(Serpent and Wheel)
A Different Dance
Furlan burbled on as he showed them to their rooms, though Perrin did not really listen. He was too busy wondering if the blackhaired girl knew what yellow eyes meant. Burn me, she was looking at me. Then he heard the innkeeper say the words “proclaiming the Dragon in Ghealdan,” and he thought his ears would go to sharp points like Loial's.
Moiraine stopped dead in the doorway to her room. “There is another false Dragon, innkeeper? In Ghealdan?” The hood of her cloak still hid her face, but she sounded shaken to her toes. Even listening for the man's reply, Perrin could not help staring at her; he smelled something close to fear.
“Ah, Lady, never you fear. 'Tis a hundred leagues to Ghealdan, and none will trouble you here, not with Master Andra about, and Lord Orban and Lord Gann. Why — ”
“Answer her!” Lan said harshly. “Is there a false Dragon in Ghealdan?”
“Ah. Ah, no, Master Andra, not precisely. I said there's a man proclaiming the Dragon in Ghealdan, so we heard a few days gone. Preaching his coming, you might say. Talking about that fellow over in Tarabon we've heard about. Though some do say 'tis Arad Doman, not Tarabon. A long way from here, in any case. Why, any other day, I expect we'd talk more of that than anything else, except maybe the wild tales about Hawkwing's army come back —” Lan's cold eyes might as well have been knife blades from the way Furlan swallowed and scrubbed his hands faster. “I only know what I hear, Master Andra. 'Tis said the fellow has a stare can pin you where you stand, and he talks all sorts of rubbish about the Dragon coming to save us, and we all have to follow, and even the beasts will fight for the Dragon. I don't know whether they've arrested him yet or not. 'Tis likely; the Ghealdanin would not put up long with that kind of talk.”
Masema, Perrin thought wonderingly. It's bloody Masema.
“You are right, innkeeper,” Lan said. “This fellow isn't likely to trouble us here. I knew a fellow once who liked to make wild speeches. You remember him, Lady Alys, don't you? Masema?”
Moiraine gave a start. “Masema. Yes. Of course. I had put him out of my mind.” Her voice firmed. “When next I see Masema, he will wish someone had peeled his hide to make boots.” She slammed the door behind her so hard that the crash echoed down the hallway.
“Keep a quiet!” came a muffled shout from the far end. “My head is splitting!”
“Ah.” Furlan washed his hands in one direction., then rubbed them in the other. “Ah. Forgive me, Master Andra, but Lady Alys is a fierce sounding woman.”
“Only with those who displease her,” Lan said blandly. “Her bite is far worse than her bark.”
“Ah. Ah. Ah. Your rooms are this way. Ah, friend Ogier, when Master Andra told me you were coming, I had an old Ogier bed brought from the attic where it has been gathering dust these three hundred years or more. Why, 'tis...”
Perrin let the words wash over him, hearing them no more than a river rock hears the water. The blackhaired young woman worried him. And the caged Aiel.
Once in his own room — a small one in the back; Lan had done nothing to disabuse the innkeeper of the notion that Perrin was a servant — he moved mechanically, still wrapped in thought. He unstrung his bow and propped it in the corner — keeping it strung too long ruined bow and string alike — set down his blanketroll and saddlebags beside the washstand and threw his cloak across them. He hung his belts with quiver and axe from pegs on the wall, and nearly lay down on the bed before a jawcracking yawn reminded him how dangerous that might be. The bed was narrow, and the mattress appeared to be all lumps; it looked more inviting than any bed he could remember. He sat on the threelegged stool, instead, and thought. Always he liked to think things through.
After a time, Loial rapped on the door and put his head in. The Ogier's ears practically quivered with excitement, and his grin very nearly split his broad face in two. “Perrin, you will not believe it! My bed is sung wood! Why, it must be well over a thousand years old. No Treesinger has sung a piece so large in at least that long. I myself would not care to try it, and I have the talent more strongly than most, now. Well, to be truthful, there are not many of us with the talent at all, anymore. But I am among the best of those who can sing wood.”
“That is very interesting,” Perrin said. An Aiel in a cage. That is what Min said. Why was that girl staring at me?
“I thought it was.” Loial sounded a little put out that he did not share the Ogier's excitement, but all Perrin wanted to do was think. “Supper is ready below, Perrin. They have prepared their finest in case the Hunters want anything, but we can have some.”
“You go on, Loial. I'm not hungry.” The smells of cooking meat floating up from the kitchen did not interest him. He hardly noticed Loial going.
Hands on his knees, yawning now and again, he tried to work it out. It seemed like one of those puzzles Master Luhhan made, the metal pieces appearing to be linked inextricably. But there was always a trick to make the iron loops and whirls come apart, and there had to be here, too.
The girl had been looking at him. His eyes might explain that, except that the innkeeper had ignored them, and no one else had even noticed. They had an Ogier to look at, and Hunters of the Horn in the house, and a Lady visiting, and an Aiel caged in the square. Nothing as small as the color of a man's eyes could seize their attention; nothing about a servant could compete with the rest. So why did she pick me to stare at?
And the Aiel in the cage. What Min saw was always important. But how? What was he supposed to do? I could have stopped those children throwing rocks. I should have. It was no use telling himself the adults would certainly have told him to go on about his business, that he was a stranger in Remen and the Aiel was none of his concern. I should have tried.
No answers came to him, so he went back to the beginning and patiently worked through it once more, then again, and again. Still he found nothing except regret for what he had not done.
It came to him after a time that night had finally fallen. The room was dark except for a little moonlight through the lone window. He thought about the tallow candle and the tinderbox he had seen on the mantel over the narrow fireplace, but there was more than enough light for his eyes. I have to do something, don't I?
He buckled on his axe, then paused. He had done it without thinking; wearing the thing had become as natural as breathing. He did not like that. But he left the belt around his waist, and went out.
Light from the stairs made the hallway seem almost bright after his room. Talk and laughter drifted up from the common room, and cooking smells from the kitchen. He strode toward the front of the inn, to Moiraine's room, knocked once, and went in. And stopped, his face burning.
Moiraine pulled the pale blue robe that hung from her shoulders around herself. “You wish something?” she asked coolly. She had a silverbacked hairbrush in one hand, and her dark hair, spilling down her neck in dark waves, glistened as if she had been brushing it. Her room was far finer than his, with polished wooden paneling on the walls and silverchased lamps and a warm fire on the wide brick hearth. The air smelled of rosescented soap.
“I... I thought Lan was here,” he managed to get out. “You two always have your heads together, and I thought he'd... I thought...”
“What do you want, Perrin?”