A Memory of Light

“What of Demandred?” Logain asked softly. “He cries out for the Dragon. He has the power of a dozen men. None of us can face him.”


“But you want to try, don’t you?” Mat replied. “That’s why you’re really here, right now. You want me to send you against Demandred.”

Logain hesitated, then nodded. “He cannot have the Dragon Reborn. He wil have to take me instead. The Dragon’s . . . replacement, if you will.”

Blood and bloody ashes . . . they're all insane. Unfortunately, what else was Mat going to do against one of the Forsaken? Right now, his battle plan revolved around keeping Demandred occupied, forcing the man to respond. If Demandred had to act as general, he couldn’t do as much damage channeling.

He would have to come up with something to deal with the Forsaken. He was working on that. He’d been working on it the whole bloody battle, and hadn’t come up with anything.

Mat glanced back through his gateway. Elayne was being pressed too hard. He had to do something. Send in the Seanchan? He had them positioned at the southern end of the field on the banks of the Erinin. They would be a wildcard to Demandred, preventing him from committing al his troops in the battles being waged below the Heights. In addition, he had plans for them. Important ones.




Logain didn’t have much of a shot against Demandred, in Mat’s estimation. But he’d have to deal with the man somehow. If Logain wanted to try, then so be it.

“You may fight him,” Mat said. “Do it now, or wait until he is weakened a little. Light, I hope we can weaken him. Anyway, I leave it to you. Pick your time and attack.”

Logain smiled, then made a gateway right in the middle of the room and strode through, hand on his sword. He had enough pride to be the Dragon Reborn, that was for certain. Mat shook his head. What he would give to be done with al of these high heads. Mat might be one of them now, but that could be fixed. Al he had to do was convince Tuon to forsake her throne and run off with him. That would not be easy, but bloody ashes, he was fighting the Last Battle. Compared to the chal enge he now faced, Tuon seemed to be an easy knot to untie.

“Glory of men . . .” Min whispered. “It’s still to come.”

“Someone go check on those guards,” Mat said, returning to his maps. “Tuon, we may want to move you. This place never has been secure, and Logain has just proven it.”

“I can protect myself,” she said haughtily.

Too haughty. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she nodded.

Really? Mat thought. This is what you want to fight about? He was not certain the spy would buy it. Too flimsy a reason.

His plan with Tuon was to take a cue from what Rand had once done with Perrin. If Mat could fake a split between himself and the Seanchan, and in so doing make Tuon pull her forces back, perhaps the Shadow would ignore her. Mat needed an edge of some sort.

Two guards came in. No, three. That one fellow was easy to miss. Mat shook his head at Tuon—they needed to find something more realistic to argue over—and glanced back at his maps.

Something itched at him about the little guard. Looks more like a servant than a soldier, Mat thought. He forced himself to look up, though he real y should not let himself become distracted by common servants. Yes, there the fel ow was, standing beside Mats table. Not worth paying attention to, even if he was pulling a knife out.

A knife.

Mat stumbled back as the Gray Man attacked. Mat yel ed, reaching for one of his own knives, just as Mika screamed. “Channeling! Nearby!”

Min threw herself at Fortuona as the wall of the command post went up in flame. Sharans in strange armor made of bands of metal, painted gold, ripped through the blazing opening.

Channelers with tattooed faces accompanied them: the women in long, stiff black dresses, the men shirtless, trousers ragged. Min took this in just before she tipped Fortuona’s throne over.

Fire burned through the air above Min, singeing her ornate silks and consuming the wall behind them. Fortuona scrambled out of Mins grip, lying low, and Min blinked in surprise.

The woman had left her bulky costume behind—it was made to break away—and underneath wore sleek silken trousers and a tight shirt, both black.

Tuon came up with a knife in her hand, growling softly in an almost feral way. Nearby, Mat fel backward to the ground, a knife-wielding man on top of him. Where had that man come from? She didn’t remember him entering.

Tuon ran for Mat as Sharan channelers began to pound the command post with fire. Min struggled to her feet in the awful clothing. She pul ed a dagger out and huddled by the throne, putting her back to it as the ground heaved.