“I understand, my Lord. I’m just saying it makes my skin crawl.”
At last another silvery blue slash appeared, widening into an opening that showed a clearing among large, widely spaced trees and a low stone outcrop. Leaning low on Stepper’s neck, Perrin rode through. The gateway winked out behind him, and he rode on through the trees until he came to the large clearing where the camp lay, near what had once been the tiny village of Brytan, a collection of flea-riddled hovels that the most rain-soaked night could not tempt a man into. The sentries up in the trees gave no warnings, of course. They recognized him.
He wanted nothing so much as he wanted his blankets right then. Well, Faile, certainly, but lacking her, he wanted to be alone in the dark. Likely, he would fail to find sleep again, but he would spend the night as he had so often before, thinking of her, remembering her.
Short of the ten-pace wide thicket of sharpened stakes that surrounded the camp, though, he reined in. A raken was crouched just outside the stakes, its long gray neck lowered so a woman in a hooded brown coat could scratch its leathery snout. Her hood hung down her back, revealing short-cropped hair and a hard, narrow face. She looked at Perrin as if she recognized him, but went right on scratching. The saddle on the creature’s back had places for two riders. A messenger had come, it seemed. He turned into one of the narrow, angled lanes through the stakes that had been left to allow horses through. Just not quickly.
Most everybody had turned in already. He sensed movement on the horselines, in the heart of the camp, likely some of the Cairhienin grooms or farriers, but the patched canvas tents and small huts of woven evergreen branches, now long since brown, lay dark and quiet. Nothing moved among the low Aiel tents, and only a few sentries walking up and down in the nearest Mayener section of the camp. The Mayeners and Ghealdanin put little trust in the Two Rivers men in the trees. His tall, red-striped tent was alight, however, and the shadows of a number of people shifted on the tent walls. When he climbed down in front of the tent, Athan Chandin appeared to take the reins and knuckle his forehead while he hunched a sort of bow. Athan was a good bowshot or he would not have been here, but he had a truckling manner. Perrin went in unpinning his cloak.
“There you are,” Berelain said brightly. She must have dressed hastily, because her long black hair looked as though it had had just a lick and a promise from a brush, but her high-necked gray riding dress appeared neat and fresh. Her serving women never let her don anything unless it was freshly ironed. She held out a silver winecup for Breane to refill from a long-necked wine pitcher, which the Cairhienin woman did with a grimace. Faile’s maid disliked Berelain with a passion. Berelain seemed not to notice, though. “Forgive me for entertaining in your tent, but the Banner-General wanted to see you, and I thought I’d keep her company. She’s been telling us about some Whitecloaks.”
Balwer was standing unobtrusively in a corner—the bird-like little man could be as unnoticeable as a lizard on a branch when he wished to be—but his scent sharpened at the mention of Whitecloaks.
Tylee, her shoulders straining a coat like that of the flier, made a straight-legged bow while keeping one eye on Annoura. She seemed to believe the Aes Sedai might turn into ravening wild dogs at any moment. Perrin thought she smelled of distress, though none showed on her dark face. “My Lord, I have two pieces of news I felt I had to bring you immediately. Have you begun putting the forkroot into the town’s water?”
“I have,” he said worriedly, tossing his cloak down atop one of the brass-banded chests. Tylee sighed. “I told you I would. I’d have done it two days ago if that fool woman in Almizar hadn’t dragged her heels so. What’s happened?”
“Forgive me.” Lini announced, “but I was roused from my blankets, and I would like to return to them. Does anyone require anything else of me tonight?” There were no curtsies or ‘my Lords’ from the frail-appearing woman with her white hair in a loose braid for sleeping. Unlike with Berelain, her brown dress looked hastily donned, unusual for her. Her scent was crisp and sharp with disapproval. She was one of those who believed the ridiculous tale that Perrin had slept with Berelain on the very night after Faile had been captured. She managed to avoid looking at him while her gaze swept around the tent’s interior.
“I’ll have some more wine,” Aram announced, holding out his cup. Grim-faced and haggard in a red-striped coat, his eyes hollow, he was attempting to lounge in one of the folding camp chairs, but the sword strapped to his back made leaning against the gilt-edged back impossible. Breane started toward him.
“He’s had enough.” Lini said sharply, and Breane turned away. Lini had a firm hand with Faile’s servants.
Aram muttered an oath and leaped to his feet, tossing his cup down on the flowered carpet that served as a floor. “I might as well go somewhere I won’t have some old woman nagging at me every time I take a drink.” He gave Perrin a sullen glare before stalking out of the tent. Doubtless on his way to Masema’s camp. He had pleaded to be one of the party sent into Maiden, but his hot head could not be trusted with that.
“You can go, Lini.” Berelain said. “Breane can look after us well enough.” A snort was the acknowledgment Lini gave—she made it sound almost delicate—before she stalked out, stiff-backed and reeking of disapproval. And still not looking at Perrin.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” Tylee drawled in careful tones, “but you seem to run your household more . . . loosely . . . than I’m accustomed to.”
“It’s our way, Banner-General,” Perrin said, picking up Aram’s cup. No need to dirty another. “Nobody around here is property.” If that sounded sharp, so be it. He had come to like Tylee after a fashion, but these Seanchan had ways that would make a goat gag. He took the pitcher from Breane—she actually tried to hold onto it for a moment, frowning at him as if she would deny him a drink—and poured for himself before handing it back. She snatched the pitcher out of his hand. “Now, what happened? What about these Whitecloaks?”
“I sent raken out scouting as far as they could go just before dawn, and again just after sunset. One of the fliers tonight turned back sooner than expected. She saw seven thousand Children of the Light on the move not fifty miles from my camp.”
“On the move toward you?” Perrin frowned at his wine instead of drinking. “Seven thousand seems a very exact count t