A Memory of Light

forward, but one held up a hand.
    “I’m a messenger from General Bryne,” she said.
    “New messengers wait here,” one of the guards said.
    “It’s urgent!”
    “New messengers wait here.”
    She received no further explanation, so she crossed her arms—stepping out of the black circle, in case another gateway opened—and waited. She could see the river from here, and a large military encampment stretched out along its banks. The Seanchan could make a big difference to this battle, Min thought. There are so many of them. She was far from the battle here, a few miles north of Bryne’s camp, but still close enough to see the flashes of light as channelers traded deadly weaves.
    She found herself fidgeting, so she forced herself to remain still. Explosions from channeling sounded like dull thumps. The sounds came after the flashes of light, like thunder trailing behind lightning. Why was that?
    It doesn’t really matter, Min thought. She needed cavalry for Bryne. At least she was doing something. She had spent the last week pitching in wherever she found that an extra hand was needed. It was surprising how much there was to do in a war camp other than fighting. It wasn’t work that had required her, specifically, but it was better than sitting in Tear and worrying about Rand ... or being angry at him for forbidding her to go to Shayol Ghul.
    You’d have been a liability there, Min told herself. You know it. He couldn’t worry about saving the world and protecting her from the Forsaken at the same time. Sometimes, it was hard not to feel insignificant in a world of channelers like Rand, Elayne and Aviendha.
    She glanced at the guards. Only one had an image hovering above his head. A bloodied stone. He’d die by falling from someplace high. It seemed like decades since she’d seen anything hopeful around a person’s head. Death, destruction, symbols of fear and darkness.
    “And who is she?” a slurred Seanchan voice asked. A sul’dam had approached, one without a damane. The woman held an a’dam in her hand, tapping the silvery collar against her other palm.
    “New messenger,” the guard said. “She has not come through the gateways before.”
    Min took a deep breath. “I was sent by General Bryne—”
    “He was supposed to clear all messengers with us,” the sul’dam said. She was dark of skin, with curls that came down to her shoulders. “The Empress— may she live forever—must be protected. Our camp will be orderly. Every messenger cleared, no opportunities for assassins.”
    “I am no assassin,” Min said flatly.
    “And the knives in your sleeves?” the suldam asked.
    Min started.
    “The way your cuffs droop make it obvious, child,” the suldam said, though she was no older than Min herself.
    “A woman would be a fool to walk a battlefield without some kind of weapon,” Min said. “Let me deliver my message to one of the generals. The other messenger was killed when one of your raken was hit and fell from the sky onto our camp.”
    The suldam raised an eyebrow. “I am Catrona,” she said. “And you will do exactly as I say while in camp.” She turned and waved for Min to follow.
    Min hurried gratefully behind the woman as they crossed the ground. The Seanchan camp was very different from Bryne’s. They had raken to fly their messages and reports, not to mention an empress to protect. They had set their camp away from the hostilities. It also looked far tidier than Bryne's camp, which had been nearly destroyed and rebuilt, and which included people from many different countries and military backgrounds. The Seanchan camp was homogeneous, full of trained soldiers.
    At least that was the way Min decided to interpret its orderliness. Seanchan soldiers stood in ranks, silent, awaiting the call to battle. Sections of the camp had been marked with posts and ropes, everything clearly organized. Nobody bustled about. Men walked with quiet purpose or waited at parade rest. Speak what criticism one would about the Seanchan—and Min had a number of things she could add to that conversation—they certainly were organized.
    The suldam led Min to a section of camp where several men stood at ledgers set on tall desks. Wearing robes and bearing the half-shaved head of upper servants, they quietly made notations. Immodestly dressed young women carrying lacquered trays threaded their way between the desks, placing on them thin white cups of steaming black liquid.
    “Have we lost any