A Memory of Light (Wheel of Time, #14; A Memory of Light, #3)

by Robert Jordan

Mat pointed. Siuan lay on the floor of the building. Her eyes stared sightlessly, and all the images were gone from above her. Dead. Min froze, heart wrenching. Siuan! She moved toward the woman anyway, unable to believe she was dead, though her clothing burned from the explosion of fire that had taken her and about half of the wall nearby her. “Out!” Mat said, coughing, cradling Tuon. He threw his shoulder against a wall that was only half-burned, breaking out into the air. Min groaned, leaving Siuan’s corpse, blinking away tears both from grief and from the smoke. She coughed as she followed Mat out into open air. The outside smelled so sweet, so cold. Behind them, the building groaned, then collapsed. In moments, Min and Mat were surrounded by members of the Deathwatch Guard. Not a one tried to take Tuon—who was still breathing, if shallowly—away from Mat. From the look in his eye, Min doubted they’d have been able to do so. Farewell, Siuan, Min thought, looking back as Guards ushered her away from the fighting below Dashar Knob. May the Creator shelter your soul.

Demandred turned to the side. Before him bowed three women in black with white ribbons. Next to them, Shendla. Shendla. He had thought himself long past caring for a woman again—how could affection thrive beside the burning passion that was his hatred for Lews Therin? And yet, Shendla… Devious, capable, powerful. Almost, it was enough to change his heart.

He gave orders, and the three Ayyad nearby retreated. Shendla remained, waiting his permission to leave. He had her scouting the area nearby and watching for more assassins. “Are you worried?” he asked her. “You know now for which side we fight. So far as I know, you have not given yourself to the Shadow.” “I’ve given myself to you, Wyld.” “And for me you fight beside Trollocs? Halfmen? Creatures from nightmare?” “You said some would call your actions evil,” she said. “But I do not see them as such. Our path is clear. Once you are victorious, you will remake the world, and our people will be preserved.” She took his hand, and something stirred within him. It was quickly smothered by his hatred. “I would cast it all away,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Everything for a chance at Lews Therin.”

The Dark One wrapped around the Pattern, unable to take it and destroy it, but able to touch it. Tendrils of darkness, spines, touched the world at points all along its length. The Dark One lay like shadow upon the Pattern. When the Dark One touched the Pattern, time existed for him. And so, while time was nothing to the Dark One, he—or it, as the Dark One had no gender—could only work within its bounds. Like… like a sculptor who had marvelous visions and dreams but was still bound by the reality of the materials he worked with. Rand stared at the Pattern, resisting the Dark One’s attack. He did not move or breathe. Breath wasn’t needed here. People died below. Rand heard their screams. So many fell. I WILL WIN EVENTUALLY, ADVERSARY. WATCH THEM SCREAM. WATCH THEM DIE. THE DEAD ARE MINE. “Lies,” Rand said. NO. I WILL SHOW YOU. The Dark One spun possibility again, gathering up what could be, and thrust Rand into another vision.

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.

“Darbinda,” she said, turning to the woman who insisted upon calling herself “Min” despite the honor of a new name that Fortuona had given her. It meant “Girl of Pictures” in the Old Tongue. “You have saved my life and possibly that of the Prince of the Ravens. I name you of the Blood, Doomseer. Let your name be venerated for generations to come.”

The Dark One spun a web of possibility around Rand. Rand knew this struggle between them—the fight for what could be—was vital to the Last Battle. Rand could not weave the future. He was not the Wheel, nor anything like it. For everything that had happened to him, he was still merely a man. Yet, in him was the hope of humankind. Humankind had a destiny, a choice for its future. The path they would take… this battle would decide it, his will clashing with that of the Dark One. As of yet, what could be might become what would be. Breaking now would be to let the Dark One choose that future.

“You took their consciences, didn’t you?” he asked softly. Gill’s eyes widened at the use of the One Power. He tried to run. Rand grabbed him in cords of Air as well. MEN WHO THINK THEY ARE OPPRESSED WILL SOMEDAY FIGHT. I WILL REMOVE FROM THEM NOT JUST THEIR WILL TO RESIST, BUT THE VERY SUSPICION THAT SOMETHING IS WRONG. “So you leave them without compassion?” Rand demanded, looking into Gill’s eyes. The man seemed terrified that Rand would kill him, as did the three thugs. No remorse. Not a bit of it. COMPASSION IS NOT NEEDED. Rand felt deathly cold. “This is different from the world you showed me before.” WHAT I SHOWED BEFORE IS WHAT MEN EXPECT. IT IS THE EVIL THEY THINK THEY FIGHT. BUT I WILL MAKE A WORLD WHERE THERE IS NOT GOOD OR EVIL. THERE IS ONLY ME. “Do your servants know?” Rand whispered. “The ones you name Chosen? They think they fight to become lords and rulers over a world of their own making. Instead you will give them this. The same world… except one without Light.” THERE IS ONLY ME.

No Light. No love of men. The horror of it sank deep within Rand, shaking him. This was one of the possibilities that the Dark One could choose, if he won. It didn’t mean he would, or that it had to happen, but… oh Light, this was terrible. Far more terrible than a world of captives, far more terrible than a dark land with a broken landscape. This was true horror. This was a full corruption of the world, it was taking everything beautiful from it, leaving behind only a husk. A pretty husk, but still a husk. Rand would rather live a thousand years of torture, retaining the piece of himself that gave him the capacity for good, than live a moment in this world without Light. He turned, enraged, upon the darkness. It consumed the far wall, growing larger. “You make a mistake, Shai’tan!” Rand yelled at that nothingness. “You think to make me despair? You think to shatter my will? This will not do it, I swear to you. This makes me sure to fight!” Something rumbled inside of the Dark One. Rand yelled, pushing outward with his will, shattering the dark world of lies and men who would kill without empathy. It exploded into threads, and Rand was once again in the place outside of time, the Pattern rippling around him. “You show me your true heart?” Rand demanded of the nothingness as he seized those threads. “I will show you mine, Shai’tan. There is an opposite to this Lightless world you would create. “A world without Shadow.”

Elayne touched Gareth Bryne’s cheek softly. She closed his eyes, one, then the other, before nodding to the soldiers who had found his body. They carried Bryne away, legs dangling over the edge of his shield, head hanging down on the other side. “He just went riding off, screaming,” Birgitte said. “Right into the enemy lines. There was no stopping him.” “Siuan is dead,” Elayne said, feeling an almost overpowering sense of loss. Siuan.… Siuan had always been so strong. With effort, Elayne stilled her emotions. She had to keep her attention on the battle. “Is there word from the command post?”

“The Hornsounder commands!” Loial bellowed. “Up axes!” Mat winced. If he ever needed someone to yell a message from Caemlyn to Cairhien for him, he knew who to ask. Only they would probably hear it all the way up in the Blight, too. He heeled Pips into motion, the Ogier falling in around him and the Deathwatch Guards. The Ogier had no trouble keeping up. “Honored One,” Karede said, “I and mine are ordered to—” “To go die on the front lines. I’m bloody working on that, Karede. Keep your sword out of your own gut for the moment, kindly.”

“Cauthon had an army lying in wait on the northern side of the Heights. By the looks of it, Dragonsworn and a banner of cavalry, probably part of the Band. About the time you were tussling with that Trolloc, they fell on the Sharan’s left flank, breaking them all apart. It’s going to take them a while to regroup.”

The threads of possibility resisted Rand as he wove them together into the world he imagined. He did not know what that meant. Perhaps what he demanded was highly unlikely. This thing he did, using threads to show what could be, was more than simple illusion. It involved looking to worlds that had been before, worlds that could be again. Mirrors of the reality he lived in. He didn’t create these worlds. He merely… manifested them. He forced the threads to open the reality he demanded, and finally they obeyed. One last time, the darkness became light, and the nothing became something. He stepped into a world that did not know the Dark One. He chose Caemlyn as a point of entry. Perhaps because the Dark One had used the place in his last creation, and Rand wanted to prove to himself that the terrible vision was not inevitable. He needed to see the city again, but untainted.

Doors did not bear locks. Coinage was a nearly forgotten eccentricity. Channelers helped create food for everyone. Rand passed a window to Tar Valon, where the Aes Sedai Healed any who came and created gateways to bring loved ones together. All had everything they needed. He hesitated beside the next window. It looked out at Rhuidean. Had this city ever been in a desert? The Waste bloomed, from Shara to Cairhien. And here, through the window, Rand saw the Chora Fields—a forest of them, surrounding the fabled city. Though he could not hear their words, he saw the Aiel singing. No more weapons. No more spears to dance. Once again, the Aiel were a people of peace. He continued on. Bandar Eban, Ebou Dar, the Seanchan lands, Shara. Each nation was represented, though these days, people didn’t pay much heed to borders. Another relic. Who cared who lived in what nation, and why would someone try to “own” land? There was enough for all. The blooming of the Waste had opened up room for new cities, new wonders. Many of the windows Rand passed looked at places he did not know, though he was pleased to see the Two Rivers looking so majestic, almost like Manetheren come again.

The last window gave him pause. It looked upon a valley in what had once been the Blasted Lands. A stone slab, where a body had been burned long ago, rested here alone. Overgrown with life: vines, grass, flowers. A furry spider the size of a child’s hand scurried across the stones. Rand’s grave. The place where his body had been burned following the Last Battle. He lingered a long while at that window before finally forcing himself to move on, leaving the Gallery and making his way to the Palace gardens. Servants were helpful whenever he spoke to them. Nobody questioned why he wanted to see the Queen.

“SHAI’TAN!” Rand bellowed. I HAVE DONE NOTHING, ADVERSARY. The voice was distant. THIS IS YOUR CREATION. “Nonsense!” Rand said. “You’ve changed her! You’ve changed them all!” DID YOU THINK THAT REMOVING ME FROM THEIR LIVES WOULD LEAVE THEM UNALTERED? The words thundered through Rand. Aghast, he stepped away as Elayne rose, obviously concerned for him. Yes, he saw it now, the thing behind her eyes. She was not herself… because Rand had taken from her the ability to be herself. I TURN MEN TO ME, Shai’tan said. IT IS TRUE. THEY CANNOT CHOOSE GOOD ONCE I HAVE MADE THEM MINE IN THAT WAY. HOW IS THIS ANY DIFFERENT, ADVERSARY? IF YOU DO THIS, WE ARE ONE.

PERFECT. UNCHANGING. RUINED. DO THIS, IF YOU WISH, ADVERSARY. IN KILLING ME, I WOULD WIN. NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, I WILL WIN. Rand screamed, curling up as the Dark One’s next attack washed over him. The nightmare Rand had created exploded outward, ribbons of light spraying away like streaks of smoke. The darkness around him shook and trembled. YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM. The Pattern—glowing, vibrant—wrapped around Rand again. The real Pattern. The truth of what was happening. In creating his vision of a world without the Dark One, he had created something horrible. Something awful. Something worse than would have been before. The Dark One attacked again.

“Do not let my expression dampen your good humor,” Talmanes said, tucking his pipe away. “Nor let it bother you that we are fighting at the end of the world, that our armies are grossly outnumbered, and that if we lose, our very souls will be destroyed by the Dark Lord of all evil.” “Sorry, my Lord.” “That was a joke.” Dennel blinked. “That?” “Yes.” “That was a joke.” “Yes.” “You have an interesting sense of humor, my Lord,” Dennel said. “So I have been told.” Talmanes stooped down

Demandred had a sa’angreal, and a powerful one. Similar in power to Callandor, maybe stronger. With that in Logain’s hands, many things in this world would change. The world would know of him and the Black Tower, and they would tremble before him as they never had for the Amyrlin Seat.

“I am not going to abandon the Way, Ila. It is my path, and it is right for me. Perhaps… perhaps I will not think quite so poorly of those who follow another path. If we live through these times, we will do so at the bequest of those who died on this battlefield, whether we wish to accept their sacrifice or not.” He trailed away. It’s just the darkness of the night, she thought. He will overcome it, once the sun shines again. That’s the right of it. Isn’t it? She looked up at the night sky. That sun… would they be able to tell when it rose? The clouds, lit from the fires below, seemed to be growing thicker and thicker. She pulled her bright yellow shawl closer, feeling suddenly cold. Perhaps I will not think quite so poorly of those who follow another path… She blinked a few tears from her eyes. “Light,” she whispered, something twisting inside. “I shouldn’t have turned my back on him. I should have tried to help him return to us, not cast him out. Light, oh Light. Shelter him…”

He disappeared without forming a gateway! The True Power, she thought. The only explanation. She knew next to nothing about it—it was the Dark One’s very essence, the lure that had coaxed channelers in the Age of Legends to drill the Bore in the first place. Balefire. Light. I was almost dead. Worse than dead. She had no way to counter balefire. It’s only a weave… Only a weave. Perrin’s words. The moment was past now, and M’Hael had fled. She would have to keep Narishma close to warn her if someone started channeling nearby. Unless M’Hael uses the True Power again. Would another man be able to sense that being channeled? “Mother!” Egwene turned as Merise gestured toward where most of the Aes Sedai and Asha’man were still engaged in a resounding battle with the Sharan forces. Many sisters in colorful dresses lay dead across the hillside. Gawyn’s death haunted her thoughts like an assassin in black. Egwene set her jaw and stoked her anger, drawing in the One Power as she launched herself at the Sharans.

“The battle fares poorly, doesn’t it?” “Yes.” “So now… we simply hope?” He slipped his hand from hers and reached under his shirt. When an Aes Sedai arrived, they would have to undress him and care for his wounds. Only the stump had been tended to so far, as it was the worst. Galad sighed, then trembled, his hand slipping away from his shirt. Had he been intending to remove it? “Hope…” he whispered, then fell unconscious.

Rand wept. He huddled in the darkness, the Pattern spinning before him, woven from the threads of the lives of men. So many of those threads ended. So many. He should have been able to protect them. Why couldn’t he? Against his will, the names began to replay in his mind. The names of those who had died for him, starting with only women, but now expanded to each and every person he should have been able to save—but hadn’t. As humankind fought at Merrilor and Shayol Ghul, Rand was forced to watch the deaths. He could not turn away. The Dark One chose then to attack him in force. The pressure came again, striving to crush Rand into nothing. He couldn’t move. Every bit of his essence, his determination and his strength focused on keeping the Dark One from ripping him apart. He could only watch as they died. Rand watched Davram Bashere die in a charge, followed quickly by his wife. Rand cried out at the fall of his friend. He wept for Davram Bashere.

He wept for Gareth Bryne and Siuan. He wept for Gawyn. So many. So very many. YOU ARE LOSING. Rand huddled down further. What could he do? His dream of stopping the Dark One… he would create a nightmare if he did that. His own intentions betrayed him. GIVE IN, ADVERSARY. WHY KEEP FIGHTING? STOP FIGHTING AND REST. He was tempted. Oh, how he was tempted. Light. What would Nynaeve think? He could see her, fighting to save Alanna. How ashamed would she and Moiraine be if they knew that in that moment, Rand wanted to just let go? Pain washed across him, and he screamed again. “Please, let it end!” IT CAN. Rand huddled down, writhing, trembling. But still, their screams assaulted him. Death upon death. He held on, barely. “No,” he whispered. VERY WELL, the Dark One said. I HAVE ONE MORE THING TO SHOW YOU. ONE MORE PROMISE OF WHAT CAN BE… The Dark One spun threads of possibility one last time. All became darkness.

“The sa’angreal…” Demandred held out his scepter, with the golden goblet affixed atop it. Was this a test? Such power. M’Hael had felt the strength radiating from Demandred as he used it. “You say she has a sa’angreal,” Demandred said. “With this, you will have one as well. I grant you Sakarnen to take from you any excuse for failure. Succeed or die in this, M’Hael. Prove yourself worthy to stand among the Chosen.” M’Hael licked his lips. “And if the Dragon Reborn finally comes to you?”

Living in Shara had changed him. Weakened him, certainly. Now this. What man would willingly give such a powerful artifact to a rival? Only a fool, M’Hael thought, reaching for the sa’angreal. Killing you will be like putting down a horse with three broken legs, Demandred. Pity. I had hoped to vanquish you as a rival.

“Take care,” Demandred said. His voice sounded pathetic, weak. The squeaking of a mouse. “Do not channel through that toward me. I have bonded Sakarnen to me. If you try to use it against me, it will burn you from the Pattern.” Did Demandred lie? Could a sa’angreal be attuned to a specific person? He did not know. He considered, then lowered Sakarnen, bitter despite the power surging through him.

Nothing. Rand turned. He tried to turn. He had no form or shape. Nothing. He tried to speak, but he had no mouth. Finally, he managed to think the words and make them manifest. SHAI’TAN, Rand projected, WHAT IS THIS? OUR COVENANT, the Dark One replied. OUR ACCOMMODATION. OUR ACCOMMODATION IS NOTHING? Rand demanded. YES.

Just a weave… No other like it. That isn’t the way it works, she thought. Two sides to every coin. Two halves to the Power. Hot and cold, light and dark, woman and man. If a weave exists, so must its opposite. M’Hael released balefire, and Egwene did… something. The weave she’d tried before on the cracks, but of a much greater power and scope: a majestic, marvelous weave, a combination of all Five Powers. It slid into place before her. She yelled, releasing it as if from her very soul, a column of pure white that struck M’Hael’s weave at its center.

She closed her eyes and drew in the power. More than a woman should be able to, more than was right. Far beyond safety, far beyond wisdom. This sa’angreal had no buffer to prevent this. Her body was spent. She offered it up and became a column of light, releasing the Flame of Tar Valon into the ground beneath her and high into the sky. The Power left her in a quiet, beautiful explosion, washing across the Sharans and sealing the cracks created by her fight with M’Hael. Egwene’s soul separated from her collapsing body and rested upon that wave, riding it into the Light.

“I need to witness this,” Loial said. The fall of the last king of the Malkieri. He would need to include it in his book.

Lan did not consider what he was doing. The void did not allow such things. Some men would call it brash, foolhardy, suicidal. The world was rarely changed by men who were unwilling to try being at least one of the three.

He saw Mat, desperate, facing down horrible odds. He saw Lan riding to his death. Demandred’s words dug at him. The Dark One’s pressure continued to tear at him. Rand had failed. But in the back of his mind, a voice. Frail, almost forgotten. Let go.

Lan held nothing back. He did not fight as he had trained Rand to fight. No careful testing, no judging the terrain, no careful evaluation. Demandred could channel, and despite the medallion, Lan couldn’t give his enemy time to think, time to weave and hurl rocks at him or open the ground beneath him.

“Who are you?” Demandred whispered again. “No one of this Age has such skill. Asmodean? No, no. He couldn’t have fought me like this. Lews Therin? It is you behind that face, isn’t it?” “I am just a man,” Lan whispered. “That is all I have ever been.”

I’ve only time for one last lesson… “I have you,” Demandred finally growled, breathing heavily. “Whoever you are, I have you. You cannot win.” “You didn’t listen to me,” Lan whispered. One last lesson. The hardest… Demandred struck, and Lan saw his opening. Lan lunged forward, placing Demandred’s sword point against his own side and ramming himself forward onto it. “I did not come here to win,” Lan whispered, smiling. “I came here to kill you. Death is lighter than a feather.” Demandred’s eyes opened wide, and he tried to pull back. Too late. Lan’s sword took him straight through the throat. The world grew dark as Lan slipped backward off the sword. He felt Nynaeve’s fear and pain as he did, and he sent his love to her.

You fool. Her voice in his head. Fond, but sharp. “Egwene?” Am I not allowed to be a hero, too? “It’s not that…” You march to your death. Yet you forbid anyone else from doing so?

Let go, Rand. Let us die for what we believe, and do not try to steal that from us. You have embraced your death. Embrace mine. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Why? “I’ve failed.” No. Not yet you haven’t. The Dark One flayed him. He huddled before that vast nothingness, unable to move. He screamed in agony. And then, he let go. He let go of the guilt. He let go of the shame for having not saved Egwene and all the others. He let go of the need to protect her, to protect all of them. He let them be heroes.

Ilyena was last. We are reborn, Rand thought, so we can do better the next time. So do better. He opened his eyes and placed his hand before him, palm against blackness that felt solid. His self that had fuzzed, becoming indistinct as the Dark One ripped at it, pulled together. He placed his other arm down, then heaved himself to his knees. And then, Rand al’Thor—the Dragon Reborn—stood up once again to face the Shadow.

I CONTROL THEM ALL. I BREAK THEM BEFORE ME. YOU HAVE LOST, CHILD OF HUMANKIND. “If you think that,” Rand whispered into the darkness, “then it is because you cannot see.”

YOU CANNOT FATHOM IT, CAN YOU? Rand demanded of the darkness. IT IS BEYOND YOU. YOU BREAK US, AND STILL WE FIGHT! WHY? HAVEN’T YOU KILLED US? HAVEN’T YOU RUINED US? YOU, the Dark One replied. I HAVE YOU. Rand stepped forward. In this place of nothing, the Pattern seemed to swirl around him like a tapestry. HERE IS YOUR FLAW, SHAI’TAN—LORD OF THE DARK, LORD OF ENVY! LORD OF NOTHING! HERE IS WHY YOU FAIL! IT WAS NOT ABOUT ME. IT’S NEVER BEEN ABOUT ME! It was about a woman, torn and beaten down, cast from her throne and made a puppet—a woman who had crawled when she had to. That woman still fought. It was about a man that love repeatedly forsook, a man who found relevance in a world that others would have let pass them by. A man who remembered stories, and who took fool boys under his wing when the smarter move would have been to keep on walking. That man still fought. It was about a woman with a secret, a hope for the future. A woman who had hunted the truth before others could. A woman who had given her life, then had it returned. That woman still fought. It was about a man whose family was taken from him, but who stood tall in his sorrow and protected those he could. It was about a woman who refused to believe that she could not help, could not Heal those who had been harmed. It was about a hero who insisted with every breath that he was anything but a hero. It was about a woman who would not bend her back while she was beaten, and who shone with the Light for all who watc...

Mat fought, bellowing in the Old Tongue. “For the Light! For honor! For glory! For life itself!”

Rand stood above the Pattern and looked down at the fallen men in a land where hope seemed to have died. “You have not been watching closely enough. About one thing, you are wrong. So very wrong…”

Cornered and alone, a boy huddled in a cleft in the rock. Horrors with knives and fangs— the Shadow itself made flesh—dug at his hiding place, reaching with nails like knives and ripping his skin. Terrified, crying, bloodied, the boy raised a golden horn to his lips.

Mat squinted, the battle seeming to dim around him. So very wrong, Shai’tan, Rand’s voice whispered in Mat’s mind. Then the voice was no longer in Mat’s mind. It could be heard distinctly by everyone on the battlefield. That one you have tried to kill many times, Rand said, that one who lost his kingdom, that one from whom you took everything… Lurching, bloodied from the sword strike to his side, the last king of the Malkieri stumbled to his feet. Lan thrust his hand into the air, holding by its hair the head of Demandred, general of the Shadow’s armies. That man, Rand shouted. That man still fights! Mat felt the battlefield grow still. All were frozen in place. At that moment, there r...

Elayne heard a soft sound in the distance. The ground vibrated. An earthquake.

Behind him, Birgitte Silverbow stood over her corpse, one foot to either side of the headless body. She raised a bow, bright as newly polished silver, and released another arrow, which seemed to trail light as it struck Mellar in the head and pitched him to the ground. Her next shot took Mellar’s channeler, killing the Dreadlord with a silver arrow before the man could respond.

“I am Birgitte Silverbow,” Birgitte announced, as if to dispel doubt. “The Horn of Valere has sounded, calling all to the Last Battle. The heroes have returned!”

Lan Mandragoran held aloft the head of one of the Forsaken—their battle commander, supposedly invincible. The Shadow’s army could not ignore what had happened, none of them, wherever they were on the battlefield. The voice that had come out of nowhere had proclaimed it. That the attacker should stand while the Chosen lay dead… it stunned them. Frightened them. And then the Horn sounded in the distance. “Press forward!” Mat yelled. “Press forward!” His army threw themselves ferociously on to the Trollocs and Sharans. “Cauthon, what was that sound?” Arganda demanded, stumbling up beside Pips. The man still had one arm in a sling and carried a bloodied mace in the other hand. Around Mat, the Deathwatch Guard fought and grunted, cutting down Trollocs. Mat yelled, throwing himself into the fight. “That was the bloody Horn of Valere! We can still win this night!” The Horn. How had the bloody Horn been sounded? Well, it looked like Mat wasn’t tied to the thing any longer. His death at Rhuidean must have broken him from it.

“Of course we fight for the Light,” Hawkwing said. “We would never fight for the Shadow.” “But I was told—” Mat began. “You were told wrong,” Hawkwing said. “Besides,” Hend said, laughing. “If the other side had been able to summon us, you’d be dead by now!” “I did die,” Mat said, rubbing at the scar on his neck. “Apparently that tree claimed me.”