"I must be excused," Maighdin said. She walked from the pavilion, leaving the tray and broken porcelain, bone white, scattered on the ground.

"I will see to her later," Faile said, embarrassed. "She is distraught to find that she'd lived so close to one of the Forsaken. She's from Caemlyn, you know."

The others nodded, and other servants moved forward to clean up the mess. Perrin realized he wasn't going to be getting any more tea. Fool man, he thought. You lived most your life without being able to order tea on command. You won't die now that you can't get a refill by waving your hand.

"Let's move on," he said, settling on his cushions. He could never quite get comfortable on the blasted things.

"My report is finished," Seonid said, pointedly ignoring the servant who was cleaning up porcelain shards in front of her.

"I stand by my earlier decision," Perrin said. "Dealing with the Whitecloaks is important. After that we'll go to Andor, and I'll talk to Elayne. Grady, how are you managing?"

The weathered Asha'man looked up from where he sat in his black coat. "I'm fully recovered from my sickness, my Lord, and Neald almost is as well."

"You still look tired," Perrin said.

"I am," Grady said, "but burn me, I'm better than I was many a day in the field before I went to the Black Tower."

"It's time to start sending some of these refugees where they belong," Perrin said. "With those circles, you can keep a gateway open longer?"

"I'm not right sure. Being in a circle is still tiring. Maybe more so. But I can make much larger gateways with the help of the women, wide enough to drive two wagons through."

"Good. We'll start by sending the ordinary folk home. Each person we see back where they belong will be a stone off my back."

"And if they don't want to go?" Tam asked. "A lot of them have started the training, Perrin. They know what's coming, and they'd rather face it here—with you—than cower in their homes."

Light! Were there no people in this camp who wanted to go back to their families? "Surely there are some of them who want to go back."

"Some," Tam said.

"Remember," Faile said, "the weak and the aged were sent away by the Aiel."

Arganda nodded. "I've looked in on these troops. More and more of the gai'shain are coming out of their stupor, and when they do, they're hard. Hard as many soldiers I've known."

"Some will want to check on family," Tam said, "but only if you'll let them back. They can see that sky. They know what's coming."

"For now, we'll send back the ones that want to go and remain in their homes," Perrin said. "I can't deal with the others until after I'm done with the Whitecloaks."

"Excellent," Gallenne said eagerly. "You have a plan of attack?"

"Well," Perrin said, "I figure that if they're going to be companionable enough to line up, we'll have at them with my archers and channelers and destroy them."

"I approve of this plan," Gallenne said, "so long as my men can charge to deal with the rabble left at the end."

"Balwer," Perrin said. "Write the Whitecloaks. Tell them we'll fight and that they should pick a place."

As he said the words, he felt a strange reluctance. It seemed such a waste to kill so many who could fight against the Shadow. But he didn't see a way around it.

Balwer nodded, smelling fierce. What had the Whitecloaks done to Balwer? The dusty secretary was fascinated with them.

The meeting began to break up. Perrin stepped to the tent's open side and watched the separate groups leave, Alliandre and Arganda moving toward their section of the camp. Faile walked beside Berelain; oddly, the two were chatting together. Their scents said they were angry, but their words sounded companionable. What were those two up to?

Only a few wet stains on the ground inside the tent remained of the dropped tray. What was wrong with Maighdin? Erratic behavior like that was disturbing; all too often, it was followed by some manifestation of the Dark One's power.

"My Lord?" a voice asked, preceded by a quiet cough. Perrin turned, realizing that Balwer was waiting behind him. The secretary stood with hands clasped before him, looking like a pile of sticks that children had dressed up in an old shirt and coat.

"Yes?" Perrin asked.

"I happened to overhear several items of, ah, some interest while visiting the scholars of Cairhien."

"You found the supplies, right?"

"Yes, yes. I am quite well stocked. Please, a moment. I do believe you'll be interested in what I overheard."

"Go ahead, then," Perrin said, walking back into the pavilion. The last of the others had left.

Balwer spoke in a soft voice. "First off, my Lord, it appears that the Children of the Light are in league with the Seanchan. It is common knowledge now, and I worry that the force ahead of us was planted to—"

"Balwer," Perrin interrupted, "I know you hate the Whitecloaks, but you've already told me that news a half-dozen times over."

"Yes, but—"

"Nothing more about the Whitecloaks," Perrin said, holding up a hand. "Unless it's specific news about this force ahead of us. Do you have any of that?"

"No, my Lord."

"All right, then. Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?"

Balwer showed no signs of annoyance, but Perrin could smell dissatisfaction. Light knew that the Whitecloaks had plenty to answer for, and Perrin didn't blame Balwer for his hatred, but it did grow wearying.

"Well, my Lord," Balwer continued, "I would hazard that the tales of the Dragon Reborn wanting a truce with the Seanchan are more than idle hearsay. Several sources indicate that he has sued their leader for peace."

"But what did he do to his hand?" Perrin asked, dispelling yet another image of Rand from his vision.

"What was that, my Lord?"

"Nothing," Perrin said.

"In addition," Balwer said, reaching into his sleeve, "there are an alarming number of these traveling among cutpurses, slipfingers and footpads in Cairhien." He pulled out a sheet of paper with a sketch of Perrin's face on it. The likeness was alarmingly good. Perrin took the paper, frowning. There were no words on it. Balwer handed him a second one, identical to the first. A third paper followed, this one with a picture of Mat.

"Where did you get these?" Perrin asked.

"As I said, my Lord," Balwer continued, "they are being passed around in certain circles. Apparently there are very large sums of money promised to anyone who can produce your corpse, though I could not determine who would be doing the paying."

"And you discovered these while visiting the scholars at Rand's school?" Perrin asked.

The pinch-faced scribe displayed no emotion.

"Who are you really, Balwer?"

"A secretary. With some measure of skill in finding secrets."

"Some measure? Balwer, I haven't asked after your past. I figure a man deserves to be able to start fresh. But now the Whitecloaks are here, and you have some connection to them. I need to know what it is."

Balwer stood silently for a time. The raised walls of the pavilion rustled.

"My previous employer was a man I respected, my Lord," Balwer said. "He was killed by the Children of the Light. Some among them may recognize me."