“We all march together,” Perrin said. “That’s my order, Arganda. I won’t have the refugees thinking that we’re abandoning them.”
Refugees. There were over a hundred thousand of those to care for. A hundred thousand! Light, that was far more than lived in the entire Two Rivers. And Perrin was in charge of feeding every one of them. Wagons. Many men didn’t understand the importance of a good wagon. He lay down on his back, preparing to inspect the axles, and that gave him a view of the overcast sky, partially blocked by Maiden’s nearby city wall.
The city was large for one this far north in Altara. It was almost more of a fortress than a city, with daunting walls and towers. Until the day before, the land around this city had been home to the Shaido Aiel, but they were gone now, many killed, others fled, their captives freed by an alliance between Perrin’s forces and the Seanchan.
The Shaido had left him two things: a scent of blood on the air and a hundred thousand refugees to care for. Though he was happy to give them their freedom, his goal in liberating Maiden had been far different: the rescue of Faile.
Another Aiel group had been advancing on his position, but they’d slowed, then camped, and were no longer rushing toward Maiden. Perhaps they’d been warned by Shaido fleeing the battle that they had a large army before them, one that had defeated the Shaido despite their channelers. It seemed this new group behind Perrin had as little desire to engage him as he had to engage them.
That gave him time. A little bit, at least.
Arganda was still watching. The captain wore his polished breastplate and had his slotted helmet under his arm. The squat man wasn’t a puffed-up fluff of an officer, but a common man who had risen through the ranks. He fought well and did as instructed. Usually.
“I’m not going to bend on this, Arganda,” Perrin said, pulling himself along the damp ground beneath the wagon.
“Could we at least use gateways instead?” Arganda asked, kneeling down, graying hair—shorn short—nearly brushing the ground as he peeked under the wagon.
“The Asha’man are near dead from fatigue,” Perrin snapped. “You know that.”
“They’re too tired for a large gateway,” Arganda said, “but maybe they could send a small group. My lady is exhausted from her captivity! Surely you don’t mean for her to march!”
“The refugees are tired too,” Perrin said. “Alliandre can have a horse to ride, but she’s leaving when the rest of us do. Light send that’s soon.”
Arganda sighed, but nodded. He stood up as Perrin ran fingers along the axle. He could tell stress in wood with a glance, but he preferred touch. Touch was more reliable. There was always a crack or a splintering where wood weakened, and you could feel it near to breaking. Wood was reliable like that.
Unlike men. Unlike himself.
He gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to think about that. He had to keep working, had to keep doing
“My Lord, we should attack!” a boisterous voice declared from beside the vehicle.
Perrin thumped his head back against the well-trampled grass, closing his eyes. Bertain Gallenne, Lord Captain of the Winged Guards, was to Mayene what Arganda was to Ghealdan. Aside from that single similarity, the two captains were about as different as men could be. Perrin could see Bertain’s large, beautifully worked boots, with clasps shaped like hawks, from beneath the wagon.
“My Lord,” Bertain continued. “A fine charge from the Winged Guard would scatter that Aiel rabble, of this I’m certain. Why, we easily dealt with the Aiel here in the city!”
“We had the Seanchan, then,” Perrin said, finishing with the rear axle and wriggling his way to the front to check the other one. He wore his old, stained coat. Faile would chastise him for that. He was supposed to present himself as a lord. But would she really expect him to wear a fine coat if he was going to spend an hour lying in the muddy grass, looking at the bottoms of wagons?
Faile wouldn’t want him to be in the muddy grass in the first place. Perrin hesitated, hand on the front axle, thinking of her raven hair and distinctive Saldaean nose. She held the sum total of his love. She was everything to him.
He had succeeded—he’d saved her. So why did he feel as if things were nearly as bad as they had been? He should rejoice, he should be ecstatic, should be relieved. He’d worried so much about her during her captivity. And yet now, with her safety secure, everything still felt wrong. Somehow. In ways he couldn’t explain.
Light! Would
