A Memory of Light

“You are going to Merrilor?” Perrin asked, surprised.

Chiad said, “Some of us are needed to bring the wounded in to be Healed. It is not a thing gai’shain have done in the past, but perhaps it is a thing we can do this time.”

Perrin nodded, then closed his eyes. He imagined himself close to sleep, drifting. His time in the wolf dream had trained his mind well. He could fool himself, with concentration. That didn’t change the world here, but it did change his perceptions.

Yes . . . drifting close to sleep . . . and there was the pathway. He took the branch toward the wolf dream in the flesh, and caught just a hint of a gasp from Masuri as he felt himself shift between worlds.

He opened his eyes and dropped into buffeting winds. He created a pocket of calm air, then hit the ground beneath with strengthened legs. Only a few teetering wal s remained of Berelain’s palace on this side. One of those broke apart, the stones shattering and pulled into the sky by the winds. The city beyond was mostly gone, heaps of rock here and there indicating where buildings had once stood. The sky groaned like bending metal.

Perrin summoned his hammer into his hand, then began the hunt one last time.

Thom Merrilin sat on a large, soot-blackened boulder, smoking his pipe, watching the world end.

He knew a thing or two about finding the best vantage to watch a performance. He judged this to be the finest seat in the world. His boulder was just next to the entrance into the Pit of Doom, close enough that if he leaned back and squinted, he could peer in and catch some of the lights and shadows playing inside. He glanced in. Nothing had changed.

Stay safe in there, Moiraine, he thought. Please.

He was also close enough to the edge of the path to overlook the val ey below. He puffed on his pipe, knuckling his mustache.

Someone had to record this. He couldn’t spend the entire time worrying about her. So, he searched his mind for the right words to describe what he was seeing. He set aside words like “epic” and “momentous.” They were nearly worn out with overuse.

A wave of wind blew through the val ey, ruffling the cadin’sor of Aiel fighting red-veiled enemies. Lightning surged, pounding at the Dragonsworn line holding the path up to the cave entrance. Those flashes sent men flying into the air. Then, that lightning started striking at the Trol ocs instead. The clouds went back and forth like that, the Windfinders seizing control of the weather, the Shadow taking it back. Neither side yet had managed a clear advantage for long.

Hulking dark beasts ravaged the valley, killing with ease. The Darkhounds did not fal despite the work of dozens in concert. The right side of the val ey was covered in a thick mist that, for some reason, the storm winds couldn’t budge.

“Climactic”? Thom thought, chewing on the stem of his pipe. No. Too expected. If you used the words people expected, they grew bored. A great bal ad needed to be unexpected.

Never be expected. When people start to expect you—when they started to anticipate your flourishes, to look for the bal you had hidden through sleight of hand, or to smile before you reached the twist line of your tale—it was time to pack up your cloak, bow once more for good measure, and stroll away. After all, that was what they’d least expect you to do when all was going well.

He leaned back again, peering into the tunnel. He couldn’t see her, of course. She was too far in. But he could feel her, in his mind, because of the bond.

She stared at the end of the world, with grit and determination. Despite himself, he smiled.

Below, the battle churned like a meat grinder, ripping men and Trol ocs into chunks of dead flesh. The Aiel fought at the periphery of the battlefield, engaging their Shadow-taken cousins. They seemed to be evenly matched, or they had been before those Darkhounds arrived.

They were relentless though, these Aiel. They didn’t seem tired at al , though it had been . . .

Thom couldn’t put his thumb on how much time had passed. He’d slept maybe five or six times since they’d come to Shayol Ghul, but he didn’t know if that marked the days. He checked the sky. No sign of the sun, though the channeling of the Windfinders—and the Bowl of the Winds—had summoned a great line of white clouds to crash into the black ones.

The clouds seemed to be having a battle of their own, a reverse image of the fighting below.

Black against white.

“Perilous”? he thought. No, that wasn’t the right word. He’d make a ballad of this for certain.

Rand deserved it. Moiraine, too. This would be her victory as much as it was his. He needed words. The right words.

He searched for them while he heard the Aiel beating spears against shields as they ran to battle. While he heard the howling wind inside the tunnel, and while he could feel her standing at the end.

Below, the Domani crossbowmen cranked frantical y. Once, thousands of them had been shooting. Now only a fraction remained.