The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8)

The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8) Page 55

“He knows, Perrin. I’m sure of it. Maighdin saw pigeoncotes everywhere in Amador, and apparently the Seanchan didn’t look at them twice. By this time, any merchant who has business with Amador has heard, and so has the White Tower. Believe me, Rand must have, too. You have to trust that he knows best. In this, he does.” She was not always so certain of that.

“Maybe,” Perrin muttered irritably. He tried not to worry about Rand’s sanity, but Rand made Perrin at his most suspicious look like a child skipping in a meadow. How much did Rand trust even him? Rand kept things back, had plans he never let on.

Exhaling, Perrin settled back in the chair, gulped a swallow of tea. The truth of it was, mad or sane, Rand was right. If the Forsaken caught a suspicion of what he was up to, or the White Tower did, they would find some way to overturn the anvil on his feet. “At least I can give the Tower’s eyesandears less to talk about. This time, I’m burning that bloody banner.” And the Wolfhead, too. He might have to play at being a lord, but he could do it without a bloody flag!

Faile’s full lips pursed judiciously, and she shook her head slightly. Slipping from her chair, she knelt beside him, took his wrist in her hands. Perrin met her level gaze warily. When she looked at him so intently, so seriously, she was about to tell him something important. That, or pull the wool over his eyes and spin him around till he did not know front from back. Her scent told him nothing. He tried to stop smelling her; it was all too easy to lose himself in that, and then she would pull the wool over his eyes. One thing he had learned since marrying: a man needed all of his wits dealing with a woman. Too often even that was not enough; women did what they wanted as surely as Aes Sedai.

“You might want to reconsider, husband,” she murmured. A tiny smile quirked her mouth as if she once again knew what he was thinking. “I doubt anyone who’s seen us since we entered Ghealdan knew what the Red Eagle is. Around a town the size of Bethal, some will, though. And the longer we have to hunt for Masema, the greater the chance.”

He did not bother with saying that was all the more reason to get rid of the banner. Faile was no fool, and she thought much faster than he. “Then why keep it,” he asked slowly, “when all it’ll do is draw eyes to the idiot everybody will think is trying to pull Manetheren out of the grave?” Men had tried that in the past, and women, too; the name of Manetheren carried powerful memories, and it was convenient for anyone who wanted to start a rebellion.

“Because it will draw eyes.” She leaned toward him intently. “To a man trying to raise up Manetheren again. Lesser folk will smile to your face, hope you ride on soon, and try to forget you as soon as you do. As for the greater, they’ve too much in front of their faces right now to look twice unless you pinch their noses. Compared to the Seanchan, or the Prophet, or the Whitecloaks, a man trying to raise Manetheren is small turnips. And I think it’s safe to say the Tower won’t look twice either, not now.” Her smile widened, and the light in her eyes said she was about to make her most telling point. “But most important, no one will think that man is doing anything else.” Abruptly her smile vanished; she stuck a finger against his nose, hard. “And don’t call yourself an idiot, Perrin t’Bashere Aybara. Not even sideways, like that. You aren’t, and I do not like it.” Her scent was tiny spikes, not true anger but definitely displeased.

Quicksilver. A kingfisher flashing by faster than thought. Certainly faster than his thoughts. It would never have occurred to him to hide so... flagrantly. But he could see the sense. It was like concealing the fact that you were a murderer by claiming to be a thief. Yet it might work.

Chuckling, he kissed her fingertip. “The banner stays,” he said. He supposed that meant the Wolfhead did, too. Blood and bloody ashes! “Alliandre has to know the truth, though. If she thinks Rand means to set me up as King of Manetheren and take her lands...”

Faile rose so suddenly, turning away, that he was afraid he had made a mistake bringing up the Queen. Alliandre could lead to Berelain all too easily, and Faile smelled... prickly. Wary. But what she said, over her shoulder, was “Alliandre won’t be a bit of trouble for Perrin Goldeneyes. That bird’s as good as netted, husband, so it’s time to put our minds on how to find Masema.” Kneeling gracefully beside a small chest against the tent wall, the only chest without draperies, she lifted the lid and began removing rolled maps.

Perrin hoped she was right about Alliandre, because he did not know what to do if she was wrong. If only he were half what she thought him. Alliandre was a netted bird, the Seanchan would fall over like dolls for Perrin Goldeneyes, and he would snatch up the Prophet and take him to Rand if Masema had ten thousand men around him. Not for the first time he realized that however much her anger hurt and confused him, it was her disappointment he feared. If he ever saw that in her eyes, it would rip the heart out of his chest.

He knelt beside her and helped her spread out the largest map, covering the south of Ghealdan and the north of Amadicia, and studied it as though Masema’s name would leap off the parchment at him. He had more reason than Rand to want to succeed. Whatever else, he could not fail Faile.

Faile lay in the darkness, listening until she was sure that Perrin’s breath had the deep rhythm of sleep, then slipped out from the blankets they shared. Rueful amusement touched her as she pulled her linen nightdress up over her head. Did he really think she would not find out that he had hidden the bed deep in a copse one morning while the carts were being loaded? Not that she minded; not a great deal, at least. She was sure she had slept on the ground as often as he. She had pretended surprise, of course, and made light of it. Anything else, and he would have apologized, perhaps even gone back to fetch the bed. Managing a husband was an art, so her mother said. Had Deira ni Ghaline ever found it so difficult?

Scuffing her bare feet into slippers, she shrugged into a silk robe, then hesitated, looking down at Perrin. He would be able to see her clearly, if he woke, but to her, he was just a shadowed mound. She wished her mother were there, now, to advise her. She loved Perrin with every fiber of her being, and he confused every fiber. Actually understanding men was impossible, of course, but he was so unlike anyone she had grown up with. He never swaggered, and instead of laughing at himself, he was... modest. She had not believed a man could be modest! He insisted that only chance had made him a leader, claimed he did not know how to lead, when men who met him were ready to follow after an hour. He dismissed his own thinking as slow, when those slow, considering thoughts saw so deeply that she had to dance a merry jig to keep any secrets at all. He was a wonderful man, her curlyhaired wolf. So strong. And so gentle. Sighing, she tiptoed from the tent. His ears had cause