Marin al'Vere, on the other hand, took it all in stride, treating Faile and Bain and Chiad the same as any other young women travelers who came to the inn, commiserating with them over how tiring travel was, complimenting Faile on her riding dress – dark blue silk, today – and telling the Aiel women how she admired the color and sheen of their hair. Perrin suspected that Bain and Chiad, at least, did not know quite what to make of her, but in short order, with a sort of calm motherly firmness, she had all three women settled at a table with damp towels to wipe journey dust from hands and faces, sipping tea she poured from a large red-striped pot he remembered well.

It might have been amusing seeing those fierce women – he certainly included Faile – suddenly eager to assure Mistress al'Vere that they were more than comfortable, was there nothing they could do to help, she was doing too much, all of them wide eyed as children, with a child's chance of resisting her. It would have been amusing if she had not included himself and Gaul, sweeping them just as firmly to the table, insisting on clean hands and clean faces before they got a cup of tea. Gaul wore a small grin the whole time; Aiel had a strange sense of humor.

Surprisingly, she never glanced at his bow or axe, or the Aiel's weapons. People seldom carried even a bow in the Two Rivers, and she always insisted such be set aside before anyone took a place at one of her tables. Always. But she just ignored them now.

Another surprise came when Bran placed a silver cup of apple brandy at Perrin's elbow, not the small tot that men usually drank at the inn, barely enough to cover the last joint of the thumb, but half-full. When he had left he would have been offered cider if not milk, or perhaps well-watered wine, a half-cup with a meal or a full one on a feastday. It was gratifying to be recognized as a grown man, but he only held it. He was used to wine now, but he seldom drank anything stronger.

"Perrin," the Mayor said as he took a chair beside his wife, "no one believes you a Darkfriend. No one with any sense. There is no reason for you to let yourself be hanged."

Faile nodded in fierce agreement, but Perrin ignored her. "I won't be turned aside, Master al'Vere. The Whitecloaks want me, and if they do not get me, they might turn to the next Aybara they can find. Whitecloaks don't need much to decide somebody is guilty. They are not pleasant people."

"We know," Mistress al'Vere said softly.

Her husband stared at his hands on the table. "Perrin, your family is gone."

"Gone? You mean the farm is burned already?" Perrin's fist tightened around the silver cup. "I hoped I was in time. I should have known better, I suppose. Too long before I heard. Maybe I can help my da and Uncle Eward rebuild. Who are they staying with? I want to see them first, at least."

Bran grimaced, and his wife stroked his shoulder comfortingly. But strangely her eyes stayed on Perrin, all sadness and comfort.

"They are dead, my boy," Bran said in a rush.

"Dead? No. They can't be —" Perrin frowned as wetness suddenly slopped over his hand, stared at the crumpled cup as though wondering where it had come from. "I am sorry. I didn't mean to —" He pulled at the flattened silver, trying to force it back out with his fingers. That would not work. Of course not. Very carefully, he put the ruined cup in the middle of the table. "I will replace it. I can —" He wiped his hand on his coat, and suddenly found he was caressing the axe hanging at his belt. Why was everyone looking at him so oddly? "Are you sure?" His voice sounded far away. "Adora and Deselle? Paet? My mother?"

"All of them," Bran told him. "Your aunts and uncles, too, and your cousins. Everybody on the farm. I helped bury them, my boy. On that low hill, the one with the apple trees."

Perrin stuck his thumb in his mouth. Fool thing to do, cutting himself on his own axe. "My mother likes apple blossoms. The Whitecloaks. Why would they —? Burn me, Paet was only nine. The girls..." His voice was very flat. He thought he should have had some emotion in those words. Some emotion.

"It was Trollocs," Mistress al'Vere said quickly. "They have come back, Perrin. Not the way they did when you went away, not attacking the village, but out in the countryside. Most farms without close neighbors have been abandoned. No one goes outside at night, even near to the village. It is the same down to Deven Ride and up to Watch Hill, maybe to Taren Ferry. The Whitecloaks, bad as they are, are our only real protection. They've saved two families that I know, when Trollocs attacked their farms."

"I wished – I hoped —" He could not quite remember what it was he had wished. Something about Trollocs. He did not want to remember. The Whitecloaks protecting the Two Rivers? It was almost enough to make him laugh. "Rand's father. Tam's farm. Was that Trollocs, too?"

Mistress al'Vere opened her mouth, but Bran cut her off. "He deserves the truth, Marin. That was Whitecloaks, Perrin. That, and the Cauthon place."

"Mat's people too. Rand's, and Mat's, and mine." Strange. He sounded as if he were talking about whether it might rain. "Are they dead, too?"

"No, my boy. No, Abell and Tam are hiding in the Westwood somewhere. And Mat's mother and sisters... They're alive, too."

"Hiding?"

"There is no need to go into that," Mistress al'Vere said briskly. "Bran, bring him another cup of brandy. And you drink this one, Perrin." Her husband sat where he was, but she only frowned at him and went on. "I would offer you a bed, but it isn't safe. Some people are like as not to run off hunting for Lord Bornhald if they find out you are here. Eward Congar and Hari Coplin fawn after the Whitecloaks like heel-hounds, eager to please and name names, and Cenn Buie isn't much better. And Wit Congar will carry tales, too, if Daise doesn't stop him. She is the Wisdom, now. Perrin, it is best for to go. Believe me."

Perrin shook his head slowly; it was too much to take in. Daise Congar the Wisdom? The woman was like a bull. Whitecloaks protecting Emond's Field. Hari and Eward and Wit cooperating. Not much more could be expected from Congars or Coplins, but Cenn Buie was on the Village Council. Lord Bornhald. So Geofram Bornhald was there. Faile was watching him, her eyes large and moist. Why should she be on the edge of tears?

"There is more, Brandelwyn al'Vere," Gaul said. "Your face says so."

"There is," Bran agreed. "No, Marin," he added firmly when she gave a small shake of her head. "He deserves the truth. The whole truth." She folded her hands with a sigh; Marin al'Vere very nearly always got her way – except when Bran's face was set, as now, with his eyebrows drawn down hard as a plow.

"What truth?" Perrin asked. His mother liked apple blossoms.

"First off, Padan Fain is with the Whitecloaks," Bran said. "He calls himself Ordeith now, and he won't answer to his own name at all, but it's him, stare down his nose as he will."

"He's a Darkfriend," Perrin said absently. Adora and Deselle always put apple blossoms in their hair in the spring. "Admitted from his own mouth. He brought the Trollocs, on Winternight." Paet liked to climb in the apple trees; he would throw apples at you from the branches if you did not watch him.

"Is he, now," the Mayor said grimly. "Now, that is interesting. He has some authority with the Whitecloaks. The first we heard they were here was after they burned Tam's farm. That was Fain's work; he led the Whitecloaks that did it. Tam feathered four or five of them with arrows before he made it to the woods, and he reached the Cauthon farm in the nick to stop them taking Abell. But they arrested Natti and the girls. And Haral Luhhan, and Alsbet, too. I think Fain might have hung them, except Lord Bornhald wouldn't allow it. Not that he let them go, either. They haven't been harmed, as far as I can discover, but they're being held in the Whitecloak camp up at Watch Hill. For some reason, Fain has a hate for you, and Rand, and Mat. He's offered a hundred pieces of gold for anyone related to the three of you; two hundred for Tam or Abell. And Lord Bornhald seems to have some interest in you, especially. When a Whitecloak patrol comes here, he usually comes, too, and asks questions about you."