“No,” Galad said. “No, by the Light, if what you say is true then we cannot turn our backs on this man. Our duty is to bring justice to the wronged.”
Byar smiled, looking eager. “The prisoners revealed that the Queen of Ghealdan has sworn fealty to him.”
“That could present a problem.”
“Or an opportunity. Perhaps Ghealdan is precisely what the Children need. A new home, a place to rebuild. You speak of Andor, my Lord Captain Commander, but how long will they suffer us? You speak of the Last Battle, but it could be months away. What if we were to free an entire nation from the grip of a terrible Darkfriend? Surely the Queen—or her successor—would feel indebted to us.”
“Assuming we can defeat this Aybara.”
“We can. Our forces are smaller than his, but many of his soldiers are farmers.”
“Farmers you just pointed out can be dangerous,” Galad said. “They should not be underestimated.”
“Yes, but I know we can defeat them. They can be dangerous, yes, but they will break before the might of the Children. This time, finally, Goldeneyes won’t be able to hide behind his little village fortifications or his ragtag allies. No more excuses.”
Was this part of being ta’veren? Could Perrin not escape that night, years ago? He set his plate aside, feeling sick.
“Are you well, Perrin Aybara?” Gaul said.
“Just thinking.” The Whitecloaks would not leave him alone, and the Pattern—burn it!—was going to keep looping them into his path until he dealt with them.
“How large is their army?” Perrin asked.
“There are twenty thousand soldiers among them,” Gaul replied. “There are several thousand others who have likely never held a spear.”
Servants and camp followers. Gaul kept the amusement from his voice, but Perrin could smell it on him. Among the Aiel, nearly every man—all but blacksmiths—would pick up a spear if they were attacked. The fact that many wetlanders were incapable of defending themselves either befuddled or infuriated the Aiel.
“Their force is large,” Gaul continued, “but ours is larger. And they have no algai’d’siswai nor Asha’man, nor channelers of any type, if Sebban Balwer’s word is not in error. He seems to know much of these Whitecloaks.”
“He’s right. Whitecloaks hate Aes Sedai and think anyone who can use the One Power is a Darkfriend.”
“We move against him, then?” Byar asked.
Galad stood. “We have no choice. The Light has delivered him into our hands. But we need more information. Perhaps I should go to this Aybara and let him know that we hold his allies, and then ask his army to meet with us on the field of battle. I’d rather draw him out to make use of my cavalry.”
“What do you want, Perrin Aybara?” Gaul asked.
What did he want? He wished he could answer that.
“Send more scouts,” Perrin said. “Find us a better place to camp. We’ll want to offer parley, but there’s no way under the Light I’m leaving Gill and the others in the hands of the Whitecloaks. We’ll give the Children a chance to return our people. If they don’t…well, then we’ll see.”
Chapter 8
The Seven-Striped Lass
Mat sat on a worn stool, his arms leaning against a dark wooden bar counter. The air smelled good—of ale, smoke, and of the washcloth that had recently wiped the counter. He liked that. There was something calming about a good, rowdy tavern that was also kept clean. Well, clean as was reasonable, anyway. Nobody liked a tavern that was too clean. That made a place feel new. Like a coat that had never been worn or a pipe that had never been smoked.
Mat flipped a folded letter between two fingers of his right hand. That letter, on thick paper, was sealed with a glob of blood-red wax. He had been carrying it only a short time, but it was already a source of as much aggravation to him as any woman. Well, maybe not an Aes Sedai, but most any other woman. That was saying a lot.
He stopped spinning the letter and tapped it on the counter. Burn Verin for doing this to him! She held him by his oath like a fish caught on a hook.
“Well, Master Crimson?” asked the tavernkeeper. That was the name he was using these days. Best to be safe. “You want a refill or not?”
The tavernkeeper leaned down before him, crossing her arms. Melli Craeb was a pretty woman, with a round face and auburn hair that curled quite fetchingly. Mat would have given her his best smile—there was not a woman he had met who did not melt for his best smile—but he was a married man now. He could not go breaking hearts; it would not be right.
Though, leaning as she did showed some ample bosom. She was a short woman, but she kept the area behind the bar raised. Yes, a nice bosom indeed. He figured she would be good for a bit of kissing, perhaps tucked into one of the booths at the back of the tavern. Of course, Mat did not look at women anymore, not like that. He did not think about her for him to kiss. Maybe for Talmanes. He was so stiff, a good kiss and cuddle would do him good.
“Well?” Melli asked.