The wheel of time, p.1153
The Wheel of Time, page 1153
Mat had said the night’s events had a “reasonably good outcome.” But the more Elayne thought about it, the more dissatisfied she was. An invasion of Andor was coming, but she didn’t know when. The Shadow wanted Mat dead, but as Birgitte had pointed out, that was no surprise. In fact, the only certain result of the evening’s adventures was the sense of fatigue Elayne felt. That and a week confined to her rooms.
“Mat,” she said, taking off his medallion. “Here, it’s time I gave this back. You should know that it probably saved my life tonight.”
He walked over and took it back eagerly, then hesitated. “Were you able to…”
“Copy it? Not perfectly. But to an extent.”
He put it back on, looking concerned. “Well, that feels good to have back. I’ve been wanting to ask you something. Now might not be the time.”
“Speak of it,” Elayne said, tired. “Might as well.”
“Well, it’s about the gholam…”
“The city has been emptied of most civilians,” Yoeli said as he and Ituralde walked through Maradon’s gate. “We’re close to the Blight; this is not the first time we’ve evacuated. My own sister, Sigril, leads the Lastriders, who will watch from the ridge to the southeast and send word if we should fall. She will have sent word to our watchposts around Saldaea, requesting aid. She will light a watchfire to alert us if they come.”
The lean-faced man looked at Ituralde, his expression grim. “There will be few troops who could come to our aid. Queen Tenobia took many with her when she rode to find the Dragon Reborn.”
Ituralde nodded. He walked without a limp—Antail, one of the Asha’man, was quite skilled with Healing. His men made a hasty camp in the courtyard just inside the city gates. The Trollocs had taken the tents they’d left behind, then lit them on fire at night to illuminate them feasting on the wounded. Ituralde had moved some of his troops into the empty buildings, but he wanted others close to the gate in case of an assault.
The Asha’man and Aes Sedai had worked to Heal Ituralde’s men, but only the worst cases could get attention. Ituralde nodded to Antail, who was working with the wounded in a roped-off section of the square. Antail didn’t see the nod. He concentrated, sweating, working with a Power Ituralde didn’t want to think about.
“Are you certain you want to see them?” Yoeli asked. He held a horseman’s long spear on his shoulder, the tip tied with a triangular black and yellow pendant. It was called the Traitor’s Banner by the Saldaeans here.
The city bristled with hostility, different groups of Saldaeans regarding one another with grim expressions. Many wore strips of black cloth and yellow cloth twisted about one another and tied to their sword sheaths. They nodded to Yoeli.
Desya gavane cierto cuendar isain carentin, Ituralde thought. A phrase in the Old Tongue. It meant “A resolute heart is worth ten arguments.” He could guess what that banner meant. Sometimes a man knew what he must do, though it sounded wrong.
The two of them walked for a time through the streets. Maradon was like most Borderland cities: straight walls, square buildings, narrow streets. The houses looked like fortressed keeps, with small windows and sturdy doors. The streets wound in odd ways, and there were no thatched roofs—only slate shingles, fireproof. The dried blood at several key intersections was difficult to make out against the dark stone, but Ituralde knew what to look for. Yoeli’s rescue of his troops had come after fighting among the Saldaeans.
They reached a nondescript building. There would be no way for an outsider to know that this particular dwelling belonged to Vram Torkumen, distant cousin to the Queen, appointed lord of the city in her absence. The soldiers at the door wore yellow and black. They saluted Yoeli.
Inside, Ituralde and Yoeli entered a narrow staircase and climbed three flights of stairs. There were soldiers in nearly every room. On the top floor, four men wearing the Traitor’s Banner guarded a large, gold-inlaid door. The hallway was dark: narrow windows, a rug of black, green and red.
“Anything to report, Tarran?” Yoeli asked.
“Not a thing, sir,” the man said with a salute. He wore long mustaches and had the bowed legs of a man very comfortable in the saddle.
Yoeli nodded. “Thank you, Tarran. For all you do.”
“I stand with you, sir. And will at the end.”
“May you keep your eyes northward, but your heart southward, my friend,” Yoeli said, taking a deep breath and pushing open the door. Ituralde followed.
Inside the room, a Saldaean man in a rich red robe sat beside a hearth, sipping a cup of wine. A woman in a fine dress did needlework in the chair across from him. Neither looked up.
“Lord Torkumen,” Yoeli said. “This is Rodel Ituralde, leader of the Domani army.”
The man at the hearth sighed over his cup of wine. “You do not knock, you do not wait for me to address you first, you come during an hour when I have spoken of my need for quiet contemplation.”
“Really, Vram,” the woman said, “you expect manners from this man? Now?”
Yoeli quietly rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. The room held a jumble of furniture: a bed on the side of the room that obviously didn’t belong there, a few trunks and standing wardrobes.
“So,” Vram said, “Rodel Ituralde. You’re one of the great captains. I realize it might be insulting to ask, but I must observe formalities. You realize that by bringing troops onto our soil, you have risked a war?”
“I serve the Dragon Reborn,” Ituralde said. “Tarmon Gai’don comes, and all previous allegiances, boundaries, and laws are subject to the Dragon’s will.”
Vram clicked his tongue. “Dragonsworn. I had reports, of course—and those men you employ seemed an obvious hint. But it is still so strange to hear. Do you not realize how utterly foolish you sound?”
Ituralde met the man’s eyes. He hadn’t considered himself Dragonsworn, but there was no use calling a horse a rock and expecting everyone else to agree. “Don’t you care about the invading Trollocs?”
“There have been Trollocs before,” Vram said. “There have always been Trollocs.”
“The Queen—” Yoeli said.
“The Queen,” Vram interrupted, “will soon return from her expedition to unmask and capture this false Dragon. Once that happens, she will see you executed, traitor. You, Rodel Ituralde, will likely be spared because of your station, but I should not like to be your family when they receive the ransom demand. I hope that you have wealth to accompany your reputation. Otherwise, you shall likely spend many of the next years as a general to nothing more than the rats of your cell.”
“I see,” Ituralde said. “When did you turn to the Shadow?”
Vram’s eyes opened wide, and he stood. “You dare name me Darkfriend?”
“I’ve known some Saldaeans in my time,” Ituralde said. “I’ve called some friends; I’ve fought against others. But never have I known one who would watch men fight Shadowspawn and not offer to help.”
“If I had a sword…” Vram said.
“May you burn, Vram Torkumen,” Ituralde said. “I came here to tell you that, on behalf of the men I lost.”
The man seemed shocked as Ituralde turned to go. Yoeli joined him, pulling the door closed.
“You disagree with my accusation?” Ituralde asked, joining the traitor as they returned to the stairs.
“I honestly can’t decide if he’s a fool or a Darkfriend,” Yoeli said. “He’d have to be one or the other to not put together the truth from the winter, those clouds and the rumors that al’Thor has conquered half the world.”
“Then you have nothing to fear,” Ituralde said. “You won’t be executed.”
“I killed my countrymen,” Yoeli said, “staged a revolt against my Queen’s appointed leader, and seized command of the city, though I’ve not a drop of noble blood.”
“That’ll change the moment Tenobia returns, I warrant,” Ituralde said. “You’ve earned yourself a title for certain.”
Yoeli stopped in the dark stairwell, lit only from above and below. “I see that you do not understand. I have betrayed my oaths and killed friends. I will demand execution, as is my right.”
Ituralde felt a chill. Bloody Borderlanders, he thought. “Swear yourself to the Dragon. He supersedes all oaths. Do not waste your life. Fight beside me at the Last Battle.”
“I will not hide behind excuses, Lord Ituralde,” the man said, continuing down the steps. “No more than I could watch your men die. Come. Let us see to the housing of those Asha’man. I would like very much to see these ‘gateways’ you speak of. If we could use them to send messages out and bring supplies in, this could be a very interesting siege indeed.”
Ituralde sighed, but followed. They didn’t speak of fleeing by way of the gateways. Yoeli wouldn’t abandon his city. And, he realized, Ituralde wouldn’t abandon Yoeli and his men. Not after what they’d gone through to rescue him.
This was as good a place as any to make a stand. Better than many a situation he’d been in lately, that was for certain.
Perrin entered their tent to find Faile brushing her hair. She was beautiful. Each day, he still felt a sense of wonder that she was really back.
She turned to him and smiled in satisfaction. She was using the new silver comb he’d left on her pillow—something he’d traded for from Gaul, who had found it in Malden. If this shanna’har was important to her, then Perrin intended to treat it the same way.
“The messengers have returned,” Perrin said, closing the flaps to the tent. “The Whitecloaks have chosen a battlefield. Light, Faile. They’re going to force me to wipe them out.”
“I don’t see the trouble with that,” she said. “We’ll win.”
“Probably,” Perrin said, sitting down on the pillows beside their sleeping pallet. “But despite the Asha’man doing most of the work at first, we’ll have to move in to fight. That means we’ll lose people. Good men we need at the Last Battle.” He forced himself to relax the fists that he’d clenched. “The Light burn those Whitecloaks for what they’ve done, and for what they’re doing.”
“Then it’s a welcome opportunity to defeat them.”
Perrin grunted a reply, and didn’t explain the depth of frustration he felt. He would lose that fight against the Whitecloaks, no matter what happened. Men would die on both sides. Men they needed.
The lightning flashed outside, casting shadows on the canvas ceiling. Faile went over to their trunk, getting out a sleeping shift for herself and setting aside a robe for him. Faile thought a lord should have a robe handy in case he was needed at night. She’d been correct a couple of times so far.
She moved past him, smelling worried, though her expression was pleasant. He had expended all options for a peaceful resolution with the Whitecloaks. It looked like, want it or not, killing would be his lot again very soon.
He stripped to his smallclothes and lay down, then started drifting off before Faile had finished changing.
He entered the wolf dream beneath the great sword impaling the ground. In the distance, he could make out the hill that Gaul had named a “fine watchpoint.” The campsite was supplied from behind by a stream.
Perrin turned and sped toward the Whitecloak camp. They sat like a dam in a river, stopping him from continuing onward.
“Hopper?” he called, looking around the Whitecloak camp, still tents standing on an open field. There was no response, so Perrin searched the camp a while longer. Balwer had not recognized the seal Perrin had described. Who led these Whitecloaks?
An hour or so later, Perrin had come to no conclusion about that. However, he was fairly certain which tents they kept their supplies in; those might not be as well guarded as the prisoners, and—with gateways—he might be able to burn their supplies.
Maybe. Their Lord Captain Commander’s letters were filled with phrases like: “I am giving your people the benefit of believing they knew not of your nature” and “My patience for your delays wears thin” and “There are only two options. Surrender yourself for proper trial, or bring your army to suffer the Light’s judgment.”
There was a strange sense of honor to this man, one Perrin had seen hinted at when he’d met the man, but could sense even more through the letters. But who was he? He signed each letter only “Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light.”
Perrin moved out onto the roadway. Where was Hopper? Perrin took off at a brisk run. After a few moments, he moved off onto the grass. The earth was so soft, each step seemed to spring his foot back up into the air.
He reached out and thought he sensed something to the south. He ran toward it; he wished to go faster, so he did. Trees and hills zipped past.
The wolves were aware of him. It was Oak Dancer’s pack, with Boundless, Sparks, Morninglight, and others. Perrin could feel them sending to one another, distant whispers of images and scent. Perrin moved faster, feeling the wind become a roar around him.
The wolves began to move away farther south. Wait! he sent. I must meet with you!
They returned only amusement. Suddenly, they were heading east, and he pulled to a stop, then turned. He ran as quickly as he knew how, but when he got near, they were suddenly elsewhere. They’d shifted, vanishing from the south and appearing north of him.
Perrin growled, and suddenly he was on all fours. His fur blew, his mouth open as he dashed to the north, drinking in the hissing wind. But the wolves stayed ahead, distant.
He howled. They sent back taunts.
He pushed himself faster, leaping from hilltop to hilltop, bounding over trees, the ground a blur. In moments, the Mountains of Mist sprang up to his left, and he passed along them in a rush.
The wolves turned east. Why couldn’t he catch them? He could smell them ahead. Young Bull howled at them, but got no response.
Do not come too strongly, Young Bull.
Young Bull pulled to a halt and the world lurched around him. The main pack continued on to the east, but Hopper sat on his haunches beside a large curving stream. Young Bull had been here before; it was near the den of his sires. He had traveled along the river itself on the back of one of the humans’ floating trees. He—
No…no…remember Faile!
His fur became clothing and he found himself on hands and knees. He glared at Hopper. “Why did you run away?” Perrin demanded.
You wish to learn, Hopper sent. You grow more skilled. Faster. You stretch your legs and run. This is good.
Perrin looked back the way he had come, thinking of his speed. He’d bounded from hilltop to hilltop. It had been wonderful. “But I had to become the wolf to do that,” Perrin said. “And that threatened to make me here ‘too strongly.’ What use is training if it makes me do things you’ve forbidden?”
You are quick to blame, Young Bull. A young wolf howling and yapping outside the den, making a racket. This is not a thing of wolves.
Hopper was gone in an eyeblink.
Perrin growled, looking eastward, where he sensed the wolves. He took off after them, going more cautiously. He couldn’t afford to let the wolf consume him. He’d end up like Noam, trapped in a cage, his humanity gone. Why would Hopper encourage him to that?
This is not a thing of wolves. Had he meant the accusations, or had he meant what was happening to Perrin?
The others all knew to end the hunt, Young Bull, Hopper sent from a distance. Only you had to be stopped.
Perrin froze, pulling to a halt on the bank of the river. The hunt for the white stag. Hopper was there, suddenly, beside the river with him.
“This started when I began to sense the wolves,” Perrin sent. “The first time I lost control of myself was with those Whitecloaks.”
Hopper lay down, resting his head on his paws. You often are here too strongly, the wolf sent. It is what you do.
Hopper had told him that, off and on, since he’d known the wolf and the wolf dream. But suddenly, Perrin saw a new meaning to it. It was about coming to the wolf dream, but it was also about Perrin himself.
He’d begun to blame the wolves for what he did, the way he was when fighting, the way he’d become when searching for Faile. But were the wolves the cause of that? Or was it some part of him? Was it possible that that was what caused him to become a wolfbrother in the first place?
“Is it possible,” Perrin said, “to run on four legs, but not come here too strongly?”
Of course it is, Hopper sent, laughing after the way of wolves—as if what Perrin had discovered was the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it was.
Perhaps he wasn’t like the wolves because he was a wolfbrother. Perhaps he was a wolfbrother because he was like the wolves. He didn’t need to control them. He needed to control himself.
“The pack,” Perrin said. “How do I catch them? Move more quickly?”
That is one way. Another is to be where you want.
Perrin frowned. Then he closed his eyes and used the direction the wolves were running to guess where they would be. Something shifted.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing on a sandy hillside, tufts of long-bladed grass peeking out of the soil. An enormous mountain with a broken tip—shattered as if it had been slapped by the hand of a giant—rose to his right.
A pack of wolves burst out of the forest. Many of them were laughing. Young Bull, hunting when he should seek the end! Young Bull, seeking the end when he should enjoy the hunt! He smiled, trying to feel good natured about the laughter, though in truth he felt much as he had on the day that his cousin Wil had planted a bucket of wet feathers to drop on Perrin.
Something fluttered in the air. A chicken feather. Wet around the edges. Perrin started, realizing that they were spread around him on the ground. As he blinked, they vanished. The wolves smelled greatly amused, sending images of Young Bull dusted with feathers.
Get lost in dreams here, Young Bull, Hopper sent, and those dreams become this dream.
Perrin scratched his beard, fighting down his embarrassment. He’d experienced before the unpredictable nature of the wolf dream. “Hopper,” he said, turning to the wolf. “How much could I change about my surroundings, if I wanted?”
