A Memory of Light

rotated back up the Heights to either eat or collapse into unconsciousness for a time.
    She did not look too closely at the cookpots, though Jonneth fell to his knees and sicked up beside the path. He had noticed the body parts floating in the thick stew. As he emptied his stomach onto the ground, a passing group of Trollocs snorted and hooted in mockery.
    Why are they pushing off the Heights to take the river? she sent to Androl. It seems to be a better position up here.
    Maybe it is, Androl sent. But the Shadow is the aggressor. If they stay in this position, it serves Cauthon's army. Demandred needs to keep pressing him. That means crossing the river.
    So Androl understood tactics, too. Interesting.
    I've picked up a few things, he sent. I wont be leading a battle any time soon.
    Just curious how many lives you’ve led, Androl.
    An odd statement, coming from a woman who is old enough to be my grandmother’s grandmother.
    They continued along the eastern side of the Heights. Distant, on the far western side, the Aes Sedai were battling their way up to the top—but for now, the Heights were held by Demandred’s forces. This area Pevara walked through was full of Trollocs. Some bowed in a lumbering way as Pevara and the others passed, others curled up on the stones to sleep, with no cushions or blankets. Each one kept its weapon at hand.
    “This does not look promising,” Emarin said softly from behind his mask. “I do not see Taim associating with Trollocs any more than he has to.”
    “Ahead,” Androl said. “Look there.”
    The Trollocs were separated from a group of Sharans who could be seen up ahead, wearing unfamiliar uniforms. They wore armor that was wrapped in cloth, so none of the metal showed except on the very back, though the shape of the breastplates was still obvious. Pevara looked to the others.
    “I could see Taim being part of that group,” Emarin said. “It’s likely to smell far less putrid than over here among the Trollocs, for one thing.”
    Pevara had been ignoring the stench—she had learned to do that years ago, snuffing out powerful scents in the same way she ignored heat and cold. As Emarin said it, however, a hint of what the others were smelling seeped through her defenses. She quickly regained control. It was awful.
    “Will the Sharans let us pass?” Jonneth asked.
    “We shall see,” Pevara said, setting off toward the Sharans; their group fell in around her. The Sharan guards maintained an uneasy line against the Trollocs, watching them as they would enemies. This alliance, or whatever it was, did not sit terribly well with the Sharan soldiers. They didn’t try to mask their looks of disgust, and many had tied cloths around their faces to mask the odors.
    As Pevara passed their line, a nobleman—or such she assumed him to be, from his armor of brazen rings—moved to confront her. A well-practiced Aes Sedai look staved him off. I am far too important for you to bother, that look said. It worked beautifully, and they were in.
    The Sharan reserve camp was orderly as men rotated in from the west, where they fought the White Tower forces. The fierce channeling from that direction kept drawing Pevara’s attention, like a bright light.
    What do you think? Androl sent to her.
    We’re going to need to talk to someone. The battlefield is just too big for us to find Taim on our own.
    He sent back his agreement. Not for the first time, Pevara found their bond distracting. She not only had to deal with her own nervousness, but Androl’s as well. That crept from the back of her mind, and she had to constrain it forcefully, using breathing exercises she’d learned when first in the Tower.
    She stopped in the center of the camp, looking about, trying to decide whom to approach. She could distinguish servants from nobles. Approaching the former would be less dangerous, but also less likely to yield results. Maybe—
    “You!”
    Pevara started, spinning around.
    “You should not be here.” The aged Sharan was completely bald, with a short gray beard. Twin sword hilts in the shape of serpents’ heads peeked out over his shoulders; he wore the blades crossed at his back, and he carried a staff that had strange holes along its length. A flute of some sort?
    “Come,” the man said, his accent so thick, Pevara could barely make it out. “The Wyld will need to see you.”
    Who is the Wyld? Pevara sent Androl.
    He shook his head, feeling as baffled as she did.
    This could turn