Faile smiled, amused, but Perrin blinked at the onslaught. Had they forgotten the Trollocs on Winternight, forgotten the Trollocs in the countryside right then? Elam clutched his sword hilt as if he wanted to be off for the Blight on the instant, and Dav was up on his toes, eyes gleaming, and Ewin looked ready to grab Perrin's collar. Adventure? They were idiots. Yet there were hard times coming, harder than the Two Rivers had seen so far, he was afraid. It could not hurt if they had a little while longer before they learned the truth.
His side hurt, but he tried to answer. They seemed disappointed he had never seen the White Tower, or a king or a queen. He thought Berelain might suffice for a queen, but with Faile there he was not about to mention her. Some other things he shied away from; Falme, and the Eye of the World, the Forsaken, Callandor. Dangerous subjects, those, leading inevitably to the Dragon Reborn. He could tell them a little of Caemlyn, though, and Tear, of the Borderlands and the Blight. It was odd what they accepted and what not. The corrupted landscape of the Blight, seeming to rot while you looked at it, they ate up, and topknotted Shienaran soldiers, and Ogier stedding where Aes Sedai could not wield the Power and Fades were reluctant to enter. But the size of the Stone of Tear, or the immensity of cities...
About his own supposed adventures, he said “Mainly I've just tried to keep from having my head split open. That's what adventures are, that and finding a place to sleep for the night, and something to eat. You go hungry a lot having adventures, and sleep cold or wet or both.”
They did not like that very much, or appear to believe it any more than they believed that the Stone was as big as a small mountain. He reminded himself that he had known as little of the world before he left the Two Rivers. It did not help much. He had never been this wideeyed. Had he? The common room seemed to be hot. He would have taken his coat off, but moving seemed too much effort.
“What about Rand and Mat?” Ewin demanded. “If it's all being hungry and getting rained on, why didn't they come home, too?”
Tam and Abell had come in, Tam with a sword belted on over his coat and both men with bows — oddly, the sword looked right on Tam, farm coat or no — so he told it much as he had before, Mat gambling and carousing in taverns and chasing girls, and Rand in his fine coat with a pretty, yellowhaired girl on his arm. He made Elayne a lady, expecting they would never believe the DaughterHeir of Andor, and was proved right when they expressed incredulity. Still, it all seemed satisfactory, the kind of thing they wanted to hear, and disbelief faded a bit when Elam pointed out that Faile was a lady and seemed to be dancing attendance on Perrin pretty sharp. That made Perrin grin; he wondered what they would say if he told them she was cousin to a queen.
Faile no longer appeared to be amused for some reason. She turned on them with a stare to match Elayne's haughtiest, stiffbacked and frostyfaced. “You have badgered him enough. He is wounded. Off with you, now.”
For a wonder, they bowed clumsily — Dav made an awkward leg, looking a complete fool — and murmured hasty apologies — to her, not him! — and turned to go. Their departure was delayed by the arrival of Loial, stooping through the doorway with his shaggy hair brushing the transom. They stared at the Ogier almost as if seeing him for the first time — then glanced at Faile and hurried on their way. That cold, lady's stare of hers did work.
When Loial straightened, his head came just short of the ceiling. His capacious coat pockets bore the usual squared bulges of books, but he carried a huge axe. Its haft stood as tall as he did, and its head, shaped like a woodaxe, was at least as big as Perrin's battleaxe. “You are hurt,” he boomed as soon as his eyes fell on Perrin. “They told me you had returned, but they did not say you were hurt, or I would have come faster.”
The axe gave Perrin a start. Among Ogier, “putting a long handle on your axe” meant being hasty, or angry — Ogier seemed to see the two as much the same thing for some reason. Loial did look angry, tufted ears drawing back, frowning so his dangling eyebrows hung down on his broad cheeks. At having to cut trees, no doubt. Perrin wanted to get him alone and find out if he had seen anything more concerning Alanna's doings. Or Verin's. He rubbed his face and was surprised to find it dry; he felt as if he should be sweating.
“He is also stubborn,” Faile said, turning on Perrin with the same commanding look she had used on Dav and Elam and Ewin. “You should be in a bed. Where is Alanna, Verin? If she is to Heal him, where is she?”
“She will come.” The Aes Sedai did not look up. She was back into her little book again, frowning thoughtfully, pen poised.
“He should still be in a bed!”
“I will have time for that later,” Perrin said firmly. He smiled at her to soften it, but all that did was make her look worried and mutter “stubborn” under her breath. He could not ask Loial about the Aes Sedai in front of Verin, but there was something else at least as important. “Loial, the Waygate is unlocked, and Trollocs coming through. How can that be?”
The Ogier's brows sank even deeper, and his ears wilted. “My fault, Perrin,” he rumbled mournfully. “I put both Avendesora leaves on the outside. That locked the Waygate on the inside, but from the outside, anyone could still open it. The Ways have been dark for long generations, yet we grew them. I could not bring myself to destroy the Gate. I am sorry, Perrin. It is all my fault.”
“I did not believe a Waygate could be destroyed,” Faile said.
“I did not mean destroy, exactly.” Loial leaned on his longhandled axe. “A Waygate was destroyed once, less than five hundred years after the Breaking, according to Damelle, daughter of Ala daughter of Soferra, because the Gate was near a stedding that had fallen to the Blight. There are two or three Gates lost in the Blight as it is. But she wrote that it was very difficult, and required thirteen Aes Sedai working together with a sa'angreal. Another attempt she wrote of, by only nine, during the Trolloc Wars, damaged the Gate in such a way that the Aes Sedai were pulled into —” He cut off, ears wriggling with embarrassment, and knuckled his wide nose. Everyone was staring at him, even Verin and the Aiel. “I do let myself be carried away, sometimes. The Waygate. Yes. I cannot destroy it, but if I remove both Avendesora leaves completely, they will die.” He grimaced at the thought. “The only means of opening the Gate again will be for the Elders to bring the Talisman of Growing. Though I suppose an Aes Sedai could cut a hole in it.” This time he shuddered. Damaging a Waygate must have seemed like tearing up a book to him. A moment later, he was grimfaced once more. “I will go now.”
“No!” Perrin said sharply. The arrowhead seemed to throb, but it did not really hurt anymore. He was talking too much; his throat was dry. “There are Trollocs up there, Loial. They can fit an Ogier into a cookpot as well as a human.”
“But, Perrin, I —”
“No, Loial. How are you going to write your book if you go off and get yourself killed?”
Loial's ears twitched. “It is my responsibility, Perrin.”
“The responsibility is mine,” Perrin said gently. “You told me what you were doing with the Waygate, and I didn't suggest anything different. Besides, the way you jump every time your mother is mentioned, I don't want her coming after me. I will go, as soon as Alanna Heals this arrow out of me.” He wiped his forehead, then frowned at his hand. Still no sweat. “Can I have a drink of water?”
Faile was there in an instant, her cool fingers where his hand had been. “He is burning up! Verin, we cannot wait for Alanna. You must—!”
“I am here,” the dark Aes Sedai announced, appearing from the door at the back of the common room, Marin al'Vere and Alsbet Luhhan at her heels, and Ihvon right behind them. Perrin felt the tingle of the Power before Alanna's hand replaced Faile's, and she added in a cool, serene voice, “Carry him into the kitchen. The table there is large enough to lay him out. Quickly. There is not much time.”
Perrin's head spun, and abruptly he realized Loial had leaned his axe beside the door and picked him up, cradling him in his arms. “The Waygate is mine, Loial.” Light, I'm thirsty. “My responsibility.”
The arrowhead truly did not seem to hurt as much as it had, but he ached all over. Loial was carrying him somewhere, bending through doorways. There was Mistress Luhhan, biting her lip, eyes squinched as if about to cry. He wondered why. She never cried. Mistress al'Vere looked worried, too.
“Mistress Luhhan,” he murmured, “Mother says I can come be apprenticed to Master Luhhan.” No. That was a long time ago. That was... What was? He could not seem to remember.
He was lying on something hard, listening to Alanna speak. “...barbs are caught on bone as well as flesh, and the arrowhead has twisted. I must realign it with the first wound and pull it out. If the shock does not kill him, I can then Heal the damage I have done as well as the rest. There is no other way. He is near the brink now.” Nothing to do with him.
Faile smiled down at him tremulously, her face upside down. Had he really once thought her mouth was too wide? It was just right. He wanted to touch her cheek, but Mistress al'Vere and Mistress Luhhan were holding his wrists for some reason, leaning with all their weight. Someone was lying across his legs, too, and Loial's big hands swallowed his shoulders, pressing them flat to the table. Table. Yes. The kitchen table.
“Bite down, my heart,” Faile said from far away. “It will hurt.”
He wanted to ask her what would hurt, but she was pressing a leatherwrapped stick into his mouth. He smelled the leather and the spicewood and her. Would she come hunting with him, running across the endless grassy plains after endless herds of deer? Icy cold shivered through him; vaguely he recognized the feel of the One Power. And then there was pain. He heard the stick snap between his teeth before blackness covered everything.
Chapter 44
(Horned Skull)
The Breaking Storm
Perrin opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the plain white plastered ceiling. It took a moment to realize he was in a fourposted bed, lying on a feather mattress with a blanket over him and a goosedown pillow under his head. A myriad of scents danced in his nose; the feathers and the wool of the blanket, a goose roasting, bread and honeycakes baking. One of the Winespring Inn's rooms. With unmistakable bright morning light streaming in at the whitecurtained windows. Morning. He fumbled at his side. Unbroken skin met his fingers, but he felt weaker than at any time since being shot. A small enough price, though, and a fair enough exchange. His throat felt parched, too.
When he moved, Faile leaped up from a chair beside the small stone fireplace, tossing aside a red blanket and stretching. She had changed to a darker narrowskirted riding dress, and wrinkles in the gray silk said she had slept in that chair. “Alanna said you needed sleep,” she said. He reached toward the white pitcher on the small table beside the bed, and she hurriedly poured a cup of water and held it for him to drink. “You need to stay right here for another two or three days, until you have