Faile shook her head. “It bothers Perrin when people think he did something wrong. As long as the Whitecloaks continue to insist he is a murderer, his name will not be clear.” He was being bullheaded and foolish, but there was a nobility about it.
So long as it didn’t get him killed. However, she loved him for that very sense of honor. Changing him would be ill-advised, so she had to make certain others didn’t take advantage of him.
As she always did when they discussed the Whitecloaks, Berelain got a strange look in her eyes, and she glanced—perhaps unconsciously—in the direction their army camped. Light. She wasn’t going to ask again if she could go speak to them? She had come up with a dozen different reasons why she wanted to.
Faile noticed a large group of soldiers trying to look inconspicuous as they rounded the inside of the camp, keeping pace with Faile and their guards on their promenade. Perrin wanted her well protected.
“This young Lord Captain Commander,” Alliandre said idly. “He looks quite striking in that white uniform, wouldn’t you say? If you can get past that sunburst on his cloak. Such a beautiful man.”
“Oh?” Berelain said. Surprisingly, warm color rose in her cheeks.
“I’d always heard that Morgase’s stepson was a handsome man,” Alliandre continued. “But I hadn’t anticipated him being so…pristine.”
“Like a statue carved from marble,” Berelain whispered, “a relic from the Age of Legends. A perfect thing left behind. For us to worship.”
“He’s passable,” Faile said with a sniff. “I prefer a bearded face, myself.”
It wasn’t a lie—she loved a bearded face, and Perrin was handsome. He had a burly power to him that was quite appealing. But this Galad Damodred was…well, it wasn’t fair to compare him to Perrin. That would be like comparing a stained glass window to a cabinet made by a master carpenter. Both were excellent examples of their craft, and it was hard to weigh them against one another. But the window certainly did shine.
Berelain’s expression seemed distant. She was definitely taken with Damodred. Such a short time for it to have happened. Faile told Berelain that finding another man for her attentions would help with the rumors, but the Whitecloak commander? Had the woman lost all sense?
“So what do we do?” Alliandre asked as they rounded the south side of the camp, halfway to the point from which they’d started.
“About the Whitecloaks?” Faile asked.
“About Maighdin,” Alliandre said. “Morgase.”
“I can’t help feeling that she took advantage of my kindness,” Faile said. “After all we went through together, she didn’t tell me who she was?”
“You seem to be determined to give her very little credit,” Berelain said.
Faile didn’t reply. She’d been thinking about what Perrin said, and he was probably right. Faile should not be so angry with her. If Morgase really had been fleeing one of the Forsaken, it was a miracle that she was still alive. Besides, she herself had lied about who she was, when first meeting Perrin.
In truth, her anger was because Morgase was going to judge Perrin. She presumed to judge Perrin. Maighdin the lady’s maid might be grateful, but Morgase the Queen would see Perrin as a rival. Would Morgase really treat this judgment fairly, or would she take the chance to discredit a man who had raised himself up as a lord?
“I feel as you do, my Lady,” Alliandre said softly.
“And how is that?”
“Deceived,” Alliandre said. “Maighdin was our friend. I thought I knew her.”
“You would have acted exactly as she did in that situation,” Berelain said. “Why give away information if you don’t have to?”
“Because we were friends,” Alliandre said. “After what we went through together, it turns out that she’s Morgase Trakand. Not just a queen—the Queen. The woman’s a legend. And she was here, with us, serving us tea. Poorly.”
“You have to admit,” Faile said thoughtfully, “she did get better with the tea.”
Faile reached to her throat, touching the cord that bore Rolan’s stone. She didn’t wear it every day, but she did so often enough. Had Morgase been false that entire time they’d been with the Shaido? Or had she, in a way, been more true? With no titles to live up to, she hadn’t been forced to be the “legendary” Morgase Trakand. Under circumstances like that, wouldn’t a person’s true nature be more likely to show through?
Faile gripped the cord. Morgase would not turn this trial against Perrin out of spite. But she would offer judgment in honesty. Which meant Faile needed to be prepared, and have ready—
Screams sounded nearby.
Faile reacted immediately, spinning toward the woods. She instinctively anticipated Aiel leaping from the bushes to kill and capture, and she felt a moment of sheer panic.
But the screams were coming from inside camp. She cursed, turning about, but felt something tug at her belt. She looked down with a start to see her belt knife pull itself from its sheath and flip into the air.
“A bubble of evil!” Berelain said, stumbling to the side.
Faile ducked, throwing herself to the ground as her knife flipped through the air toward her head. It narrowly missed. As Faile came up in a crouch, she saw with a start that Berelain was facing down a dagger, one that looked—from the damage to Berelain’s shirt—to have ripped its way free of a hidden sheath inside her sleeve.
Beyond Berelain, the camp was in a tumult. The nearby practicing refugees were scattering, swords and spears flipping through the air of their own volition. It looked as if every weapon in the camp had suddenly sprung to life, rising up to attack its master.
Motion. Faile dodged to the side as her knife came back for her, but a white-haired figure in brown snatched the weapon from the air, holding it in a tight grip. Sulin rolled, clinging to it, her teeth gritted as she wrenched it from the air and slammed it down onto a stone, breaking the blade from the hilt.
It stopped moving. Sulin’s spears, however, pulled from their place on her back and spun in the sky, tips pointing toward her.
“Run!” the Maiden said, turning and trying to face all three spears at once.
“Where?” Faile demanded, picking up a stone from the ground. “The weapons are everywhere.” Berelain was struggling with her dagger. She’d grabbed it, but it was fighting her, wrenching her arms from side to side. Alliandre was surrounded by three knives. Light! Faile suddenly felt lucky for ha
