A Memory of Light

suspicion.
    Sincerity. Would that be his downfall?
    “Lord Logain!” Desautel called from nearby. The Asha’man Dedicated was as big as a blacksmith. “Lord Logain, I think I’ve found it!”
    Logain broke eye contact with Gabrelle, looking toward Desautel. The Asha’man stood beside a large crystal. “It’s here,” Desautel said, wiping the crystal as Logain approached. “See?”
    Logain knelt, weaving a globe of light. Yes . . . there, within the crystal. It looked like a hand, made from a slightly different type of crystal, sparkling in his light. That hand held a golden scepter, the top vaguely cup-shaped.
    Logain gathered the One Power, smiling broadly. He let saidin flow from him into the crystal, using a weave to shatter it as he would a stone.
    The ground trembled. The crystal, whatever it was, resisted. The harder he pushed, the more violent the shaking became.
    “Logain . . Gabrelle said.
    “Stand back,” Logain said. “I think I’ll need to try balefire.”
    Panic surged through the bond. Fortunately, Gabrelle did not try to tell him what was forbidden and what was not. Asha’man need not obey White Tower law.
    “Logain!”
    Another voice. Would they not leave him alone? He prepared his weave. “Logain!” Androl was breathing deeply as he arrived. He fell to his knees, face scorched and burned. He looked worse than death itself. “Logain . . . the refugees of Caemlyn . . . The Shadow has sent Trollocs to kill them at the ruins. Light! They’re being murdered.”
    Logain wove balefire, but held the weave in place, nearly complete as he looked at the crystal and its golden prize.
    “Logain . . .” Androl said, pained. “The others with me stayed to fight, but they are too tired. I can’t find Cauthon, and the soldiers I went to are too busy fighting to help. I don’t think any of the commanders know that the Trollocs are up there. Light.”
    Logain held his weave, feeling the One Power pulse within him. Power. Fear.
    “Please,” Androl whispered, so soft. “Children, Logain. They’re slaughtering the children . . .”
    Logain closed his eyes.

    Mat rode with the heroes of the Horn. Apparently, having once been the Hornsounder gave him a special place among them. They joined him, called to him, spoke to him as if they knew him. They looked so, well, heroic, tall in their saddles and surrounded by a mist that glowed against the breaking dawn’s light.
    Amid the fighting, he finally asked the question that had been haunting him for a long while now. I'm not bloody . . . one of you, am I?” he asked Hend the Striker. “You know . . . since heroes are born sometimes, then die and ... do whatever you do.”
    The big man laughed, riding a bay horse that could have almost gone shoulder-to-shoulder with a Seanchan boar-horse. “I knew that you would ask this thing, Gambler!”
    “Well, then you should bloody well have an answer prepared.” Mat felt his face flush as he anticipated the reply.
    “No, you are not one of us,” Hend said. “Be at ease. Though you have done more than enough to earn a place, you have not been chosen. I do not know why.”
    “Maybe because I don’t like the idea of having to hop whenever anyone blows on that bloody instrument.”
    “Maybe!” Hend grinned and galloped toward a line of Sharan spears.
    Mat no longer directed troop movements on the battlefield. The Light willing, he had set things up well enough that direct control would not be needed. He rode across the plateau, fighting, yelling, joining the heroes.
    Elayne was back, and she had rallied her troops. Mat saw Elayne’s banner glowing above them in the sky, crafted of the One Power, and caught a glimpse of someone who looked like her riding among the soldiers, hair glowing as if lit from behind her. She seemed a bloody hero of the Horn herself.
    Mat let out a whoop of joy as he saw the Seanchan army marching north, about to merge with Elayne’s army, and he continued riding along the eastern slope of the Heights. Soon after, he slowed, Pips just having trampled a Trolloc. That rushing sound . . . Mat looked down below as the river returned in a swift crash of muddy water. It broke the Trolloc army into two parts, washing away many of them, as it surged back into its bed.
    Snow-haired Rogosh watched the water flow, then nodded to Mat in respect. “Well done, Gambler,” he said. The river’s return had divided the Shadow’s forces.
    Mat rejoined the battle. He noticed as he galloped