A Memory of Light

Nothing.

Rand turned. He tried to turn. He had no form or shape.

Nothing.

He tried to speak, but he had no mouth. Finally, he managed to think the words and make them manifest.

SHAI’TAN, Rand projected, WHAT IS THIS?

OUR COVENANT, the Dark One replied. OUR ACCOMMODATION.

OUR ACCOMMODATION IS NOTHING? Rand demanded.

YES.

He understood. The Dark One was offering a deal. Rand could accept this .. He could accept nothingness. The two of them dueled for the fate

of the world. Rand pushed for peace, glory, love. The Dark One sought the opposite. Pain.

Suffering.

This was, in a way, a balance between the two. The Dark One would agree not to reforge the Wheel to suit his grim desires. There would be no enslaving of mankind, no world without love. There would be no world at all.

IT IS WHAT YOU PROMISED ELAN, Rand said. YOU PROMISED HIM AN END TO EXISTENCE.

I OFFER IT TO YOU, TOO, the Dark One replied. AND TO ALL MEN. YOU WANTED PEACE. I GIVE IT TO YOU. THE PEACE OF THE VOID THAT YOU SO OFTEN SEEK. I GIVE YOU NOTHING

AND EVERYTHING.

Rand did not reject the offer immediately. He grasped the offer and cradled it in his mind.

No more pain. No more suffering. No more burdens.

An ending. Was that not what he had desired? A way to end the cycles final y?

NO, Rand said. AN END TO EXISTENCE IS NOT PEACE. I MADE THIS CHOICE BEFORE. WE WILL

CONTINUE.

The Dark Ones pressure began to surround him again, threatening to rip him apart.

I WILL NOT OFFER AGAIN, the Dark One said.

“I would not expect you to,” Rand said as his body returned and the threads of possibility faded.

Then the true pain began.

Min waited with the gathered Seanchan forces, officers walking down the lines with lanterns to prepare the men. They had not returned to Ebou Dar, but instead had fled through gateways to a large open plain that she did not recognize. Trees with a strange bark and large, open fronds grew here. She could not tell if they were truly trees, or just very large ferns. It was particularly hard to tel because of the wilting; the trees had grown leaves, but now they drooped down at the sides as if they had not seen water in far too many weeks. Min tried to imagine what they would have looked like when healthy.

The air smel ed different to her—of plants she did not recognize, and of seawater. The Seanchan forces waited in strict formations of troops, ready to march, each fourth man with a lantern, though only one in ten of those

were currently lit. Moving an army could not be done fast, despite gateways, but Fortuona had access to hundreds of damane. The retreat had been carried out efficiently, and Min suspected that a return to the battlefield could be accomplished swiftly.

If Fortuona decided to return, that was. The Empress sat atop a pil ar in the night, lifted up to it on her palanquin, lit by blue lanterns. It was not a throne, but a pure white pil ar, about six feet high, erected on the top of a smal hil . Min had a seat next to the pillar, and could hear reports as they arrived.

“This battle is not going well for the Prince of the Ravens,” General Galgan said. He addressed his generals before Fortuona, speaking to them directly, so that they could respond to him without formally addressing the Empress. “His request for us to return came only just now. He has waited far too long to seek our aid.”

“I hesitate to say this,” Yulan said. “But, though the Empress’s wisdom knows no bounds, I do not have confidence in the Prince. He might be the chosen consort of the Empress, and he was obviously a wise choice for that role. He has proven himself reckless in battle, however. Perhaps he is overly strained by what is happening.”

“I’m sure he has a plan,” Beslan said, earnest. “You have to trust Mat. He knows what he’s doing.”

“He impressed me earlier,” Galgan said. “The omens seem to favor him.” “He is losing, Captain-General,” Yulan said. “Losing badly. The omens for a man can change quickly, as can the fortune of a nation.”

Min narrowed her eyes at the short Captain of the Air. He now wore the last two fingernails of each hand lacquered. He had been the one to lead the strike on Tar Valon, and the success of that attack had gained him great favor in Fortuona’s eyes. Symbols and omens spun around his head, like those above Galgan’s—and, indeed, Beslan’s.

Light, Min thought. Am I really starting to think of “omens” like Fortuona? I need to leave these people. They’re mad.