A Memory of Light

Too many people channeling al about. It was going to grow difficult to pinpoint an attack by one of the Forsaken.

“We need to set up Traveling grounds,” Aviendha said. “And keep strict control over who is going to channel and where. That way, we’l be able to tel in an instant when we sense channeling if something is wrong.’ She raised her hand to her head. This is going to be very difficult to organize.” Nearby, Amys smile widened. You are in command now, Aviendha, that smile seemed to say. And leadership’s headaches are yours to endure.

Rand al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn, turned away from Aviendha and left her and Ituralde to their battle. He had a different one to join.

At last, the time had come.

He approached the base of the mountain of Shayol Ghul. Above, a black hole burrowed into the mountain face, the only way to reach the Pit of Doom. Moiraine joined him, pulling close her rippling shawl, its blue fringe catching in the wind. “Remember. This is not the Bore, this is not the Dark Ones prison. This is merely the place where his touch is strongest upon the world. He has control here.”

“He touches the entire world now, to one extent or another,” Rand said.

“And so his touch here will be stronger.”

Rand nodded, setting his hand upon the dagger he wore at his belt. “No channeling until we strike at the Dark One directly. If possible, I would avoid a fight like the one we had at the cleansing. What comes will require all of my strength.”

Nynaeve nodded. She wore her angreal and ter’angreal jewelry over a gown of yellow, one far more beautiful than she would ever have al owed herself during their days in the Two Rivers. She looked strange to him without her braid, her hair now barely to her shoulders.

She seemed somehow older. That shouldn’t be. The braid was a symbol of age and maturity in the Two Rivers. Why should Nynaeve look older without it?

Thom stepped up beside Rand, squinting up at the hole in the rock. “I suspect I’m not going in with you.”

Moiraine looked at him, pursing her lips.

“Someone will need to guard the entry into the cave, my wife,” Thom said. “That ledge up there right beside the opening has an excel ent view of the battlefield. I can watch the battle below, maybe compose a good ballad or two.”

Rand smiled at the spark of humor in Thom’s eyes. They stood at the edge of time itself, and still Thom Merrilin found a smile.

Above them, dark clouds spun, the peak of Shayol Ghul their axis. Darkness assaulted the sun until it was nearly gone, entirely covered, in total oblivion.

Rand’s forces stopped, staring in terror at the sky, and even the Trollocs paused, growling and hooting. But as the sun slowly emerged from its captivity, the fierce battle resumed in the val ey below. It announced his intentions, but the dagger would shield him from the Dark One’s eyes. The Light willing, the Shadow’s leaders would focus on the battle and assume Rand would wait for its outcome before striking.

“Now?” Nynaeve asked, looking up the narrow, stony pathway to the cavern.

Rand nodded and led the way forward. A wind rose, whipping at the four as they climbed the pathway. He had chosen his clothing deliberately. His red coat, embroidered with long-thorned briars on the sleeves and golden herons on the col ar, was a twin to one of those Moiraine had arranged for him to receive in Fal Dara. The white shirt, laced across the front, was of Two Rivers make. Callandor on his back, the sword of Laman at his hip. It had been a long time since he’d chosen to wear that, but it felt appropriate.

The winds buffeted him, threatening to throw him from the heights. He pushed forward anyway, climbing the steep hill, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side. Time seemed to have less meaning here, and he felt as if he’d been walking for days when he reached the flat area before the cavern. He turned, resting one hand against the rock of the open maw, and looked out over the valley.

His forces in the valley seemed so fragile, so insignificant. Would they be able to hold it long enough?

“Rand . . .” Nynaeve said, taking his arm. “Perhaps you should rest.”

He looked down, fol owing her eyes to his side. His wound, the old wound, had broken open again. He felt blood inside his boot. It had run down his side, down his leg, and when he moved his foot, he left a bloody footprint behind.

Blood on the rocks . . .

Nynaeve raised a hand to her mouth.

“It has to happen, Nynaeve,” Rand said. “You cannot stop it. The prophecy does not say anything about me living through this. I’ve always found that odd, haven’t you? Why would it speak of the blood, but not what comes after?” He shook his head, then unsheathed Callandor from his back. “Moiraine, Nynaeve, will you lend me your strength and join me in a circle?”

“Do you wish one of us to lead,” Moiraine said hesitantly, “so you can use that safely?”