“Aye, mayhap it will be as you say. But I will remember it until I die. Ryma, help me. That is what she did scream. And one of the damane did fall down crying, and they did put one of those collars on the neck of the ... woman, and I ... I did run.” He shrugged, and rubbed his nose, and peered into his wine. “I have seen three women taken, and I have no stomach for it. I would leave my aged grandmother standing on the dock to sail from here, but I did have to tell you.”
“Egwene said they have two prisoners,” Min said slowly. “Ryma, a Yellow, and she didn't know who the other is.” Nynaeve gave her a sharp look, and she fell silent, blushing. From the look on Domon's face, it had not furthered their cause any to tell him the Seanchan held two Aes Sedai, not just one.
Yet abruptly he stared at Nynaeve and took a long gulp of wine. “Do that be why you are here? To free ... those two? You did say there would be three of you.”
“You know what you need to know,” Nynaeve told him briskly. “You must be ready to sail on the instant anytime in the next two or three days. Will you do it, or will you remain here to see if they will cut off your head after all? There are other ships, Captain, and I mean to have passage assured on one of them today.”
Min held her breath; under the table, her fingers were knotted.
Finally, Domon nodded. “I will be ready.”
When they returned to the street, Min was surprised to see Nynaeve sag against the front of the inn as soon as the door closed. “Are you ill, Nynaeve?” she asked anxiously.
Nynaeve drew a long breath and stood up straight, tugging at her coat. “With some people,” she said, “you have to be certain. If you show them one glimmer of doubt, they'll sweep you off in some direction you don't want to go. Light, but I was afraid he was going to say no. Come, we have plans yet to make. There are still one or two small problems to work out.”
“I hope you don't mind fish, Min,” Elayne said.
One or two small problems? Min thought as she followed them. She hoped very much that Nynaeve was not just being certain again.
Chapter 44
(Flame of Tar Valon)
Five Will Ride Forth
Perrin eyed the villagers warily, selfconsciously hitching at a tooshort cloak, embroidered on the chest and with some holes in it not even patched, but none of them gave him a second glance despite his strange mix of clothes and the axe on his hip. Hurin had a coat with blue spirals across the chest under his cloak, and Mat wore a pair of baggy trousers that made bunches where they were stuffed into his boots. That had been all they had been able to find that would fit back in the abandoned village. Perrin wondered if this one would be abandoned soon. Half the stone houses were empty, and in front of the inn, up the dirt street from them, three ox carts, loaded too heavily in great mounds and everything covered with roped canvas, stood with families gathered around them.
As he watched them, huddling together and saying their goodbyes to those who were staying, at least for the time being, Perrin decided it was not lack of interest in strangers on the villagers' part; they were carefully avoiding looking at him and the others. These people had learned not to show curiosity about strangers, even strangers who were obviously not Seanchan. Strangers might be dangerous these days on Toman Head. They had encountered the same studious indifference in other villages. There were more towns here within a few leagues of the coast, every one holding itself independent. At any rate, they had until the Seanchan came.
“I say it's time to go get the horses,” Mat said, “before they decide to start asking questions. There has to be a first time for it.”
Hurin was staring at a big, blackened circle of ground that marred the brown grass of the village green. It had a weathered look, but no one had done anything to erase it. “Maybe six or eight months ago,” he muttered, “and it still stinks. The whole Village Council and their families. Why would they do a thing like that?”
“Who knows why they do anything?” Mat muttered. “Seanchan don't seem to need a reason for killing people. None I can figure out, anyway.”
Perrin tried not to look at the charred patch. “Hurin, are you sure about Fain? Hurin?” It had been hard to make the sniffer look at anything else since they entered the village. “Hurin!”
“What? Oh. Fain. Yes.” Hurin's nostrils flared, and right away he wrinkled his nose. “There's no mistaking that, even old as it is. Makes a Myrddraal smell like roses. He passed through here all right, but I think he was alone. No Trollocs, anyway, and if he had any Darkfriends with him, they hadn't been up to much lately.”
There was some sort of agitation up by the inn, people shouting and pointing. Not at Perrin and the other two, but at something Perrin could not see in the low hills east of the village.
“Can we get the horses now?” Mat said. “That could be Seanchan.”
Perrin nodded, and they broke into a run for where they had tied their horses behind an abandoned house. As Mat and Hurin disappeared around the corner of the house, Perrin looked back toward the inn and stopped in astonishment. The Children of the Light were riding into town, a long column of them.
He leaped after the others. “Whitecloaks!”
They wasted only an instant staring at him in disbelief before they were scrambling into their saddles. Keeping houses between them and the main street of the village, the three galloped out of the village westward, watching over their shoulders for pursuit. Ingtar had told them to avoid anything that might slow them down, and Whitecloaks asking questions would certainly do that, even if they could manage answers that satisfied. Perrin kept an even closer watch than the other two; he had his own reasons for not wanting to meet Whitecloaks. The axe in my hands. Light, what I wouldn't give to change that.
The lightly wooded hills soon hid the village, and Perrin began to think maybe there was nothing chasing them after all. He reined in and motioned the other two to stop. When they did, eyeing him questioningly, he listened. His ears were sharper than they once had been, but he heard no sounds of hoofbeats.
Reluctantly, he reached out with his mind in search of wolves. Almost immediately he found them, a small pack, lying up for the day in the hills above the village they had just left. There were moments of astonishment so strong he almost thought it was his own; these wolves had heard rumors, but they had not really believed there were twolegs who could talk to their kind. He sweated through the minutes it took to get past introducing himself — he gave the image of Young Bull in spite of himself, and added his own smell, according to the custom among wolves; wolves were great ones for formalities on first meetings — but finally he managed to get his question through. They really had no interest in any twolegs who could not talk to them, but at last they glided down to take a look, unseen by the