She kept bringing up that topic. “No,” Faile said. “You know his mind is made up on this trial, Berelain.”

The First pursed her lips, but did not press further. The three continued their walk, accompanied by ten Maidens. Once, Faile might have complained about the attention. That was before she’d been taken so unexpectedly, and so easily.

In the distance, she saw a small group of refugees leaving the camp, walking away to the southeast, cross-country. Before things had gone wrong with the gateways, about ten thousand had been sent to rural areas in Cairhien. All had instructions to remain quiet. Perrin didn’t want his location known yet. Women would be still, but of course the men would gossip; they always did.

Few knew that gateways failed; Perrin had told the people that he needed the Asha’man strong, in case there was fighting with the Whitecloaks. It was true enough. Still, some refugees had asked to leave, going on foot. To these, Faile gave bits of gold or a jewel from Sevanna’s store and wished them the best. She was surprised at how many wanted to return to homes that were in Seanchan-controlled lands.

Despite the departures, the size of Perrin’s force was swelling day by day. Faile and the others passed a large group practicing with swords. The refugees who had decided to train were now some twenty-five thousand strong. They practiced late into the day, and Faile could still hear barked orders from Tam.

“Well.” Berelain continued her musings. “What will Perrin do? Why set up this trial? He wants something from those Whitecloaks.” She stepped around a gnarled fingeroot. The First, like so many others, read much more into Perrin’s actions than there was to find. He’d be amused if he knew the plots they ascribed to him.

And she claims to understand men, Faile thought. Perrin was by no means stupid, nor was he the simple man he sometimes claimed to be. He planned, he thought, and he was careful. But he was also direct. Deliberate. When he said something, he meant it.

“I agree with Berelain,” Alliandre said. “We should just leave, march away. Or attack those Whitecloaks.”

Faile shook her head. “It bothers Perrin when people think he did something wrong. As long as the Whitecloaks continue to insist he is a murderer, his name will not be clear.” He was being bullheaded and foolish, but there was a nobility about it.

So long as it didn’t get him killed. However, she loved him for that very sense of honor. Changing him would be ill-advised, so she had to make certain others didn’t take advantage of him.

As she always did when they discussed the Whitecloaks, Berelain got a strange look in her eyes, and she glanced—perhaps unconsciously—in the direction their army camped. Light. She wasn’t going to ask again if she could go speak to them? She had come up with a dozen different reasons why she wanted to.

Faile noticed a large group of soldiers trying to look inconspicuous as they rounded the inside of the camp, keeping pace with Faile and their guards on their promenade. Perrin wanted her well protected.