A Memory of Light

looking where it led. So far as we know, these bubbles are completely random.”
    Unless Berisha was simply taking advantage of the circumstances, Faile thought. Also, there was the woman’s death. That wound in her stomach had not looked like one caused by the spikes. It had looked like a knife wound. As if someone had attacked Berisha once the Horn was through the gateway. To keep her from telling what she’d done?
    Light, Faile thought. I am growing suspicious.
    “So,” Harnan said, “what do we do?”
    “That depends,” Faile said, looking toward Setalle. “Is there any way an Aes Sedai could tell where we’d been sent?”
    Setalle hesitated, as if reluctant to reveal how much she knew. When she continued, however, she spoke with confidence. “Weaves leave behind a residue. So yes, an Aes Sedai could discover where we’d gone. The residue does not last long, however: a few days at most, for a powerful weave. And not all channelers can read residues—this is a rare talent.”
    The way she spoke, so commanding and authoritative . . . the way she projected an immediate sense of being trustworthy. It wasn’t a relative, then, Faile thought. This woman trained in the White Tower. Was she, perhaps, like Queen Morgase? Too weak in the One Power to become Aes Sedai?
    “We will wait one day,” Faile said. “If nobody has come for us by then, we will head south and try to escape the Blight as quickly as possible.”
    “I wonder how far north we are,” Flarnan said, rubbing his chin. “I don’t fancy going over mountains to get back home.”
    “You’d rather remain in the Blight?” Mandevwin asked.
    “Well, no,” Harnan said. “But it could take months to walk back to safety. Months traveling through the Blight itself. . ”
    Light, Faile thought. Traveling months in a place where we’re lucky to have lost only two in one day. They’d never make it. Even without the wagons, the caravan would stand out in this landscape like a fresh wound on diseased skin. They’d be lucky to last another day or two.
    She resisted the urge to glance back at the tent. What would happen if she didn’t bring it to Mat in time?
    “There is another option,” Setalle said hesitantly.
    Faile looked to her.
    “That peak you see to the east of us,” Setalle said, speaking with obvious reluctance. “That is Shayol Ghul.”
    Mandevwin whispered something quietly that Faile didn’t catch, squeezing his eyes shut. The others looked sick. Faile, however, caught Setalle’s implication.
    “That is where the Dragon Reborn is making war against the Shadow,” Faile said. “One of our armies will be there. With channelers who could get us out.”
    “Indeed,” Setalle said. “And the area just around Shayol Ghul is known as the Blasted Lands, lands that the horrors of the Blight are said to avoid.
    Because it’s so terrible!” Arrela said. “If they don’t go there, it’s because they fear the Dark One himself!”
    “The Dark One and his armies might have their attention on the fighting,” Faile said slowly, nodding her head. “We can’t survive long in the Blight—we’ll be dead before the week is out. But if the Blasted Lands are free of those horrors, and if we can reach our armies there . . .”
    It seemed a far better hope—slim though it was—than trying to march for months in the most dangerous place in the world. She told the others she’d consider what to do and dismissed them.
    Her advisors moved off to make their bedrolls, Mandevwin going to check the men on watch. Faile remained staring at the embers of the fire, feeling sick.
    Someone did kill Berisha, she thought. I’m certain of it. The gateway’s location really could have been an accident. Accidents happened, even to Aes Sedai, no matter what Setalle thought. But if there was a Darkfriend in the caravan, one who had ducked through the opening and seen that it went to the Blight, they could have easily decided to kill Berisha in order to leave the Horn and the caravan stranded.
    “Setalle,” Faile said as the woman passed, “a word.”
    Setalle sat down beside Faile, wearing a composed expression. “I know what you’re going to ask.”
    “How long has it been,” Faile asked, “since you were in the White Tower?”
    “It has been decades now.”
    “Are you capable of making a gateway?”
    Setalle laughed. “Child, I couldn’t light a candle. I was burned out in an accident. I haven’t held the One Power in over twenty-five