The words sounded normal, except for an undercurrent he barely caught, a tightness at the corners of her eyes. “What is wrong?”
She replaced the cup carefully on the bedside table and smoothed her dress. “Nothing is wrong.” The taut underlying tone was even clearer.
“Faile, don't lie to me.”
“I do not lie!” she snapped. “I will have some breakfast brought up to you, and you're lucky I do that, calling me —”
“Faile.” He said her name as sternly as he could, and she hesitated, her most arrogant, chinup glare changing to foreheadcreasing worry and back again. He met her gaze straight on; she was not going to get away with any fine lady's haughty tricks with him.
At last, she sighed. “I suppose you have a right to know. But you are still staying in that bed until Alanna and I say you can get up. Loial and Gaul are gone.”
“Gone?” He blinked in confusion. “What do you mean gone? They left?”
“In a way. The sentries saw them go, this morning at first light, trotting off into the Westwood together. None of them thought anything of it; certainly none tried to stop them, an Ogier and an Aiel. I heard of it less than an hour ago. They were talking about trees, Perrin. About how the Ogier sing to trees.”
“Trees?” Perrin growled. “It's that bloody Waygate! Burn me, I told him not to... They'll get themselves killed before they reach it!”
Throwing off the blanket, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, wobbling to his feet. He had nothing on, he realized, not even his smallclothes. But if they expected to keep him caged under a blanket, they were sadly mistaken. He could see everything folded neatly on the tallbacked chair by the door, with his boots beside it and his axe hanging by its belt from a peg on the wall. Stumbling to his clothes, he began dressing as quickly as he could.
“What are you doing?” Faile demanded. “You put yourself back in that bed!” One fist on her hip, she pointed commandingly, as if her finger could transport him there.
“They can't have gotten that far,” he told her. “Not afoot. Gaul won't ride, and Loial always did claim he trusted his own feet more than any horse. I can catch them up on Stepper by midday latest.” Pulling his shirt over his head he left it hanging loose over his breeches and sat down— dropped, actually — to draw on his boots.
“You are mad, Perrin Aybara! What chance you can even find them in that forest?”
“I am not so bad at tracking, myself. I can find them.” He smiled at her, but she was not having any.
“You can get yourself killed, you hairy fool! Look at you. You can hardly stand. You would fall out of the saddle before you had gone a mile!”
Hiding the effort involved, he stood and stamped his feet to settle them in his boots. Stepper would do all the work; he only needed to hold on. “Nonsense. I'm strong as a horse. Stop trying to bully me.” Shrugging into his coat, he snatched up his axe and belt. Faile caught his arm as he opened the door, and was pulled along, vainly trying to haul him back.
“Sometimes you have the brains of a horse,” she panted. “Less! Perrin, you must listen to me. You must —”
The room lay only a few steps along the narrow hallway from the stairs leading down to the empty common room, and it was the stairs that betrayed him. When his knee bent to lower him that first step, it kept right on bending; he toppled forward, vainly trying to catch the banister, pulling a yelling Faile with him. Rolling over and over, they thumped down the stairs to come up with a final thud against the barrel at the bottom, Faile lying stretched fulllength atop him. The barrel teetered and spun, rattling the swords inside, before settling with a final clank.
It took a moment for Perrin to gather enough breath to speak. “Are you all right?” he said anxiously. She was sprawled limply on his chest. He shook her gently. “Faile, are you —?”
Slowly she raised her head and brushed a few short strands of dark hair from her face, then stared at him intently. “Are you all right? Because if you are, I may very well do something violent to you.”
Perrin snorted; she was probably hurt less than he. Gingerly, he felt at where the arrow had been, but that was in no worse shape than the rest of him. Of course, the rest of him seemed bruised from head to toe. “Get off of me, Faile. I need to fetch Stepper.”
Instead, she seized his collar with both hands and leaned very close, until their noses almost touched. “Listen to me, Perrin,” she said urgently. “You — can — not — do — everything. If Loial and Gaul have gone to lock the Waygate, you must let them. Your place is here. Even if you were strong enough — and you are not! Do you hear me? You are not strong enough! — but even if you were, you must not go after them. You cannot do everything!”
“Why, whatever are you two doing?” Marin al'Vere said. Wiping her hands on her long white apron, she came from the back door of the common room. Her eyebrows looked to be trying to climb into her hair. “I expected Trollocs after all that racket, but not this.” She sounded half scandalized, and half amused.
What they looked like, Perrin realized, with Faile lying on him that way, their heads close together, was a couple playing kissing games. On the floor of the common room.
Faile's cheeks reddened and she got up very quickly, dusting her dress. “He is as stubborn as a Trolloc, Mistress al'Vere. I told him he was too weak to rise. He must go back to his bed immediately. He has to learn he cannot do everything himself, especially when he cannot even walk down a flight of steps.”
“Oh, my dear,” Mistress al'Vere said, shaking her head, “that is quite the wrong way.” Leaning close to the younger woman, she whispered softly, but Perrin heard every word. “He was an easy little boy to manage most of the time, if you handled him properly, but when you tried to push him, he was as muley as any in the Two Rivers. Men don't really change that much, only grow taller. If you go telling him what he must and musn't do, he will surely lay his ears back and dig his heels in. Let me show you.” Marin turned a beaming smile on him, ignoring his glare. “Perrin, don't you think one of my good goosefeather mattresses is better than that floor? I'll bring you some of my kidney pie just as soon as we have you tucked in. You must be hungry, after no supper last night. Here. Why don't let me help you up?”
Pushing their hands away, he stood on his own. Well, with the aid of the wall. He thought he might have sprained half the muscles in his body. Muley? He had never been muley in his life. “Mistress al'Vere, would you have Hu or Tad saddle Stepper?”
“When you're better,” she said, trying to turn him toward the stairs. “Don't you think you could do with just a little more rest?” Faile took his other arm.
“Trollocs!” The cry from outside came muffled through the walls, echoed by a dozen voices. “Trollocs! Trollocs!”
“That needn't concern you today,” Mistress al'Vere said, firm and soothing at the same time. It made him want to grit his teeth. “The Aes Sedai will handle things nicely. In a day or two we'll have you back on your feet. You will see.”
“My horse,” he said, trying to pull free. They had good holds on his coatsleeves; all he accomplished was swinging them back and forth. “For the love of the Light, will you stop tugging at me and let me get my horse? Let go of me.”
Looking at his face, Faile sighed and released his arm. “Mistress al'Vere, will you have his horse saddled and brought around?”
“But my dear, he really needs —”
“If you please, Mistress al'Vere,” Faile said firmly. “And my horse, too.” The two women looked at each other as if he did not exist. At last Mistress al'Vere nodded.
Perrin frowned at her back as she hurried across the common room and vanished toward the kitchen, and the stable. What had Faile said different from what he had? Turning his attention to her, he said, “Why did you change your mind?”
Tucking his shirt in for him, she muttered under her breath. Doubtless he was not supposed to hear well enough to understand. “I musn't say must, must I? When he is too stubborn to see straight, I must lead him with honey and smiles, must I?” She shot him a glare that surely had no honey in it, then abruptly changed to a smile so sweet he very nearly backed away. “My dear heart,” she almost cooed, pulling his coat straight, “whatever is happening out there, I do hope you will stay in your saddle, and as far from Trollocs as you can. You really are not up to facing a Trolloc just yet, are you? Maybe tomorrow. Please remember you are a general, a leader, and every bit as much a symbol to your people as that banner out there. If you are up where people can see you, it will lift everyone's heart. And it is much easier to see what needs doing and give orders if you aren't in the fighting yourself.” Picking his belt off the floor, she buckled it around his waist, settling the axe carefully on his hip. She also batted her eyes at him! “Please say you will do that. Please?”
She was right. He would not last two minutes against a Trolloc. More like two seconds against a Fade. And much as he hated to admit it, he would not last two miles in the saddle chasing after Loial and Gaul. Fool Ogier. You're a writer, not a hero. “All right,” he said. A mischievous impulse seized him. The way she and Mistress al'Vere had been talking over his head, and batting her eyes as if he were a fool. “I can't refuse you anything when you smile so prettily.”
“I am glad.” Still smiling, she brushed at his coat, picking lint he could not see. “Because if you don't, and you manage to survive, I'll do to you what you did to me that first day in the Ways. I don't think you are strong enough yet to stop me.” That smile beamed up into his face, all springtime and sweetness. “Do you understand me?”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “Sounds as if I had better let them kill me.” She did not seem to think that was funny.
Hu and Tad, the lanky stablemen, led Stepper and Swallow around soon after they stepped outside. Everyone else seemed to be gathered at the far end of the village, beyond the Green with its sheep and cows and geese, and that crimsonandwhite wolfhead banner rippling on the morning breeze. As soon as he and Faile were up on their horses, the stablemen took off running that way, too, without a word.
Whatever was going on, it was clearly not an attack. He could see women and children in the crowd, and the shouts of “Trolloc” had died down to a murmur like an echo of the geese. He rode slowly, not wanting to waver in his saddle; Faile kept Swallow close, watching him. If she could change her mind once for no reason, she could again, and he did not want any arguments about whether he should be there.
The babbling crowd did appear to contain everyone in Emond's Field, villagers and farmers alike, all jammed shoulder to shoulder, but they made way for him and Faile when they saw who he was. His name entered the murmurs, usually tagged with Goldeneyes. He picked up the word “Trollocs,” too, but in tones more wondering than frightened. From Stepper's back he had a g