“Very well. Position it here.” Perrin pointed to the heights above the Whitecloaks’ camp. “Gaul!” As usual, the Aiel man waited nearby. He loped up. “I want you to go speak with Dannil, Arganda, Gallenne. I want the entire army to cross through as quickly as possible, but they are to keep quiet. We move with as much stealth as an army this size can manage.”

Gaul nodded, running off. Gallenne was still nearby; Gaul started by speaking with him.

Faile watched Perrin, smelling curious and a little anxious. “What are you planning, husband?”

“It’s time for me to lead,” Perrin said. He looked one last time at his old hammer, and laid fingers on its haft. Then he hefted Mah’alleinir to his shoulder and strode away, feet crackling on drops of hardened steel.

The tool he left behind was the hammer of a simple blacksmith. That person would always be part of Perrin, but he could no longer afford to let him lead.

From now on, he would carry the hammer of a king.

Faile ran her fingers across the anvil as Perrin strode away, calling further orders to prepare the army.

Did he realize how he’d looked, standing amid those showers of sparks, each blow of his hammer causing the steel before him to pulse and flare to life? His golden eyes had blazed as brightly as the steel; each peal of the hammer had been nearly deafening.

“It has been many centuries since this land has seen the creation of a Power-wrought weapon,” Berelain said. Most others had left to follow Perrin’s orders, and the two were alone, save for Gallenne standing nearby and studying the map while rubbing his chin. “It is a strong Talent the young man just displayed. This will be of use. Perrin’s army will have Power-wrought blades to strengthen them.”

“The process seemed very draining,” Faile said. “Even if Neald can repeat what he did, I doubt we will have time to make many weapons.”

“Every small advantage helps,” Berelain said. “This army your husband has forged, it will be something incredible. Ta’veren is at work here. He gathers men, and they learn with amazing speed and skill.”

“Perhaps,” Faile said, walking around the anvil slowly, keeping her eyes on Berelain, who strolled around it opposite her. What was Berelain’s game, here?

“Then we must speak with him,” Berelain said. “Turn him from this course of action.”

“This course of action?” Faile asked, genuinely confused.

Berelain stopped, her eyes alight with something. She seemed tense. She’s worried, Faile thought. Worried deeply about something.

“Lord Perrin must not attack the Whitecloaks,” Berelain said. “Please, you must help me persuade him.”

“He’s not going to attack them,” Faile said. She was reasonably certain of that.

“He’s setting up a perfect ambush,” Berelain said. “Asha’man to use the One Power, Two Rivers bowmen to shoot from the heights down on the camp of the Children. Cavalry to ride down and sweep up after.” She hesitated, seeming pained. “He’s set them up perfectly. He told them that if he and Damodred both survived the Last Battle, he’d submit to punishment. But Perrin is going to make certain the Whitecloaks don’t reach the Last Battle. He can keep his oath that way, but also avoid turning himself in.”