A Memory of Light

chambers.
    They crossed the trench and continued on. A short distance down the tunnel, they reached an intersection where the earthen walls were shored up, like the shafts of a mine. The five of them gathered there, looking in one direction, then another. Two paths.
    “That way slopes upward,” Emarin whispered, pointing left. “Perhaps to another entrance into these tunnels?”
    “We should probably move deeper,” Nalaam said. “Don’t you think?”
    “Yes,” Androl said, licking his finger and testing the air. “The wind is blowing right. We’ll go that way first. Be careful. There will be other guards.”
    The group slipped further down into the tunnels. How long had Taim been working on this complex? It didn’t seem terribly extensive—they didn’t pass other branchings—but still, it was impressive.
    Suddenly Androl stopped, and the others pulled to a halt. A grumbling voice echoed up the tunnel, too soft for them to make out the words, accompanied by a flickering light on the walls. Pevara embraced the Source and prepared weaves. If she channeled, would someone in the foundation notice? Androl was obviously hesitant as well; channeling above, to kill the guards, had been suspicious enough. If Taim’s men down here sensed the One Power being used . . .
    The figure was approaching, the light illuminating him.
    A creak came from beside her, as Jonneth drew his restrung Two Rivers bow. There was barely room in the tunnel for it. He loosed with a snap, the air whistling. The grumbling cut off, and the light fell.
    The group scrambled forward to find Coteren down on the ground, eyes staring up glassily, the arrow through his chest. His lantern burned fitfully on the ground beside him. Jonneth retrieved his arrow, then wiped it on the dead mans clothing. “That’s why I still carry a bow, you bloody son of a goat.”
    “Here,” Emarin said, pointing at a thick door. “Coteren was guarding it.”
    “Prepare yourselves,” Androl whispered, then shoved open the thick wooden door. Beyond, they found a line of crude cells built into the earthen wall—each one little more than a roofed cubbyhole burrowed into the earth with a door set in the opening. Pevara peeked in one, which was empty. The cubby didn’t have enough room for a man to stand up inside, and the room was unlit. Being locked in those cells would mean being trapped in blackness, squeezed into a space like a grave.
    “Light!” Nalaam said. “Androl! He’s in here. It’s Logain!”
    The others hurried to join him, and Androl picked the door’s lock with a surprisingly adept hand. They pulled open the cell door, and Logain rolled out with a groan. He looked horrible, covered in grime. Once, that curling dark hair and strong face might have made him handsome. He looked as weak as a beggar.
    He coughed, then rose to his knees with Nalaam’s help. Androl knelt immediately, but not in reverence. He looked Logain in the eyes as Emarin gave the Asha’man leader his flask for a drink.
    Well? Pevara asked.
    It’s him, Androl thought, a wave of relief coming through the bond. It’s still him.
    They’d have let him go if they’d Turned him, Pevara sent back, growing increasingly comfortable with this method of communicating.
    Maybe. Unless this is a trap. “My Lord Logain.”
    “Androl.” Logain’s voice was raspy. “Jonneth. Nalaam. And an Aes Sedai?” He inspected Pevara. For a man who had apparently suffered days, perhaps weeks, of incarceration, he looked remarkably lucid. “I remember you. What Ajah are you, woman?”
    “Does it matter?” she replied.
    “Greatly,” Logain said, trying to stand. He was too weak, and Nalaam had to support him. “How did you find me?”
    “That is a story for once we are safe, my Lord,” Androl said. He peeked out the doorway. “Let’s move. We still have a difficult night ahead of us. I—”
    Androl froze, then slammed the door.
    “What is it?” Pevara asked.
    “Channeling,” Jonneth said. “Powerful.”
    Yells, muffled by the door and the dirt walls, sounded outside in the hallway.
    “Someone found the guards,” Emarin said. “My Lord Logain, can you fight?”
    Logain tried to stand on his own, then sagged again. His face grew determined, but Pevara felt Androl’s disappointment. Logain had been given forkroot; either that, or he was simply too tired to channel. Not surprising. Pevara had seen women in better shape than this who were too worn out to embrace the