Towers of Midnight (The Wheel of Time #13)

He heard Faile coming up the side of the hill, stepping softly on the wet grass. She was good at being quiet—not nearly as good as Elyas or one of the Aiel, but better than one might think of her. But he could smell her scent, soap with lavender. She used that particular soap only on days she deemed special.

She stepped atop the hillside, beautiful, impressive. She wore a violet vest over a long silk blouse of a lighter shade. Where had she gotten the clothing? He hadn’t seen her in this fine outfit before.

“My husband,” she said, stepping up to him. He could faintly hear others near the foot of the hill—probably Cha Faile. She’d left them behind. “You look concerned.”

“It’s my fault that Gill and the others were captured, Faile,” he said. “My failures continue to mount. It’s a wonder anyone follows me.”

“Perrin,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “We’ve spoken of this. You mustn’t say such things.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve never known you to be a liar,” she said with a softly chiding tone.

He looked at her. It was growing dark, though he could still make out details. She’d have a harder time seeing them.

“Why do you continue to fight this?” she asked. “You are a good leader, Perrin.”

“I wouldn’t have given myself up for them,” he said.

She frowned. “What does that have to—”

“Back in the Two Rivers,” Perrin said, turning away from her, looking north again, “I was ready to do it. When the Whitecloaks had Mat’s family and the Luhhans, I’d have given myself up. This time, I wouldn’t have. Even when I spoke to their leader, asking his price, I knew I wouldn’t give myself up.”

“You’re becoming a better leader.”

“How can you say that? I’m growing callous, Faile. If you knew the things I did to get you back, the things I would have done…” He fingered the hammer at his side. The tooth or the claw, Young Bull, it matters not. He’d thrown away the axe, but could he blame it for his brutality? It was only a tool. He could use the hammer to do the same terrible things.

“It’s not callous,” Faile said, “or selfish. You’re a lord now, and you can’t let it be known that capturing your subjects will undermine your rule. Do you think Queen Morgase would abdicate to tyrants who kidnapped her subjects? No leader could rule that way. Your inability to stop evil men does not make you evil yourself.”

“I don’t want this mantle, Faile. I never have.”

“I know.”

“Sometimes I wish I’d never left the Two Rivers. I wish I’d let Rand run off to his destiny, leaving regular folk behind to live their lives.”

He caught a scent of annoyance from her.

“But if I’d stayed,” he added hastily, “I’d never have met you. So I’m glad I left. I’m just saying I’ll be glad when this is all through and finished, and I can go back to someplace simple.”

“You think the Two Rivers will ever go back to being the way you remember it?”

He hesitated. She was right—when they’d gone, it had already been showing signs of change. Refugees from across the mountains moving in, the villages swelling. Now, with so many men joining him in war, getting ideas into their heads about having a lord…

“I could find someplace else,” he said, feeling stubborn. “There are other villages. They won’t all change.”

“And you’d drag me off to one of these villages, Perrin Aybara?” she said.

“I…” What would happen if Faile, his beautiful Faile, were confined to a sleepy village? He always insisted that he was only a blacksmith. But was Faile a blacksmith’s wife? “I would never force you to do anything, Faile,” he said, cupping her face in his hand. He always felt awkward when touching her satin cheeks with his thick, callused fingers.

“I’d go, if you really wanted me to,” she replied. That was odd. He’d normally expect a snap from her at his awkward tongue. “But is it what you want? Is it really?”

“I don’t know what I want,” he said frankly. No, he didn’t want to drag Faile off to a village. “Maybe…life as a blacksmith in a city, somewhere?”

“If you wish it,” she repeated. “Of course, that would leave the Two Rivers without a lord. They’d have to find someone else.”

“No. They don’t need a lord. That’s why I have to stop them treating me like one.”

“And you think they’d give up on the idea that quickly?” Faile asked, smelling amused. “After they’ve seen how everyone else does it? After the way they fawned over that fool Luc? After welcoming in all of those people from Almoth Plain, who are used to lords?”

What would the Two Rivers folk do if he stepped down as their lord? In a sinking moment of realization, he knew that Faile was right. Surely they’d pick someone who’d do a better job of it than me, he thought. Maybe Master al’Vere.

But could Perrin trust that? Men like Master al’Vere or Tam might turn down the position. Might they end up picking someone like old Cenn Buie? Would they have a choice? If Perrin stepped aside, might some person who figured himself highborn seize power?

Don’t be a fool, Perrin Aybara, he thought. Almost anyone would be better than you.

Still, the thought of someone else taking control—someone else being lord—filled him with intense anxiety. And a surprising amount of sadness.

“Now,” Faile said, “stop your brooding. I have grand intentions for this evening.” She clapped her hands loudly three times, and movements began below. Soon, servants crested the hillside. Perrin recognized them as people she’d appropriated from among the refugees, a group as loyal to her as Cha Faile.

They carried canvas, which they spread on the ground. Then they covered that with a blanket. And what was that he smelled coming up from below? Ham?

“What is this, Faile?” he asked.

“At first,” she said, “I assumed that you had something special planned for our shanna’har. I grew nervous when you didn’t mention it, however, and so I asked. It appears that you do not celebrate it in the Two Rivers, odd though that is.”

“Shanna’har?” Perrin as