A Memory of Light

Great change. So this was the meaning of the Dragon’s omen. Fortuona could swoop in and all of those damane would be hers. Hundreds upon hundreds. With that force, she could crush the resistance to her rule back in Seanchan.

It was the Last Battle. The world hung upon her decisions. Was it truly better to support these marathdamane in their desperate fight here, or should she use the chance to retreat to Seanchan, secure her rule there, then defeat the Trol ocs and the Shadow with the might of the Empire?

“You gave your word,” Knotai said softly.

“I signed a treaty,” she said. “Any treaty can be broken, particularly by the Empress.”

“Some empresses might be able to do that,” Knotai said. “But not you. Right? Light, Tuon.

You gave him your word”

Order in one hand—something known, something she could measure— chaos in the other.

Chaos in the form of a one-eyed man who knew Artur Hawk wing’s face.

Had she not just told Selucia she would bet upon him?

“The Empress cannot be constrained by words on a paper,” Fortuona said. “However ... in this case, the reason I signed the treaty remains, and is real. We will protect this world in its darkest days, and we will destroy the Shadow at its root. General Galgan, you shall move our forces to protect these marattidamane, as we will require their aid in fighting the Shadow.” Knotai relaxed. “Good. Yulan, Galgan, let’s get planning! And send for that woman, Tylee. She seems like the only bloody general around here with her head on her shoulders.

And . . ”

He went on talking, riding off, giving orders that he really should have allowed Galgan to give. Galgan studied her from horseback, his face unreadable. He’d consider this a grave mistake, but she . . . she had the omens on her side.

Those dreadful black clouds had been Lan’s companion for far too long. He had grown weary indeed of seeing them each day, expanding toward infinity in all directions, rumbling with thunder like growls from the stomach of a hungry beast.

“The clouds seem lower today,” Andere said, from his horse beside Mandarb. “The lightning is touching down. It doesn’t do that every day.”

Lan nodded. Andere was right; it did look bad. That didn’t change a thing. Agelmar had chosen the place for their battle alongside the river roaring on their western flank, using it to protect that side. Nearby hil s provided archer positions, and it was atop one of these that Lan and Andere waited.

Ahead, the Trollocs gathered for an assault. They would come soon. Closer by, Agelmar had placed heavy cavalry in the valleys for flanking attacks once the Trollocs charged, light cavalry behind the hills to help the heavy cavalry withdraw when the time came. Agelmar kept grumbling about not having any pikes, though it was the lack of foot that had facilitated their successful retreat.

For al the good it has done, Lan thought gloomily as he studied the near-endless sea of Trollocs. His men had picked their battles carefully, killing tens of thousands while losing only thousands, leaving Shienar burned and unable to sustain the Trol oc advance. None of it seemed to have mattered.

They were losing this fight. Yes, they had delayed the Trol ocs, but not wel enough—and not long enough. They would soon be trapped and destroyed, with no aid coming from Elayne’s army, which was pressed just as badly.

The sky darkened. Lan looked up sharply. Those clouds were stil there, but they grew much more ominous. The land was cast into deep shadow.

“Blast it,” Andere said, looking up. “Has the Dark One somehow swallowed the sun? We’ll have to carry lanterns to fight, even though it’s the middle of the day.”

Lan placed his hand to his breastplate; beneath the armor, Nynaeve’s letter rested next to his heart. Light! May her fight go better than my own. Earlier today, she and Rand had entered the Pit of Doom itself.

Across the battlefield, the tired channelers, pulling their eyes from the terrifyingly dark sky, sent up lights. It wasn’t much to see by, but it would have to do. But then the darkness receded, and daylight returned, clouded as had become usual.

“Gather the High Guard of Malkier,” Lan said. That was what his protectors were calling themselves. It was an old Malkieri term for the King’s battlefield guard. Lan wasn’t certain what to make of the fact that Prince Kaisel, who was from Kandor, considered himself one.

Many of Lan’s Malkieri had very little true Malkier blood—they came to him as an honor more than anything else. The Prince was another matter. Lan had asked him and his companions if they should be swearing to a foreign king, no matter how friendly.

The only reply he’d received was, “Malkier represents the Borderlands in this war, Dai Shan.”

Lightning flashed nearby; the clap of thunder beat against Lan like a physical thing. Mandarb barely stirred. The animal was growing accustomed to such strikes. The High Guard gathered, and Andere took up Lan’s banner, affixing it in the socket on his saddle so that he could carry it, but still swing a sword.