"You will not have to leave him," Faile told her. After a moment the Aiel woman nodded and resumed her seat beside Gaul. Chiad and Gaul? They were blood enemies. Nothing was making sense tonight.
"It is a long way to Caemlyn," Faile went on quietly. Her eyes very intent on his, but her face could have been wood for all the expression it had. "Weeks to ride there, plus however long it might take to reach and convince Morgase, then more weeks to return with the Queen's Guards."
"We can hold out that long easily," he told her. Burn me if I can't lie as well as Mat! "Luc was right. There can't be more than a thousand Trollocs still out there. The dream?" She nodded. At last she understood. "We can hold out here for a very long time, but in the meanwhile they'll be burning crops and doing the Light knows what. We'll need the Queen's Guards to rid ourselves of them completely. You are the logical one to go. You know how to talk to a queen, being a queen's cousin and all. Faile, I know what I'm asking is dangerous..." Not as dangerous as staying. ". . . But once you reach the ferry, you'll be on your way."
He did not hear Loial approach until the Ogier laid his book of notes down in front of Faile. "I could not help overhearing, Faile. If you are going to Caemlyn, would you carry this? To keep it safe until I can come for it." Squaring the volume up almost tenderly, he added, "They print many very fine books in Caemlyn. Forgive me for interrupting, Perrin." But his teacup eyes were on her, not him. "Faile suits you. You should fly free, like a falcon." Patting Perrin on the shoulder, he murmured in a deep rumble, "She should fly free," then made his way to his pallet and lay down facing the wall.
"He is very tired," Perrin said, attempting to make it seem just a comment. The fool Ogier could ruin everything! "If you leave tonight, you can be at Watch Hill by daybreak. You'll have to swing to the east; the Trollocs are fewer there. This is very important to me... to Emond's Field, I mean. Will you do it?"
She stared at him silently for so long he wondered if she meant to answer. Her eyes seemed to glisten. Then she got up and sat down on his lap, stroking his beard. "This needs trimming. I like it on you, but I do not want it down to your chest."
He came close to gaping. She often changed the subject on him, but usually when she was losing an argument. "Faile, please. I need you to carry this message to Caemlyn."
Her hand tightened in his beard, and her head swung as if she were arguing with herself inside her head. "I will go," she said at last, "but I want a price. You always make me do things the hard way. In Saldaea, I would not have to be the one who asked. My price is... a wedding. I want to marry you," she finished up in a rush.
"And I you." He smiled. "We can say the betrothal vows in front of the Women's Circle tonight, but I'm afraid the wedding has to wait a year. When you come back from Caemlyn —" She very nearly yanked a handful of beard out of his chin.
"I will have you for husband tonight," she said in fierce, low tones, "or I will not go until I do!"
"If there was any way, I would," he protested. "Daise Congar would crack my head if I wanted to go against custom. For the love of the Light, Faile, just carry the message, and I'll wed you the very first day I can." He would. If that day ever came.
Suddenly she was very intent on his beard, smoothing it and not meeting his eyes. She started speaking slowly but picked up speed like a runaway horse. "I... just happened to mention... . in passing... I just mentioned to Mistress al'Vere how we had been traveling together – I don't know how it came up – and she said – and Mistress Congar agreed with her – not that I talked to everybody! – she said that we probably – certainly – could be considered betrothed already under your customs, and the year is just to make sure you really do get on well together – which we do, as anyone can see – and here I am being as forward as some Domani hussy or one of those Tairen galls – if you ever even think of Berelain – oh, Light, I'm babbling, and you won't even —"
He cut her off by kissing her as thoroughly as he knew how.
"Will you marry me?" he said breathlessly when he was done. "Tonight?" He must have done ever better with the kiss than he thought; he had to repeat himself six times, with her giggling against his throat and demanding he say it again, before she seemed to understand.
Which was how he found himself not half an hour later kneeling opposite her in the common room, in front of Daise Congar and Marin al'Vere, Alsbet Luhhan and Neysa Ayellin and all the Women's Circle. Loial had been roused to stand for him with Aram, and Bain and Chiad stood for Faile. There were no flowers to put in her hair or his, but Bain, guided by Marin, tucked a long red wedding ribbon around his neck, and Loial threaded another through Faile's dark hair, his thick fingers surprisingly deft and gentle. Perrin's hands trembled as he cupped hers.
"I, Perrin Aybara, do pledge you my love, Faile Bashere, for as long as I live." For as long as I live and after. "What I possess in this world I give to you." A horse, an axe, a bow. A hammer. Not much to gift a bride. I give you life, my love. It's all I have. "I will keep and hold you, succor and tend you, protect and shelter you, for all the days of my life." I can't keep you; the only way I can protect you is to send you away. "I am yours, always and forever." By the time he finished, his hands were shaking visibly.
Faile moved her hands to hold his. "I, Zarine Bashere..." That was a surprise; she hated that name. "...do pledge you my love, Perrin Aybara..." Her hands never trembled at all.
Chapter 54
(Female Silhouettes)
Into the Palace
Seated on the tail end of the high-wheeled cart trundling up a twisty Tanchican street behind four sweating men, Elayne scowled through the grimy veil that covered her from eyes to chin, kicking her bare feet irritably. Every lurch over the paving stones jarred her to the top of her skull; the more she braced herself by holding on to the rough wooden planks of the cart bed, the worse it was. It did not seem to bother Nynaeve much; she jounced about like Elayne, but, frowning slightly and eyes looking inward, she appeared hardly aware of it. And Egeanin, crowded against Nynaeve on the other side, veiled and with her dark hair in braids to her shoulders, rode each jolt easily, arms folded. Finally Elayne emulated the Seanchan woman; she could not avoid swaying into Nynaeve, but the ride no longer felt as if her lower teeth were going to be driven through the upper.
She would have walked gladly, even barefoot, but Bayle Domon had said it would not look right; people might wonder why women were not riding when there was plenty of room, and the last thing they wanted was anyone thinking about them twice. Of course he was not being bounced about like a sack of turnips; he was walking, at the head of the cart with ten of the twenty sailors he had brought along for escort. More would seem suspicious, he claimed. She suspected he would not have had so many if not for her and the other two women.
The cloudless sky still stretched gray overhead, though first light had crept on before they set out; the streets were still largely empty, and silent except for the rumble of the cart and the creak of its axle. When the sun topped the horizon people would begin to venture out, but now the few she saw were knots of men in baggy trousers and dark cylindrical caps, scuttling along with the furtive air of having been up to no good while dark had held. The old piece of canvas tossed over the cart's load was carefully arranged so anyone could see it covered only three large baskets, yet even so one or another of those small clusters would pause like a pack of dogs, veiled faces all coming up together, eyes swiveling to follow the cart. Apparently twenty men with boarding swords and cudgels were too many to face, because all eventually hurried on.