“Come, blacksmith. We have things to talk over.”

“I am a blacksmith,” Perrin said, and the Warder frowned at him.

“Don’t go winter-crazy on me now, blacksmith. If you cannot carry your weight any longer, you may drag us all down the mountain.”

“I’ll carry my weight,” Perrin growled. “I will do what has to be done. What do you want?”

“You, blacksmith. Don’t you listen? Come on, farmboy.”

That name that Zarine so often called him pulled him to his feet angrily, now, but Lan was already turning away. Perrin hurried into the hall and followed him toward the front of the inn, meaning to tell the Warder he had had enough of this “blacksmith” and “farmboy,” his name was Perrin Aybara. The Warder ducked into the inn’s only private dining room, overlooking the street.

Perrin followed him. “Now listen, Warder, I—”

“You listen, Perrin,” Moiraine said. “Be quiet and listen.” Her face was smooth, but her eyes looked as grim as her voice sounded.

Perrin had not realized anyone was in the room except for himself and the Warder, standing with one arm up on the mantel of the unlit fireplace. Moiraine sat at the table in the middle of the floor, a simple piece, of black oak. None of the other chairs with their high, carved backs were occupied. Zarine was leaning against the wall at the other end of the room from Lan, scowling, and Loial had chosen to sit on the floor since none of the chairs really fit him.

“I’m glad you decided to join us, farmboy,” Zarine said sarcastically. “Moiraine would not say anything till you came. She just looks at us as if she is deciding which of us is going to die. I—”

“Be quiet,” Moiraine told her sharply. “One of the Forsaken is in Tear. The High Lord Samon is Be’lal.” Perrin shivered.

Loial squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “I could have remained in the stedding. I would probably have been very happy, married, whoever my mother chose. She is a fine woman, my mother, and she would not give me to a bad wife.” His ears seemed to have hidden themselves completely in his shaggy hair.

“You can go back to Stedding Shangtai,” Moiraine said. “Leave now, if you wish. I will not stop you.”

Loial opened one eye. “I can go?”

“If you wish,” she said.

“Oh.” He opened the other eye, and scratched his cheek with blunt fingers the size of sausages. “I suppose. . . . I suppose . . . if I have a choice . . . that I will stay with all of you. I have taken a great many notes, but not nearly enough to complete my book, and I would not like to leave Perrin, and Rand—”