A Memory of Light

worried to move Rand. Loial kept searching, peeking into tents. In the next, he found the grizzled general Ituralde, surrounded by four Aes Sedai.
    “Look,” Ituralde said. “I’ve served the kings of Arad Doman all of my life. I swore oaths.”
    “Alsalam is dead,” Saerin Sedai said from beside the chair. “Someone has to take the throne.”
    “There is confusion in Saldaea,” Elswell Sedai added. “The succession is messy, with the ties it has to Andor now. Arad Doman cannot afford to be leaderless. You must take the throne, Rodel Ituralde. You must do it quickly.
    The Merchant Council . . .”
    “All dead or vanished,” another Aes Sedai said.
    “I swore oaths . . .”
    “And what would your king have you do?” Yukiri Sedai asked. “Let the kingdom disintegrate? You must be strong, Lord Ituralde. This is not a time for Arad Doman to be without a leader.”
    Loial slipped away and shook his head, feeling sorry for the man. Four Aes Sedai. Ituralde would be crowned before the day was out.
    Loial stopped by the main Healing tent again to check if anyone had seen Mat. He had been to this battlefield, and people said he was smiling and healthy, but . . . well, Loial wanted to see for himself. Wanted to talk to him.
    Inside the tent, Loial had to slouch lest he brush his head on the ceiling. A large tent for humans was small by Ogier standards.
    He peeked in on Rand. His friend looked worse than before. Lan stood by the wall. He wore a crown—it was just a simple silver band—where the hadori used to rest. That wasn’t odd, but the matching one Nynaeve wore did give Loial a start.
    “It’s not fair,” Nynaeve whispered. “Why should he die, when the other one gets better?”
    Nynaeve seemed troubled. She still had red eyes, but before, she had chivvied anyone who mentioned them, so Loial said nothing. Humans often seemed to want him to say nothing, which was odd for people who lived lives so hastily.
    She looked at Loial, and he bowed his head to her.
    “Loial,” she said. “How goes your search?”
    “Not well,” he said with a grimace. “Perrin ignored me and Mat cannot be found.”
    “Your stories can wait a few days, Builder,” Lan said.
    Loial did not argue. Lan was a king now, after all. But . . . no, the stories could not wait. They had to be fresh so his history could be accurate.
    “It’s terrible,” Flinn said, still looking at Rand. “But, Nynaeve Sedai . . . It’s so strange. None of the three seem to care at all. Shouldn’t they be more worried . . . ?”
    Loial left them, though he did check in on Aviendha in a nearby tent. She sat while several women attended to her twisted, bleeding feet. She had lost several of her toes. She nodded her head to Loial; the Healings done so far had apparently taken away her pain, for though she seemed tired, she did not seem in agony.
    “Mat?” he asked hopefully.
    “I have not seen him, Loial, son of Arent son of Halan,” Aviendha replied. “At least, not since you asked a short time ago.”
    Loial blushed, then left her. He passed Elayne and Min outside. He would get their stories—he had already asked a few questions—but the three ta’veren . . . they were most important! Why were humans always bustling around so quickly, never sitting still? Never any time to think. This was an important day.
    It was odd, though. Min and Elayne. Shouldn’t they be at Rand’s side? Elayne seemed to be taking reports on casualties and refugee supplies, and Min sat looking up at Shayol Ghul, a far-off expression in her eyes. Neither went in to hold Rand’s hand as he slipped toward death.
    Well, Loial thought, maybe Mat sneaked by me and went back to Merrilor. Never staying put, these men. Always so hasty . . .

    Matrim Cauthon sauntered into the Seanchan camp on the south side of Merrilor, away from the piles of the dead.
    All around, Seanchan men and women gasped, hands to their mouths. He tipped his hat to them.
    “The Prince of the Ravens!” Hushed tones moved through camp ahead of him, passing from mouth to mouth like the last bottle of brandy on a cold night.
    He walked right up to Tuon, who stood at a large map table at the camp center talking to Selucia. Karede, Mat noticed, had survived. The man probably felt guilty about it.
    Tuon looked at Mat and frowned. “Where have you been?”
    Mat raised his arm, and Tuon frowned, looking upward at nothing. Mat spun and thrust his hand farther toward the sky.
    Nightflowers began to