A Memory of Light

“I know you will not leave her,” Leilwin said, “particularly under the watch of a Seanchan.

Come, Bayle. Let us fetch this fool some food so that he does not faint if assassins do come.”

She stalked off, her large Illianer husband fol owing. The fel ow shot a glare over his shoulder that could have cured leather.

Gawyn sighed and settled down on the ground. From his pocket, he pulled three black rings; he selected one, then shoved the others back into his pocket.

Talk of assassins always made him think of the rings, which he’d taken off the Seanchan who had come to kill Egwene. The rings were ter’angreal. They were the means by which those Bloodknives had moved quickly and blended into shadows.

He held up the ring toward the light. It didn’t look like any ter’angreal he had seen, but an object of the Power could look like anything. The rings were of some heavy black stone he did not recognize. The outside was carved like thorns, though the inside surface—the side that touched the skin—was smooth.

Fie turned the ring over in his fingers. He knew that he should go to Egwene with it. He also knew how the White Tower treated ter’angreal. They locked the objects away, afraid to experiment with them. But this was the Last Battle. If there was ever a time to take risks . . .

You decided to stand in Egwene’s shadow, Gawyn, he thought. You decided you would protect her, do what she needed of you. She was winning this war, she and the Aes Sedai.

Would he let himself grow as jealous of her as he had been of al’Thor?

“Is that what I believe it to be?”

Gawyn snapped his head up, fist closing around the ring. Leilwin and Bayle Domon had been to the mess tent and returned with a bowl for him. From the smell of it, the meal was barley stew again. The cooks used so much pepper it was almost sickening. Gawyn suspected they did so because the black flakes hid the bits of weevil.

I can’t act like I’m doing something suspicious, he thought immediately. / can’t let her go to Egwene.

“This?” he asked, holding up the ring. “It’s one of the rings we recovered from the Seanchan assassins who tried to kill Egwene. We assume it’s a ter’angreal of some sort, though it’s not one the White Tower has ever heard of.”

Leilwin hissed softly. “Those are to be bestowed only by the Empress, may she—” She cut herself off and took a deep breath. “Only one appointed as a Bloodknife, one who has given their life to the Empress, is al owed to wear such a ring. For you to put one on would be very, very wrong.”

“Fortunately,” Gawyn said, “I’m not wearing it.”

“The rings are dangerous,” Leilwin said. “I do not know much of them, but they are said to kil those who use them. Do not let your blood touch the ring, or you wil activate it, and that could be deadly, Warder.” She handed him the bowl of stew, then strode away.

Domon didn’t fol ow her. The Il ianer scratched at his short beard. “She do not always be the most accommodating of women, my wife,” he said to Gawyn. “But she do be strong and wise. You would do wel to listen to her.”

Gawyn pocketed the ring. “Egwene would never al ow me to wear it in the first place.” That was true. If she knew about it. “Tel your wife that I appreciate the warning. I should warn you that the subject of the assassins is still a very sore subject for the Amyrlin. I’d suggest avoiding the topic of the Bloodknives, or their ter’angreal.”

Domon nodded and then went after Leilwin. Gawyn felt only a smal prick of shame at the deception. He hadn’t said anything untrue. He just didn’t want Egwene asking any awkward questions.

That ring, and its brothers, represented something. They weren’t the way of the Warder.

Standing beside Egwene, watching for danger to her . . . that was the way of the Warder. He would make a difference on the battlefield by serving her, not by riding out like some hero.

He told himself that time and time again as he ate his stew. By the time he was done, he was nearly certain he believed it.

He still didn’t tell Egwene about the rings.

Rand remembered the first time he’d seen a Trol oc. Not when they had attacked his farm in the Two Rivers. The true first time he’d seen them. During the last Age.

There wil come a time when they no longer exist, he thought, weaving Fire and Air, creating an explosive wall of flames that roared to life in the middle of a pack of Trollocs. Nearby, men of Perrin’s Wolf Guard raised weapons in thanks. Rand nodded back. He wore the face of Jur Grady in this fight, for now.