A Memory of Light

only the sword on your collars. If any of those women saw you, they could take you as Warders.”
    “They won’t see us,” Jonneth said with a laugh. “Androl would have us through a gateway before we had time to curse!”
    “So what do we do now?” Canler asked.
    “Whatever Logain wishes of us,” Androl said.
    Logain had . . . changed since the ordeal. Androl whispered to her that he was darker now. He spoke less. He did still seem determined to get to the Last Battle, but for now, he gathered the men in and pored over things they’d found in Taim’s rooms. Pevara worried that the Turning had broken him inside.
    “He thinks there might be something in those battle maps he found in Taim’s chambers,” Emarin said.
    “We’ll go where Logain decides we can be of most use,” Androl replied. A straightforward answer, but one that didn’t actually say much.
    “And what of the Lord Dragon?” Pevara asked carefully.
    She felt Androl’s uncertainty. The Asha’man Naeff had come to them, bearing news and instructions—and with them, some implications. The Dragon Reborn had known all was not well at the Black Tower.
    “He left us alone on purpose,” Androl said.
    “He would have come if he could have!” Jonneth said. “I promise you.
    “He left us to escape on our own,” Emarin said, “or to fall on our own. He has become a harsh man. Perhaps callous.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Androl said. “The Black Tower has learned to survive without him. Light! It always survived without him. He barely had anything to do with us. It was Logain who gave us hope. It is Logain who will have my allegiance.”
    The others nodded. Pevara felt something important happening here. They couldn’t have leaned upon him forever anyway, she thought. The Dragon Reborn will die at the Last Battle. By intention or not, he had given them the chance to become their own men.
    “I will take his last order to heart, however,” Androl said. “I will not be merely a weapon. The taint is cleansed. We fight not to die, but to live. We have a reason to live. Spread the word among the other men, and let us take oaths to uphold Logain as our leader. And then, to the Last Battle. Not as minions of the Dragon Reborn, not as pawns of the Amyrlin Seat, but as the Black Tower. Our own men.”
    “Our own men,” the other three whispered, nodding.

CHAPTER 22

    The Wyld

    E gwene was shocked awake as Gawyn clamped his hand over her mouth. She tensed, memories returning like the light of a sunrise. They were still hiding beneath the broken cart; the air still smelled of burned wood. The land nearby was dark as coal. Night had fallen.
    She looked to Gawyn and nodded. Had she really drifted off? She wouldn’t have thought it possible, under the circumstances.
    “I’m going to try to slip away,” Gawyn whispered, “and make a distraction.”
    “I’ll go with you.”
    “I can go more quietly.”
    “Obviously you’ve never tried to sneak up on someone from the Two Rivers, Gawyn Trakand,” she said. “I’d bet you a hundred Tar Valon marks that I’m the quieter of us two.”
    “Yes,” Gawyn whispered, “but if you draw within a dozen steps of one of their channelers, you’ll be spotted, no matter how quiet. They’ve been patrolling through camp, particularly at the perimeters.”
    She frowned. How did he know that? “You went out scouting.”
    “A little,” he whispered. “I wasn’t seen. They’re scavenging through the tents, taking captive anyone they find. We won’t be able to hide here much longer.”
    He should not have gone out without asking her. “We—”
    Gawyn stiffened, and Egwene cut off, listening. Feet, shuffling. The two of them pulled back, watching as ten or twelve captives were led into an open space near where the command tent had stood. Sharans placed torches on poles around the ragged prisoners. A few of these were soldiers, beaten to the point where they could barely walk. There were cooks and laborers as well. They had been lashed, their trousers frayed. All of their shirts had been removed.
    On their backs, someone had tattooed a symbol that Egwene did not recognize. At least, she thought they were tattoos. The symbols might have been burned into them.
    As the captives were gathered, someone yelled nearby. In a few minutes, a dark-skinned Sharan guard walked up, dragging a young messenger boy he'd apparently found hiding in camp. He ripped off the boys shirt and shoved him, crying, to the