“Pardon, Aes Sedai,” one of them muttered, and they all pressed against the side of the run, though there was plenty of room.
Wondering if they were the same who had followed her — one of those faces looked familiar, that of a squat fellow with villainous eyes — she nodded and murmured thanks as she started past.
The spear going into her side was such a shock she did not even cry out. Frantically she reached for saidar, but something else pierced her side, and she was down in the dust. That remembered face was thrust into hers, black eyes mocking, growling something she ignored as she tried to reach saidar, tried to . . . Darkness closed in.
When Perrin and Faile finally left the interminable interview with her parents, that odd serving woman, Sulin, was waiting for them in the hallway. Sweat drenched Perrin, making dark patches on his coat, and he felt as if he had run ten miles while being pummeled every stride. Faile had a smile on her face and a spring in her step; she looked radiant, beautiful, and as proud of herself as when she brought the Watch Hill men just as the Trollocs were about to overrun Emond’s Field. Sulin curtsied every time one of them looked at her, nearly falling over every single time; that leathery face with its scar down her cheek was fixed in an obsequious smile that seemed ready to shatter at a breath. Passing Maidens flashed handtalk at one another, and Sulin curtsied to them as well, though grinding her teeth loud enough for Perrin to hear clearly. Even Faile began to eye her warily.
Once the woman led them to their rooms, a sitting room and a bedchamber with a canopied bed big enough for ten and a long marble balcony overlooking a fountained courtyard, she insisted on explaining or showing them everything, even what they could see. Their horses had been stabled and curried. Their saddlebags were unpacked and hung in the wardrobe with Perrin’s axe belt, most of the scant contents laid in the drawers of a chest-on-chest in a precise array. Perrin’s axe was propped beside the gray marble fireplace as though to chop kindling. One of the two silver pitchers glistening with condensation held cool tea flavored with mint, the other plum punch. Two gilt-framed mirrors on the wall were pointed out and touched, one over a table where Faile’s ivory comb and brush were laid, and a great stand-mirror with carved uprights that a blind man could not have missed.
While Sulin was still explaining about bath water being brought, and copper tubs, Perrin pressed a gold crown into her callused palm. “Thank you,” he said, “but if you will leave us now . . . ” For a moment he thought she was going to throw the fat coin at him, but instead he got another wavering curtsy and a slammed door as she departed.
“I suppose whoever trains the servants doesn’t know her job,” Faile said. “That was very good, by the way. Polite but firm. If you would only do that with our servants.” As she turned her slim back, her voice dropped to a murmur. “Will you unbutton me?”
He always felt very thick-fingered undoing her small buttons, half-afraid he was going to pop them off or tear her dress. On the other hand, he did enjoy undressing his wife. She usually had a maid do it, because of lost buttons he was sure. “Did you mean any of that nonsense you told your mother?”
“Have you not tamed me, my husband,” she said without looking at him, “and taught me to perch on your wrist when you call? Do I not run to please you? Am I not obedient to your smallest gesture?” She smelled amused. She certainly sounded amused. The only thing was, she sounded as if she meant it, too, the same as when she told her mother practically the same thing, head high and as proud as she could be. Women were strange, that was all there was to it. And her mother . . . ! For that matter, her father!
Maybe he should change the subject. What was that Bashere had mentioned? “Faile, what is a broken crown?” He was sure that had been it.
She made a vexed noise, and suddenly began to smell upset. “Rand is gone from the Palace, Perrin.”
“And if he is?” Bending to peer at a tiny mother-of-pearl button, he frowned at her back. “How do you know?”
“The Maidens. Bain and Chiad taught me some of their handtalk. Don’t let on, Perrin. From the way they behaved when they heard there were Aiel here, I think maybe they shouldn’t have. Besides, it might be good to understand what the Maidens are saying without them knowing it. They seem thick around Rand.” She twisted around to give him a roguish look and stroke his beard. “Those first Maidens we met thought you have nice shoulders, but they did not think much of this. Aiel women do not know a good beard when they see one.”
Shaking his head, he waited until she turned again, then pocketed the button that had come off when she twisted. Maybe she would not notice; he had gone a week with a button missing from his coat, and had not known until she pointed it out. As for beards, from what Gaul said, Aiel always shaved clean; Bain and Chiad had thought his beard a subject for odd jokes. He had thought of shaving himself more than once in this heat. But Faile did like the beard. “What about Rand? Why should it matter if he’s left the Palace?”
“Just that you should know what he’s doing behind your back. Obviously you didn’t know he was going off. Remember, he is the Dragon Reborn. That is very like a king, a king of kings, and kings sometimes use up even friends, by accident and on purpose.”
“Rand wouldn’t do that. What are you suggesting, anyway? That I spy on him?”
He meant it as a joke, but she said, “Not you, my love. Spying is a wife’s work.”
“Faile!” Straightening so fast he nearly yanked another button loose, he took her shoulders and turned her to face him. “You are not going to spy on Rand, do you hear me?” She put on a dogged look, mouth drawing down, eyes narrowing — she practically reeked of stubbornness — but he could be dogged, too. “Faile, I want to see some of that obedience you were boasting about.” As far as he could see, she did what he said when she good and well pleased and otherwise not, and forget whether he was in the right or not. “I mean it, Faile. I want your promise. I’ll be no part of anyb—”
r /> “I promise, my heart,” she said, placing her fingers over his mouth. “I promise I will not spy on Rand. You see, I am obedient to my lord husband. Do you remember how many grandchildren my mother said she expects?”
The sudden change of direction made him blink. But she had promised; that was the important thing. “Six, I think. I lost count when she started telling us which were to be boys and which girls.” Lady Deira had had some startlingly frank advice on how this was to be achieved; thankfully he had missed most of it from wondering whether he should leave the room till she finished. Faile had just nodded away as though it was the most natural thing in the world, with her husband and her father there.
“At least six,” she said with a truly wicked grin. “Perrin, she will be looking over our shoulders unless I can tell her she can expect the first soon, and I thought, if you ever managed to undo the rest of my buttons . . . ” After months of marriage she still blushed, but that grin never faded. “The presence of a real bed after so many weeks makes me forward as a farmgirl at harvest.”
Sometimes he wondered about these Saldaean farmgirls she was always bringing up. Blushes or no blushes, if they were as forward as Faile when he and she were alone, no crops would ever be harvested in Saldaea. He broke off two more buttons getting her dress undone, and she did not mind a bit. She actually managed to tear his shirt.
Demira was surprised to open her eyes, surprised to find herself lying on the bed in her own room in The Crown of Roses. She expected to be dead, not undressed and tucked under a linen sheet. Stevan was sitting on a stool at the foot of her bed, managing to look relieved, concerned and stern all at the same time. Her slender Cairhienin Warder was a head shorter than she and nearly twenty years younger for all the gray streaking his temples, but sometimes he tried to behave like a father, all but claiming she could not take care of herself without him holding her hand. She very much feared this incident would give him the high ground in that struggle for months to come. Merana was on one side of the bed looking grave, Berenicia on the other. The plump Yellow sister always looked grave, but now she looked absolutely somber.
“How?” Demira managed. Light, but she felt weak. Healing did that, but putting her arms outside the sheet was an effort. She must have been very close to death. Healing left no scars, but memories and weakness were quite enough.
“A man came into the common room,” Stevan said, “claiming he wanted some ale. He said he had seen Aiel following an Aes Sedai — he described you exactly — and saying they were going to kill her. As soon as he spoke, I felt . . . ” He grimaced bleakly.
“Stevan asked me to come,” Berenicia said, “he all but dragged me — and we ran the whole way. Truth, I was not certain we were in time until you opened your eyes just now.”
“Of course,” Merana said in a flat voice, “it was all part of the same trap, the same warning. The Aiel and the man. A pity we let him get away, but we were so concerned over you that he managed to slip off before anyone thought to hold him.”
Demira had been thinking about Milam and how this was going to affect the search in the library, about how long it was going to take Stevan to calm down, and what Merana was saying did not really penetrate until the last. “Hold him? A warning? What are you talking about, Merana?” Berenicia muttered something about her understanding if they showed it to her in a book; Berenicia had an acid tongue at times.
“Have you seen anyone come into the common room for a drink since we arrived, Demira?” Merana asked patiently.
It was true; she had not. One or even two Aes Sedai made little difference to an inn’s custom in Caemlyn, but nine was another matter. Mistress Cinchonine had remarked on it openly of late. “Then it was intended you should know Aiel had killed me. Or maybe that I was to be found before I died.” She had just recalled what that villainous-faced fellow had growled at her. “I was told to tell you all to stay away from al’Thor. Exact words. ‘Tell the other witches to stay away from the Dragon Reborn.’ I could hardly deliver that message dead, could I? How were my wounds placed?”