A Memory of Light

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. “Its 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