A Memory of Light

pain as part of him.
    Two men from Emond’s Field guarded Tams tent. Rand nodded to them as they straightened up, saluting. Ban al’Seen and Dav al’Thone— once, he would never have thought to see them salute. They did it well, too.
    “You have a solemn task, men,” Rand said to them. “As important as any on this battlefield.”
    “Defending Andor, my Lord?” Dav asked, confused.
    “No,” Rand said. “Watching over my father. Take care you do it well.” He pushed into the tent, leaving the Maidens outside.
    Tam stood over a travel table, inspecting maps. Rand smiled. It was the same look Tam had worn when inspecting a sheep that had gotten caught in the thicket.
    “You seem to think I’ll need watching,” Tam said.
    Responding to that comment, Rand decided, would be like walking up to an archer’s nest and daring anyone inside to hit him. Instead, he set his bundle down on the table. Tam regarded the long, cloth-wrapped bundle, then tugged at its covering. The cloth came off, revealing a majestic sword with a black-lacquered sheath painted with entwined dragons of red and gold. Tam looked up with a question in his eyes.
    “You gave me your sword,” Rand said. “And I wasn’t able to return it. This is a replacement.”
    Tam slid the sword from its sheath, and his eyes widened. “This is too fine a gift, son.”
    “Nothing is too fine for you,” Rand whispered. “Nothing.”
    Tam shook his head, slipping the blade back into the sheath. “It will just end up in a trunk, forgotten like the last one. I should never have brought that thing home. You put too much care into that blade.” He moved to hand the sword back.
    Rand put his hand over Tam’s. “Please. A blademaster deserves a fitting weapon. Take it—that will ease my conscience. Light knows, any burden I can lighten now will help in the days to come.”
    Tam grimaced. “That’s a dirty trick, Rand.”
    “I know. I’ve been spending my time with all kinds of unsavory types lately. Kings, clerks, lords and ladies.”
    Tam reluctantly took the sword back.
    “Think of it as a thank-you,” Rand said, “from all the world to you. If you had not taught me of the flame and the void all those years ago . . . Light, Tam. I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d be dead, I’m sure of that.” Rand looked down at the sword. “To think. If you hadn’t wanted me to be a good archer, I’d have never learned the thing that kept me sane through the rough times.”
    Tam sniffed. “The flame and the void aren’t about archery.”
    “Yes, I know. They are a swordsman’s technique.”
    “They’re not about swords either,” Tam said, strapping the sword onto his belt.
    “But—”
    “The flame and the void are about center,” Tam said. “And about peace. I would teach it to each and every person in this land, soldier or not, if I could.” His expression softened. “But, Light, what am I doing? Lecturing you? Tell me, where did you get this weapon?”
    “I found it.”
    “It’s as fine a blade as I’ve ever seen.” Tam pulled it out again, looking at the folds of the metal. “It’s ancient. And used. Well-used. Cared for, certainly, but this didn’t just sit in some warlord’s trophy case. Men have swung this blade. Killed with it.”
    “It belonged ... to a kindred soul.”
    Tam looked at him, searching his eyes. “Well, I suppose I should try it out, then. Come on.”
    “In the night?”
    “It’s early evening still,” Tam said. “This is a good time. The practice grounds won’t be clogged.”
    Rand raised an eyebrow, but stepped aside as Tam rounded the table and left the tent. Rand followed, the Maidens falling in behind them, and trailed his father to the nearby practice grounds, where a few Warders sparred, lit by glowing lanterns on poles.
    Near the rack of wooden practice weapons, Tam took the new sword out and moved into a few forms. Though his hair was gray, his face creased around the eyes, Tam al’Thor moved like a ribbon of silk in the wind. Rand had never seen his father fight, not even spar. In truth, a piece of him had had trouble imagining gentle Tam al’Thor killing anything other than a grouse for the firepit.
    Now he saw. Lit by flickering lantern light, Tam al’Thor slipped into the sword forms like a comfortable pair of boots. Oddly, Rand found himself jealous. Not of his father specifically, but of any who could know the peace of sword practice. Rand held up his hand, then the stump of the