He knew she wanted him to ask. He knew that much. She might or might not tell him, but he was supposed to ask.
Stubbornly he kept his mouth shut. This time he meant to wait her out.
Outside in the darkness, a cock crowed.
Faile shivered and hugged herself. “My nurse used to say that meant a death coming. Not that I believe it, of course.”
He opened his mouth to agree it was foolishness, though he shivered, too, but his head whipped around at a grating sound and a thump. The axe had toppled to the floor. He only had time to frown, wondering what could have made it fall, when it shifted again, untouched, then leaped straight for him.
He swung the hammer without thought. Metal ringing on metal drowned Faile's scream; the axe flew across the room, bounced off the far wall, and darted back at him, blade first. He thought every hair on his body was trying to stand on end.
As the axe sped by her, Faile lunged forward and grabbed the haft with both hands. It twisted in her grip, slashing toward her wideeyed face. Barely in time Perrin leaped up, dropping the hammer to seize the axe, just keeping the halfmoon blade from her flesh. He thought he would die if the axe — his axe — harmed her. He jerked it away from her so hard that the heavy spike nearly stabbed him in the chest. It would have been a fair trade, to stop the axe from hurting her, but with a sinking feeling he began to think it might not be possible.
The weapon thrashed like a thing alive, a thing with a malevolent will. It wanted Perrin — he knew that as if it had shouted at him — but it fought with cunning. When he pulled the axe away from Faile, it used his own movement to hack at him; when he forced it from himself, it tried to reach her, as if it knew that would make him stop pushing. No matter how hard he held the haft, it spun in his hands, threatening with spike or curved blade. Already his hands ached from the effort, and his thick arms strained, muscles tight. Sweat rolled down his face. He was not sure how much longer it would be before the axe fought free of his grip. This was all madness, pure madness, with no time to think.
“Get out,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Get out of the room, Faile!”
Her face was bloodless pale, but she shook her head and wrestled with the axe. “No! I will not leave you!”
“It will kill both of us!”
She shook her head again.
Growling in his throat, he let go of the axe with one hand — his arm quivered with holding the thing onehanded; the twisting haft burned his palm — and thrust Faile away. She yelped as he wrestled her to the door. Ignoring her shouts and her fists pounding at him, he held her against the wall with a shoulder until he could pull the door open and shove her into the hallway.
Slamming the door behind her, he put his back against it, sliding the latch home with his hip as he seized the axe with both hands again. The heavy blade, gleaming and sharp, trembled within inches of his face. Laboriously, he pushed it out to arm's length. Faile's muted shouts penetrated the thick door, and he could feel her beating on it, but he was barely conscious of her. His yellow eyes seemed to shine, as if they reflected every scrap of light in the room!
“Just you and me, now,” he snarled at the axe. “Blood and ashes, how I hate you!” Inside, a part of him came close to hysterical laughter. Rand is the one who's supposed to go mad, and here I am, talking to an axe! Rand! Burn him!
Teeth bared with effort, he forced the axe back a full step from the door. The weapon vibrated, fighting to reach flesh; he could almost taste its thirst for his blood. With a roar he suddenly pulled the curved blade toward him, threw himself back. Had the axe truly been alive, he was sure he would have heard a cry of triumph as it flashed toward his head. At the last instant, he twisted, driving the axe past himself. With a heavy thunk the blade buried itself in the door.
He felt the life — he could not think what else to call it — go out of the imprisoned weapon. Slowly, he took his hands away. The axe stayed where it was, only steel and wood again. The door seemed a good place to leave it for now, though. He wiped sweat from his face with a shaking hand. Madness. Madness walks wherever Rand is.
Abruptly he realized he could no longer hear Faile's shouts, or her pounding. Throwing back the latch, he hastily pulled the door open. A gleaming arc of steel stuck through the thick wood on the outside, shining in the light of widespaced lamps along the tapestryhung hallway.
Faile stood there, hands raised, frozen in the act of beating on the door. Eyes wide and wondering, she touched the tip of her nose. “Another inch,” she said faintly, “and....”
With a sudden start, she flung herself on him, hugging him fiercely, raining kisses on his neck and beard between incoherent murmurs. Just as quickly, she pushed back, running anxious hands over his chest and arms. “Are you hurt? Are you injured? Did it... ?”
“I'm all right,” he told her. “But are you? I did not mean to frighten you.”
She peered up at him. “Truly? You are not hurt in any way?”
“Completely unhurt. I —” Her fullarmed slap made his head ring like hammer on anvil.
“You great hairy lummox! I thought you were dead! I was afraid it had killed you! I thought —!” She cut off as he caught her second slap in midswing.
“Please don't do that again,” he said quietly. The smarting imprint of her hand burned on his cheek, and he thought his jaw would ache the rest of the night.
He gripped her wrist as gently as he would have a bird, but though she struggled to pull free, his hand did not budge an inch. Compared to swinging a hammer all day at the forge, holding her was no effort at all, even after his fight against the axe. Abruptly she seemed to decide to ignore his grip and stared him in the eye; neither dark nor golden eyes blinked. “I could have helped you. You had no right—”
“I had every right,” he said firmly. “You could not have helped. If you had stayed, we'd both be dead. I couldn't have fought — not the way I had to — and kept you safe, too.” She opened her mouth, but he raised his voice and went on. “I know you hate the word. I'll try my best not to treat you like porcelain, but if you ask me to watch you die, I will tie you like a lamb for market and send you off to Mistress Luhhan. She won't stand for any such nonsense.”
Tonguing a tooth and wondering if it was loose, he almost wished he could see Faile trying to ride roughshod over Alsbet Luhhan. The blacksmith's wife kept her husband in line with scarcely more effort than she needed for her house. Even Nynaeve had been careful of her sharp tongue around Mistress Luhhan. The tooth still held tight, he decided.
Faile laughed suddenly, a low, throaty laugh. “You would, too, wouldn't you? Don't think you would not dance with the Dark One if you tried, though.”
Perrin was so startled he let go of her. He could not see any real difference between what he had just said and what he had said before, but the one had made her blaze up, while this she took... fondly. Not that he was certain the threat to kill him was entirely a joke. Faile carried knives hidden about her person, and she knew how to use them.