A Memory of Light

“Where are your guards?” the soldier asked. “This is Lifa’s run, isn’t it? What happened?”


“Those fools!” Aravine said, then spat to the side. Olver hid a smile. Her entire countenance changed. She knew how to play a part. “They’re dead where I left them! I told them not to wander at night. I don’t know what took the three, but we found them at the edge of camp, bloated, their skin black.” She looked sick. “I think something laid eggs in their hollowed-out stomachs. We didn’t want to find what hatched.”

The soldier grunted. “You are?”

“Pansai,” Aravine said. “Lifa’s business partner.”

“Since when has Lifa had a business partner?”

“Since I stabbed her and took over her run.”

What information they had on Lifa had come from the rescued captives. It was thin. Olver felt himself sweating. The guard gave Aravine a long look, then began walking down the line of people.

Faile’s soldiers were mixed among the Kandori captives. They tried their best to hold the right posture.

“You, woman,” the guard said, pointing at Faile. “A Saldaean, eh?” He laughed. “I thought a Saldaean woman would kill a man before letting him take her captive.” He shoved Faile on the shoulder.

Olver held his breath. Oh, blood and bloody ashes! Lady Faile wasn’t going to be able to take that. The guard was looking to see if the captives were really beaten down or not! Faile’s posture, her manner, would give her away. She was noble, and— Faile slumped down, becoming small, and whimpered a reply that Olver could not hear.

Olver found himself gaping, then forced his mouth shut and looked down at the ground.

How? How had a lady like Faile learned to act like a servant?

The guard grunted. “Go on,” he said, waving to Aravine. “Wait there until we send for you.”

The group shuffled to a patch of ground nearby where Aravine ordered everyone to sit down. She stood to the side, arms folded, tapping one toe as she waited. Thunder rumbled, and Olver felt an odd chill. He looked up, and into the eyeless face of a Myrddraal.

A shock ran through Olver, like he’d been dropped into an icy lake. He couldn’t breathe. The Myrddraal seemed to glide as it moved, its cloak motionless and dead, as it rounded the group. After a horrible moment, it moved on, back toward the supply camp.

“Searching for channelers,” Faile whispered to Mandevwin.

“Light help us,” the man whispered back.

The wait was nearly insufferable. Eventual y, a plump woman in white clothing strode up and wove a gateway. Aravine barked for them al to climb to their feet, then waved them through. Olver joined the line, walking near Faile, and they passed from the land of red soil and cold air to a place that smelled like it was on fire.

They entered a ramshackle camp filled with Trollocs. Several large cookpots boiled nearby.

Just behind the camp, a slope led up sharply to some kind of large plateau. Streams of smoke rose from the top of it, and from there and somewhere to Olver’s left could be heard the sounds of combat. Turning away from the slope, the boy saw the darkened outline of a tall, narrow mountain far in the distance, rising from the flat plain like a candle in the middle of a table.

He looked back up the slope behind the camp, and his heart leaped. A body was plummeting down from the top of the slope, stil clutching in its hand a banner—a banner that bore a large red hand. The Band of the Red Hand! The man and banner fel among a group of Trollocs eating sizzling pieces of meat around a fire. Sparks flew in all directions, and the enraged beasts yanked the intruder out of the flames, but he was long past caring what they did to him.

“Faile!” he whispered.

“I see it.” Her bundle concealed the sack with the Horn in it. She added, more to herself, “Light. How are we going to reach Mat?”

They moved off to the side as the rest of her group came through the gateway. They had swords, but carried them bundled up like arrows, in packs, atop the backs of a few of the men as if they were tied-up supplies for the battlefield.

“Blood and ashes,” Mandevwin whispered, joining the two of them. Captives whimpered from a pen nearby. “Maybe they’l put us in there? We could sneak out in the night.”

Faile shook her head. “They’ll take our bundles. Leave us unarmed.” “Then what do we do?”

Mandevwin asked, glancing to the side as a group of Trollocs passed, dragging corpses harvested from the front lines. “Start fighting? Hope Lord Mat sees us, and sends help?”

Olver didn’t think much of that plan. He wanted to fight, but those Trol ocs were big. One passed nearby, and its wolf-featured head swung his way. Eyes that could have belonged to a man looked him up and down, as if hungry. Olver stepped back, then reached toward his bundle, where he’d hidden his knife.