The Gathering Storm - Robert Jordan

And yet, that very single-mindedness in him—ignoring everything but his objective—had been the source of much trouble during his hunt for Faile. He had to find a balance, somehow. He needed to decide for himself if he wanted to lead these people. He needed to make peace with the wolf inside himself, the beast that raged when he went into battle.

But before he could do any of that, he needed to get the refugees home. That was proving a problem. "You've had time to rest now, Grady," Perrin said.

"The fatigue is only one part of it, my Lord," Grady said. "Though, honestly, I still feel as if I could sleep a week's time."

He did look tired. Grady was a stalwart man, with the face of a farmer and the temperament of one, too. Perrin would trust this man to do his duty before most lords he'd known. But Grady could be pushed only so far. What did it do to a man, to have to channel so much? Grady had bags beneath his eyes, and his face was pale despite his tanned skin. Though he was still a young man, he'd started to go gray.

Light, but I used this man too hard, Perrin thought. Him and Neald both. That had been another effect of Perrin's single-mindedness, as he was beginning to see. What he'd done to Aram, how he'd allowed those around him to go without leadership. . . . / have to fix this. I have to find a way to deal with it all.

If he didn't, he might not get to the Last Battle.

"Here's the thing, my Lord." Grady rubbed his chin again, surveying the camp. The various contingents—Mayeners, Alliandre's guard, the Two Rivers men, the Aiel, the refugees from various cities—all camped separately, in their own rings. "There are some hundred thousand people who need to get home. The ones that will leave, anyway. Many say they feel safer here, with you."

"They can give over wanting that," Perrin said. "They belong with their families."

"And the ones whose families are in Seanchan lands?" Grady shrugged. "Before the invaders came, many of these people would be happy to return. But now . . . Well, they keep talking about staying where there's food and protection."

"We can still send the ones who want to go," Perrin said. "We'll travel lighter without them."

Grady shook his head. "That's the thing, my Lord. Your man, Balwer, he gave us a count. I can make a gateway big enough for about two men to walk through at once. If you figure them taking one second to go through . . . Well, it would take hours and hours to send them all. I don't know the number, but he claimed it would be days' worth of work. And he said that his estimates were probably too optimistic. My Lord, I could barely keep a gateway open an hour, with how tired I am."

Perrin gritted his teeth. He'd have to get those numbers from Balwer himself, but he had a sinking feeling that Balwer would be right.

"We'll keep marching, then," Perrin said. "Moving north. Each day, we'll have you and Neald make gateways and return some of the people to their homes. But don't tire yourselves."

Grady nodded, eyes hollow from fatigue. Perhaps it would be best to wait a few more days before starting the process. Perrin nodded a dismissal to the Dedicated, and Grady jogged back down into camp. Perrin remained on the hillside, inspecting the various sections of the camp as the people prepared for the evening meal. The wagons sat at the center of the camp, laden with food that—he feared—would run out before he could reach Andor. Or should he go around to Cairhien? That was where he had last seen Rand, though his visions of the man made it seem he wasn't in either country. He doubted the Queen of Andor would welcome him with open arms, after the rumors about him and that blasted Red Eagle banner.

Perrin left that problem alone for the moment. The camp seemed to be settling in. Each ring of tents sent representatives to the central food depot to claim their evening rations. Each group was in charge of its own meals; Perrin just oversaw the distribution of materials. He made out the quartermaster—a Cairhienin named Bavin Rockshaw—standing on the back of a wagon, dealing with each representative in turn.

Satisfied with his inspection, Perrin walked down into the camp, passing through the Cairhienin tents on the way to his own tents, which were with the Two Rivers men.

He took his enhanced senses for granted, now. They had come along with the yellowing of his eyes. Most people around him didn't seem to notice those anymore, but he was starkly reminded of the contrast when he met anyone new. Many of the Cairhienin refugees, for instance, paused in their labors setting up tents. They watched him as he passed, whispering, "Goldeneyes."

He didn't much care for the name. Aybara was the name of his family, and he bore it proudly. He was one of the few who could pass it on. Trollocs had seen to that.

He shot a glance at a nearby group of the refugees, and they hastily turned back to pounding in tent stakes. As they did, Perrin passed a couple of Two Rivers men—Tod al'Caar and Jori Congar. They saw him and saluted, fists to hearts. To them, Perrin Goldeneyes wasn't a person to fear, but one to respect, although they did still whisper about that night he'd spent in Berelain's tent. Perrin wished he could escape the shadow of that event. The men were still enthusiastic and energized by their defeat of the Shaido, but it hadn't been too long ago that Perrin had felt he wasn't welcome among them.

Still, for the moment, these two seemed to have set aside that displeasure. Instead, they saluted. Had they forgotten that Perrin had grown up with them? What of the times when Jori had made sport of Perrin's slow tongue, or the times when he'd stopped by the forge to brag about which girls he'd managed to steal a kiss from?

Perrin just nodded back. No use in digging up the past, not when their allegiance to "Perrin Goldeneyes" had helped rescue Faile. Though, as he left them, his too-keen ears caught the two of them chatting about the battle, just a few days past, and their part of it. One of them still smelled like blood; he hadn't cleaned his boots. He probably didn't even notice the bloodstained mud.

Sometimes, Perrin wondered if his senses weren't actually any better than anyone else's. He took the time to notice things that others ignored. How could they miss that scent of blood? And the crisp air of the mountains to the north? It smelled of home, though they were many leagues from the Two Rivers. If other men took the time to close their eyes and pay attention, would they be able to smell what he did? If they opened those eyes and looked closer at the world around them, would men call their eyes "keen" as they did Perrin's?

No. That was just fancy. His senses were better; his kinship with the wolves had changed him. He hadn't thought of that kinship in a while— he'd been too focused on Faile. But he'd stopped feeling so self-conscious about his eyes. They were part of him. No use grumbling about them.

And yet, that rage he felt when he fought . . . that loss of control. It worried him, more and more. The first time he'd felt it had been that night, so long ago, fighting Whitecloaks. For a time, Perrin hadn't known if he was a wolf or a man.

And now—during one of his recent visits to the wolf dream—he'd tried to kill Hopper. In the wolf dream, death was final. Perrin had almost lost himself that day. Thinking of it awakened old fears, fears he'd shoved aside. Fears relating to a man, behaving like a wolf, locked in a cage.

He continued down the pathway to his tent, making some decisions. He'd pursued Faile with determination, avoiding the wolf dream as he'd avoided all of his responsibilities. He'd claimed that nothing else had mattered. But he knew that the truth was much more difficult. He'd focused on Faile because he loved her so much, but—in addition—he'd done so because it had been convenient. Her rescue had been an excuse to avoid things like his discomfort with leadership and the blurred truce between himself and the wolf inside of himself.

He had rescued Faile, but so many things were still wrong. The answers might lie in his dreams.

It was time to return.

CHAPTER 18

A Message in Haste

Siuan froze—basket of dirty laundry on her hip—the moment she walked into the Aes Sedai camp. It was her own laundry, this time. She'd finally realized that she didn't need to do both hers and Bryne's. Why not let the novices put in some time on her washing? There were certainly enough of them these days.

And every one of them crowded the walkway around the pavilion at the center of camp. They stood arm-to-arm, a wall of white topped by heads of hair in every natural hue. No ordinary meeting of the Hall would have drawn such attention. Something must be going on.

Siuan set the wicker laundry basket on a stump, then pulled a towel over it. She didn't trust that sky, although it hadn't rained more than the occasional drizzle in the past week. Don't trust a dockmaster's sky. Words to live by. Even if the consequence only meant a basket of wet clothing, soiled at that.

She hurried across the dirt road and stepped up onto one of the wooden walkways. The rough boards shifted slightly underfoot and creaked with her footfalls as she hurried towards the pavilion. There was talk of replacing the walkways with something more permanent, perhaps as expensive as paving stones.

She reached the backs of the gathered women. The last meeting of the Hall that had drawn this level of attention had revealed that Asha'man had bonded sisters and that the taint itself had been cleansed. Light send that there weren't any surprises of that size waiting! Her nerves were taut enough, dealing with Gareth bloody Bryne. Suggesting that she let him teach her how to hold a sword, just in case. She'd never thought that swords were much use. Besides, who ever heard of an Aes Sedai with a weapon, fighting like a crazed Aiel? Honestly, that man.

She bullied her way through the novices, annoyed that she had to get their attention in order to make them let her pass. They gave way as soon as they saw a sister passing through them, of course, but they were so distracted that it took work to move them out of the way. She chided a few of them for not being about their duties. Where was Tiana? She should have had these girls back to their chores. If Rand al'Thor himself bloody appeared in camp, the novices should continue their lessons!

Finally, near the pavilion flaps, she found the woman she'd expected. Sheriam, as Egwene's Keeper, couldn't enter the Hall without the Amyr-lin. And so she was reduced to waiting outside. It was probably better than stewing back in her tent.

The fire-haired woman had lost a fair bit of her plumpness over the previous weeks. She really needed to commission new dresses; her old ones were beginning to hang on her. Still, she seemed to have regained some calm recently, to be less erratic. Perhaps whatever had been ailing her had passed. She'd always insisted that nothing was wrong in the first place.

"Fish guts," Siuan grumbled as a novice accidentally elbowed her. Siuan glared at the girl, who wilted and scurried away, her family of novices reluctantly following. Siuan turned back to Sheriam. "So what is it? Did one of the stable boys turn out to be the King of Tear?"

Sheriam raised an eyebrow. "Elaida has Traveling."

"What?" Siuan asked, glancing into the tent. The seats were filled with Aes Sedai, and lanky Ashmanaille—of the Gray—was addressing them. Why hadn't this meeting been Sealed to the Flame?