truthfully. “Much better.”
She gave him a slight, disbelieving nod. “That will make eight. A beginning. Maybe others will join us. And then there's Lord Luc. He will probably want to take charge, but if he's not a crackbrain, it won't matter. Not everyone who took the Hunter's Oath is sensible, though. I've met some who think they know everything, and are stubborn as mules besides.”
“I know.” She looked at him sharply, and he managed to keep the smile off his face. “That you've met some like that, I mean. I saw a pair of them once, remember.”
“Oh, them. Well, we can hope Lord Luc is not a boasting liar.” Her eyes became intent, and her grip tightened on his hands, not uncomfortably, but as though she was trying to add her strength to his. “You will want to visit your family's farm, your home. I will come with you, if you will let me.”
“When I can, Faile.” Not now, though. Not yet. If he looked at those graves below the apple trees now... It was strange. He had always taken his own strength for granted, and now it turned out that he was not strong at all. Well, he was done with weeping like a babe. It was past time to be doing something. “First things first. Finding Tam and Abell, I suppose.”
Master al'Vere put his head into the common room, and came the rest of the way when he saw them sitting apart. “There is an Ogier in the kitchen,” he told Perrin with a bemused look. “An Ogier. Drinking tea. The biggest cup looks...” He held two fingers as though gripping a thimble. “Maybe Marin could pretend Aiel walk in here every day, but she nearly fainted when she saw this Loial. I gave her a double tot of brandy, and she tossed it down like water. Nearly coughed herself to death; she doesn't take more than wine, usually. I think she'd have drunk another, if I'd given it to her.” He pursed his lips and affected an interest in a nonexistent spot on his long white apron. “Are you all right now, my boy?”
“I'm fine, sir,” Perrin said hastily. “Master al'Vere, we cannot remain here much longer. Someone might tell the Whitecloaks you sheltered me.”
“Oh, there are not many would do that. Not all the Coplins, and not some of the Congars, even.” But he did not suggest they stay.
“Do you know where I can find Master al'Thor and Master Cauthon?”
“In the Westwood somewhere, usually,” Bran said slowly. “That's all I know for sure. They move about.” Locking his fingers over his broad belly, he tilted his gray fringed head to one side. “You aren't leaving are you? Well. I told Marin you would not, but she doesn't believe me. She thinks it best for you to go away — best for you — and like most women she's sure you will see things her way if she talks long enough.”
“Why, Master al'Vere,” Faile said sweetly, “I for one have always found men to be sensible creatures who only need to be shown the wisest path once to choose it.”
The Mayor favored her with an amused smile. “You will be talking Perrin into going then, I take it? Marin's right; that is wisest, if he wants to avoid a noose. The only reason to stay is that sometimes a man can't run. No? Well, no doubt you know best.” He ignored her sour look. “Come along, my boy. Let's tell Marin the good news. Set your teeth and hold on to your intentions, because she won't give up trying to shift you.”
In the kitchen, Loial and the Aiel were crosslegged on the floor. There was certainly no chair in the inn big enough for the Ogier. He sat with an arm resting on the kitchen table, tall enough sitting to look Marin al'Vere in the eye. Bran had exaggerated the smallness of the cup in Loial's hands, though on second glance Perrin saw it was a whiteglazed soup bowl.
Mistress al'Vere was still doing her best to pretend Aiel and Ogier were normal, bustling about with a tray of bread and cheese and pickles, making sure everyone ate, but her eyes did widen each time they landed on Loial, though he tried to put her at ease with compliments for her baking. His tufted ears twitched nervously whenever she looked at him, and she gave a little jump every time they did, then shook her head, the thick graying braid swaying vigorously. Given a few hours, they might send each other to bed with the shakes.
Loial heaved a deep bass sigh of relief at the sight of Perrin and set his cup — bowl — of tea on the table, but the next instant his broad face sagged sadly. “I am sorry to hear your loss, Perrin. I share 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 halfcovered 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 lightningsplit 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 grea
