A Crown of Swords (78 page)

“I laid my plans before they came,” he said carefully. “It seemed . . . imprudent . . . to leave the Queen of Andor in Valda’s hands. Consider it my way of repaying him. I know I am not much to look at, Majesty . . .” He hid a self-deprecating cough behind his hand. “. . . but the plan will work. These Seanchan actually make it easier; I would not have been ready for days yet without them. For a newly conquered city, they allow remarkable freedom to anyone willing to say their Oath. Not an hour after sunrise, I obtained a pass allowing myself and up to ten more who have taken the Oath to depart Amador. They believe I intend to buy wine, and wagons to carry it, in the east.”

“It must be a trap.” The words tasted bitter. Better the window than falling into some snare. “They won’t allow you to carry word of them ahead of their army.”

Balwer’s head tilted to one side, and he began dry-washing his hands, then stopped abruptly. “In truth, Majesty, I considered that. The officer who gave me the pass said it did not matter. His exact words: ‘Tell who you will what you have seen, and let them know they cannot stand against us. Your lands will know soon enough anyway.’ I have seen several merchants take the Oath this morning and depart with their wagons.”

Tallanvor moved close to her. Too close. She could almost feel his breath. She could feel his eyes. “We are accepting his offer,” he said for her ears alone. “If I must bind and gag you, I think he can find a way even so. He seems a very resourceful little fellow.”

She met him stare for stare. The window or . . . a chance. If Tallanvor had only held his tongue it would have been much easier to say, “I accept with gratitude, Master Balwer,” but she said it. She stepped away as if to see Balwer without having to crane past Tallanvor. It was always disturbing being so near to him. He was too young. “What is to do first? I doubt those guards at the door will accept your pass for us.”

Balwer bowed his head as if acknowledging her foresight. “I fear they must meet with accidents, Majesty.” Tallanvor eased his dagger in its scabbard, and Lamgwin flexed his hands like the
lopar
flexing its claws.

She did not believe it could be so easy, even after they had packed up what they could carry and the two Taraboners had been stuffed beneath her bed. At the main gates, holding her linen dustcloak close awkwardly because of the bundle on her back, she bowed, hands on her knees the way Balwer had shown her, while he told the guards that they had all sworn to obey, await and serve. She thought of how to make sure she was not taken alive. It was not until they were actually riding out of Amador, past the last guards, on the horses Balwer had had waiting, that she began to believe. Of course, Balwer probably expected some fine reward for rescuing the Queen of Andor. She had not told anyone that that was done with beyond going back; she knew she had spoken the words, and no one else needed to know. Regretting them was useless. Now she would see what sort of life she could find without a throne. A life far from a man who was much too young and much too disturbing.

“Why is your smile so sad?” Lini asked, reining her slab-sided brown mare closer. The animal looked motheaten. Morgase’s bay was no better; none of the horses were. The Seanchan might have been willing to let Balwer go with his pass, but not with decent mounts.

“There is a long road ahead, yet,” Morgase told her, and thumped her mare into some semblance of a trot after Tallanvor.

Slipping the haft of his axe through the loop on his belt opposite his quiver, Perrin took his unstrung longbow from the corner, slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and left the rooms he had shared with Faile without a backward look. They had been happy there—most of the time. He did not think he would ever be back. Sometimes he wondered whether being happy somewhere with Faile meant he would never return there. He hoped not.

The servants he saw in the palace corridors wore unrelieved black livery; perhaps Rand had ordered it, and perhaps the servants themselves had simply adopted it. They had been uneasy without livery, as though they did not know where they belonged, and black seemed safe as Rand’s color because of the Asha’man. Those who saw Perrin scampered away as fast as they could, not waiting for any bows or curtsies. Fear scent drifted behind them.

For once his yellow eyes had nothing to do with anyone being afraid. It might not be safe to loiter near a man at whom the Dragon Reborn had unleashed his rage so publicly this very morning. Perrin eased the shoulder under his saddlebags. A long while had passed since anyone had been able to pick him up and throw him. Of course, no one had ever used the Power to try, before. One moment in particular stuck with him.

He pushed himself up holding his shoulder, sliding his back up the square column
that had stopped his flight. He thought a few ribs might have cracked. Around the Grand Hall of the Sun, a scattering of nobles who had come to appeal one thing or another to Rand tried to look anywhere else, tried to pretend they were anywhere else. Only Dobraine watched, shaking his gray head, as Rand stalked across the throne room. “I will deal with the Aes Sedai as I choose!” Rand shouted. “Do you hear me, Perrin? As
I
choose!”

“You’ve just handed them over to the Wise Ones,” he growled back, shoving away from the column. “You don’t know whether they’re sleeping on silk or had their throats cut! You are not the Creator!”

With a snarl of rage, Rand threw his head back. “I am the Dragon Reborn!” he cried. “I don’t care how they’re treated! They deserve a dungeon!” Perrin’s hackles stirred as Rand’s eyes lowered from the vaulted ceiling. Blue ice would have been warm and soft beside them, the more so because they stared from a face twisted with pain. “Get out of my sight, Perrin. Do you hear me? Get out of Cairhien! Today! Now! I never want to see you again!” Pivoting on his heel, he strode away with nobles all but throwing themselves to the floor as he passed.

Perrin thumbed a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. For one moment there, he had been sure Rand was going to kill him.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the thought, he rounded a corner and nearly ran into Loial. With a large bundle strapped to his back and a scrip big enough to hold a sheep slung on his shoulder, the Ogier was using his long-handled axe as a walking staff. The capacious pockets of his coat bulged with the shapes of books.

Loial’s tufted ears perked up at the sight of him, then suddenly drooped. His whole face drooped, eyebrows hanging on his cheeks. “I heard, Perrin,” he boomed sadly. “Rand should not have done that. Quick words make long troubles. I know he’ll reconsider. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“It’s all right,” Perrin told him. “Cairhien is too . . . polished . . . for me, anyway. I’m a blacksmith, not a courtier. By tomorrow, I’ll be a long way gone.”

“You and Faile could come with me. Karldin and I are going to visit the
stedding
, Perrin. All of them, about the Waygates.” A narrow-faced, pale-haired young fellow standing behind Loial stopped frowning at Perrin to frown at the Ogier. He had a scrip and a bundle, too, and a sword on his hip. Despite the blue coat, Perrin recognized one of the Asha’man. Karldin did not look pleased to recognize Perrin; besides, his smell was cold and angry. Loial peered down the hallway behind Perrin. “Where is Faile?”

“She’s . . . meeting me in the stables. We had words.” That was simple
truth; Faile seemed to
like
shouting, sometimes. He lowered his voice. “Loial, I wouldn’t talk about that where anyone could hear. The Waygates, I mean.”

Loial snorted hard enough to make a bull jump, but he did drop his tone. “I don’t see anyone but us,” he rumbled. No one more than two or three paces beyond Karldin could have heard clearly. His ears . . . lashed was the only word . . . and laid back angrily. “Everyone’s afraid to be seen near you. After all you’ve done for Rand.”

Karldin tugged at Loial’s sleeve. “We have to go,” he said, glaring at Perrin. Anyone the Dragon Reborn shouted at was outside the gates so far as he was concerned. Perrin wondered whether he was holding the Power right then.

“Yes, yes,” Loial murmured, waving a ham-sized hand, but he leaned on his axe, frowning pensively. “I don’t like this, Perrin. Rand chases you away. He sends me off. How I’m to finish my book. . . .” His ears twitched, and he coughed. “Well, that’s neither here nor there. But you, me, and the Light only knows where Mat is. He’ll send Min away next. He hid from her, this morning. He sent me out to tell her he wasn’t there. I think she knew I was lying. He’ll be alone, then, Perrin. ‘It’s terrible to be alone.’ That’s what he said to me. He is planning to send all of his friends away.”

“The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills,” Perrin said. Loial blinked at that echo of Moiraine. Perrin had been thinking of her a lot recently; she had been a restraining influence on Rand. “Farewell, Loial. Keep safe, and don’t trust anyone you don’t have to.” He did not quite look at Karldin.

“You don’t mean that, Perrin.” Loial sounded shocked; he seemed to trust everyone. “You cannot. Come with me, you and Faile.”

“We’ll meet again, one day,” Perrin told him gently, and hurried past before he had to say more. He did not like lying, especially not to a friend.

In the north stable things were much the same as inside the palace. Grooms saw him walk in, and dropped dung forks and curry combs, crowding out through small doors at the back. Rustles in the loft high above that might have escaped another’s ears told of folk hiding there; he could hear anxious, fearful breaths. He brought Stepper out of a green-streaked marble stall, slipped on his bridle and tied the dun stallion to a gilded hitching ring. He went to fetch blanket and saddle from a marble tack room where half the saddles were mounted with silver or gold. The stable fit very well in a palace, with tall square marble columns and a marble floor, even under the straw in the stalls. He rode out glad to see the back of grandeur.

North of the city he followed the road he had come down so desperately with Rand just a few days before, rode until folds in the land hid Cairhien. Then he turned off to the east, where a fair patch of forest remained, running down one tall hill and over the next, taller one. Just inside the trees, Faile booted Swallow to meet him, Aram heeling her like a hound on his own horse. Aram’s face brightened at the sight of him, though that was not saying much; he merely divided his faithful hound looks between him and Faile.

“Husband,” she said. Not too coolly, but razor-sharp anger and spiky jealousy still threaded through the clean scent of her and her herbal soap. She was garbed for travel, with a thin dustcloak hanging down her back and red gloves that matched the boots peeking out beneath the dark narrow riding skirts she favored. No fewer than four sheathed daggers were tucked behind her belt.

Movement behind her turned into Bain and Chiad. And Sulin, with a  dozen more Maidens. Perrin’s eyebrows rose. He wondered what Gaul thought of that; the Aiel man had said he was looking forward to getting Bain and Chiad alone. Even more surprising were Faile’s other companions.

“What are they doing here?” He nodded toward a small cluster who held their horses back. He recognized Selande and Camaille and the tall Tairen woman, all still in men’s clothes and wearing swords. The blocky fellow in a fat-sleeved coat who had kept his beard oiled and trimmed to a point despite wearing his hair tied back with a ribbon also looked familiar. The other two men, both Cairhienin, he did not know, but he could guess, by their youth and the ribbon tying their hair if nothing else, that they were part of Selande’s “society.”