A Memory of Light

  Maybe it is, Androl sent. But the Shadow is the aggressor. If they stay in this position, it serves Cauthon’s army. Demandred needs to keep pressing him. That means crossing the river.

  So Androl understood tactics, too. Interesting.

  I’ve picked up a few things, he sent. I won’t be leading a battle any time soon.

  Just curious how many lives you’ve led, Androl.

  An odd statement, coming from a woman who is old enough to be my grandmother’s grandmother.

  They continued along the eastern side of the Heights. Distant, on the far western side, the Aes Sedai were battling their way up to the top—but for now, the Heights were held by Demandred’s forces. This area Pevara walked through was full of Trollocs. Some bowed in a lumbering way as Pevara and the others passed, others curled up on the stones to sleep, with no cushions or blankets. Each one kept its weapon at hand.

  “This does not look promising,” Emarin said softly from behind his mask. “I do not see Taim associating with Trollocs any more than he has to.”

  “Ahead,” Androl said. “Look there.”

  The Trollocs were separated from a group of Sharans who could be seen up ahead, wearing unfamiliar uniforms. They wore armor that was wrapped in cloth, so none of the metal showed except on the very back, though the shape of the breastplates was still obvious. Pevara looked to the others.

  “I could see Taim being part of that group,” Emarin said. “It’s likely to smell far less putrid than over here among the Trollocs, for one thing.”

  Pevara had been ignoring the stench—she had learned to do that years ago, snuffing out powerful scents in the same way she ignored heat and cold. As Emarin said it, however, a hint of what the others were smelling seeped through her defenses. She quickly regained control. It was awful.

  “Will the Sharans let us pass?” Jonneth asked.

  “We shall see,” Pevara said, setting off toward the Sharans; their group fell in around her. The Sharan guards maintained an uneasy line against the Trollocs, watching them as they would enemies. This alliance, or whatever it was, did not sit terribly well with the Sharan soldiers. They didn’t try to mask their looks of disgust, and many had tied cloths around their faces to mask the odors.

  As Pevara passed their line, a nobleman—or such she assumed him to be, from his armor of brazen rings—moved to confront her. A well-practiced Aes Sedai look staved him off. I am far too important for you to bother, that look said. It worked beautifully, and they were in.

  The Sharan reserve camp was orderly as men rotated in from the west, where they fought the White Tower forces. The fierce channeling from that direction kept drawing Pevara’s attention, like a bright light.

  What do you think? Androl sent to her.

  We’re going to need to talk to someone. The battlefield is just too big for us to find Taim on our own.

  He sent back his agreement. Not for the first time, Pevara found their bond distracting. She not only had to deal with her own nervousness, but Androl’s as well. That crept from the back of her mind, and she had to constrain it forcefully, using breathing exercises she’d learned when first in the Tower.

  She stopped in the center of the camp, looking about, trying to decide whom to approach. She could distinguish servants from nobles. Approaching the former would be less dangerous, but also less likely to yield results. Maybe—

  “You!”

  Pevara started, spinning around.

  “You should not be here.” The aged Sharan was completely bald, with a short gray beard. Twin sword hilts in the shape of serpents’ heads peeked out over his shoulders; he wore the blades crossed at his back, and he carried a staff that had strange holes along its length. A flute of some sort?

  “Come,” the man said, his accent so thick, Pevara could barely make it out. “The Wyld will need to see you.”

  Who is the Wyld? Pevara sent Androl.

  He shook his head, feeling as baffled as she did.

  This could turn out very badly.

  The old man stopped ahead of them with an annoyed expression. What would he do if they refused? Pevara was tempted to create a gateway for them to flee.

  We follow, Androl thought, striding forward. We’re never going to find Taim in this unless we talk to someone.

  Pevara frowned as he walked after the man, the other Asha’man joining him. She hurriedly caught up. I thought we had decided I was in charge, she thought to him.

  No, he replied, I thought that we’d decided you would act like you were in charge.

  She sent back a calculated mix of cold displeasure and an implication that the conversation was not yet finished. Androl sent back amusement. Did you… just glare at me mentally? That’s impressive.

  We’re taking a risk, she sent back. This man could lead us into anything.

  Yes, he replied.

  Something smoldered inside of him, something only hinted at until now. You want Taim that badly?

  … Yes. I do.

  She nodded.

  You understand? he sent.

  I lost friends to him as well, Androl, she replied. I watched them be taken right in front of me. We have to be careful, though. We can’t take too many risks. Not yet.

  It’s the end of the world, Pevara, Androl sent back. If we can’t take risks now, when will we?

  She followed without further argument, wondering at the determined focus she sensed in Androl. Taim had awoken something inside of him by taking his friends and Turning them to the Shadow.

  As they followed the old Sharan, Pevara realized that she didn’t understand what Androl was feeling, not completely. Aes Sedai friends of hers had been taken, but it wasn’t the same as Androl losing Evin. Evin had trusted Androl, looked to Androl for protection. The Aes Sedai with Pevara had been acquaintances, friends, but it was different.

  The old Sharan led them to a larger group of people, many of whom wore fine clothing. The highest noblemen and women among the Sharans didn’t seem to fight, for not one of them carried a weapon. They made way for the older man, though several looked at his swords and sneered.

  Jonneth and Emarin moved in around Pevara and Theodrin, one to each side, like bodyguards. They eyed the Sharans, hands on weapons, and she suspected that both were holding the One Power. Well, that would probably be expected of Dreadlords who were walking among allies they didn’t fully trust. They didn’t need to protect Pevara in such a way, but it was a nice gesture. She had always thought it would be useful to have a Warder. She had gone to the Black Tower with the intention of taking multiple Asha’man as Warders. Perhaps… Androl immediately felt jealous. What are you? Some Green with a flock of men fawning over her?

  She sent back amusement. Why not?

  They’re too young for you, he sent back. Jonneth is, anyway. And Theodrin would fight you for him.

  I’m considering bonding them, she sent back, not bedding them, Androl. Honestly. Besides, Emarin prefers men.

  Androl paused. He does?

  Of course he does. Haven’t you been paying attention?

  Androl seemed baffled. Sometimes, men could be surprisingly dense, even observant ones like Androl.

  Pevara embraced the One Power as they reached the center of the group. Would she have time to make a gateway if something went wrong? She did not know the area, but so long as she Traveled somewhere nearby, that wouldn’t matter. She felt as if she was walking up to a noose and inspecting it, deciding how well it would fit her neck.

  A tall man in armor made of silvery discs with holes in the middle stood at the center of the group, dispensing orders. As they watched, a cup moved toward him through the air. Androl stiffened. He’s channeling, Pevara.

  Demandred, then? It must be. Pevara let saidar flood her with its warm glow, letting it wash away emotions. The old man who had been leading them stepped forward and whispered something to Demandred. Despite the enhanced senses of saidar, Pevara could not hear what was said.

  Demandred turned toward the group
of them. “What is this? Has M’Hael so quickly forgotten his orders?”

  Androl dropped to his knees, as did the others. Though it galled her, Pevara went down as well.

  “Great One,” Androl said, “we were merely—”

  “No excuses!” Demandred yelled. “No games! M’Hael is to take all of his Dreadlords and destroy the White Tower forces. If I see any of you away from that fight, I will make you wish I’d given you to the Trollocs instead!” Androl nodded eagerly, then began backing away. A whip of Air Pevara could not see—although she could feel his pain through the bond—cracked him in the face. The rest of them followed after him, scrambling away with heads low.

  That was foolish and dangerous, Pevara thought at Androl.

  And effective, he replied, eyes ahead, hand to his cheek, blood seeping between the fingers. We know Taim is on the battlefield for sure, and we know where to find him. Let’s move.

  * * *

  Galad scrambled through a nightmare. He had known that the Last Battle might be the end of the world, but now… now he felt it.

  Channelers on both sides scourged one another, shaking Polov Heights. Lightning had struck so often that Galad could barely hear any longer, and his eyes watered from the pain of seeing blasts strike nearby.

  He threw himself up against the hillside, digging his shoulder into the ground and ducking for cover as a series of explosions ripped up the earth in front of him. His team—twelve men in tattered white cloaks—dove for cover with him.

  The White Tower’s forces were strained under the attacks, but so were the Sharan forces. The power of so many channelers was incredible.

  The main bulk of White Tower infantry and a large number of Sharan troops fought here on the western Heights. Galad stayed on the perimeter of that battle, looking for Sharan channelers alone or in small groups. In many places here, the battle lines on both sides had fractured. Not surprising; it was near impossible to maintain solid battle lines with all of that power being flung back and forth.

  Bands of soldiers scrambled about, seeking cover in blown-out holes in the rock. Others protected groups of channelers. Nearby, women and men roamed about in small groups, destroying soldiers with fire and lightning.

  These were what Galad hunted.

  He raised his sword, pointing at a trio of Sharan women holding at the top of the Heights. He and his men were more than halfway up the slope.

  Three. Three would be difficult. They turned their attention on a small band of men wearing the Flame of Tar Valon. Lightning struck the unfortunate soldiers.

  Galad held up four fingers. Plan four. He leaped out of his hollow and dashed toward the three women. His men waited a count of five, then followed behind.

  The women saw him. If they’d remained turned away, Galad would have gained the advantage. One raised a hand and summoned Fire, hurling the weave at him. The flame struck him, and though he could feel its heat, the weave unraveled and dissipated—leaving him singed, but mostly unharmed.

  The Sharan’s eyes opened with shock. That look… that look was becoming familiar to Galad now. It was the look of a soldier whose sword had broken in battle, the look of one who had seen something that should not be. What did you do when the One Power failed, the thing you relied upon to raise you above common folk?

  You died. Galad’s sword took the woman’s head off as one of her companions tried to seize him with Air. He felt the metal grow cold at his chest, and sensed the rush of Air moving around him.

  A poor choice, Galad thought, ramming his sword into the chest of a second woman. The third proved smarter, and she slammed him with a large rock. He barely raised his shield before the rock smashed into his arm, throwing him backward. The woman raised another stone right as Galad’s team hit her. She fell to their swords.

  Galad caught his breath, his head back, pain radiating from the impact of the rock. He groaned, sitting up. Nearby, his men hacked at the third Sharan woman’s body. They didn’t need to be so thorough, but some Children had strange ideas about what Aes Sedai could do. He’d caught Laird cutting off one of the Sharan women’s heads to bury it separate from the body. Unless you did that, Laird claimed, they would return to life at the next full moon.

  As the men butchered the other two corpses, Golever came over and offered Galad a hand. “Light burn me,” Golever said, a wide grin splitting his bearded face, “if this isn’t the finest work we’ve ever done, my Lord Captain Commander, I don’t know what is!”

  Galad stood up. “It is what must be done, Child Golever.”

  “I wish it had to be done more often! This is what the Children have awaited for centuries. You are the first to deliver it. The Light illumine you, Galad Damodred. The Light illumine you!”

  “May the Light illumine a day when men need not kill at all,” Galad said tiredly. “It is not fitting to take joy in death.”

  “Of course, my Lord Captain Commander.” Golever continued grinning.

  Galad looked across the bloody pandemonium of the western slope of the Heights. The Light send Cauthon could make some sense of this battle, for Galad certainly could not.

  “Lord Captain Commander!” a frightened voice cried.

  Galad spun about, hand on his sword. It was Alhanra, one of his scouts.

  “What is it, Child Alhanra?” Galad asked as the spindly man ran up. No horses. They were on an incline, and the animals would not have reacted well to the lightning. Better to trust one’s own feet.

  “You need to see this, my Lord,” Alhanra said, panting. “It’s… It’s your brother.”

  “Gawyn?” Impossible. No, he thought. Not impossible. He would be with Egwene, fighting on their front. Galad ran after Alhanra, Golever and the others falling in around him.

  Gawyn’s body lay ashen-faced in a gap between two rocks on the top of the Heights. Nearby a horse was munching on grass, a trail of blood streaming down its side. By the looks of it, not the horse’s blood. Galad knelt down beside the younger man’s corpse. Gawyn had not died easily. But what of Egwene?

  “Peace, brother,” Galad said, resting a hand on the body. “May the Light—”

  “Galad…” Gawyn whispered, his eyes fluttering open.

  “Gawyn?” Galad asked, shocked. Gawyn had a nasty gut wound. He wore some strange rings. There was blood everywhere. His hand, chest… his entire body.…

  How could the man still be alive?

  The Warder bond, he realized. “We need to carry you to a Healer! One of the Aes Sedai.” He reached into the hollow, scooping up Gawyn.

  “Galad… I failed.” Gawyn stared at the sky, eyes blank.

  “You did well.”

  “No. I failed. I should have… I should have stayed with her. I killed Hammar. Did you know that? I killed him. Light. I should have picked a side…”

  Galad cradled his brother and began running along the slope toward the Aes Sedai. He tried to shelter Gawyn amid the attacks of channelers. After only a few moments, an explosion of earth ripped up among the Children, flinging them aside, tumbling Galad to the ground. He dropped Gawyn as he collapsed to the earth beside him.

  Gawyn trembled, eyes staring distantly.

  Galad crawled over and tried to pick him up again, but Gawyn grabbed his arm, meeting his eyes. “I did love her, Galad. Tell her.”

  “If you are truly bonded, then she knows.”

  “This will hurt her,” Gawyn said through pale lips. “And at the end of it, I failed. To kill him.”

  “Him?”

  “Demandred,” Gawyn whispered. “I tried to kill him, but I wasn’t good enough. I’ve never… been quite good… enough…”

  Galad found himself in a very cold place. He had seen men die, he had lost friends. This hurt more. Light, but it did. He had loved his brother, loved him deeply—and Gawyn, unlike Elayne, had returned the sentiment.

  “I will bring you to safety, Gawyn,” Galad said, picking him up, shocked to find tears in his eyes. “I will not be left without a brother.”
/>
  Gawyn coughed. “You won’t be. You have another brother, Galad. One you do not know. A son of… Tigraine… who went into the Waste… Son of a Maiden. Born on Dragonmount.…”

  Oh, Light.

  “Don’t hate him, Galad,” Gawyn whispered. “I always hated him, but I stopped. I… stopped…”

  Gawyn’s eyes stopped moving.

  Galad felt for a pulse, then sat back, looking down at his dead brother. The bandage Gawyn had made for himself at his side seeped blood onto the dry ground below, which hungrily soaked it up.

  Golever moved up to him, helping Alhanra, whose blackened face and burned clothing smelled of smoke from the lightning strike. “Take the wounded to safety, Golever,” Galad said, standing. He reached up and felt the medallion at his neck. “Take all of the men and go.”

  “And you, Lord Captain Commander?” Golever asked.

  “I will do what needs to be done,” Galad said, cold inside. Cold as winter steel. “I will bring Light to the Shadow. I will bring justice to the Forsaken.”

  Gawyn’s thread of life vanished.

  Egwene lurched to a stop on the battlefield. Something severed within her. It was as if a knife suddenly tore into her and scooped out the piece of Gawyn inside, leaving only emptiness.

  She screamed, falling to her knees. No. No, it couldn’t be. She could feel him, just ahead! She’d been running for him. She could… She could…

  He was gone.

  Egwene howled, opening herself to the One Power and drawing in as much as she could hold. She let it out as a wall of flames toward the Sharans who were all around now. They had once held the Heights, the Aes Sedai below, but it was madness now.

  She assailed them with the Power, clutching Vora’s sa’angreal. She would destroy them! Light! It hurt. It hurt so badly.

  “Mother!” Silviana cried, seizing her arm. “You are out of control, Mother! You will kill our own people. Please!”

  Egwene breathed in gasps. Nearby, a group of Whitecloaks stumbled by, carrying wounded down the hillside.

  So close! Oh, Light. He was gone!

  “Mother?” Silviana said. Egwene barely heard. She touched her face, and found tears there.