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

by Robert Jordan

“How?” she yelled at them over the sound of the hooves. “We let a caravan find us,” Harnan yelled back, “and let them take us captive. They brought us through the gateway a few hours back, and we’ve been preparing the captives to break free. Your arrival gave us the opportunity we needed!” “The Horn! You tried to steal the Horn!” “No,” Harnan yelled back, “we tried to steal some of Mat’s tabac!” “I thought you had buried it to leave it behind!” Vanin yelled from the other side. “I figured Mat wouldn’t care. He owes me a few marks anyway! When I opened that sack and found the bloody Horn of Valere … bloody ashes! I’ll bet they heard my yell all the way in Tar Valon!”

The riders were almost upon her. Faile didn’t have time to think. She whipped the Horn from its sack and pushed it into Olver’s arms. “Keep this,” she said. “Hide. Take it to Mat Cauthon later in the night.”

The war returned to him in full force, the confusion, the smoke and screams. He stepped through, the others following. The powerful channeling from Demandred shone like a beacon, the man’s booming voice continuing to taunt the Dragon Reborn. Rand al’Thor was not here. Well, the closest thing to him was Logain himself. Another substitute. “I’m going to fight him,” he told the others. “Gabrelle, you will remain behind and wait for my return, as I may need Healing. The rest of you deal with Taim’s men and those Sharan channelers. Let no man live who has gone to the Shadow, whether by choice or force. Bring justice to the one and mercy to the other.”

Egwene felt Leilwin nearing. That one … that one had proven faithful. Such a surprise. Having a new Warder did not take the edge off her despair at Gawyn’s death, but it did help in other ways. That knot in the back of Egwene’s mind had replaced itself with a new one, very different, yet shockingly loyal.

“You wonder?” Ila asked. “Raen…” “What would we have them do, Ila? Trollocs will not follow the Way of the Leaf.” “There is plenty of room to run,” Ila said. “Look at them. They came to meet the Trollocs when the Shadowspawn were barely out of the Blight. If that energy had been spent gathering the people and leading them away to the south…” “The Trollocs would have followed,” Raen said. “What then, Ila?” “We have accepted many masters,” Ila said. “The Shadow might treat us poorly, but would it really be worse than we have been treated at the hands of others?” “Yes,” Raen said softly. “Yes, Ila. It would be worse. Far, far worse.” Ila looked at him. He shook his head, sighing. “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.”

A horse snorted nearby. It was Bela, chewing on some grain leaked from a supply cart. The horse raised her head, looking at Olver. She didn’t have a saddle on, only a halter and bridle. Blood and ashes, Olver thought, running for her, I wish I had Wind. This plump mare would end him in the cookpot for certain. Olver sheathed his knife and jumped up onto Bela’s back, seizing the reins in one hand, clutching the Horn in the other.

Olver grabbed the Horn, and found that he was weeping. “I’m sorry,” he said to Bela. “You were a good horse. You ran like Wind couldn’t have. I’m sorry.” She whinnied softly and drew a final breath, then died.

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.

Lord Rand had come to him, making apologies. To him! Well, Hurin would do him proud. The Dragon Reborn did not need the forgiveness of a little thief-taker, but Hurin still felt as if the world had righted itself. Lord Rand was Lord Rand again. Lord Rand would preserve them, if they could give him enough time.

The Tinkers turned toward the hallway, speaking in comforting tones to the wounded men. Only those who could be saved were brought back. She had been forced to instruct the leaders among the Tuatha’an women as to which types of wounds took too much effort to Heal. Better to save ten men with bad wounds than to expend the same energy trying to rescue one man who clung to life by a single blade of hope. That moment of explanation had been one of the grimmest things she’d ever done.

“You, the blind Aiel.” “I am called Ronja.” “Well, Ronja. I have some gai’shain here helping me. By my count, there should be a lot more of them. Where are they?” “They wait until the battle is through so that they may minister to the victors.” “We’re going to fetch them,” she said. “We need every person we can get to help fight.” “They may come to you here, Berelain Paendrag, and help with tending the sick,” the man said. “But they will not fight. It is not their place.” “They will see reason,” she said firmly. “It’s the Last Battle!”

“How?” Berelain asked, clutching his other hand, closing her eyes. His hand felt warm. When she had heard what Demandred bellowed, defeating the man in white … “I felt that I owed it to you,” Annoura said. “I located him on the battlefield after Demandred announced what he had done. I pulled him away while Demandred fought against one of the Black Tower’s men.”

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.

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?

Sakarnen

Mellar turned as two men dragged Birgitte over. She thrashed in their grip, and a third man came over to help hold her. Mellar took out his sword, regarded its blade for a moment, as if inspecting himself in its reflective gleam. Then he rammed it into Birgitte’s stomach. Birgitte gasped, falling to her knees. Mellar beheaded her with a vicious backhand blow. Elayne found herself sitting very still, unable to think or react as Birgitte’s corpse flopped forward, spilling lifeblood from the neck. The bond winked away, and with it came … pain. Terrible pain.

The Dark One was offering a deal. Rand could accept this … He could accept nothingness. The two of them dueled for the fate of the world. Rand pushed for peace, glory, love. The Dark One sought the opposite. Pain. Suffering. This was, in a way, a balance between the two. The Dark One would agree not to reforge the Wheel to suit his grim desires. There would be no enslaving of mankind, no world without love. There would be no world at all. IT IS WHAT YOU PROMISED ELAN, Rand said. YOU PROMISED HIM AN END TO EXISTENCE. I OFFER IT TO YOU, TOO, the Dark One replied. AND TO ALL MEN. YOU WANTED PEACE. I GIVE IT TO YOU. THE PEACE OF THE VOID THAT YOU SO OFTEN SEEK. I GIVE YOU NOTHING AND EVERYTHING. Rand did not reject the offer immediately. He grasped the offer and cradled it in his mind. No more pain. No more suffering. No more burdens. An ending. Was that not what he had desired? A way to end the cycles finally? NO, Rand said. AN END TO EXISTENCE IS NOT PEACE. I MADE THIS CHOICE BEFORE. WE WILL CONTINUE.

“Mat has asked for us to return,” Min said softly. “How long will you debate doing what he asked?” Tuon eyed her. “Until I am convinced this is best for my Empire.” “He is your husband.” “One man’s life is not worth that of thousands,” Tuon said, but she sounded genuinely troubled. “If the battle really does go as badly as Yulan’s scouts say…” “You named me Truthspeaker,” Min said. “What exactly does that mean?” “It is your duty to censure me in public, if I do something wrong. However, you are untrained in the station. It would be best for you to hold yourself back until I can provide proper—” Min turned to face the generals and the watching crowd, her heart beating frantically. “As Truthspeaker to the Empress Fortuona, I speak now the truth. She has abandoned the armies of humankind, and she withholds her strength in a time of need. Her pride will cause the destruction of all people, everywhere.”

Egwene felt Leilwin approaching from behind. The new Warder took her duties seriously. A Seanchan, fighting as her Warder in the Last Battle. Why not? The world itself was unraveling.

Ahead, M’Hael saw her. He smiled, striding forward, a scepter in one hand, the other pointed toward her, palm up. What would happen if he burned her away with balefire? The last two hours would vanish. Her rally of the Aes Sedai, the dozens upon dozens of Sharans she had killed … 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 still did not know what it was she wove. The opposite of balefire. A fire of her own, a weave of light and rebuilding. The Flame of Tar Valon.

She clung to the Power she’d held. She had pulled in too much. She knew that if she released her grip, she would leave herself burned out, unable to channel another drop. The Power surged through her in this last moment.

“Watch for the light, Leilwin,” Egwene said. “As the Amyrlin Seat, I command you—find the seals of the Dark One’s prison and break them. Do it the moment the light shines. Only then can it save us.”

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.

Egwene died. Rand screamed in denial, in rage, in sorrow. “Not her! NOT HER!”

“The Amyrlin Seat is dead,” Arganda reported. Blood and bloody ashes, Mat thought. Egwene. Not Egwene too? It hit him like a punch to the face.

Mat dug in his saddlebags as Lan withdrew. He pulled out Rand’s banner, the one of the ancient Aes Sedai. He’d gathered it earlier, thinking perhaps it might have some use. “Somebody hoist this thing up. We’re fighting in Rand’s bloody name. Let’s show the Shadow we’re proud of it.”

“The Queen of Andor is dead,” Arganda said. Bloody Ashes! Not Elayne! Mat felt a lurch inside. Rand … I’m sorry. “Who leads there? Bashere?” “Dead,” Arganda said.

“Will it be enough?” Arganda asked. “No,” Mat said. “Then why?” “Because I’ll be a Darkfriend before I’ll let this battle go without trying everything, Arganda.”

The mercenary nearby laughed. “That’s a hundred paces at least! You’ll fill him with arrows if anything.” Tam eyed the man, then took his arrow and thrust the end into a torch. The bundled rag behind the head came alight with fire. “First rank, on my signal!” Tam yelled, ignoring the other orders that came down the line. “Let’s give Lord Mandragoran a little something to guide his way!”

It was an impossible maneuver. All the Trollocs would need to do was squeeze together and slow him. After that, they could overwhelm Mandarb and pull Lan from the saddle. But someone had to destroy Demandred. With the medallion at his neck, Lan raised his sword.

Demandred felt at the wound in his cheek, and his eyes opened wider. “Who are you?” Demandred asked. “I am the man who will kill you.”

The Pattern spun around Rand, forcing him to watch. He looked through eyes streaming with tears. He saw the people struggle. He saw them fall. He saw Elayne, captive and alone, a Dreadlord preparing to rip their children from her womb. He saw Rhuarc, his mind forfeit, now a pawn of one of the Forsaken. 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.

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.

Rand squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of all those who had died for him. Of Egwene, whom he had sworn to himself to protect. 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? “I…” 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.

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. Names streamed from his head. Egwene, Hurin, Bashere, Isan of the Chareen Aiel, Somara and thousands more. One by one—first slowly, but with increasing speed—he counted backward through the list he had once maintained in his head.

The Dark One was not a being. It was the darkness between. Between lights, between moments, between eyeblinks. ALL IS MINE THIS TIME. IT WAS EVER MEANT TO BE. IT WILL EVER BE. Rand saluted those who died. The blood running across rocks. The weeping of those who witnessed others fall. The Shadow threw all of it at Rand, intent on Rand’s destruction. But it did not destroy him. “We will never give in,” Rand whispered. “I will never give in.”

“I will not give up,” he repeated, and the words seemed a wonder to him. 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.”

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 watched. Including Rand. It was about them all.

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.

She tried to concentrate, but she could only think that Birgitte had been right all along. It was fully possible for the babes to be safe, as Min had foretold, while Elayne herself was left dead.

All around them, Mellar’s men stood as if paralyzed, gaping at Birgitte. The clothing she now wore seemed to glow. A short white coat, a voluminous pair of pale yellow trousers and a dark cloak. Her long golden hair hung in an intricate braid, down to her waist. “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!”

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.

“Hello, Hawkwing,” Mat called. “Gambler,” Hawkwing replied. “Do take better care of what has been allotted you. Almost, I worried we would not be summoned for this fight.” Mat let out a relaxing breath. “Bloody ashes, Hawkwing! You needn’t have drawn it out like that, you bloody goat-kisser. So you fight for us?” “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.

“I did die,” Mat said, rubbing at the scar on his neck. “Apparently that tree claimed me.” “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.”

Shadows churned above. Grunting. What was happening? Cautiously, Olver raised his head, and found someone standing above, one foot planted on either side of him. The figure fought in a blur, facing down a dozen Trollocs at once, his staff whirling this way and that as he defended the boy. 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!”

Nearby, Elayne’s Guards, having rallied, burst through Mellar’s soldiers. A few stopped when they saw Birgitte. “Keep fighting, you daughters and sons of goats!” Birgitte yelled, loosing arrows at the mercenaries. “I might be dead, but I’m still your bloody commander, and you will obey orders!”

“Sorry?” Birgitte turned to her. “Sorry? Why do you mourn, Elayne? I have it all back! My memory has returned.” She laughed. “It is wonderful! I don’t know how you stood me these last few weeks. I moped worse than a child who’d just broken her favorite bow.”

“You’re not my Warder any longer,” Elayne said. “But you’re still my friend. Will you ride with me?” “Stubborn fool.” “I’m not the one who just refused to stay dead. Together?” “Together,” Birgitte said, nodding.

Graendal’s Aiel thralls stalked outward, their veils up, searching for Aviendha. Aviendha was tempted to channel right then and there, to end their lives. Any Aiel she knew would thank her for that.