A Memory of Light

different, but that wall remained. It had weathered the scouring of Caemlyn and the coming of a new Age.
    Elayne looked at him from her bench. Her eyes widened immediately, and her hand went to her mouth. “Rand?”
    He fixed his gaze on her, hand resting on the pommel of Laman’s sword. A formal posture. Why had he taken it?
    Elayne smiled. “Is this a prank? Daughter, where are you? Have you used the Mask of Mirrors to trick me again?”
    “It is no trick, Elayne,” Rand said, sinking down onto one knee before her so that their heads were level. He looked into her eyes.
    Something was wrong.
    “Oh! But how can it be?” she asked.
    That wasn’t Elayne . . . was it? The tone seemed off, the mannerisms wrong. Could she have changed so much? It had been a hundred years. “Elayne?” Rand asked. “What has happened to you?”
    “Happened? Why, nothing! The day is grand, wonderful. Beautiful and peaceful. How I like to sit in my gardens and enjoy the sunlight.”
    Rand frowned. That simpering tone, that vapid reaction . . . Elayne had never been like that.
    “We shall have to prepare a feast!” Elayne exclaimed, clapping her hands. “I will invite Aviendha! It is her week off from singing, though she is probably doing nursery duty. She usually volunteers there.”
    “Nursery duty?”
    “In Rhuidean,” Elayne said. “Everyone so likes to play with the children, both here and there. There is grand competition to care for the children! But we understand the need to take turns.”
    Aviendha. Tending children and singing to chora trees. There was nothing wrong with that, really. Why shouldn’t she enjoy such activities?
    But it was wrong, too. He thought Aviendha would be a wonderful mother, but to imagine her seeking to spend all day playing with other people’s children . . .
    Rand looked into Elayne’s eyes, looked into them deeply. A shadow lurked back there, behind them. Oh, it was an innocent shadow, but a shadow nonetheless. It was like . . . like that . . .
    Like that shadow behind the eyes of someone who had been Turned to the Dark One.
    Rand jumped to his feet and stumbled backward. “What have you done here?” he shouted into the sky. “Shai’tan! Answer me!”
    Elayne cocked her head. She wasn’t afraid. Fear did not exist in this place. “Shai’tan? I swear I remember that name. It has been so long. I get forgetful sometimes.”
    “SHAITAN!” Rand bellowed.
    I HAVE DONE NOTHING, ADVERSARY. The voice was distant. THIS IS YOUR CREATION.
    “Nonsense!” Rand said. “You’ve changed her! You’ve changed them all!”
    DID YOU THINK THAT REMOVING ME FROM THEIR LIVES WOULD LEAVE THEM UNALTERED?
    The words thundered through Rand. Aghast, he stepped away as Elayne rose, obviously concerned for him. Yes, he saw it now, the thing behind her eyes. She was not herself. . . because Rand had taken from her the ability to be herself.
    I TURN MEN TO ME, Shaitan said. IT IS TRUE. THEY CANNOT CHOOSE GOOD ONCE I HAVE MADE THEM MINE IN THAT WAY. HOW IS THIS ANY DIFFERENT, ADVERSARY?
    IF YOU DO THIS, WE ARE ONE.
    “No!” Rand screamed, holding his head in his hand, falling to his knees. “No! The world would be perfect without you!”
    PERFECT. UNCHANGING. RUINED. DO THIS, IF YOU WISH, ADVERSARY. IN KILLING ME, I WOULD WIN.
    NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, I WILL WIN.
    Rand screamed, curling up as the Dark One’s next attack washed over him. The nightmare Rand had created exploded outward, ribbons of light spraying away like streaks of smoke.
    The darkness around him shook and trembled.
    YOU CANNOT SAVE THEM.
    The Pattern—glowing, vibrant—wrapped around Rand again. The real Pattern. The truth of what was happening. In creating his vision of a world without the Dark One, he had created something horrible. Something awful. Something worse than would have been before.
    The Dark One attacked again.

    Mat pulled back from the fighting, resting his ashandarei on his shoulder. Karede had demanded the chance to fight—the more hopeless the situation, the better. Well, the man should be bloody well pleased with this. He should be dancing and laughing! He had his wish. Light, but he did.
    Mat sat down on a dead Trolloc, the only seat available, and drank deeply from his waterskin. He had the pulse of the battle, its rhythm. The beat it played was forlorn. Demandred was clever. He had not gone for Mat’s bait at the ford, where he had positioned a smaller army. Demandred had sent Trollocs there, but held back