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

by Robert Jordan

“Not the tree, Gambler,” Hawkwing said. “Another moment, one that you cannot remember. It is fitting, as Lews Therin did save your life both times.” “Remember him,” Amaresu snapped. “I have seen you murmur that you fear his madness, but all the while you forget that every breath you breathe—every step you take—comes at his forbearance. Your life is a gift from the Dragon Reborn, Gambler. Twice over.” Blood and bloody ashes. Even dead women treated him the way Nynaeve did. Where did they learn it? Were there secret lessons?

Olver caught sight of the man’s face, and his breath caught. “Noal?” Noal clubbed a Trolloc arm, forcing the creature back, then glanced at Olver and smiled. Though Noal still appeared aged, the weariness was gone from his eyes, as if a great burden had been lifted from him. A white horse stood nearby, with a golden saddle and reins, the most magnificent animal that Olver had ever seen. “Noal, they said you died!” Olver cried. “I did,” Noal said, then laughed. “The Pattern was not finished with me, son. Sound that Horn! Sound it proudly, Hornsounder!” Olver did so, blowing the Horn as Noal fought the Trollocs back in a small circle around Olver. Noal. Noal was one of the heroes of the Horn! The hooves of galloping horses announced others, come to rescue Olver from the Shadowspawn. Suddenly, Olver felt a deep warmth. He had lost so many people, but one of them… one… had come back for him.

“Stubborn fool.” “I’m not the one who just refused to stay dead. Together?” “Together,” Birgitte said, nodding.

It’s the symbol, she realized with a start. The ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai. Under this sign… shall he conquer. Aviendha held tightly to the One Power. That thrumming sound was him, somehow. The life growing was him. As the Dark One ripped the land apart, Rand stitched it back together. She had to keep moving. She crouched as she ran, using the newly grown plants as cover. They had come right where she needed them to hide her approach. Happenstance? She chose to believe otherwise. She could feel him, in the back of her mind. He fought, a true warrior. His battle lent her strength, and she tried to return the same. Determination. Honor. Glory. Fight on, shade of my heart. Fight on.

Mat rode with the heroes of the Horn. Apparently, having once been the Hornsounder gave him a special place among them. They joined him, called to him, spoke to him as if they knew him. They looked so, well, heroic, tall in their saddles and surrounded by a mist that glowed against the breaking dawn’s light. Amid the fighting, he finally asked the question that had been haunting him for a long while now. “I’m not bloody… one of you, am I?” he asked Hend the Striker. “You know… since heroes are born sometimes, then die and… do whatever you do.”

The big man laughed, riding a bay horse that could have almost gone shoulder-to-shoulder with a Seanchan boar-horse. “I knew that you would ask this thing, Gambler!” “Well, then you should bloody well have an answer prepared.” Mat felt his face flush as he anticipated the reply. “No, you are not one of us,” Hend said. “Be at ease. Though you have done more than enough to earn a place, you have not been chosen. I do not know why.”

“That, and a bloody sparring dummy, set up and waiting to be attacked.” He turned northward. “I need to go to Rand. Hawkwing, would you do me a favor?” “Ask it, Hornblower.” “Do you know the Seanchan?” “I am… familiar with them.” “I think their Empress would like very much to make your acquaintance,” Mat said, galloping away. “If you could go to speak with her, I’d appreciate it. And if you do, kindly tell her I sent you.”

YOU THINK I WILL RETREAT? the Dark One asked. The thing that spoke those words was something that Rand could never truly comprehend. Even seeing the universe in its entirety did not allow him to understand Evil itself. I NEVER EXPECT YOU TO RETREAT, Rand said. I BELIEVE YOU INCAPABLE OF IT. I WISH YOU COULD SEE, COULD KNOW, WHY IT IS YOU CONTINUE TO LOSE.

YOU SHOULD NOT BE SURPRISED, Rand said. WHEN HAVE YOU EVER INSPIRED THE BEST IN MEN? YOU CANNOT. IT IS OUTSIDE YOUR POWER, SHAI’TAN. YOUR MINIONS WILL NEVER FIGHT ON WHEN HOPE IS LOST. THEY WILL NEVER STAND BECAUSE DOING SO IS RIGHT. IT IS NOT STRENGTH THAT BEATS YOU. IT IS NOBILITY. I WILL DESTROY! I WILL REND AND BURN! I WILL BRING DARKNESS TO ALL, AND DEATH WILL BE THE TRUMPET I SOUND BEFORE MY ARRIVAL! AND YOU, ADVERSARY… OTHERS MAY ESCAPE, BUT YOU WILL DIE. YOU MUST KNOW THIS. OH, I DO, SHAI’TAN, Rand said softly. I EMBRACE IT, FOR DEATH IS—AND ALWAYS HAS BEEN—LIGHTER THAN A FEATHER. DEATH ARRIVES IN A HEARTBEAT, NO MORE TANGIBLE THAN A FLICKER OF LIGHT. IT HAS NO WEIGHT, NO SUBSTANCE.… Rand strode forward, speaking louder. DEATH CANNOT KEEP ME AT BAY, AND IT CANNOT RULE ME. IT COMES DOWN TO THIS, FATHER OF LIES. WHEN HAVE YOU INSPIRED A PERSON TO GIVE THEIR LIFE FOR YOU? NOT FOR THE PROMISES YOU GIVE, NOT FOR THE RICHES THEY SEEK OR THE POSITIONS THEY WOULD HOLD, BUT FOR YOU. HAS IT EVER HAPPENED? The darkness grew still.

“What good is honor if the Dark One wins the Last Battle?” Perrin snapped, pulling up his trousers. “It is everything,” Chiad said softly. “It is worth death, it is worth risking the world itself. If we have no honor, better that we lose.”

“Exquisite,” Thom thought. That is the word. Unexpected, but true. Majestically exquisite. No. Not “majestically.” Let the word stand on its own. If it is the right word, it will work without help. If it’s the wrong word, adding other words to it will just make it seem desperate.

As the Aes Sedai hit the ground, her weave faded, revealing another face behind the “Cadsuane” mask she’d been using. He recognized this woman, vaguely. A Domani. What was her name? Jeaine Caide. That was it. She was a pretty one. Thom shook his head. The walk had been all wrong. Didn’t any of them realize that a person’s walk was as distinctive as the nose on their face? Each woman who tried to slip past him assumed that changing her face and dress—maybe her voice—would be enough to fool him. He climbed off his perch and grabbed the corpse under the arms, then stuffed it a hollow nearby—there were five bodies in there now, so it was getting crowded. He drew on his pipe and took his cloak off, placing it here so that it covered up the dead hand of the Black sister, which was peeking out. He checked one more time down the tunnel—though he could not see Moiraine, it comforted him to look. Then he returned to his perch and took out a sheet of paper and his pen. And—to the thunder, the yells, the explosions, and the howl of the wind—he began to compose.

Those two friends—those two enemies—were occupied with one another. Excellent. Shaisam continued his attack, striking down enemies on both sides and consuming them. Some tried to attack him by running into his mists, his embrace. Of course, that killed them. This was his true self. He had tried to create this mist before, as Fain, but he had not been mature enough.

If the Shadow has claimed you, my friend, he thought, I pray you spat in Sightblinder’s eye before you awoke.

Rand broke free from the darkness and entered the Pattern fully again. From his watching of the Pattern, he knew that although only minutes had passed here since he’d entered, in the valley outside this cavern, days had passed, and farther out into the world, it had been much longer. Rand threw Moridin back from the position they’d held during those tense minutes with blades locked. Still full of the One Power, so sweet, Rand whipped the blade of Callandor at his old friend. Moridin got his sword up in time to block, but only barely. He growled, pulling a knife from his belt and stepping back into a knife-and-sword stance. “You don’t matter any longer, Elan,” Rand said, the torrent of saidin raging within him. “Let us finish this!” “I don’t?” Moridin laughed. Then he spun and threw the knife at Alanna.

Moridin turned back to Rand, another knife in his left hand. Rand raised Callandor to strike Moridin down. Moridin dropped his sword, and stabbed his own right hand with the knife. Rand twitched suddenly, and Callandor dropped from his grip as if his hand somehow hurt from Moridin’s attack.

“There’s an odd thing about diseases I once heard, Fain,” Matrim Cauthon whispered. “Once you catch a disease and survive, you can’t get it again.” Shaisam thrashed, panicked. No. No, this was not how a meeting with an old friend should go! He clawed at the hand holding him, then realized with horror that he’d dropped the dagger. Cauthon pulled him down, slamming him to the ground. Shaisam called for his drones. Too late! Too slow! “I’ve come to give you your gift back, Mordeth,” Cauthon whispered. “I consider our debt paid in full.” Cauthon rammed the dagger right between the ribs, into Shaisam’s heart. Tied to this pitiful mortal form, Mordeth screamed. Padan Fain howled, and felt his flesh melting from his bones. The mists trembled, began to swirl and shake. Together they died.

Moridin scooped Callandor up off the floor. It burst alight with the One Power. Rand stumbled away, holding his aching hand to his chest. Moridin laughed, raising the weapon high. “You are mine, Lews Therin. You are finally mine! I…” He trailed off, then looked up at the sword, perhaps in awe. “It can amplify the True Power. A True Power sa’angreal? How? Why?” He laughed louder.

Why was Rand to need a weapon with such flaws? Why did the prophecies mention it so? A sa’angreal for the True Power. Why would he ever need such a thing? The answer was so simple. “Now!” Rand yelled. Nynaeve and Moiraine channeled together, exploiting the flaw in Callandor as Moridin tried to bring it to bear against Rand. Wind whipped in the tunnel. The ground quivered, and Moridin yelled, eyes going wide. They took control of him. Callandor was flawed. Any man using it could be forced to link with women, to be placed in their control. A trap… and one he used on Moridin. “Link!” Rand commanded. They fed it to him. Power. Saidar from the women. The True Power from Moridin. Saidin from Rand. Moridin’s channeling the True Power here threatened to destroy them all, but they buffered it with saidin and saidar, then directed all three at the Dark One.

“The Black Tower protects,” Logain heard himself say. “Always.” “I will send him to you to be tested when he is of age,” the woman promised, holding her son. “I would have him join you, if he has the talent.” The talent. Not the curse. The talent. Light bathed them. He stopped. That beam of light to the north… channeling like none he’d ever felt before, not even at the cleansing. Such power. “It’s happening,” Gabrelle said, stepping up to him. Logain reached to his belt, then took three items from his pouch. Discs, half white, half black. The nearby Asha’man turned toward him, pausing in Healing and comforting the people. “Do it,” Gabrelle said. “Do it, Sealbreaker.” Logain snapped the once unbreakable seals, one by one, and dropped the pieces to the ground.

“Ready,” Lanfear said, eyes on Nynaeve. Perrin turned toward Lanfear. “I will count to three,” Lanfear said, not looking at him. My duty, Perrin thought, is to do the things Rand cannot. This was the wolf dream. In the wolf dream, what he felt became reality. “One,” Lanfear said. He loved Faile. “Two.” He loved Faile. “Three.” He loved Faile. The Compulsion vanished like smoke in the wind, thrown off like clothing changed in the blink of an eye. Before Lanfear could strike, Perrin reached out and took her by the neck. He twisted once. Her neck popped in his fingers. Lanfear crumpled, and Perrin caught her body. She was beautiful. As she died, she changed back to the other form she had been wearing before, her new body.

Someone had needed to do it. This was one test, at least, that Rand would not need to face. It was one burden that Perrin could carry for his friend. He looked up toward Rand. “Go,” Perrin whispered. “Do what you must do. As always, I will watch your back.”

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.

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.

To choose is our fate. If you have no choice, then you aren’t a man at all. You’re a puppet…”

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.

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.

“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?”

“Free me!” Moghedien said, scratching at the a’dam. “Free me, you—” Pain sent her to the ground, writhing. “I am called Shanan,” the sul’dam said as another woman approached, a damane in tow. “But you may call me mistress. I think that we should return to Ebou Dar quickly.” Her companion nodded, and the damane made a gateway. They had to drag Moghedien through.

Nynaeve emerged from the Healing tent at Shayol Ghul. The sun was almost below the horizon. “He’s dead,” she whispered to the small crowd gathered outside. Saying the words felt like dropping a brick onto her own feet. She did not cry. She had shed those tears already. That did not mean that she didn’t hurt.

“He that was wounded has woken from the dream,” Aviendha said evenly. “It is as all must do. His death was accomplished in greatness, and he will be celebrated in greatness.”

The other heroes were gone. Birgitte remained as evening approached. Nearby, soldiers prepared Rand al’Thor’s pyre. Birgitte could not stay much longer, but for now… yes, she could stay. A short time. The Pattern would allow it.

As evening settled onto the land, Tam looked up across what had once been the most feared place of all. Shayol Ghul. The last flickers of light showed plants growing here, flowers blooming, grass growing up around fallen weapons and over corpses. Is this your gift to us, son? he wondered. A final one? Tam lit his torch from the small, flickering flame that crackled in the pit nearby. He went forward, passing lines of those who stood in the night. They had not told many of Rand’s funeral rites. All would have wanted to come. Perhaps all deserved to come. The Aes Sedai were planning an elaborate memorial for Egwene; Tam preferred a quiet affair for his son. Rand could finally rest. He walked past people standing with heads bowed. None carried light save Tam. The others waited in the dark, a small crowd of perhaps two hundred encircling the bier. Tam’s torch flickered orange off solemn faces. In the evening, even with his light, it was hard to tell Aiel from Aes Sedai, Two Rivers man from Tairen king. All were shapes in the night, saluting the body of the Dragon Reborn. Tam went up to the bier, beside Thom and Moiraine, who were holding hands, faces solemn. Moiraine reached over and gently squeezed Tam’s arm. Tam looked at the corpse, gazing down into his son’s face by the fire’s light. He did not wipe the tears from his eyes. You did well. My boy… you did so well. He lit the pyre with a reverent hand.

Rand al’Thor—just Rand al’Thor—woke in a dark tent by himself. Someone had left a candle burning beside his pallet. He breathed deeply, stretching. He felt as if he’d just slept long and deep. Shouldn’t he be hurting? Stiff? Aching? He felt none of that. He reached to his side and felt no wounds there. No wounds. For the first time in a long while, there was no pain. He almost didn’t know what to make of it. Then he looked down and saw that the hand prodding his side was his own left hand. He laughed, holding it up before him. A mirror, he thought. I need a mirror. He found one beyond the next partition of the tent. Apparently, he’d been left completely alone. He held up the candle, looking into the small mirror. Moridin’s face looked back at him. Rand touched his face, feeling it. In his right eye hung a single saa, black, shaped like the dragon’s fang. It didn’t move. Rand slipped back into the portion of the tent where he’d awakened. Laman’s sword was there, sitting atop a neat pile of mixed clothing. Alivia apparently hadn’t known what he would want to wear. She had been the one to leave these things, of course, along with a bag of coins from a variety of nations. She hadn’t ever cared much for either clothing or coin, but she had known he’d need both. She will help you die. Rand shook his head, dressing and gathering the coins and the sword, then slipping out of the tent. Someone had left a good horse, a dappled gelding, tied not far away. That would do him well. From...

“We would like direction,” Rubinde said. “Direction?” Cadsuane snorted. “Ask the new Amyrlin, once you find some poor woman to put into the position.” The other women continued to walk with her. As it hit her, Cadsuane stopped in place. “Oh, blood and ashes, no!” Cadsuane said, spinning on them. “No, no, no.” The women smiled in an almost predatory way. “You always talked so wisely to the Dragon Reborn of responsibility,” Yukiri said. “You speak of how the women of this Age need better training,” Saerin added. “It is a new Age,” Lyrelle said. “We have many challenges ahead of us… and we will need a strong Amyrlin to lead us.” Cadsuane closed her eyes, groaning.

He sighed, fishing in his pocket, where he found a pipe. Thank you, Alivia, for that, he thought, packing it with tabac from a pouch he found in the other pocket. By instinct, he reached for the One Power to light it. He found nothing. No saidin in the void, nothing. He paused, then smiled and felt an enormous relief. He could not channel. Just to be certain, he tentatively reached for the True Power. Nothing there either. He regarded his pipe, riding up a little incline to the side of Thakan’dar, now covered in plants. No way to light the tabac. He inspected it for a moment in the darkness, then thought of the pipe being lit. And it was.

He heeled the horse into a canter, heading farther south. He had a purse full of coin, a good horse and a strong sword. Laman’s sword, which was a better sword than he’d have wanted. It might draw attention. It was a true heron-marked sword with a fine blade.

South. East or west would do, but he figured he wanted to go someplace away from it all for good. South first, then maybe out west, along the coast. Maybe he could find a ship? There was so much of the world he hadn’t seen. He’d experienced a few battles, he’d gotten caught up in a huge Game of Houses. Many things he hadn’t wanted anything to do with. He’d seen his father’s farm. And palaces. He’d seen a lot of palaces. He just had not had the leisure to have a real look at much of the world. That will be new, he thought. Traveling without being chased, or having to rule here or there. Traveling where he could just sleep in a barn in exchange for splitting someone’s firewood. He thought about that, and found himself laughing, riding on south and smoking his impossible pipe. As he did so, a wind rose up around him, around the man who had been called lord, Dragon Reborn, king, killer, lover and friend. The wind rose high and free, to soar in an open sky with no clouds. It passed over a broken landscape scattered with corpses not yet buried. A landscape covered, at the same time, with celebrations. It tickled the branches of trees that had finally begun to put forth buds. The wind blew southward, through knotted forests, over shimmering plains and toward lands unexplored. This wind, it was not the ending. There are no endings, and never will be endings, to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was an ending.

And it came to pass in those days, as it had come before and would come again, that the Dark lay heavy on the land and weighed down the hearts of men, and the green things failed, and hope died. And men cried out to the Creator, saying, O Light of the Heavens, Light of the World, let the Promised One be born of the mountain, according to the prophecies, as he was in ages past and will be in ages to come. Let the Prince of the Morning sing to the land that green things will grow and the valleys give forth lambs. Let the arm of the Lord of the Dawn shelter us from the Dark, and the great sword of justice defend us. Let the Dragon ride again on the winds of time. — from Charal Drianaan te Calamon, The Cycle of the Dragon. Author unknown, the Fourth Age.

He came like the wind, like the wind touched everything, and like the wind was gone. — from The Dragon Reborn. By Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, the Fourth Age. The End of the Last Book of The Wheel of Time