A Memory of Light

She moved forward to check on the siswai’aman. Eight stil lived, three of them wounded.

Aviendha was not particularly good with Healing, but she was able to save the life of one man, keeping a wound in his throat from bleeding out. The other survivors gathered the wounded and moved back toward the camp.

Aviendha stood above the two corpses. She decided not to look at them closely. Seeing one man she had known was bad enough. These— A shock went through her, and one of her wel s of power vanished. Aviendha gasped.

Another one winked out.

She immediately released the circle, then dashed back to where she had left the women.

Flashes and explosions shook her. Aviendha clung to the One Power, her own strength now seeming pitifully smal compared to what she’d been using.

She stumbled to a halt before the smoldering corpses of Kiruna and Faeldrin. The hideous woman she had seen before—the woman that Aviendha was increasingly certain was one of the Forsaken—stood there smiling at her. The horrid woman had her hand on Sarene’s shoulder; the slender White stood with her head turned toward the Forsaken, staring at her with vapid, adoring eyes. Sarene’s Warder lay dead at her feet.

Both vanished, twisting upon themselves, Traveling without use of a gateway. Aviendha fel to her knees beside the dead. Nearby, Damer Flinn groaned and tried to pull himself free of the cast-up earth. His left arm was completely gone, burned away at the shoulder.

Aviendha cursed and did what she could to Heal him, though he slipped into unconsciousness. She suddenly felt very tired and very, very alone.





A Practiced Grin

Olver missed Wind. Bela—the stout, shaggy mare he now rode— wasn’t bad, really. She was just slow. Olver knew this because he kept trying to nudge her forward, but she continued plodding along behind the other horses. Nothing he did could make her go any faster. Olver wanted to ride like a storm. Instead, he rode like a sturdy log in a placid river.





CHAPTER


35


He wiped his brow. The Blight was pretty scary, and the others—most of them didn’t have horses—walked as if each step was going to bring a thousand Trollocs down on them. The rest of the caravan spoke in hushed voices, and they looked at the hil sides with suspicion.

They passed a group of withered trees, with sap leaking from open sores in the bark. That sap looked too red. Almost like blood. Nearby, one of the caravan drivers stepped up to inspect it.

Vines snapped down from the limbs above—vines that looked brown and dead, yet moved like snakes. Before Olver could scream, the caravan driver was hanging, dead, from the upper branches of the tree.

The entire line of people froze in place, horrified. Above, the tree actually pulled the dead man into itself through a split in the bark. Ingesting him. Maybe that sap was blood.

Olver looked on, horrified.

“Steady,” Lady Faile said, a slight tremor in her voice. “I’ve told you, don’t draw close to plants! Don’t touch anything.”

They moved on, a solemn bunch. Sandip, riding nearby, muttered to himself. “That’s the fifteenth one. Fifteen men, dead in a few days. Light! We’re never going to survive this!”

If only it were Trol ocs! Olver couldn’t fight trees and insects. Who could? But Trol ocs, those he’d be able to fight. Olver had his knife, and he’d learned a few things about using it from Harnan and Silvic. Olver wasn’t that tall, but he figured that would make Trollocs underestimate him. He could lunge low and go for their vitals before they knew what was happening.

He told himself this to keep his hands from shaking as he kicked Bela, hoping to move up by Lady Faile. In the distance, he heard a screeching sound, like something dying in a horrible way. Olver shivered. He’d heard that same sound earlier in the day. Did it sound closer now?

Setalle gave him a worried glance as he neared the front. The others tried everything they could to keep him from danger. He steeled himself, ignoring that horrid screeching off in the distance. Everyone thought Olver was fragile, but he wasn’t. They hadn’t seen what he had, growing up. In truth, he didn’t like thinking about those times. It seemed as if he’d lived three lives. One before his parents died, one when he’d been alone and now this one.

Anyway, he was used to fighting people bigger than he was. It was the Last Battle. They kept saying everyone would be needed. Wel , why not him? When the Trol ocs came, the first thing he’d do was climb down off this slow mount. He could stroll faster than this animal could gal op! Wel , the Aiel didn’t need horses. Olver hadn’t gone to train with them yet, but he would. He had it planned out. He hated al Aiel, but mostly the Shaido, and he would need to learn their secrets if he was going to kill them.