A Memory of Light

Assuming Cadsuane and Alivia could hold out, waiting was the better choice.
    Could they hold out, though? Cadsuane was powerful, more powerful than Aviendha had thought. Those hair ornaments of hers included angreal and ter’angreal for certain, though Aviendha hadn’t been able to handle them and tell for certain, using her Talent.
    Graendal’s women captives lay against the ground, obviously flagging. Two had collapsed; Sarene had fallen to her knees, and stared ahead with vacant eyes.
    Cadsuane and Alivia didn’t seem to mind if they hit the captives. That was the right choice. Still, could Aviendha somehow—
    The tall brush beside her moved.
    Aviendha spun without thought and wove Fire. She burned down a black-veiled attacker mere moments before his spear would have stabbed her in the neck. The weapon sliced the side of her shoulder as the man stumbled, then toppled forward, her strike having burned a hole in his chest as large as a fist.
    Another channeler joined the melee, frantically sending out weaves. Amys had arrived. Fortunately, Graendal focused on her, rather than attacking Aviendha’s just-revealed location.
    That was good, for Aviendha was staring at the man she’d felled, a man Graendal had made to do her bidding through Compulsion. A man who looked familiar to Aviendha.
    Horrified, trembling, she reached down and pulled aside the veil.
    It was Rhuarc.

    I'm leaving,” Mishraile said with a scowl, looking at the backs of the charging Sharan cavalry. They were standing on the western side of the Heights, far off the left flank of the Sharan army. “Nobody told us we’d be fighting the bloody heroes of the Horn.”
    It is the Last Battle, child.” Alviarin sounded snide. She had taken to calling all of them child lately. Mishraile was about ready to strangle her. Why had M'Hael allowed her to bond Nensen? Why would a woman be put in command of them?
    They stood in a small group, Alviarin, Mishraile, Nensen, Kash, Rianna, and Donalo, and Ayako—who had been Turned as he had. Mishraile didn’t know a lot about battlefield fighting; when he killed people, he liked to wait for them to stumble someplace dark, where nobody was watching. All of this open air battle, all of this chaos, made him feel as if a knife tip were pressed against his back.
    “There,” Alviarin said to Nensen, pointing toward a flash of light as another explosion from those dragons sounded through gateways across the battlefield. “I think that came from the middle of the plateau. Make a gateway and go there.”
    “We’re never going to—” Mishraile began.
    “Go!” Alviarin said, face red with anger.
    Nensen scrambled and did as she said. He liked following orders, feeling that someone was in charge.
    I might have to kill her, Mishraile thought. And Nensen as well. Even without much experience of battle, Mishraile could see that this was not going to be an easy fight. The return of the Seanchan, the fall of Demandred and the Trollocs rampaging without any direction . . . Yes, the Shadow still had the numbers, but the fight wasn’t nearly as one-sided as he’d have liked. One of the first rules he’d learned in life was to never fight a man when you had an equal chance of losing.
    The six of them piled through the gateway, coming out in the middle of the plateau. The ground burnt by dragons and channelers emitted smoke to mix with the strange fog that had arisen; it was hard to tell what was going on where. Holes in the ground, splayed open by the dragons.
    Corpses . . . well, pieces of them . . . scattered about. An unusual scent in the air. It was after sunrise now, but barely any light came through the clouds.
    Cries came from above, made by those strange flying creatures the Seanchan had brought. Mishraile shivered. Light. It was like standing in a house without a roof, knowing your enemy had archers positioned above you. He shot one of them down with a weave of Fire, satisfied with the way the wings crumpled and the beast spun about, swirling as it dropped.
    Attacking like that exposed him, though. He really would have to kill the other Dreadlords, then escape. He was supposed to be on the winning side!
    “To work,” Alviarin said. “Do as I said. These are men making the gateways the devices fire through, so we will have to locate where the gateway was and have Donalo read the residue.”
    The men moved out, inspecting the ground, trying to find the place where the gateway had opened. People fought