A Memory of Light

  Filled with the Power, standing in a column of light, Rand pulled the Dark One into the Pattern. Only here was there time. Only here could the Shadow itself be killed.

  The force in his hand, which was at once vast and yet tiny, trembled. Its screams were the sounds of planets grinding together.

  A pitiful object. Suddenly, Rand felt as if he were holding not one of the primal forces of existence, but a squirming thing from the mud of the sheep pens.

  YOU REALLY ARE NOTHING, Rand said, knowing the Dark One’s secrets completely. YOU WOULD NEVER HAVE GIVEN ME REST AS YOU PROMISED, FATHER OF LIES. YOU WOULD HAVE ENSLAVED ME AS YOU WOULD HAVE ENSLAVED THE OTHERS. YOU CANNOT GIVE OBLIVION. REST IS NOT YOURS. ONLY TORMENT.

  The Dark One trembled in his grip.

  YOU HORRIBLE, PITIFUL MITE, Rand said.

  Rand was dying. His lifeblood flowed from him, and beyond that, the amount of the Powers he held would soon burn him away.

  He held the Dark One in his hand. He began to squeeze, then stopped.

  He knew all secrets. He could see what the Dark One had done. And Light, Rand understood. Much of what the Dark One had shown him was lies.

  But the vision Rand himself had created—the one without the Dark One—was truth. If he did as he wished, he would leave men no better than the Dark One himself.

  What a fool I have been.

  Rand yelled, thrusting the Dark One back through the pit from where it had come. Rand pushed his arms to the side, grabbing twin pillars of saidar and saidin with his mind, coated with the True Power drawn through Moridin, who knelt on the floor, eyes open, so much power coursing through him he couldn’t even move.

  Rand hurled the Powers forward with his mind and braided them together. Saidin and saidar at once, the True Power surrounding them and forming a shield on the Bore.

  He wove something majestic, a pattern of interlaced saidar and saidin in

  their pure forms. Not Fire, not Spirit, not Water, not Earth, not Air. Purity. Light itself. This didn’t repair, it didn’t patch, it forged anew.

  With this new form of the Power, Rand pulled together the rent that had been made here long ago by foolish men.

  He understood, finally, that the Dark One was not the enemy.

  It never had been.

  Moiraine grabbed Nynaeve beside her, moving only by touch, for that light was blinding.

  She pulled Nynaeve to her feet. Together, they ran. Away from the burning light behind. Up the corridor, scrambling. Moiraine burst into open air without realizing it, and almost ran off the edge of the path, which would have sent her stumbling down the steep slope. Someone caught her.

  “I have you,” Thom’s voice said as she collapsed into his arms, completely drained. Nynaeve fell to the ground nearby, gasping.

  Thom turned Moiraine away from the corridor, but she refused to look away. She opened her eyes, though she knew that the light was too intense, and she saw something. Rand and Moridin, standing in the light as it expanded outward to consume the entire mountain in its glow.

  The blackness in front of Rand hung like a hole, sucking in everything. Slowly, bit by bit, that hole shrank away until it was just a pinprick.

  It vanished.

  EPILOGUE

  To See the Answer

  Rand slipped on his blood.

  He couldn’t see. He carried something. Something heavy. A body. He stumbled up the tunnel.

  Closing, he thought. It’s closing. The ceiling lowered like a shutting jaw, stone grinding against stone. With a gasp, Rand reached open air as the rocks slammed down behind him, locking together like clenched teeth.

  Rand tripped. The body in his arms was so heavy. He slipped to the ground.

  He could… see, just faintly. A figure kneeling down beside him. “Yes,” a woman whispered. He did not recognize the voice. “Yes, that’s good. That is what you need to do.”

  He blinked, his vision fuzzy. Was that Aiel clothing? An old woman, with gray hair? Her form retreated, and Rand reached toward her, not wanting to be alone. Wanting to explain himself. “I see the answer now,” he whispered. “I asked the Aelfinn the wrong question. To choose is our fate. If you have no choice, then you aren’t a man at all. You’re a puppet…”

  Shouting.

  Rand felt heavy. He plunged into unconsciousness.

  Mat stood up as the mist of Mashadar burned away from him and vanished. The field was littered with the bodies of those eerie pockmarked Trollocs. He looked upward through the vanishing wisps and found the sun directly overhead.

  “Well, you’re a sight,” he said to it. “You should come out more often. You have a pretty face.” He smiled, then looked down at the dead man by his feet. Padan Fain looked like a bundle of sticks and moss, the flesh slipping from his bones. The blackness of the dagger had spread across his rotting skin. It stank.

  Almost, Mat reached for that dagger. Then he spat. “For once,” he said, “a gamble I don’t want to touch.” He turned his back on it and walked off.

  Three steps away, he found his hat. He grinned, snatched it up and set it on his head, then began whistling as he rested the ashandarei on his shoulder and strolled away. The dice had stopped rolling in Mat’s head.

  Behind, the dagger, ruby and all, melted away into the mess that had been Padan Fain.

  Perrin walked wearily into the camp they had set up at the base of Shayol Ghul after the fighting had ceased. He dropped his coat. The air felt good on his bare chest. He tucked Mah’alleinir away in its place at his belt. A good smith never neglected his tools, for all that sometimes, carrying them felt as if they would bear him down to the grave itself.

  He thought that he could sleep a hundred days straight. But not yet. Not yet.

  Faile.

  No. Deep down, he knew he had to face something horrible about her. But not yet. For the moment, he shoved that worry—that terror—away.

  The last spirits of the wolves faded back into the wolf dream.

  Farewell, Young Bull.

  Find what you seek, Young Bull.

  The hunt ends, but we will hunt again, Young Bull.

  Perrin plodded among rows of wounded men and Aiel celebrating the defeat of the Shadowspawn. Some tents were filled with moans, others with yells of victory. People of all stripes ran through the now-blooming valley of Thakan’dar, some hunting for the wounded, others crying in joy and whooping as they met with friends who had survived the last, dark moments.

  Aiel called to Perrin, “Ho, blacksmith, join us!” But he did not enter their celebrations. He looked for the guards. Someone around here had to be levelheaded enough to worry about a rogue Myrddraal or Draghkar taking the opportunity to try for a little revenge. Sure enough, he found a ring of defenders at the center of camp guarding a large tent. What of Rand?

  No colors swirled in his vision. No image of Rand. Perrin felt no more tugging, pulling him in any direction.

  Those seemed like very bad signs.

  He pushed through the guards, numb, and entered the tent. Where had they found a tent this large on this battlefield? Everything had been trampled, blown away or burned.

  The inside smelled of herbs, and was partitioned with several hanging cloths.

  “I’ve tried everything,” a voice whispered. Damer Flinn’s voice. “Nothing changes what is happening. He—”

  Perrin pushed in on Nynaeve and Flinn standing beside a pallet behind one of the partitions. Rand, cleaned and dressed, lay there, eyes closed. Moiraine knelt beside him, her hand on his face, whispering so softly none but he could hear. “You did well, Rand. You did well.”

  “He lives?” Perrin asked, wiping the sweat from his face with his hand. “Perrin!” Nynaeve said. “Oh, Light. You look horrible. Sit down, you lummox! You’re going to fall over. I don’t want two of you to tend.”

  Her eyes were red. “He’s dying anyway, isn’t he?” Perrin asked. “You got him out alive, but he’s still going to die.”

  “Sit,” Nynaeve commanded, pointi
ng to a stool. “Dogs obey that command, Nynaeve,” Perrin said, “not wolves.” He knelt down, resting a hand on Rand’s shoulder.

  I couldn’t feel your tugging, or see the visions, Perrin thought. You’re no longer ta’veren. I suspect neither am I. “Have you sent for the three?” Perrin asked. “Min, Elayne, Aviendha. They need to visit him a last time.”

  “That’s all you can say?” Nynaeve snapped.

  He looked up at her. The way she folded her arms made her look as if she were holding herself together. Wrapping her arms about herself to stop from crying.

  “Who else died?” Perrin asked, bracing himself. It was obvious from her expression. She had lost one already.

  “Egwene.”

  Perrin closed his eyes, breathing out. Egwene. Light.

  No masterwork comes without a price, he thought. That doesn’t mean it’s not worth forging. Still… Egwene?

  “It’s not your fault, Nynaeve,” he said, opening his eyes.

  “Of course it’s not. I know it’s not, you numb-brained fool.” She turned away.

  He stood up, embracing her and patting her back with his smith’s hands. “I’m sorry.”

  “I left… to save you,” Nynaeve whispered. “I only came along to protect you.”

  “You did, Nynaeve. You protected Rand so he could do what he had to do.”

  She shook, and he let her weep. Light. He shed a few tears himself. Nynaeve pulled away sharply after a moment, then barreled out of the tent.

  “I tried,” Flinn said desperately, looking at Rand. “Nynaeve did, too. Together, we tried, with Moiraine Sedai’s angreal. Nothing worked. Nobody knows how to save him.”

  “You did what you could,” Perrin said, peeking around the next partition. Another man lay on the pallet there. “What is he doing here?”

  “We found them together,” Flinn said. “Rand must have carried him out of the pit. We don’t know why the Lord Dragon would save one of the Forsaken, but it doesn’t matter. We can’t Heal him either. They’re dying. Both of them.”

  “Send for Min, Elayne and Aviendha,” Perrin said again. He hesitated. “Did they all survive?”

  “The Aiel girl took a beating,” Flinn said. “She came stumbling into camp, half-carried by a horrid-looking Aes Sedai who had made a gateway for her. She’ll live, though I don’t know how well she’ll walk in years to come.”

  “Let them know. All of them.”

  Flinn nodded, and Perrin stepped out after Nynaeve. He found what he’d hoped to see, the reason why she’d left so quickly. Just outside the tent, Lan held her tightly. The man looked as bloodied and tired as Perrin felt. Their eyes met, and they nodded to one another.

  “Several of the Windfinders have opened a gateway between here and Merrilor,” Lan said to Perrin. “The Dark One is sealed away again. The Blasted Lands are blooming, and gateways can open here again.”

  “Thank you,” Perrin said, passing him by. “Has anyone… heard anything about Faile?”

  “No, blacksmith. The Hornsounder saw her last, but she left him and entered the battlefield to draw the Trollocs away from him. I’m sorry.”

  Perrin nodded. He’d already spoken with Mat, and Olver. It seemed to him that… that he’d been avoiding thinking about what must have happened.

  Don’t think about it, he told himself. Don’t you dare. He steeled himself, then went to seek the gateway Lan had mentioned.

  * * *

  “Excuse me,” Loial asked the Maidens sitting beside the tent. “Have you seen Matrim Cauthon?”

  “Oosquai?” one of them asked, laughing, holding up the skin.

  “No, no,” Loial said. “I have to find Matrim Cauthon and get his account of the battle, you see. While it’s fresh. I need everyone to tell me what they saw and heard, so that I can write it down. There will never be a better time.”

  And, he admitted to himself, he wanted to see Mat and Perrin. See that they were all right. So much had happened; he wanted to talk to his friends and make certain they were well. With what was happening to Rand…

  The Aiel woman smiled at him drunkenly. Loial sighed, then continued through the camp. The day was coming to an end. The day of the Last Battle! It was the Fourth Age now, wasn’t it? Could an age start in the middle of a day? That would be inconvenient for the calendars, wouldn’t it? But everyone agreed. Rand had sealed the Bore at noon.

  Loial continued through the camp. They hadn’t moved from the base of Shayol Ghul. Nynaeve said she was too worried to move Rand. Loial kept searching, peeking into tents. In the next, he found the grizzled general Ituralde, surrounded by four Aes Sedai.

  “Look,” Ituralde said. “I’ve served the kings of Arad Doman all of my life. I swore oaths.”

  “Alsalam is dead,” Saerin Sedai said from beside the chair. “Someone has to take the throne.”

  “There is confusion in Saldaea,” Elswell Sedai added. “The succession is messy, with the ties it has to Andor now. Arad Doman cannot afford to be leaderless. You must take the throne, Rodel Ituralde. You must do it quickly.”

  “The Merchant Council…”

  “All dead or vanished,” another Aes Sedai said. “I swore oaths…”

  “And what would your king have you do?” Yukiri Sedai asked. “Let the kingdom disintegrate? You must be strong, Lord Ituralde. This is not a time for Arad Doman to be without a leader.”

  Loial slipped away and shook his head, feeling sorry for the man. Four Aes Sedai. Ituralde would be crowned before the day was out.

  Loial stopped by the main Healing tent again to check if anyone had seen Mat. He had been to this battlefield, and people said he was smiling and healthy, but… well, Loial wanted to see for himself. Wanted to talk to him.

  Inside the tent, Loial had to slouch lest he brush his head on the ceiling. A large tent for humans was small by Ogier standards.

  He peeked in on Rand. His friend looked worse than before. Lan stood by the wall. He wore a crown—it was just a simple silver band—where the hadori used to rest. That wasn’t odd, but the matching one Nynaeve wore did give Loial a start.

  “It’s not fair,” Nynaeve whispered. “Why should he die, when the other one gets better?”

  Nynaeve seemed troubled. She still had red eyes, but before, she had chivvied anyone who mentioned them, so Loial said nothing. Humans often seemed to want him to say nothing, which was odd for people who lived lives so hastily.

  She looked at Loial, and he bowed his head to her.

  “Loial,” she said. “How goes your search?”

  “Not well,” he said with a grimace. “Perrin ignored me and Mat cannot be found.”

  “Your stories can wait a few days, Builder,” Lan said.

  Loial did not argue. Lan was a king now, after all. But… no, the stories could not wait. They had to be fresh so his history could be accurate.

  “It’s terrible,” Flinn said, still looking at Rand. “But, Nynaeve Sedai… It’s so strange. None of the three seem to care at all. Shouldn’t they be more worried…?”

  Loial left them, though he did check in on Aviendha in a nearby tent. She sat while several women attended to her twisted, bleeding feet. She had lost several of her toes. She nodded her head to Loial; the Healings done so far had apparently taken away her pain, for though she seemed tired, she did not seem in agony.

  “Mat?” he asked hopefully.

  “I have not seen him, Loial, son of Arent son of Halan,” Aviendha replied. “At least, not since you asked a short time ago.”

  Loial blushed, then left her. He passed Elayne and Min outside. He would get their stories—he had already asked a few questions—but the three ta’veren… they were most important! Why were humans always bustling around so quickly, never sitting still? Never any time to think. This was an important day.

  It was odd, though. Min and Elayne. Shouldn’t they be at Rand’s side? Elayne seemed to be taking reports on casualties and refugee supplies, and Min sat looking up at Shayol Ghul, a far-off expr
ession in her eyes. Neither went in to hold Rand’s hand as he slipped toward death.

  Well, Loial thought, maybe Mat sneaked by me and went back to Merrilor. Never staying put, these men. Always so hasty…

  * * *

  Matrim Cauthon sauntered into the Seanchan camp on the south side of Merrilor, away from the piles of the dead.

  All around, Seanchan men and women gasped, hands to their mouths. He tipped his hat to them.

  “The Prince of the Ravens!” Hushed tones moved through camp ahead of him, passing from mouth to mouth like the last bottle of brandy on a cold night.

  He walked right up to Tuon, who stood at a large map table at the camp center talking to Selucia. Karede, Mat noticed, had survived. The man probably felt guilty about it.

  Tuon looked at Mat and frowned. “Where have you been?”

  Mat raised his arm, and Tuon frowned, looking upward at nothing. Mat spun and thrust his hand farther toward the sky.

  Nightflowers began to explode high above the camp.

  Mat grinned. Aludra had taken a little convincing, but only a little. She did so like to make things explode.

  It was not truly dusk yet, but the show was still grand. Aludra now had half of the dragoners trained to build fireworks and handle her powders. She seemed far less secretive than she once had.

  The sounds of the display washed over them.

  “Fireworks?” Tuon said.

  “The best bloody firework show in the history of my land or yours,” Mat said.

  Tuon frowned. The explosions reflected in her dark eyes. “I’m with child,” she said. “The Doomseer has confirmed it.”

  Mat felt a jolt, as sure as if a firework had gone off inside of his stomach. An heir. A son, no doubt! What odds that it was a boy? Mat forced a grin. “Well, I guess I’m off the hook, now. You have an heir.”

  “I have an heir,” Tuon said, “but I am the one off that hook. Now I can kill you, if I want.”

  Mat felt his grin widen. “Well, we’ll have to see what we can work out. Tell me, do you ever play dice?”

  Perrin sat down among the dead and finally started weeping.