“I swear that I love you. And before the Light, I swear that I will never, never leave you. I swear to cherish you forever and have you as my wife. I swear it, Morgase, though part of me fails to believe that this could really be happening.”

And then they stood like that, staring into one another’s eyes, as if Perrin weren’t even there.

He coughed. “Well, so be it, then. You’re married.” Should he give advice? How did one give advice to Morgase Trakand, a queen with children his own age? He just shrugged. “Off with you, then.”

Beside him, Faile smelled amused and faintly dissatisfied. Lini snorted at Perrin’s performance, but ushered Morgase and Tallanvor away. Galad nodded to him, and Berelain curtsied. They walked away, Berelain remarking on the suddenness of it.

Faile smiled at him. “You’ll have to get better at that.”

“They wanted it simple.”

“Everyone says that,” Faile replied. “But you can have an air of authority while keeping things brief. We’ll talk about it. Next time you’ll do a much better job.”

Next time? He shook his head as Faile turned and walked toward the camp.

“Where are you going?” Perrin asked.

“To Bavin. I need to requisition some casks of ale.”

“For what?”

“The festivities,” Faile said, looking over her shoulder. “Ceremony can be skimped if needed. But the celebration should not be skimped.” She glanced upward. “Particularly at times like this.”

Perrin watched her go, disappearing into the enormous camp. Soldiers, farmers, craftsmen, Aiel, Whitecloaks, refugees. Almost seventy thousand strong, despite those who had left or fallen in battle. How had he ended up with such a force? Before leaving the Two Rivers, he’d never seen more than a thousand people gathered in one place.

The largest portion was the group of former mercenaries and refugees who had been training under Tam and Dannil. The Wolf Guard, they were calling themselves, whatever that was supposed to mean. Perrin began walking to check on the supply carts, but something small struck him softly on the back of the head.

He froze, turning, scanning the forest behind him. To the right, it stood brown and dead; to his left, the tree cover dwindled. He couldn’t see anyone.

Have I been pushing myself too hard? he wondered, rubbing his head as he turned to continue walking. Imagining things that—

Another little strike on the back of his head. He spun and caught sight of something dropping to the grass. Frowning, he knelt down and picked it up. An acorn. Another one smacked him in the forehead. It had come from the forest.

Perrin growled and strode into the trees. One of the camp’s few children, perhaps? Ahead was a large oak tree; the trunk thick and wide enough to hide someone. Once he grew close, he hesitated. Was this some kind of trap? He laid his hand on his hammer and inched forward. The tree was downwind, and he couldn’t catch the scent of—