Soldier at the Door(25)

Perrin rubbed his forehead. “I never knew that.”

Tabbit kissed his elbow, as high as she could reach on him. “Perrin, individually men care enormously about their wives. But collectively, a world ruled by men sees women as mere support for their efforts, and a surplus at that. And surplus support is, as I think the army would put it, expendable.”

He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Auntie Tabbit,” he whispered. “I don’t see it that way.” He looked at his very still wife. “Here I’ve been upholding the Administrators’ doctrine, their noble and proven explanations as to why women can’t have more than two children, but really, what would have been wrong with her trying to have three or even four? Why is it someone else’s decision as to how many children we have? She wanted more, you know. We could have handled it—”

“Perrin, Perrin,” Tabbit tried to quiet him, but he was as easy to calm as a cornered rattle snake.

“The house is big enough! I earn enough!” he plowed on, but he knew the argument was as useless as pushing the rain back into the clouds. Still, he felt the need to shake his fist at the darkened sky.

“Grandpy Neeks never wanted to get married. There’s two children we could have had in his stead,” his voice wavered as the rationale struck him, far too late. “And Gizzada,” his voice turned into an anguished mumble. “Likely will never marry. Two more children. Could have been six,” he whispered. “Or seven.”

Tabbit hugged his arm.

“I never understood why couples risked punishment to have a third child,” he said quietly. “I thought it was selfish. But now I see they were willing to defy even the government to do what their hearts told them was right.”

Tabbit leaned against his arm. “Please, Perrin—you have to let this go. There’s nothing that can be done now. You of all people shouldn’t say such things!”

“Even my mother knew this would happen,” he spat, momentarily full of venom again. “Do you women keep secrets about everything?!”

“Actually, we do,” Tabbit smiled sadly. “But we’re not purposely secretive. It’s just that men don’t care about what we discuss, or worry about what we go through. As long as we keep your clothes clean and your food cooked, whatever else goes on in our world can stay in our world, well beyond your concern. You know what I mean,” she added gently when she saw the hurt look in his eyes.

Perrin squinted, surprised and unsure of what to do with her evaluation. “So that’s true for all women?”

Tabbit shrugged and nodded.

Her nephew groaned quietly. “I can’t help but think I took her to have it done.”

“You didn’t do this to her! You were saving her,” she assured him. “They keep records, you know. The midwives report who’s had a baby, and when they’ve taken The Drink. If you hadn’t brought her in, they would have come to force you to obey the law. Especially someone with a name like yours. Be the example to the village and all that.”

“Just last season I broke the laws, over and over, by going into the forest to save her and our children,” he whispered as he watched her prone form. “Then, five moons later, I break her instead.”

“What else could you have done, Perrin?”

I could have tried, he thought despondently. I could have argued that the population is likely decreasing, since many don’t have children, and we could have—

“Nothing!” his aunt cut into his pointless planning.

She’s right, he concluded glumly. Any appeal would have gone through Dr. Brisack, who supposedly proved that women couldn’t safely birth more than twice. And any inquiry would have drawn the personalized attention of Gadiman—or worse, Nicko Mal.

While Perrin was confident Mal remembered him only sporadically, why give the paranoid man reasons to stay up all night stewing about his ideas?

“Now, Perrin,” Tabbit said soothingly, “what you can do is help her recover. Sit with her. Kiss her. Talk to her. Love your babies. Give them the attention she can’t give them. And just wait.”

There really was nothing else he could do, he realized that night as he sat next to her. His anger wasn’t constructive or restorative. He had to somehow let it go so that he could reach her.

She dimly asked about the fort, and he tried to answer her cheerfully, but she didn’t seem to really hear him.

The damage was done, Perrin understood, but that didn’t mean it would destroy her forever. His back was permanently scarred with a jagged slash, but he felt as strong as before again. Maybe, somehow, she could recover too. There would always be a scar, but she could still be strong again. He had to focus on bringing back the woman he fell in love with.