“Loial always did say he could outrun a horse,” Rand laughed, but there had been a pause. Laughter faded. “I hope he makes it safely,” he said more seriously. He was tired, and different in other ways, too. The Rand Perrin had last seen in Tear had not been soft, far from it, but this Rand made that one look an innocent farmboy. He did not blink often enough, as if a blink might hide what he needed to see. Perrin recognized something of that look; he had seen it on the faces of Two Rivers men after the Trolloc attacks, after the fifth, the tenth, when it seemed hope was gone but you went on fighting because the cost of giving up was too great.

“My Lord Dragon,” Faile said, startling Perrin; she had always called him Rand before, though they had been hearing the title since White-bridge, “if you will forgive me, I will just have a word with my husband then leave you two to talk.”

She hardly waited for Rand’s surprised assent to close on Perrin, turning him so her back was to Rand. “I will not go far, my dear heart. Min and I will have our own conversation about things that would very likely bore you.” Fussing with his lapels, she began speaking hurriedly under her breath, so softly that anyone except him would have had to strain their ears. She did recall his hearing sometimes. “Remember he is not your boyhood friend any longer, Perrin. At least, not only that. He is the Dragon Reborn, the Lord Dragon. But you are Lord of the Two Rivers. I know you will stand up for yourself, and for the Two Rivers.” The smile she gave him was full of love and confidence; he wanted to kiss her right there. “There,” she said in a normal tone. “You are all straight again.” She no longer gave off the slightest scent of jealousy.

Offering Rand a graceful curtsy and a murmur of “My Lord Dragon,” she held out a hand to Min. “Come, Min.” Min’s curtsy was considerably less practiced, and made Rand start.

Before they reached the doorway, one of the doors banged open and a tall liveried woman entered with a silver tray holding goblets and a pitcher that gave off the smell of wine and honeymelon juice. Perrin almost stared. Despite the red-and-white dress, she could have been Chiad’s mother, or maybe grandmother with that short curled white hair. Frowning at the departing women, she stalked to the nearest table and set down the tray, her face a mask of meekness that seemed frozen in place. “I was told four, my Lord Dragon,” she said oddly; he thought she might be trying for humble respect but had something caught in her throat, “so I brought for four.” Her curtsy made Min’s look elegant, and she slammed the door on her way out.