A Memory Of Light: Wheel of Time Book 14

by Robert Jordan

  “I did not mean to intrude,” Egwene said, walking among the columns and joining them.

  “It is nothing,” Bair said. “We should have guarded our tongues. We were the ones to invite you here to meet us, after all.”

  “It is good to see you, Egwene al’Vere,” Melaine said, smiling with affection. The woman looked so far along in her pregnancy, she must be close to delivering. “From reports, your army gains much ji.”

  “We do well,” Egwene said, settling herself on the floor with them. “You shall have your own chance, Melaine.”

  “The Car’a’carn delays,” Amys said, frowning. “The spears grow impatient. We should be moving against Sightblinder.”

  “He likes to prepare and plan,” Egwene said. She hesitated. “I cannot remain with you long. I have a meeting with him later today.”

  “About what?” Bair asked, leaning forward, curious. “I don’t know,” Egwene said. “I found a letter from him on the floor of my tent. He said he wanted to see me, but not as Dragon and Amyrlin. As old friends.”

  “Tell him that he must not dally,” Bair said. “But here, there is something we need to speak of with you.”

  “What is it?” Egwene asked, curious.

  “Have you seen anything like this?” Melaine said, concentrating. On the floor between them, the rock split with cracks. She was imposing her will upon the World of Dreams, creating something specific for Egwene to see.

  At first, she was confused. Cracks in the rock? Of course she had seen cracks in rock before. And with the earthquakes striking the land so often recently, they were probably becoming even more common.

  There was something distinctive about these. Egwene leaned forward, and found that the cracks seemed to empty into nothing. A deep blackness. Unnaturally so.

  “What is it?” Egwene asked.

  “Our people report seeing these,” Amys said softly. “Those fighting in Andor and those in the Blasted Lands with Rand al’Thor. They appear like fractures in the pattern itself. They remain dark like that for a few moments, then fade, leaving behind ordinary cracks.”

  “It is a very dangerous sign,” Bair said. “We sent one of ours to ask at the Borderlands, where Lan Mandragoran fights. It appears that the cracks are most common there.”

  “They appear more frequently when the Dreadlords fight,” Amys said. “When they use the weave known as balefire.”

  Egwene stared at that darkness, shivering. “Balefire weakens the Pattern. During the War of Power, even the Forsaken grew to fear using it, lest they unravel the world itself.”

  “We must spread the word to all of our allies,” Amys said. “We must not use this weave.”

  “It is forbidden of Aes Sedai already,” Egwene said. “But I will make it known that nobody is to consider breaking that rule.”

  “That is wise,” Melaine said. “For a people with so many rules for themselves, I have found that the Aes Sedai are very proficient at ignoring guidelines if their situation allows it.”

  “We trust our women,” Egwene said. “The Oaths hold them; otherwise, their own wisdom must guide them. If Moiraine had not been willing to bend this rule, Perrin would be dead—as would Mat, had Rand ignored the rule. But I will speak to the women.”

  Balefire bothered her. Not that it existed or did what it did. It was uniquely dangerous. And yet, what was it Perrin had said to her in the dream? It’s only another weave…

  It seemed unfair that the Shadow should have access to such a weapon as this, one that unraveled the Pattern as it was used. How would they fight it, how could they counter it?

  “This is not the only reason we sent to you, Egwene al’Vere,” Melaine said. “You have seen the changes to the World of Dreams?”

  Egwene nodded. “The storm grows worse here.”

  “We will not be visiting here often in the future,” Amys said. “We have made the decision. And, despite our complaints about him, the Car’a’carn does prepare his armies to move. It will not be long before we march with him to the Shadow’s own hold.”

  Egwene nodded slowly. “So this is it.”

  “I am proud of you, girl,” Amys said. Amys, tough-as-rocks Amys, looked teary-eyed. They rose, and Egwene embraced them one at a time.

  “Light shelter you, Amys, Melaine, Bair,” Egwene said. “Give my love to the others.”

  “It will be done, Egwene al’Vere,” Bair said. “May you find water and shade, now and always.”

  One by one, they faded from Tear. Egwene took a deep breath, looking upward. The building groaned, like a ship in a tempest. The rock itself seemed to shift around her.

  She had loved this place—not the Stone, but Tel’aran’rhiod. It had taught her so much. But she knew, as she prepared to leave, that it was like a river in dangerous flood. Familiar and loved it might be, but she could not risk herself here. Not while the White Tower needed her.

  “And farewell to you, old friend,” she said to the air. “Until I dream again.”

  She let herself wake.

  Gawyn waited beside the bed, as usual. They were back in the Tower, Egwene fully dressed, in the chamber near her study. It was not yet evening, but the request from the Wise One was not something she had wished to ignore.

  “He’s here,” Gawyn said quietly, glancing at the door to her study.

  “Then let us meet him,” Egwene said. She prepared herself, rising, smoothing her skirt. She nodded to Gawyn, and they stepped out and went to meet the Dragon Reborn.

  Rand smiled when he saw her. He waited inside with two Maidens she did not know.

  “What is this about?” Egwene asked tiredly. “Convincing me to break the seals?”

  “You’ve grown cynical,” Rand noted.

  “The last two times we met,” Egwene said, “you pointedly tried to infuriate me. Am I not to expect it again?”

  “I am not trying to infuriate you,” Rand said. “Look, here.” He pulled something from his pocket. A hair ribbon. He held it out to her. “You always looked forward so to being able to braid your hair.”

  “So now you imply I’m a child?” Egwene asked, exasperated. Gawyn rested a hand on her shoulder, comforting.

  “What? No!” Rand sighed. “Light, Egwene. I want to make amends. You’re like a sister to me; I never had siblings. Or, at least, the one I have doesn’t know me. I only have you. Please. I’m not trying to rile you.”

  For a moment, he seemed just as he had long ago. An innocent boy, earnest. Egwene let her frustration melt away. “Rand, I’m busy. We are busy. There isn’t time for things like this. Your armies are impatient.”

  “Their time will soon come,” Rand said, growing harder. “Before this is through, they will wonder why they were so eager, and will look with longing at these restful days waiting.” He still held the ribbon in his hand, forming a fist. “I just… I didn’t want to go to my fight with our last meeting having been an argument, even if it was an important one.”

  “Oh, Rand,” Egwene said. She stepped forward, taking the ribbon. She embraced him. Light, but he’d been difficult to deal with lately—but she’d thought the same thing about her parents on occasion. “I support you. It doesn’t mean I’m going to do as you say with the seals, but I do support you.”

  Egwene released Rand. She would not be teary-eyed. Even if it did seem like a last parting for them.

  “Wait,” Gawyn said. “Sibling? You have a sibling?”

  “I am the son of Tigraine,” Rand said, shrugging, “born after she went to the Waste and became a Maiden.”

  Gawyn looked stunned, though Egwene had figured this out ages ago. “You are Galad’s brother?” Gawyn asked.

  “Half-brother,” Rand said. “Not that it would probably mean much to a Whitecloak. We had the same mother. His father, like yours, was Taringail, but mine was an Aiel.”

  “I think Galad would surprise you,” Gawyn said softly. “But Elayne…”

  “Not to tell you your own family history, but Elayne is not related
to me.” Rand turned to Egwene. “May I see them? The seals. Before I go to Shayol Ghul, I would look upon them one last time. I promise not to do anything with them.”

  Reluctantly, she fished them from the pouch at her waist where she often kept them. Gawyn, still looking stunned, walked to the window and pushed it open, letting light into the room. The White Tower felt still… silent. Its armies were gone, its masters at war.

  She unwrapped the first seal and handed it to Rand. She would not give him all of them at once. Just in case. She did trust his word; it was Rand after all, but… just in case.

  Rand held up the seal, staring at it, as if seeking wisdom in that sinuous line. “I crafted these,” he whispered. “I made them to never break. But I knew, as I did it, that they would eventually fail. Everything eventually fails when he touches it…”

  Egwene hefted another of the seals, holding it gingerly. It would not do to break the thing by accident. She kept them wrapped and the pouch stuffed with cloth; she worried about breaking them while carrying them, but Moiraine had indicated that Egwene would break them.

  She felt that was foolish, but the words she had read, the things Moiraine had said… Well, if the moment did come to break them, Egwene would need to have them at hand. And so she carried them—carried with her the potential death of the world itself.

  Rand suddenly went as white as a sheet. “Egwene,” he said. “This does not fool me.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  He looked at her. “This is a fake. Please, it is all right. Tell me the truth. You made a copy and gave it to me.”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” she said.

  “Oh… Oh, Light.” Rand raised the seal again. “It’s a fake.”

  “What!” Egwene snatched it from his hand, feeling it. She sensed nothing wrong. “How can you be sure?”

  “I made them,” Rand said. “I know my handiwork. That is not one of the seals. It is… Light, someone took them.”

  “I’ve had these with me each moment since you gave them to me!” Egwene said.

  “Then it happened before,” Rand whispered. “I didn’t look them over carefully after I fetched them. He knew, somehow, where I’d put them.” Taking the other one from her, he shook his head. “It’s not real either.” He took the third. “Nor this one.”

  He looked at her. “He has them, Egwene. He’s stolen them back, somehow. The Dark One holds the keys to his own prison.”

  For much of Mat’s life, he had wished that people would not look at him so much. They gave him frowns at the trouble he had ostensibly caused—trouble that really was not his fault—and glances of disapproval when he walked about completely innocent, trying his best to be pleasant. Every boy filched a pie now and then. No harm in it. It was practically expected.

  Normal life had been harder for Mat than for other boys. For no good reason, everyone watched him extra carefully. Perrin could have stolen pies all day, and people would have just smiled at him and maybe mussed his hair. Mat they came at with the broom.

  When he entered a place to dice, he drew looks. People watched him as they would watch a cheater—though he never was—or with envy in their eyes. Yes, he had always figured that not being watched would be a grand situation. A cause for real celebration.

  Now he had it, and it made him sick.

  “You can look at me,” Mat protested. “Really. Burn you, it’s all right!”

  “My eyes would be lowered,” the serving woman said as she piled fabric on the low table against the wall.

  “Your eyes are already lowered! They’re staring at the bloody floor, aren’t they? I want you to raise them.”

  The Seanchan continued her work. She was of fair skin with freckles under her eyes, not too bad to look at, though he was more in favor of darker shades these days. He still would not have minded if this girl showed him a smile. How could he talk to a woman if he could not try to make her smile?

  A few other servants entered, eyes downcast, carrying other folds of fabric. Mat stood in what were apparently “his” chambers in the palace. They were more numerous than he would ever need. Perhaps Talmanes and some of the Band could move in with him and keep the place from feeling so empty.

  Mat sauntered over to the window. Below, in the Mol Hara, an army organized. It was going to take longer than he wanted. Galgan—Mat had only met the man briefly, and he did not trust the fellow, no matter what Tuon said about his assassins not being intended to succeed—was gathering the Seanchan forces from the borders, but too slowly. He worried about losing Almoth Plain with the withdrawal.

  Well, he had better listen to reason. Mat had little reason to like the man already, but if he delayed in this…

  “Honored One?” the serving girl asked.

  Mat turned, raising an eyebrow. Several da’covale had entered with the last of the fabric, and Mat found himself blushing. They hardly wore any clothing at all, and what they did wear was transparent. He could look, though, could he not? They would not wear clothing like that if a man was not supposed to look. What would Tuon think?

  She doesn’t own me, Mat thought, determined. I will not be husbandly.

  The freckled servant—she was so’jhin, half of her head shaved—gestured toward a person who had entered behind the da’covale, a middle-aged woman with her dark hair in a bun, none of her head shaved. She was squat, shaped kind of like a bell, with a grandmotherly air.

  The newcomer inspected him. Finally someone who would look at him! If only her face did not have the expression of one studying horses at the market.

  “Black for his new station,” the woman said, clapping her hands once. “Green for his heritage. A deep forest, in moderation. Someone bring me a variety of eyepatches, and someone else burn that hat.”

  “What?” Mat exclaimed. Servants swarmed around him, picking at his clothing. “Wait, now. What is this?”

  “Your new regalia, Honored One,” the woman said. “I am Nata, and I will be your personal tailor.”

  “You aren’t burning my hat,” Mat said. “Try, and we’ll bloody well see if you can fly from four stories up. Do you understand me?”

  The woman hesitated. “Yes, Honored One. Do not burn his clothing. Keep it safe, should it be needed.” She seemed doubtful it ever would be.

  Mat opened his mouth to complain further, and then one of the da’covale opened a box. Jewelry shone inside it. Rubies, emeralds, firedrops. Mat’s breath caught in his throat. There was a fortune in there!

  He was so stunned that he almost did not notice that the servants were undressing him. They pulled at his shirt, and Mat let them. Although he held on to his scarf, he was not bashful. That blush on his cheeks had nothing to do with his trousers being taken off. He was just surprised at the jewelry.

  Then one of the young da’covale reached for Mat’s smallclothes.

  “You’d be real funny without any fingers,” Mat growled.

  The da’covale looked up—his eyes widening, face paling. He immediately looked down again, bowing, backing away. Mat was not bashful, but the smallclothes were far enough.

  Nata clicked her tongue. Her servants began draping Mat in fine cloth, black and deep green—so dark it was nearly black itself. “We shall tailor you outfits for military expression, court attendance, private functions, and civic appearances. It—”

  “No,” Mat said. “Military only.”

  “But—”

  “We’re at the bloody Last Battle, woman,” Mat said. “If we survive this, you can make me a bloody feastday cap. Until then, we’re at war, and I don’t need anything else.”

  She nodded.

  Mat reluctantly stood with arms out to the sides, letting them drape him in the fabric, taking measurements. If he had to put up with this business of being called “Honored One” and “Highness,” then he could at least make certain he was dressed in a reasonable way.

  In truth, he had been growing tired of the same old clothing. There did not seem to be much lace used by t
he Seanchan tailor, which was a shame, but Mat did not want to correct her in doing her job. He could not complain about every little thing. Nobody liked a complainer, least of all Mat.

  As they dealt with the measurements, a servant approached with a small, velvet-lined case displaying a variety of eyepatches. He hesitated, considering; some were marked with gemstones, others painted with designs.

  “That one,” he said, pointing at the least ornamented patch. Simple black with only two small rubies, cut thin and long, set at the right and left edges of the patch opposite one another. They fitted it on him as the other servants finished measuring.

  That done, the tailor had her servants dress him in a costume she had brought. Apparently, he was not going to be allowed back to his old clothing while he waited for his new outfits to be tailored.

  The clothing started off simple enough. A silk robe of fine weave. Mat would have preferred trousers, but the robe was comfortable. However, they overlaid it with a larger, stiffer robe. It was also silk, of dark green, every inch of it embroidered with scrollwork patterns. The sleeves were large enough to trot a horse through, and they felt heavy and bulky.

  “I thought I said to give me warrior’s clothing!” he said.

  “This is a ceremonial warrior’s uniform for a member of the Imperial family, Highness,” Nata said. “Many will see you as an outsider, and though nobody would question your loyalty, it would be well for our soldiers to see you as Prince of the Ravens first and an outlander second. Would you agree?”

  “I suppose,” Mat said.

  The servants continued, buckling on an ornate girdle and placing forearm bands of the same design on his arms inside the large sleeves. That was all right, Mat supposed, as the girdle pulled in the waist of the clothing and kept it from feeling quite so bulky.

  Unfortunately, the next piece of clothing was the most ridiculous of all. The stiff, pale piece of cloth fitted onto his shoulders. It draped down his front and back like a tabard, the sides open, but they flared out to the sides a good foot each, making him seem inhumanly wide. They were like shoulder plates from heavy armor, only made of cloth.