Faile walked the horselines, the sky dark, lantern held before her. Perrin was asleep; he’d retired early these last few days, seeking the wolf dream. The Whitecloaks had reluctantly agreed to delay the trial, but Perrin still should have been preparing his words to speak there. He grumbled that he already knew what he was going to say. Knowing him, he’d just tell Morgase what had happened, straightforward as usual.

Lacile and Selande walked on either side of Faile. Other members of Cha Faile walked behind, keeping careful watch for anyone close enough to be within earshot.

“I think the Whitecloaks knew we were there to spy,” Selande said. The short, pale woman walked with hand on her sword. The stance didn’t seem as awkward as it once had; Selande had taken her sword training seriously.

“No, I doubt they guessed,” Lacile replied. She still wore a simple tan blouse and darker brown skirt. Selande had changed back to breeches and sword immediately upon returning—she still bore a cut on her arm from where that sword had tried to kill her—but Lacile seemed to be savoring her time in the skirt.

“They barely said anything of use,” Selande said.

“Yes,” Lacile replied, “but I think they’re merely in that habit. Our excuse of checking on Maighdin and the others was a reasonable one, my Lady. We were able to deliver your note, then do a little chatting with the men. I teased out enough to be of some use.”

Faile raised an eyebrow, though Lacile fell quiet as they passed a groom working late, brushing down one of the horses.

“The Whitecloaks respect Galad,” Lacile said once out of the groom’s earshot. “Though some grumble about the things he’s been telling them.”

“What things?” Faile asked.

“He wants them to ally with the Aes Sedai for the Last Battle,” Lacile explained.

“Anyone could have told you they would dislike that idea,” Selande said. “They’re Whitecloaks!”

“Yes,” Faile said, “but it means that this Galad is more reasonable than his men. A useful tip, Lacile.”

The young woman swelled, brushing her short hair back in a modest gesture, throwing back the red ribbons she had tied there. She’d taken to wearing twice as many now, since her Shaido captivity.

Up ahead, a lanky figure stepped between two of the horses. He had a thick mustache, Taraboner style, and though he was young, he had the air of one who had seen much in his life. Dannil Lewin, the man in charge of the Two Rivers men now that Tam had mysteriously decided to depart. Light send that Tam was safe, wherever he’d gone.

“Why, Dannil,” Faile said, “what an odd coincidence to see you here.”

“Coincidence?” he asked, scratching at his head. He held his bow in one hand, staff-like, though he kept glancing at it, wary. A lot of people did that with their weapons now. “You asked me to come here.”

“It must be a coincidence nonetheless,” Faile said, “in case anyone asks. Particularly if that somebody is my husband.”