A Memory of Light

  “I had hardly anything to add.”

  “You added leadership,” Bryne said. “You aren’t a general, Elayne, and nobody expects you to be one. But when Tenobia complained about Saldaea being left exposed, you were the one who diverted her back to what matters. Tensions are high, but you kept us together, smoothed over bad feelings, prevented us from snapping at one another. Good work, Your Majesty. Very good work.”

  She grinned. Light, but it was hard not to positively beam at his words. He wasn’t her father, but in many ways, he was as close to one as she had. “Thank you. And Bryne, the crown apologizes for—”

  “Not a word of that,” he said. “The Wheel weaves as it wills. I don’t blame Andor for what happened to me.” He hesitated. “I’m still going to fight together with the White Tower, Elayne.”

  “I understand.”

  He bowed to her and strode off toward Egwene’s section of camp.

  Birgitte stepped up to Elayne. “Back to our camp, then?” the woman asked.

  “I…” Elayne hesitated, hearing something. A faint sound, yet somehow deep and powerful. She frowned, walking toward it, holding up a hand to still Birgitte as she started to ask what was happening.

  The two of them rounded the pavilion, crossing green grass and blossoming morning’s breath, walking toward the sound, which grew stronger and stronger. A song. A beautiful song, unlike any she had ever heard, that made her tremble with its striking sonority.

  It washed over her, enveloped her, vibrated through her. A joyful song, a song of awe and wonder, though she could not understand the words. She approached a group of towering creatures, like trees themselves, standing with their hands on the gnarled trunks of the trees Rand had grown, their eyes closed.

  Three dozen Ogier of various ages, from those with eyebrows as white as new snow to those as young as Loial. He stood there with them, a smile raising the sides of his mouth as he sang.

  Perrin, arms folded, stood nearby with his wife. “Your talk of going to the Asha’man had me thinking—if we need allies, what about the Ogier? I was going to see if I could find Loial, but before I could set out, I found them already here among these trees.”

  Elayne nodded, listening to the Ogier song reach its climax, then fade, the Ogier bowing their heads. For a moment, all was peaceful.

  Finally, an ancient Ogier opened his eyes and turned toward Elayne. His white beard reached low on his chest, below the white mustaches that drooped on either side of his mouth. He stepped forward, other ancients both male and female joining him. With them came Loial.

  “You are the Queen,” the ancient Ogier said, bowing to her. “The one who leads this journey. I am Haman, son of Dal son of Morel. We have come to lend our axes to your fight.”

  “I am pleased,” Elayne said, nodding to him. “Three dozen Ogier will add strength to our battle.”

  “Three dozen, young one?” Haman laughed a rumbling laugh. “The Great Stump did not meet, did not debate this long time, to send you three dozen of our numbers. The Ogier will fight alongside humans. All of us. Every one of us who can hold an axe or long knife.”

  “Wonderful!” Elayne said. “I will put you to good use.”

  An older Ogier woman shook her head. “So hasty. So quick. Know this, young one. There were some who would have abandoned you, and the world, to the Shadow.”

  Elayne blinked in shock. “You would have actually done it? Just… left us alone? To fight?”

  “Some argued for it,” Haman said.

  “I myself took that position,” the woman said. “I made the argument, though I did not truly believe it was right.”

  “What?” Loial asked, stumbling forward. This seemed news to him. “You didn’t?”

  The woman looked to him. “Trees will not grow if the Dark One claims this world.”

  Loial looked surprised. “But why did you—”

  “An argument must have opposition if it is to prove itself, my son,” she said. “One who argues truly learns the depth of his commitment through adversity. Did you not learn that trees grow roots most strongly when winds blow through them?” She shook her head, though she did seem fond. “That is not to say you should have left the stedding when you did. Not alone. Fortunately, that has been taken care of.”

  “Taken care of?” Perrin asked.

  Loial blushed. “Well, you see, Perrin, I am married now.”

  “You didn’t mention this earlier!”

  “Everything has come so quickly. I am married to Erith, though, you see. She’s just over there. Did you hear her singing? Isn’t her song beautiful? Being married is not so bad, Perrin. Why didn’t you tell me it was not so bad? I think I am rather fond of it.”

  “I am pleased for you, Loial,” Elayne cut in. Ogier could talk quite long on tangents if one was not careful. “And thankful, to all of you, for joining us.”

  “It is worth the price, perhaps,” Haman said, “just to see these trees. In all my life, men have only cut Great Trees. To see someone growing them instead… We made the correct decision. Yes, yes, we did. The others will need to see this…”

  Loial waved to Perrin, apparently wanting to catch up. “Allow me to borrow him for a moment, Loial,” Elayne said, steering Perrin toward the center of the grove.

  Faile and Birgitte joined her, and Loial waited behind. He seemed distracted by the mighty trees.

  “I have a duty I want to assign you,” Elayne said softly to Perrin. “Losing Caemlyn threatens to send our armies into a supply crisis. Despite complaints of food prices, we had been keeping everyone fed, as well as accumulating stores for the battle ahead. Those stores are now gone.”

  “What of Cairhien?” Perrin asked.

  “It still has some food,” Elayne said. “As do the White Tower and Tear. Baerlon has good supplies of metals and powder—I need to find what we can draw from the other nations, and discover their food situation. It will be a massive task to coordinate stores and rations for all the armies. I’d like one person in charge of it all.”

  “You were thinking of me?” Perrin said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Perrin said. “Elayne, Rand needs me.”

  “Rand needs us all.”

  “He needs me more,” Perrin said. “Min saw it, he said. Without me at the Last Battle, he’ll die. Besides, I have a few fights to finish.”

  “I’ll do it,” Faile said.

  Elayne turned toward her, frowning.

  “It is my duty to manage the affairs of my husband’s army,” Faile said. “You are his liege lady, Your Majesty, so your needs are his needs. If Andor is to command the Last Battle, then the Two Rivers will see it fed. Give me access to gateways large enough for wagons to drive through, give me troops to protect my movements, and give me access to the quartermaster records of anyone I want. I will see it done.”

  It was logical and rational, but not what Elayne needed. How far did she trust this woman? Faile had proven herself deft at politics. That was useful, but did she really consider herself part of Andor? Elayne studied the woman.

  “There is nobody better you can trust with this task, Elayne,” Perrin said. “Faile will see it done.”

  “Perrin,” Elayne said. “There is a different matter involved in this. May we speak privately for a moment?”

  “I’ll just tell her what it is when we’re done, Your Majesty,” Perrin said. “I don’t keep secrets from my wife.”

  Faile smiled.

  Elayne eyed the two of them, then sighed softly. “Egwene came to me during our battle preparations. There is a certain… item of importance to the Last Battle that she needs to be delivered.”

  “The Horn of Valere,” Perrin said. “You still have it, I hope.”

  “We do. In the Tower, hidden. We moved it from the strongroom none too quickly. Last night, that room was broken into. I know only because of certain wards we set. The Shadow knows we have the Horn, Perrin, and the Dark One’s minions are looking for it. They can’t use i
t; it’s tied to Mat until he dies. But if the Shadow’s minions can capture it, he can keep Mat from using it. Or, worse—kill him, then blow it themselves.”

  “You want to mask moving it,” Faile said, “using the supply runs to hide where you’re taking it.”

  “We’d rather just give it to Mat straight out,” Elayne said. “But he can be… difficult, sometimes. I had hoped he would be here at this meeting.”

  “He’s in Ebou Dar,” Perrin said. “Doing something with the Seanchan.”

  “He told you?” Elayne asked.

  “Not exactly,” Perrin said, looking uncomfortable. “We… have some kind of connection. I sometimes see where he is and what he’s doing.”

  “That man,” Elayne said, “is never where he needs to be.”

  “And yet,” Perrin said, “he always arrives there eventually.”

  “The Seanchan are the enemy,” Elayne said. “Mat doesn’t seem to understand that, considering what he’s done. Light, I hope that man isn’t putting himself in trouble somehow…”

  “I will do this,” Faile said. “I’ll care for the Horn of Valere. I’ll see it gets to Mat, guard it.”

  “No offense to either of you,” Elayne said, “but I am hesitant to trust this to someone I don’t know well. That is why I came to you, Perrin.”

  “That’s going to be a problem, Elayne,” Perrin said. “If they really are watching for the Horn, then they’ll expect you and Egwene to give it to someone you know well. Choose Faile. There is nobody I trust more than her, but she won’t be suspected, as she has no direct relationship with the White Tower.”

  Elayne nodded slowly. “Very well. I’ll send word to you on how it will be delivered. For now, begin running supplies to establish precedent. Too many people know about the Horn. After we give it to you, I will send five suspect envoys from the White Tower and seed the right rumors. We hope that the Shadow will assume the Horn is being carried by one of those envoys. I want it to be where nobody expects, at least until we can put it into Matrim’s hands.”

  “Four battlefronts, Lord Mandragoran,” Bulen repeated. “That’s what the messengers are saying. Caemlyn, Shayol Ghul, Kandor, and here. They want to try to bottle up the Trollocs here and in Kandor while trying hard to defeat those in Andor first.”

  Lan grunted, guiding Mandarb around the reeking heap of dead Trollocs. The carcasses served as a bulwark now that his five Asha’man had pushed them up into mounds like dark, bloody hills before the Blight, where the Shadowspawn gathered.

  The stench was horrible, of course. Many of the guards he passed in his rounds had thrown sprigleaf onto their fires to cover up the smell.

  Evening approached, bringing its most dangerous hours. Fortunately, those black clouds above made nights so dark that Trollocs had trouble seeing anything. Dusk, however, was a time of strength to them—a time when the eyes of humans were hampered but the eyes of Shadowspawn were not.

  The power of the united Borderlander attack had pushed the Trollocs back toward the mouth of the Gap. Lan was getting reinforced by the hour with pikemen and other foot to help him hold position. All in all, it looked far better here now than it had just a day before.

  Still grim, though. If what Bulen said was right, his army would be stationed here as a stalling force. That meant fewer troops for him than he would have liked. He could not fault the tactics presented, however.

  Lan passed into the area where the Shienaran lancers cared for their horses. A figure emerged from them and rode up beside Lan. King Easar was a compact man with a white topknot, recently arrived from the Field of Merrilor following a long day making battle plans. Lan began a horseback bow, but stopped as King Easar bowed to him.

  “Your Majesty?” Lan asked.

  “Agelmar has brought his plans for this battlefront, Dai Shan,” King Easar said, falling in beside him. “He would like to go over them with us. It is important that you are there; we fight beneath the banner of Malkier. We all agreed to it.”

  “Tenobia?” Lan asked, genuinely surprised.

  “In her case, a little encouragement was required. She came around. I also have word that Queen Ethenielle will leave Kandor and come here. The Borderlands fight together in this battle, and we do it with you at our head.”

  They rode on in the fading light, row upon row of lancers saluting Easar. The Shienarans were the finest heavy cavalry in the world, and they had fought—and died—upon these rocks countless times, defending the lush lands to the south.

  “I will come,” Lan agreed. “The weight of what you have given me feels like three mountains.”

  “I know,” Easar said. “But we shall follow you, Dai Shan. Until the sky is rent asunder, until the rocks split underfoot, and until the Wheel itself stops turning. Or, Light send its blessing, until every sword is favored with peace.”

  “What of Kandor? If the Queen comes here, who will lead that battle?”

  “The White Tower rides to fight the Shadowspawn there,” Easar said. “You raised the Golden Crane. We were sworn to come to your aid, so we have.” He hesitated, and then his voice grew grim. “Kandor is beyond recovery now, Dai Shan. The Queen admits it. The White Tower’s job is not to recover it, but to stop the Shadowspawn from taking more territory.”

  They turned and rode through the ranks of lancers. The men were required to spend dusk within a few paces of their mounts, and they made themselves busy, caring for armor, weapons and horses. Each man wore a longsword, sometimes two, strapped to his back, and all had maces and daggers at their belts. The Shienarans did not rely solely upon their lances; an enemy who thought to pin them without room to charge soon discovered that they could be very dangerous in close quarters.

  Most of the men wore yellow surcoats over their plate-and-mail, bearing the black hawk. They gave their salutes with stiff backs and serious faces. Indeed, the Shienarans were a serious people. Living in the Borderlands did that.

  Lan hesitated, then spoke in a loud voice. “Why do we mourn?”

  The soldiers nearby turned toward him.

  “Is this not what we have trained for?” Lan shouted. “Is this not our purpose, our very lives? This war is not a thing to mourn. Other men may have been lax, but we have not been. We are prepared, and so this is a time of glory.

  “Let there be laughter! Let there be joy! Let us cheer the fallen and drink to our forefathers, who taught us well. If you die on the morrow, awaiting your rebirth, be proud. The Last Battle is upon us, and we are ready!”

  Lan wasn’t sure, exactly, what had made him say it. His words inspired a round of “Dai Shan! Dai Shan! Forward the Golden Crane!” He saw that some of the men were writing the speech down, to pass among the other men.

  “You do have the soul of a leader, Dai Shan,” Easar said as they rode on.

  “It is not that,” Lan said, eyes forward. “I cannot stand self-pity. Too many of the men looked as if they were preparing their own shrouds.”

  “A drum with no head,” Easar said softly, flicking his horse’s reins. “A pump with no grip. A song with no voice. Still it is mine. Still it is mine.”

  Lan turned, frowning, but the King gave no explanation for the poem. If his people were a serious people, their king was more so. Easar had wounds deep within that he chose not to share. Lan did not fault him in this; Lan himself had done the same.

  Tonight, however, he caught Easar smiling as he considered whatever it was that had brought the poem to his lips.

  “Was that Anasai of Ryddingwood?” Lan asked.

  Easar looked surprised. “You have read Anasai’s work?”

  “She was a favorite of Moiraine Sedai. It sounded as though it might be hers.”

  “Each of her poems was written as an elegy,” Easar said. “This was for her father. She left instructions; it can be read, but should not be spoken out loud, except when it was right to do so. She did not explain when it would be right to do so.”

  They reached the war tents and dismounted. No sooner had
they done so, however, than the horns of alarm began to sound. Both men reacted, and Lan unconsciously touched the sword on his hip.

  “Let us go to Lord Agelmar,” Lan shouted as men began to yell and equipment to rattle. “If you fight beneath my banner, then I will accept the role of leader gladly.”

  “No hesitation at all?” Easar said.

  “What am I?” Lan asked, swinging into the saddle. “Some sheepherder from a forgotten village? I will do my duty. If men are foolish enough to put me in charge of them, I’ll send them about theirs as well.”

  Easar nodded, then saluted, the corners of his mouth rising in another smile. Lan returned the salute, then galloped Mandarb through the center of the camp. The men at the outskirts were lighting bonfires; Asha’man had created gateways to one of the many dying forests in the south for soldiers to gather wood. If Lan had his way, those five channelers would never waste their strength killing Trollocs. They were far too useful otherwise.

  Narishma saluted Lan as he passed. Lan could not be certain that the great captains had chosen Borderlander Asha’man for him on purpose, but it seemed not to be a coincidence. He had at least one from each Borderlander nation—even one born to Malkieri parents.

  We fight together.

  CHAPTER

  8

  That Smoldering City

  A top Moonshadow, her deep brown mare from the royal stables, Elayne Trakand rode through a gateway of her own making. Those stables were now in the hands of Trollocs, and Moonshadow’s stablemates had undoubtedly found their way into cookpots by now. Elayne did not think too hard about what else—who else—might have ended up in those same pots. She set her face in determination. Her troops would not see their queen look uncertain.

  She had chosen to come to a hill about a thousand paces to the northwest of Caemlyn, well out of bow range but close enough to see the city. Several mercenary bands had made their camp in these hills during the weeks following the Succession War. Those had all either joined the armies of Light or had disbanded, becoming roving thieves and brigands.