The Dragon Reborn - By Robert Jordan Page 0,46

his mouth in embarrassment and bowing to hide it. “I beg your pardon, good mistress. You have come far? Have you word of the Great Hunt? The Hunt for the Horn of Valere? Or the false Dragon? It’s said there’s a false Dragon in Tarabon. Or maybe Arad Doman.”

“We have not come that far,” Lan said, swinging down from his saddle. “No doubt you know more than I.” They all began dismounting.

“You have had a wedding here?” Moiraine said.

“A wedding, good mistress? Why, we’ve had a lifetime of weddings. A plague of them. All in the last two days. There isn’t a woman old enough to speak the betrothal remains unmarried, not in the whole village, not for a mile in any direction. Why, even Widow Jorath dragged old Banas through the arches, and they’d both sworn they’d never marry again. It was like a whirlwind just snatched everybody up. Rilith, the weaver’s daughter, she started it, asking Jon the blacksmith to marry her, and him old enough to be her father and more. The old fool just took off his apron and said yes, and she demanded the arches be put up right then and there. Wouldn’t hear of a proper wait, and all the other women sided with her. Since then we’ve had marriages day and night. Why, nobody’s had any sleep at all hardly.”

“That’s very interesting,” Perrin said when Simion paused to yawn again, “but have you seen a young—”

“It is very interesting,” Moiraine said, cutting him off, “and I would hear more of it later, perhaps. For now, we would like rooms, and a meal.” Lan made a small gesture toward Perrin, down low, as if telling him to hold his tongue.

“Of course, good mistress. A meal. Rooms.” Simion hesitated, eyeing Loial. “We’ll have to push two beds together for—” He leaned closer to Moiraine and dropped his voice. “Pardon, good mistress, but—uh—what exactly—is he? Meaning no disrespect,” he added hastily.

He had not spoken softly enough, for Loial’s ears twitched irritably. “I am an Ogier! What did you think I was? A Trolloc?”

Simion took a step back at the booming voice. “Trolloc, good—uh—master? Why, I’m a grown man. I don’t believe in children’s tales. Uh, did you say Ogier? Why, Ogier are childr—I mean . . . that is. . . .” In desperation, he turned to bellow toward the stable next to the inn. “Nico! Patrim! Visitors! Come see to their horses!” After a moment two boys with hay in their hair tumbled out of the stable, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Simion gestured to the steps, bowing, as the boys gathered reins.

Perrin slung his saddlebags and blanketroll over his shoulder and carried his bow as he followed Moiraine and Lan inside, with Simion bowing and bobbing ahead of them. Loial had to duck low under the lintel, and the ceiling inside only cleared his head by a foot. He kept rumbling to himself about not understanding why so few humans remembered the Ogier. His voice was like distant thunder. Even Perrin, right in front of him, could only understand half of his words.

The inn smelled of ale and wine, cheese and weariness, and the aroma of roasting mutton drifted from somewhere in the back. The few men in the common room sagged over their mugs as if they would really like to lie down on the benches and go to sleep. One plump serving woman was drawing a mug of ale from one of the barrels at the end of the room. The innkeeper himself, in a long white apron, sat on a tall stool in the corner, leaning against the wall. As the newcomers entered, he lifted his head, bleary-eyed. His jaw dropped at the sight of Loial.

“Visitors, Master Harod,” Simion announced. “They want rooms. Master Harod? He’s an Ogier, Master Harod.” The serving woman turned and saw Loial, and dropped the mug with a clatter. None of the weary men at the tables even looked up. One had put his head down on the table and was snoring.

Loial’s ears twitched violently.

Master Harod got to his feet slowly, eyes fastened on Loial, smoothing his apron all the while. “At least he isn’t a Whitecloak,” he said at last, then gave a start as if surprised he had spoken aloud. “That is to say, welcome, good mistress. Good masters. Forgive my lack of manners. I can only plead tiredness, good mistress.” He darted another glance at Loial, and mouthed “Ogier?” with a look of