“Go fetch her,” Mat said. Those dice kept rattling in his head. He also felt a pull from the north, a tugging, as if some threads around his chest were yanking on him.
Not now, Rand, he thought. I’m bloody busy.
No colors formed, only blackness. Dark as a Myrddraal’s heart. The tugging grew stronger.
Mat dismissed the vision. Not. Now.
He had work to do here. He had a plan. Light, let it work.
Tinna turned out to be a pretty girl, younger than he had expected, tall and strong of limb. She wore her long brown hair in a tail, though curls of it seemed to want to break out here and there. She wore breeches, and had seen some fighting, judging by that sword on her hip and the dark Trolloc blood on her sleeves.
She rode up to him, looking him up and down with discerning eyes. “You’ve finally remembered us, have you, Lord Cauthon?” Yes, she definitely reminded him of Nynaeve.
Mat looked up at the Heights. The firefight between Aes Sedai and Sharans up there had turned messy.
You'd better win there, Egwene. I’m counting on you.
“Your army,” Mat said, looking at Tinna. “I’m told some Aes Sedai joined you?”
“Some did,” she said cautiously.
“You’re one of them?”
“I am not. Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? What do you mean by that? Look, woman, I need a gateway. If we don’t have one, this battle could be lost. Please tell me we have some channelers here who can send me where I need to go.”
Tinna drew her lips to a line. “I’m not trying to irritate you, Lord Cauthon. Old habits make for strong ropes, and I have learned not to speak of certain things. I was turned out of the White Tower myself, for . . . complicated reasons. I’m sorry, but I do not know the weave for Traveling. I do know for a fact that most who joined us are too weak for that weave. It requires a great deal of the One Power, beyond the capacity of many who—
I can make one.”
A woman in a red dress stood up from the lines of wounded, where she had apparently been Healing. She was thin and bony and had a sour expression on her face, but Mat was so happy to see her, he could have kissed her. Like kissing broken glass, that would have been. He’d have done it anyway. “Teslyn!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”
“Fighting in the Last Battle, I believe,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Aren’t we all?”
“But the Dragonsworn?” Mat asked.
“I did not find the White Tower to be a comfortable place once I returned,” she said. “It had changed. I availed myself of the opportunity here, as this need superseded any others. Now, you wish a gateway? How large?”
“Large enough to move as many of these troops as we can, the Dragon-sworn, the Ogier, and this cavalry banner from the Band of the Red Hand.” Mat said.
“I’ll need a circle, Tinna,” Teslyn said. “No complaining that you can’t channel; I can sense it in you, and all former allegiances and promises are broken for us here. Gather the other women. Where are we going, Cauthon?”
Mat grinned. “To the top of those Heights.”
“The Heights!” Karede said. “But you abandoned those at the beginning of the battle. You gave them up to the Shadowspawn!”
“Yes, I did ”
And now . . . now he had a chance to finish this. Elayne’s forces holding along the river, Egwene fighting in the west . . . Mat had to seize the northern part of the Heights. He knew that with the Seanchan gone and most of his own troops occupied around the lower part of the Heights, Demandred would send a strong force of Sharans and Trollocs across the top to the northeast, to swing down across the riverbed and behind Elayne’s armies. The armies of Light would be surrounded and at Demandred’s mercy. His only chance was to keep Demandred’s troops from coming off the Heights, despite their superior numbers. Light. It was a long shot, but sometimes you had to take the only shot you had.
“You’re spreading us dangerously thin,” Karede said. “You risk everything by moving armies that are needed here up to the Heights.”
“You did want to go to the front lines,” Mat replied. “Loial, are you with us?”
“A strike at the enemy’s core, Mat?” Loial asked, hefting his axe. “It will not be the worst place I’ve found myself, following one of you three. I do hope Rand is all right. You do think so, don’t you?”
“If Rand were dead,” Mat said, “we’d know it. He’ll have to watch out for himself, without Matrim Cauthon saving him this time. Teslyn, let’s have that gateway! Tinna, organize your forces. Have them ready to charge through the opening. We need to seize the northern slope of those Heights fast and then hold it no matter what the Shadow tosses at us!”
Egwene opened her eyes. Though she shouldn’t have been in a room at all, she lay in one. And a fine one. The cool air smelled of salt, and she rested on a soft mattress.
I’m dreaming, she thought. Or perhaps she had died. Would that explain the pain? Such terrible pain. Nothingness would be better, far better, than this agony.
Gawyn was gone. A piece of herself, snipped away.
“I forget how young she is.” Whispers drifted into the room. That voice was familiar. Silviana? “Care for her. I must return to the battle.”
“How docs it go?” Egwene knew that voice, too. Rosil, of the Yellow. She had gone to Mayene, with the novices and Accepted, helping Heal.
“The battle? It goes poorly.” Silviana was not one to put honey on her words. “Watch her, Rosil. She is strong; I do not doubt she will pull through this, but there is always a worry.”
“I’ve helped women with lost Warders before, Silviana,” Rosil said. “I assure you, I’m quite capable. She’ll be useless for the next few days, but then she will begin to mend.”
Silviana sniffed. “That boy ... I should have known he would ruin her. The day I first saw how she looked at him, I should have taken him by his ears, hauled him to a distant farm, and set him to work for the next decade.”
“You cannot so easily control a heart, Silviana.”
“Warders are a weakness,” Silviana said. “That is all they have ever been, and all they ever will be. That boy . . . that fool boy . . .”
“That fool boy,” Egwene said, “saved my life from Seanchan assassins. I would not be here to mourn if he had not done so. I would suggest that you remember that, Silviana, when you speak of the dead.”
The others were silent. Egwene tried to overcome the pain of loss. She was in Mayene, of course. Silviana would have taken her to the Yellows.
“I will remember it, Mother,” Silviana said. She actually managed to sound contrite. “Rest well. I will—”
“Rest is for the dead, Silviana,” Egwene said, sitting up.
Silviana and Rosil stood in the doorway of the beautiful room, which was draped with blue cloth below the ceiling of worked mother-of-pearl inlays. Both women folded their arms and gave her stern looks.
“You’ve been through something extremely hurtful, Mother,” Rosil said. Near the doorway, Leilwin stood guard. “The loss of a Warder is enough to stop any woman. There is no shame in letting yourself deal with the grief.”
“Egwene al’Vere can grieve,” Egwene said, standing up. “Egwene al’Vere lost a man she loved, and she felt him die through a bond. The Amyrlin has sympathy for Egwene al’Vere, as she would have sympathy for any Aes Sedai dealing with such loss. And then, in the face of the Last Battle, the Amyrlin would expect that woman to pick herself up and return to the fight.”
She walked across the room, each step firmer. She held out her hand to Silviana, nodding toward Vora’s sa’angreal, which she held. “I will be needing that.”
Silviana hesitated.
“Unless the two of you wish to discover just how capable I am at present,” Egwene said softly, “I would not suggest disobedience.”
Silviana looked to Rosil, who sighed and nodded reluctantly. Silviana handed over the rod.
“I do not condone this, Mothe
r,” Rosil said. “But if you are insistent . . ”
“I am.”
“ . . then I will give you this suggestion. Emotion will threaten to crush you. This is the danger. In the face of a lost Warder, summoning saidar will be difficult. If you do manage it, Aes Sedai serenity will likely be impossible. This can be dangerous. Very dangerous.”
Egwene opened herself to saidar. As Rosil had suggested, it was difficult to embrace the Source. Too many emotions vied for her attention, overwhelming her, driving away her calm. She blushed as she failed a second time.
Silviana opened her mouth, undoubtedly to suggest that Egwene sit back down. At that moment, Egwene found saidar,; the bud in her mind flowering, the One Power rushing into her. She gave Silviana a defiant look, then began weaving a gateway.
“You didn’t hear the rest of my advice, Mother,” Rosil said. “You will not be able to banish the emotions troubling you, not completely. Your only choice is a bad one, to overwhelm those emotions of grief and pain with stronger emotions.”
“That should not be difficult at all,” Egwene said. She drew a deep breath, pulling in more of the One Power. She allowed herself anger. Fury at the Shadowspawn who threatened the world, anger at them for taking Gawyn from her.
“I will need eyes to watch me,” Egwene said, defying Silviana’s previous words. Gawyn had not been a weakness to her. “I will need another Warder.”
“But—” Rosil began.
Egwene stopped her with a look. Yes, most women waited. Yes, Egwene al’Vere was pained from her loss, and Gawyn could never be replaced. But she believed in Warders. The Amyrlin Seat needed someone to watch her back. Beyond that, every person with a Warder bond was a better fighter than those without. To go without a Warder was to deny the Light another soldier.
There was a person here who had saved her life. No, a piece of her said, her eyes falling on Leilwin. Not a Seanchan.
Another piece of her, the Amyrlin, laughed at that. Stop being such a child. She would have a Warder. “Leilwin Shipless,” Egwene said loudly, “will you take this duty?”
The woman knelt, bowing her head. “I . . . yes.”
Egwene formed the weave for the bond. Leilwin stood, looking less fatigued, taking a deep breath. Egwene opened a gateway to the other side of the chamber, then used her immediate knowledge of this room to open another one to where her people fought. Explosions, screams and the beating of weapons against shields poured through.
Egwene strode back onto the killing fields, bringing the fury of the Amyrlin with her.
Demandred was a blademaster. Galad had assumed this would be the case, but he preferred to test his assumptions.
The two danced back and forth inside the ring of watching Sharans. Galad wore lighter armor, mail under his tabard, and stepped more quickly. The interwoven coins Demandred wore were heavier than simple mail, but good against a sword.
“You are better than your brother was,” Demandred said. “He died easily.”
The man was trying to enrage Galad. He did not succeed. Cold, careful. Galad moved in. The Courtier Taps His Fan. Demandred responded with something very similar to The Falcon Stoops, slapping away Galad’s attack. Demandred stepped back, walking around the perimeter of the ring, sword out to the side. At the beginning, he had spoken a great deal. Now he made only the occasional gibe.
They circled each other in the darkness, lit by torches held in Sharan hands. One rotation. Two.
“Come now,” Demandred said. “I’m waiting.”
Galad remained silent. Each moment he stalled was a moment Demandred was not sending destruction upon Elayne or her armies. The Forsaken seemed to realize it, for he came in swiftly. Three strikes: down, side, backhand. Galad met each one, their arms a blur.
Motion to the side. It came from a rock that Demandred had thrown at Galad by channeling. Galad dodged it, barely, then raised his sword against the blows that came next. Furious strikes downward, The Boar Rushes Down the Mountain, crashing against Galad’s blade. He held against that, but was not able to stop the following twist of the blade that cut his forearm.
Demandred stepped back, his sword dripping Galad’s blood. They circled around again, watching one another. Galad felt warm blood inside his glove, from where it had seeped down his arm. A little blood loss could slow a man, weaken him.
Galad breathed in and out, abandoning thought, abandoning worry. When Demandred next struck, Galad anticipated it, stepping aside and striking down with two hands, biting deeply into the leather behind Demandred’s knee guard. The sword glanced off the side of the armor, but cut true otherwise. As Galad whipped back around, Demandred was limping.
The Forsaken grimaced. “You’ve blooded me,” he said. “It has been a very long time since someone did that.”
The ground began to heave and break beneath Galad. Desperate, he leaped forward, getting close to Demandred—forcing him to stop channeling, lest he topple himself. The Forsaken grunted, swinging, but Galad was inside his enemy’s guard.
Too close to do a full swing, Galad raised his sword and bashed it— pommel first—at Demandred’s face. Demandred caught Galad’s hand with his, but Galad grabbed Demandred by the helmet, holding tightly, trying to force the helmet down over the Forsaken’s eyes. He grunted, both men locked, neither moving.
Then, with a sickening sound Galad heard quite distinctly, his muscle ripped in the arm where he’d been cut. His sword slipped from numb fingers, his arm spasming, and Demandred threw him backward and struck with a flash of the blade.
Galad fell to his knees. His right arm—severed at the elbow by Demandred’s slice—flopped to the ground in front of him.
Demandred stepped back, panting. He had been worried. Good. Galad held to his bleeding stump, then spat at Demandred’s feet.
Demandred snorted, then swung his blade once more.
All went black.
Androl felt as if he’d forgotten what it was like to breathe fresh air. The land around him smoldered and quaked, smoke churning in the wind, bringing with it the stench of burning bodies.
He and the others had moved up across the top of the Heights to the western side, searching for Taim. Much of the Sharan army fought here, contending with the White Tower army.
Groups of channelers drew fire from one side or the other, so Androl crossed the horrid landscape alone. He stepped over broken patches of smoking earth, crouching low, trying to give off the air of a solitary wounded man trying to creep to safety. He still wore Nensen’s face, but with his head down and his posture low, that mattered very little.
He sensed a spike of alarm from Pevara, who moved alone nearby.
What is it? he sent. Are you all right?
After a tense moment, her thoughts came. I'm fine. A scare with some Sharans. I convinced them I was on their side before they attacked.
It’s a wonder anyone can tell friend from foe here, Androl sent back. He hoped Emarin and Jonneth were safe. The two had gone together, but if they—
Androl froze. Up ahead, through the shifting smoke, he saw a ring of Trollocs protecting something. They stood on an outcropping of rock that jutted out of the hillside like the seat of a chair.
Androl crept forward, hoping to steal a peek.
Androl! Pevara’s voice in his mind made him jump nearly out of his skin.
What?
You were alarmed at something, she said. I was reacting to you.
He took a few calming breaths. I've found something. Just a moment.
He drew close enough, indeed, to sense channeling inside the ring. He didn’t know if—
The Trollocs parted as someone inside barked a command. Mishraile peered out, then scowled. “Its only Nensen!”
Androl’s heart thumped inside his chest.
A man wearing black turned from his contemplation of the battle. Taim. In his hands, he carried a thin disc of black and white. He rubbed his thumb across it as he overlooked the battlefield, sneering, as if disdainful of the lesser chan
nelers struggling all about him.
“Well?” he barked at Androl, turning and dropping the disc into a pouch at his waist.
“I saw Androl,” Androl said, thinking quickly. Light, the others expected him to approach. He did so, walking past the Trollocs, putting himself right in the belly of the beast. If he could draw close enough ... “I followed him for a while.” Nensen always spoke in a rough, gravelly voice, and Androl did his best to imitate it. Pevara could have worked the voice into the weave, but hadn’t known it well enough.
“I don’t care about that one! Fool. What is Demandred doing?”
“He saw me,” Androl said. “He didn’t like me being over there. He sent me back to you and said that if he saw any of us away from this position, he’d kill us.”
Androl. . . Pevara sent, worried. He couldn’t spare the concentration to reply. It took all he had to keep from shaking as he stepped up close to Taim.
Taim rubbed his forehead with two fingers, closing his eyes. “And I thought you could do this simple thing.” Taim created a complex weave of Spirit and Fire. It struck like a viper at Androl.
Pain suddenly moved up Androl’s body, starting in his feet, surging through his limbs. He screamed, collapsing to the ground.
“Do you like that?” Taim asked. “I learned it from Moridin. I do think he’s trying to turn me against Demandred.”
Androl screamed in his own voice. That horrified him, but the others did not seem to notice. When Taim finally released the weave, the pain faded. Androl found himself groveling on the dirty ground, his limbs still spasming from the memory of the pain.
“Get up,” Taim growled.
Androl began to lurch to his feet.
I'm coming, Pevara sent.
Stay back, he replied. Light, he felt powerless. As he stood up, he stumbled into Taim, his legs refusing to work as they should.
“Fool,” Taim said, shoving Androl back. Mishraile caught him. “Stand still.” Taim began another weave. Androl tried to pay attention, but he was too nervous to catch the details of the weave. It hovered in front of him, then wrapped around him.
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