A Memory of Light

pointed beard was not particularly handsome, but self-composed and sure of himself. He bowed from horseback to Egwene, and she held out her ring.
    He hesitated, then dismounted and came forward, bowing his head and kissing the ring. “The Light illumine you, Mother.”
    “I am glad to see you here, Darlin.”
    “So long as your promise holds. Gateways to my homeland should the moment require it.”
    “It will be done.”
    He bowed again, eyeing a man riding up toward Egwene from the other side. Gregorin, Steward of Illian, was Darlin’s equal in many ways-- but not all. Rand had named Darlin Steward of Tear, but the High Lords had asked for him to be crowned king. Gregorin remained merely a Steward. The tall man had lost weight recently, his round face—with its customary Illianer beard—starting to look sunken. He didn’t wait for Egwene to prod him; he swung from his horse and seized her hand, executing a flourishing bow and a kiss to the ring.
    “I’m pleased the two of you could put aside differences to join me in this endeavor,” Egwene said, drawing their attention away from glares at one another.
    “The Lord Dragon’s intentions are . . . troubling,” Darlin said. “He chose me to lead Tear because I opposed him when I felt it necessary. I believe he will listen to reason if I present it to him.”
    Gregorin snorted. “The Lord Dragon do be perfectly reasonable. We do need to offer a good argument, and I do think he will listen.”
    “My Keeper has some words for each of you,” Egwene said. “Please listen to what she has to say. Your cooperation will be remembered.”
    Silviana rode forward and drew Gregorin aside to speak to him. There wasn’t much of importance to say, but Egwene had feared these two would end up chipping at one another. Silviana’s instruction was to keep them apart.
    Darlin regarded her with a discerning gaze. He seemed to understand what she was doing, but didn’t complain as he mounted his horse.
    “You seem troubled, King Darlin,” she said.
    “Some old rivalries run deeper than the ocean’s depths, Mother. I can almost wonder if this meeting was the work of the Dark One, hoping that we would end up destroying one another and doing his work for him.”
    “I understand,” Egwene said. “Perhaps it would be best if you advised your men—again, if you’ve already done so—that there are to be no accidents’ this day.”
    “A wise suggestion.” He bowed, pulling back.
    They were both with her, as was Elayne. Ghealdan would stand for Rand, if what Elayne said about Queen Alliandre was true. Ghealdan wasn’t so powerful that Alliandre worried her—the Borderlanders were another matter. Rand seemed to have won them over.
    Each of their flags flew over their respective armies, and each ruler was in attendance save Queen Ethenielle, who was in Kandor trying to organize the refugees fleeing her homeland. She had left a sizable contingent for this meeting—including Antol, her eldest son—as if to state that what happened here was as important to Kandor’s survival as fighting on the border.
    Kandor. The first casualty of the Last Battle. The entire country was said to be aflame. Would Andor be next? The Two Rivers? Steady, Egwene thought.
    It felt awful to have to consider who was “for” whom, but it was her duty to do so. Rand could not direct the Last Battle personally, as he would undoubtedly wish to do. His mission would be to fight the Dark One; he would have neither the presence of mind nor the time to act as a commanding general as well. She intended to come from this meeting with the White Tower acknowledged as leading the collected forces against the Shadow, and she would not give up responsibility for the seals.
    How much could she trust this man Rand had become? He wasn’t the Rand she’d grown up with. He was more akin to the Rand she’d come to know out in the Aiel Waste, only more confident. And, perhaps, more cunning. He had grown quite proficient at the Game of Houses.
    None of these changes in him were terrible things, assuming he could still be reasoned with.
    Is that the flag of Arad Doman? she thought, surprised. It wasn’t just the flag, it was the King’s flag, indicating he was riding with those forces that had just arrived on the field. Had Rodel Ituralde finally ascended to the throne, or had Rand picked someone else? The Domani king’s flag flew next to that of Davram Bashere, uncle to the Queen of Saldaea.
    “Light.”