A Memory of Light

You look good in black, Androl sent to Pevara as they moved through the enemy army on top of the Heights.

That, she replied back, is something one should never, never say to an Aes Sedai. Ever.

His only response was a sense of nervousness through the bond. Pevara understood. They— wearing inverted weaves of the Mask of Mirrors— walked among Darkfriends, Shadowspawn and Sharans. And it was working. Pevara wore a white dress and a black cloak over it—those weren’t part of a weave—but anyone looking into her cloak’s hood would see the face of Alviarin, a member of the Black Ajah. Theodrin wore the face of Rianna.

Androl and Emarin wore weaves that gave them the faces of Nensen and Kash, two of Taim’s cronies. Jonneth looked very unlike himself, wearing the face of a nondescript Darkfriend, and he played the part well, skulking behind and carrying their gear. One would never have seen the good-natured Two Rivers man in that hawk-faced man with the greasy hair and nervous manner.

They moved at a brisk pace along the back lines of the Shadow’s army on the Heights.

Trol ocs hauled bundles of arrows forward; others left the lines to feast on piles of corpses.

Cookpots boiled here. That shocked Pevara. They were stopping to eat? Now?

Only some of them, Androl sent. It’s common for human armies too, though these moments don’t make it into the ballads. The fighting has lasted all day, and soldiers need energy while fighting. Usually, you rotate in three batches. Your front lines, your reserves, and your off-duty—troops who wil trudge away from the fight and eat as quickly as they can before grabbing a little sleep. Then back to the front lines.

She’d once seen war differently. She’d imagined every man committed every moment of the day. A true battle, however, was not a sprint; it was an extended, soul-grinding trudge.

It was late afternoon already, approaching evening. To the east, below the Heights, battle lines extended far in both directions along the dry riverbed. Many thousands of men and Trollocs fought back and forth there. Large numbers of Trollocs fought there, but others were rotated back up the Heights to either eat or col apse into unconsciousness for a time.

She did not look too closely at the cookpots, though Jonneth fel to his knees and sicked up beside the path. He had noticed the body parts floating in the thick stew. As he emptied his stomach onto the ground, a passing group of Trol ocs snorted and hooted in mockery.

Why are they pushing off the Heights to take the river? she sent to Androl. It seems to be a better position up here.

Maybe it is, Androl sent. But the Shadow is the aggressor. If they stay in this position, it serves Cauthon s army. Demandred needs to keep pressing him. That means crossing the river.

So Androl understood tactics, too. Interesting.

I've picked up a few things, he sent. I wont be leading a battle any time soon.

Just curious how many lives you’ve led, Androl.

An odd statement, coming from a woman who is old enough to be my grandmother’s grandmother.

They continued along the eastern side of the Heights. Distant, on the far western side, the Aes Sedai were battling their way up to the top—but for now, the Heights were held by Demandred’s forces. This area Pevara walked through was full of Trollocs. Some bowed in a lumbering way as Pevara and the others passed, others curled up on the stones to sleep, with no cushions or blankets. Each one kept its weapon at hand.

“This does not look promising,” Emarin said softly from behind his mask. “I do not see Taim associating with Trollocs any more than he has to.”

“Ahead,” Androl said. “Look there.”

The Trollocs were separated from a group of Sharans who could be seen up ahead, wearing unfamiliar uniforms. They wore armor that was wrapped in cloth, so none of the metal showed except on the very back, though the shape of the breastplates was stil obvious.

Pevara looked to the others.

“I could see Taim being part of that group,” Emarin said. “It’s likely to smell far less putrid than over here among the Trol ocs, for one thing.”

Pevara had been ignoring the stench—she had learned to do that years ago, snuffing out powerful scents in the same way she ignored heat and cold. As Emarin said it, however, a hint of what the others were smel ing seeped through her defenses. She quickly regained control. It was awful.

“Will the Sharans let us pass?” Jonneth asked.

“We shall see,” Pevara said, setting off toward the Sharans; their group fell in around her.