A Memory of Light

Taim’s balefire , he thought, reaching Pevara and the others. None of the three were in a state to fight. He wove a gateway, hitting the wall, pushing to—
    Something changed.
    The wall vanished.
    Androl sat, stunned for a moment. Blasts and explosions in the room assaulted his ears. Canler and the others fought well, but the Two Rivers lads faced fully trained Aes Sedai and maybe one of the Forsaken. They were dropping one by one.
    The wall was gone.
    Androl stood up slowly, then walked back toward the center of the room. Taim and his people fought on the dais; the weaves coming from Canler and his lads were flagging.
    Androl looked to Taim and felt a powerful, overwhelming surge of anger. The Black Tower belonged to the Asha’man, not this man.
    It was time for the Asha’man to reclaim it.
    Androl roared, raising his hands beside him, and wove a gateway. The power rushed through him. As always, his gateways snapped into place faster than any others, growing larger than a man of his strength should be able to make.
    He built this one the size of a large wagon. He opened it facing Taim’s channelers, snapping it in place right as they released their next round of deadly weaves.
    The gateway only covered the distance of a few paces, and opened behind them.
    Weaves crafted by Taim’s women and men hit the open gateway—which hung before Androl like a haze in the air—then exploded out behind them.
    Weaves killed their own masters, burning away Aes Sedai, killing Asha’man and the few remaining Myrddraal. Straining at the exertion, Androl bellowed louder and opened small gateways on Logain’s bonds, snapping them. He opened another one directly in the floor beneath Logain’s chair, dropping it from the room to a place far away from the Black Tower— one that was, the Light send, safe.
    The woman called Hessalam fled. As she darted through a gateway of her own, Taim followed with a couple of others. The rest were not so wise— for a moment later, Androl opened a gateway as wide as the floor, dropping the other women and Asha’man through it to plummet hundreds of feet.

CHAPTER 15

    Your Neck in a Cord

    T he Tarasin Palace of Ebou Dar was far from the most difficult place that Mat had broken into. He told himself that over and over again as he dangled outside a balcony three stories above the gardens.
    He clung to a marble ledge with one hand while holding his hat on his head with the other, his ashandarei strapped to his back. He’d stowed his bundle in the gardens below. The night air was cool against the sweat running down the sides of his face.
    Above, a pair of Deathwatch Guards clanked as they moved on the balcony. Blood and bloody ashes. Did those fellows never take off their armor? They looked like beetles. He could barely make them out. The balcony was surrounded by an ironwork screen to keep people from looking in at the occupants from below, but Mat was close enough to see the guards moving inside through it.
    Light, they were spending a long time in there. Mat’s arm started to ache. The two men murmured to one another. Perhaps they were going to sit down and have some tea. Pull out a book, start reading into the night. Tuon really needed to dismiss these two. Why were they having a leisurely conversation on a balcony? There could be assassins out here!
    Eventually, thank the Light, the two moved on. Mat tried to count to ten before swinging up, but only lasted to seven. He pushed open one of the unlatched screens, and scrambled over the balcony railing.
    Mat exhaled softly, arms aching. This palace—those two guards notwithstanding—was nowhere near as impregnable as the Stone had been, and Mat had gotten in there. He had another advantage here, of course: He had lived in this palace, free to come and go. For the most part. He scratched at his neck, and the scarf he wore there. For a moment it felt like a ribbon that felt like a chain.
    Mat’s father had an adage: Always know which way you are going to ride. There never was a man as honest as Abell Cauthon, and everyone knew it, but some folk—like those up in Taren Ferry—could not be trusted farther than they could spit. In trading horses, Abell had always said, you needed to be ready to ride, and you always had to know which way you were going to go.
    In his two months living in this palace, Mat had learned every way out— every crack and passage, every loose window. Which balcony screens were easy to open, which were usually