A Memory of Light

tree trunks, their limbs already stripped away. He was just so . . . tired. Exhausted. How long had it been since he slept? Weeks had passed in the real world, but it couldn’t actually have been weeks here, could it? It—
    The sea boiled, churning. Perrin turned. He’d kept his hammer, somehow, and he raised it to face Slayer.
    The waters continued to move, but nothing came from them. Suddenly, behind him, the hill split in half. Perrin felt something heavy hit him in the shoulder, like a punch. He fell to his knees, twisting to see the hillside broken in two, Slayer standing on the other side, nocking another arrow to his bow.
    Perrin shifted , desperate, pain belatedly flaring up his side and across his body.

    “All I’m saying is that battles are being fought,” Mandevwin said, “and we are not there.”
    “Battles are always being fought somewhere ,” Vanin replied, leaning back against the wall outside a warehouse in Tar Valon. Faile listened to them with half an ear. “We’ve fought our share of them. All I’m saying is that I’m pleased to avoid this particular one.”
    “People are dying,” Mandevwin said, disapproving. “This is not simply a battle, Vanin. It is Tarmon Gai’don itself!”
    “Which means nobody is paying us,” Vanin said.
    Mandevwin sputtered, “Paying ... to fight the Last Battle . . . You knave! This battle means life itself.”
    Faile smiled as she looked over the supply ledgers. The two Redarms idled by the doorway as servants wearing the Flame of Tar Valon loaded Faile’s caravan. Behind them, the White Tower rose over the city.
    At first, she had been annoyed by the banter, but the way Vanin poked at the other man reminded her of Gilber, one of her father’s quartermasters back in Saldaea.
    “Now, Mandevwin,” Vanin said, “you hardly sound like a mercenary at all! What if Lord Mat heard you?”
    “Lord Mat will fight,” said Mandevwin.
    “When he has to,” Vanin said. “We don’t have to. Look, these supplies are important, right? And someone has to guard them, right? Here we are.”
    “I just do not see why this job requires us. I should be helping Talmanes lead the Band, and you lot, you should be guarding Lord Mat ...”
    Faile could almost hear the end of that line, the one they were all thinking. You should be guarding Lord Mat from those Seanchan.
    The soldiers had taken in stride Mat’s disappearance, then his reappearance with the Seanchan. Apparently, they expected this kind of behavior from “Lord” Matrim Cauthon. Faile had a squad of fifty of the Band’s best, including Captain Mandevwin, Lieutenant Sandip and several Redarms who came highly recommended by Talmanes. None of them knew their true purpose in guarding the Horn of Valere.
    She would have brought ten times this number if she could. As it was, fifty was suspicious enough. Those fifty were the Band’s very best, some pulled from command positions. They would have to do.
    We’re not going far, Faile thought, checking the next page of the ledgers. She had to look as if she were concerned about the supplies. Why am I so worried?
    She needed only to carry the Horn to the Field of Merrilor, now that Cauthon had finally appeared. She’d already run three caravans from other locations using the same guards, so her current job wouldn’t be suspicious in the least.
    She’d chosen the Band very deliberately. In the eyes of most, they were just mercenaries, so the least important—and least trustworthy—troops in the army. However, for all of her complaints about Mat—she might not know him well, but the way Perrin spoke of him was enough—he did inspire loyalty in his men. The men who found their way to Cauthon were like him. They tried to hide from duty and preferred gambling and drinking to doing anything useful, but in a pinch they’d each fight like ten men.
    At Merrilor, Cauthon would have good reason to check in on Mandevwin and his men. At that point, Faile could give him the Horn. Of course, she also had some members of Cha Faile with her as guards. She wanted some people she knew for certain she could trust.
    Nearby, Laras—the stout mistress of the kitchens at Tar Valon—came out of the warehouse, wagging a finger at several of the serving girls. The woman walked to Faile, trailed by a lanky youth with a limp who was carrying a beat-up chest.
    “Something for you, my Lady.” Laras gestured to the trunk. “The Amyrlin herself added it to your shipment as an