After that came the remounts, a herd of spare horses tied ten to a lead, under the watchful eyes of folk from Dobraine’s estates who supposedly knew what they were about. Perrin automatically picked out Stayer, on a lead by himself; the woman taking care of him better know what she was doing. A great many high-wheeled supply carts came through, drivers tugging the horses and shouting as if they feared the gateway might close on them — a great many because carts could not carry as much as wagons, and carts because a wagon and team would not fit through the gateway. It seemed neither Neald nor Grady could make one as big as Rand could, or Dashiva.

When the last cart finally trundled out on a squealing axle, Perrin considered ordering the gateway closed right then, but Neald was the man holding the thing open, and him on the other side of it back in Cairhien. A moment later, it was too late.

Berelain strode through leading a mare as white as Swallow was black, and he offered up small thanks that her gray riding dress had a neck right to her chin. On the other hand, from the waist up, it fit as snugly as any Taraboner dress. Perrin groaned. With her came Nurelle and Bertain Gallenne, the Lord Captain of her Winged Guards, a gray-haired fellow who wore his black eyepatch as another man might a plume in his hat, and then the red-armored Winged Guards themselves, more than nine hundred of them. Nurelle and the rest who had been at Dumai’s Wells wore a yellow cord tied high on the left arm.

Climbing onto her mare, Berelain rode off to one side with Gallenne while Nurelle formed the Winged Guards among the trees. There must have been fifty paces between her and Faile, and dozens of trees, but she placed herself where they could stare at each other. Stare with so little expression that Perrin’s skin crawled. Putting Berelain at the rear, as far from Faile as he could manage, had seemed a good notion, but he was going to face this every bloody evening. Burn Rand!

Now Neald popped out of the gateway, stroking his ridiculous mustache and preening for anyone who might be watching as the opening vanished. No one was, and he climbed onto his horse with a disgruntled expression.

Mounting Stepper, Perrin rode to a slight rise. Not everyone could see him because of the trees, but it was enough they could hear. A stir ran through the assemblage as he reined in, people shifting for a better look.

"As far as anyone’s eyes-and-ears back in Cairhien know," he said loudly, "I’ve been banished, the First of Mayene is on her way back home, and the rest of you have just disappeared like fog in the sun."

To his surprise, they laughed. A cry of "Perrin Goldeneyes" went up, and not just from the Two Rivers folk. He waited for it to quiet; that took a while. Faile neither laughed nor shouted, nor did Berelain. Each woman shook her head; neither believed he should tell as much as he intended to. Then they saw each other, and those shaking heads froze as if trapped in amber. They did not like agreeing. It was no surprise when their eyes swung to him with identical expressions. There was an old saying in the Two Rivers, though how you said it and what you meant depended on circumstance and who you were. "It’s always a man’s fault." One thing, he had learned, women were better at than anything else: teaching a man to sigh.

"Some of you may be wondering where we are, and why," he went on when silence fell at last. A smaller ripple of laughter. "This is Ghealdan." Murmurs of awe, and maybe disbelief, at having crossed fifteen hundred miles or more in a step. "The first thing we have to do is convince Queen Alliandre we aren’t here to invade." Berelain was supposed to talk to Alliandre, and Faile was going to give him fits for it. "Then we’re going to find a fellow who calls himself the Prophet of the Lord Dragon." That would not be much pleasure, either; Masema had been no joy before he tipped over the edge. "This Prophet has been causing some problems, but we’re going to let him know Rand al’Thor doesn’t want anybody frightened into following him, and we’ll take him and any of his people who want to come back to the Lord Dragon." And we’ll frighten the breeches off Masema to do it if need be, he though wryly.

They cheered. They whooped and shouted that they would march this Prophet back to Cairhien for the Lord Dragon till Perrin hoped this spot was even farther from any village than it was supposed to be. Even the cart drivers and horse handlers joined in. More than that, he prayed that everything went smoothly, and quickly. The sooner he could put as much distance as possible between Berelain and himself and Faile, the better. No surprises, that was what he wanted once they rode south. It was about time his being ta’verenshowed itself good for something.

Mat knew he was in trouble from the day he moved into the Tarasin Palace. He could have refused. Just because the flaming dice started or stopped did not mean he had to doanything; usually when they stopped spinning, it was too late not to do something. The problem was, he wanted to know why. Before very many days, he wished he had taken his curiosity by the throat and throttled it.

After Nynaeve and Elayne left his room, once he could manage to reach his feet without his head falling off, he spread the word among his men. Nobody seemed to see the disadvantages. He just wanted to prepare them, but nobody listened.

"Very good, my Lord," Nerim murmured, tugging Mat’s boot onto his foot. "My Lord will finally have decent rooms. Oh, very good." For a moment, he seemed to lose his mournful expression. For just a moment. "I will brush the red silk coat for my Lord; my Lord has stained the blue rather badly with wine." Mat waited impatiently, put on the coat, and headed down the hall.

"Aes Sedai?" Nalesean muttered as his head popped out at the top of a clean shut. His round-bellied manservant, Lopin, was hovering behind him. "Burn my soul, I don’t much like Aes Sedai, but... The Tarasin Palace, Mat."

Mat winced; bad enough the man could drink a barrel of brandy with no effect the next morning, but did he have to grin so? "Ah, Mat, now we can forget dice, and play cards with our own kind." He meant nobles, the only ones who could afford to play except for well-to-do merchants who would not remain well-to-do long if they began betting for the stakes nobles did. Nalesean rubbed his hands briskly while Lopin tried to settle his laces; even his beard seemed eager. "Silk sheets," he murmured. Whoever heard of silk sheets? Those old memories nudged, but Mat refused to listen.

"Full of nobles," Vanin growled downstairs, pursing his lips to spit. His glance searching for Mistress Anan was automatic now; he decided instead to swallow from the mug of rough wine that was his breakfast. "Be good to see the Lady Elayne again, though," he mused. His free hand rose as if to knuckle his forehead; he did not seem aware of the gesture. Mat groaned. That woman had ruined a good man. "You want me to look in on Carridin again?" Vanin went on as if the rest was unimportant. "His street’s so full of beggars, it’s hard to see anything, but he has an awful lot of folk come to call." Mat told him that would be fine. No wonder Vanin did not care whether the palace was full of .nobles and Aes Sedai; he would spend the day sweating in the sun and jostled by the crowds. Much more comfortable.

There was no point trying to warn Harnan and the rest of the Redarms, all shoveling down white porridge and tiny black sausages while they nudged one another in the ribs and laughed about the serving women in the palace, who, they had heard, were all chosen for their beauty and remarkably free with their favors. A true fact, they kept assuring themselves.