A Memory of Light

32 A Yellow Flower-Spider

The damane held open a hole in the floor for Mat. It looked down on the battlefield itself.

Mat rubbed his chin, still impressed, though he’d been using these holes for the last hour or so as he countered the trap that Bryne had laid for Egwene’s armies. He had sent in additional banners of Seanchan cavalry to reinforce both flanks of his troops at the river, and additional damane to counter the Sharan channelers and stem the flood of Trollocs pressing against the defenders.

Of course, this still wasn’t as good as being down on the battlefield himself. Maybe he should go out again and do a little more fighting. He glanced at Tuon, who sat on a throne—a massive, ten-foot-tall throne—at one side of the command building. Tuon narrowed her eyes at him, as if she could see right into his thoughts.

She’s Aes Sedai, Mat told himself. Oh, she can’t channel—she hasn’t let herself learn yet. She’s bloody one of them anyway. And I married her.

She was something incredible, though. He felt a thrill each time she gave orders; she did it so naturally. Elayne and Nynaeve could take lessons. Tuon did look very nice on that throne. Mat let his gaze linger on her, and that earned him a scowl, which was downright unfair. If a man couldn’t leer at his wife, who could he leer at?

Mat turned back to the battlefield. “Nice trick,” he said, stooping down to stick his hand through the hole. They were high up. If he fell, he’d have time to hum three verses of “She Has No Ankles That I Can See” before he hit. Maybe an extra round of the chorus.

“This one learned it,” the sul’dam said, referring to her new damane, “from watching the weaves of the Aes Sedai.” The sul’dam, Catrona, almost choked on the words “Aes Sedai.” Mat couldn’t blame her. Those could be tough words to speak.

He didn’t look too hard at the damane, nor the tattoos of flowering branches on her cheeks, reaching from the back of her head like hands to cup her face. Mat was responsible for her being captured. It was better than her fighting for the Shadow, wasn’t it?

Blood and bloody ashes, he thought to himself. You are doing a fine job of persuading Tuon not to use damane, Matrim Cauthon. Capturing one yourself. . .

It was unnerving how quickly the Sharan woman had taken to her captivity. The sul’dam had all remarked upon it. Barely a moment of struggle, then complete subservience. They expected a newly captured damane to take months to train properly, yet this one had been ready within hours. Catrona practically beamed, as if she were personally responsible for the Sharan woman’s temperament.

That hole was remarkable. Mat stood right on the edge, looking down at the world, counting off the banners and squadrons as he marked them in his head. What would Classen Bayor have done with one of these, he wondered? Maybe the Battle of Kolesar would have turned out differently. He’d have never lost his cavalry in the marsh, that’s for certain.

Mat’s forces continued to hold back the Shadow at the eastern border of Kandor, but he was not pleased with the current situation. The nature of Bryne’s trap had been subtle, as hard to see as a yellow flower-spider crouching on a petal. That’s how Mat had known. It had taken true military genius to put the army into such a bad situation without it looking like the army was in a bad situation. That sort of thing didn’t happen by accident.

Mat had lost more men than he wanted to count. His people were pressed up against the river, and Demandred—despite continuing to rave about the Dragon Reborn—was continually testing Mat’s defenses, trying to find a weak spot, sending out a heavy cavalry raid against one side, then an attack from Sharan archers and a Trolloc charge on the other. Consequently, Mat had to keep a close eye on Demandred’s movements to be able to counter them in time.

Night was coming soon. Would the Shadow pull back? The Trollocs could fight into the darkness, but those Sharans probably couldn’t. Mat gave another sequence of orders, and messengers galloped through gateways to deliver them. It seemed like only moments passed before his troops below responded. “So fast . . Mat said.

“This will change the world,” General Galgan said. “Messengers can respond instantly; commanders can watch their battles and plan in the moment.”

Mat grunted in agreement, “I’ll bet it still takes all bloody evening to get dinner from the mess tent, though.”

Galgan actually smiled. It was like seeing a boulder crack in half.

“Tell me, General,” Tuon said. “What is your assessment of our consort’s abilities?”

“I don’t know where you found this one, Greatest One, but he is a diamond of great worth. I have watched him these last hours as he rescued the forces of the White Tower. For all of his . . . unconventional style, I have rarely seen a battle commander as gifted as he.”

Tuon did not smile, but he could see from her eyes that she was pleased. They were nice eyes. And, actually, with Galgan not acting so gruff, perhaps this wouldn’t be such a bad place to be after all.

“Thanks,” Mat said under his breath to Galgan as they both leaned over to study the field below.

“I consider myself a man of truth, my Prince,” Galgan said, rubbing his chin with a callused finger. “You will serve the Crystal Throne well. It would be a shame to see you assassinated too early. I will make certain that the first I send after you are newly trained, so that you may stop them with ease.”

Mat felt his mouth drop open. The man said it with perfect frankness, almost affection. As if he were planning to do Mat a favor by trying to kill him!

“The Trollocs here,” he pointed at a group of them far below, “will pull back soon.”

“I concur,” Galgan said.

Mat rubbed his chin. “We’ll have to see what Demandred does with them. I’m concerned that the Sharans may try to slip some of their marath’damane into our camp during the night. They show a remarkable dedication to their cause. Or a bloody foolish disregard for self-preservation.”

Aes Sedai and sul’dam weren’t particularly timid, but they were generally cautious. The Sharan channelers were anything but, particularly the men.

“Get me some damane to create lights for the river,” Mat said. “And put the camp on lockdown, with a ring of damane spaced through camp to watch for channeling. Nobody channels, not even to light a bloody candle.”

“The . . . Aes Sedai . . . may not like this,” General Galgan said. He too hesitated upon using the words Aes Sedai. They had started using the term instead of marath’damane by Mat’s order, one that he’d expected Tuon to rescind. She had not.

Figuring that woman out was going to be a real pleasure if they both survived this bloody mess.

Tylee entered the room. Tall and with a scarred face, the dark-skinned woman walked with the confidence of a long-time soldier. She prostrated herself before Tuon, her clothing bloodied and her armor dented. Her legion had taken a beating today, and she probably felt like a rug did after a good-wife had been at it.

“I’m worried about our position here.” Mat turned back and squatted down, looking through the hole. As he’d predicted, the Trollocs had begun to fall back.

“In what way?” General Galgan asked.

“We’ve run our channelers to the bone,” Mat said. “And we’re backed up against the river, a difficult position to defend long-term, especially against such a huge army. If they channel some gateways and move part of the Sharan army to this side of the river in the night, they could crush us.

“I see what you mean,” Galgan said, shaking his head. “Given their strength, they will continue to wear us down, until we are so weak, they can throw a noose around us and tighten it.”

Mat looked directly at Galgan. “I think it’s time we abandon this position.”

“I agree, that seems to be our only reasonable course of action,” General Galgan said, nodding. “Why not choose a battlefield more to our advantage? Will your friends from the White Tower agree to a retreat?”

“Let’s see,” Mat said, straightening all the way up. “Someone send for Egwene and the Sitters.”

“They will not come,” Tuon said. “The Aes Sedai will not meet with us here. I doubt this Amyrlin will accept me into her camp, not with the protections I would require.”

“Fine.” Mat waved toward the gateway in the floor, which the damane was closing. “We’ll use a gateway and talk through it like a door.”

Tuon made no specific objection, so Mat sent the messengers. It took a little arranging, but Egwene seemed to like the idea well enough. Tuon entertained herself during the wait by having her throne moved to the other side of the room—Mat had no idea why. She then proceeded to begin annoying Min. “And this one?” Tuon asked as a lanky member of the Blood entered and bowed himself.

“He’ll marry soon,” Min said.

“You will give the omen first,” Tuon said, “then interpretation, if you desire.”

“I know exactly what this one means,” Min protested. She had been set on a smaller throne beside that of Tuon. The girl was so decked in fine cloth and lace that she could have been mistaken for a mouse hiding in a bale of silk. “Sometimes, I know immediately, and—”

“You will give the omen first,” Tuon said, her tone unchanged. “And you will refer to me as Greatest One. It is a high honor that you are given to speak with me directly. Do not let the Prince of the Ravens’ attitude prove a model for your own.”

Min quieted, though she didn’t look cowed. She’d spent too long around Aes Sedai to let Tuon bully her. That gave Mat pause. He had an inkling of what Tuon might be capable of, if she grew displeased with Min. He loved her—Light, he was pretty sure he did. But he also let himself be a little afraid of her.

He’d have to keep watch so that Tuon didn’t decide to “educate” Min.

“The omen for this man,” Min said, controlling her tone with—it seemed—some difficulty, “is white lace trailing in a pond. I know that it will mean his marriage in the near future.”

Tuon nodded. She wiggled her fingers at Selucia—the man they were discussing was of the low Blood, not of a high enough rank to speak directly to Tuon. His head was down so close to the ground as he bowed that it seemed that he had become fascinated with beetles and was trying to collect a specimen.

“Lord Gokhan of the Blood,” Selucia Voiced, “is to be moved to the front lines. He is forbidden to marry until the end of this conflict. The omens have spoken that he will live long enough to find a wife, and so he will be protected.”

Min grimaced, then opened her mouth, probably to object that it didn’t work that way. Mat caught her eye and shook his head, and she backed down.

Tuon brought in the next, a young soldier, not of the Blood. The woman had fair skin and not a bad face, though Mat couldn’t see much else beneath that armor. Men’s armor and women’s armor didn’t actually look much different, which he found a shame. Mat had asked a Seanchan armorer if certain areas of the female breastplate shouldn’t be emphasized, so to speak, and the armorer had looked at him like he was a half-wit. Light, these people had no sense of morality. A fellow needed to know if he was fighting a woman on the battlefield. It was only right.

As Min gave her omens, Mat settled back in his chair, putting his boots up on the map table and fishing in his pocket for his pipe. She was rather fine-looking, that soldier, though he could not see some of the important parts. She might make a good match for Talmanes. That fellow spent entirely too little time looking at women. He was shy around them, Talmanes was.

Mat ignored the looks of those nearby as he tipped his chair back onto two legs, set his heels on the table and packed his pipe. Seanchan could be so touchy.

He wasn’t certain what he thought of so many Seanchan women being soldiers. A lot of them seemed like Birgitte, which wouldn’t be so bad. Mat would rather spend an evening in the tavern with her than half the men he knew.

“You will be executed,” Tuon Voiced through Selucia, speaking to the soldier.

Mat nearly fell off of his chair. He grabbed the table in front of him, the chair’s front legs slamming down on the ground.

“What?” Min demanded. “No!”

“You saw the sign of the white boar,” Tuon said.

“I don’t know the meaning!”

“The boar is the symbol of one Handoin, one of my rivals in Seanchan,” Tuon explained patiently. “The white boar is an omen of danger, perhaps betrayal. This woman works for him, or will in the future.”

“You can’t just execute her!”

Tuon blinked once, looking straight at Min. The room seemed to drop into shade, feeling colder. Mat shivered. He didn’t like it when Tuon got like this. That stare of hers . . . it seemed like the stare of another person. A person without compassion. A statue had more life to it.

Nearby, Selucia wiggled her fingers at Tuon. Tuon glanced at them, then nodded.

“You are my Truthspeaker,” she said to Min, almost reluctantly. “You may correct me in public. Do you see error in my decisions?”

“Yes, I do,” Min said, not missing a beat. “You do not use my skills as you should.”

“And how should I?” Tuon asked. The soldier who had been given a death sentence continued lying prostrate. She didn’t object—she was not of a rank that could address the Empress. She was lowly enough that speaking to someone else in Tuon’s presence would be a breach of honor.

“What someone may do is not grounds to kill them,” Min said. “I intend no disrespect, but if you are going to kill people because of what I tell you, I will not speak.”

“You can be made to speak.”

“Try it,” Min said softly. Mat started. Bloody ashes, she looked as cold as Tuon had a moment ago. “Let us see how the Pattern treats you, Empress, if you torture the bearer of omens.”

Instead, Tuon smiled. “You take to this well. Explain to me what you desire, bringer of omens.”

“I will tell you my viewings,” Min said, “but from now on, the interpretations—whether my own, or those you read into the images—are to be kept quiet. Between the two of us would be best. You are allowed to watch someone because of what I’ve said, but not to punish them—not unless you catch them doing something. Set this woman free.”

“Let it be so,” Tuon said. “You are free,” she Voiced through Selucia. “Walk in loyalty to the Crystal Throne. You will be watched.”

The woman bowed lower, then retreated from the room, head down. Mat caught a trickle of sweat running down the side of her face. So she wasn’t a statue.

He turned back to Tuon and Min. They were still staring at one another. No knives, but he felt as if someone had been stabbed. If only Min would learn a little respect. One of these days, he was going to have to haul her away from the Seanchan by her collar—a step in front of the headsman—he was certain of it.

A gateway suddenly split the air on the side of the room where Tuon had indicated it should go. Suddenly, it occurred to Mat why she had moved her throne. If that damane had been captured and forced to say where Tuon was sitting, an Aes Sedai could have opened a gateway where she sat, slicing her in two. It was so unlikely it was laughable—an Aes Sedai could sooner fly than kill someone who wasn’t a Darkfriend—but Tuon took no chances.

The gateway opened to reveal the Hall of the Tower seated in a tent. Behind them, Egwene sat upon a large chair. The Amyrlin Seat itself, Mat realized. Blood and ashes . . . she had them fetch it.

Egwene looked exhausted, though she was doing a good job of hiding it. The others were no better. The Aes Sedai had been strained to their limits. If she were a soldier, he’d never send her into battle. Blood and bloody ashes—if he had a soldier with that cast to his skin and that look in his eyes, Mat would send the fellow to bed rest for a week.

“We are curious to know the purpose of this meeting,” Saerin said calmly.

Silviana sat in a smaller chair by Egwene’s side, and the other sisters were organized by Ajah. Some were missing, including one of the Yellows, by Mat’s best guess.

Tuon nodded to Mat. He was to lead this meeting. He tipped his hat to her, which earned him a half-raised eyebrow. Her dangerous look was gone, although she was still Empress.

“Aes Sedai,” Mat said, standing up and tipping his hat to the Sitters. “The Crystal Throne appreciates you coming to your bloody senses and letting us direct the battle.”

Silviana’s eyes bulged as if someone had just stepped on her foot. From the corner of his eye, Mat caught a hint of a smile on Tuon’s lips. Blood and bloody ashes, both women should know better than to encourage him so.

“You are as eloquent as ever, Mat,” Egwene said dryly “Do you still have your pet fox?”

“I do,” Mat said. “He’s snuggled up nice and warm.”

“Take care of him,” Egwene said. “I would not see you suffer Gareth Bryne’s fate.”

“So it was really Compulsion?” Mat asked. Egwene had sent him word. “As near as we can tell,” Saerin said. “Nynaeve Sedai can see the weaves on someone’s mind, I’m told, but none of the rest of us can.”

“We have our Healers looking at Bryne,” said a stocky Domani Aes Sedai. “For now, we cannot trust any battle plans that he touched, at least not until we determine how long he’s been under the Shadow’s thumb.”

Mat nodded. “That sounds good. Also, we need to withdraw our forces from the ford.”

“Why?” Lelaine demanded. “We have stabilized here.”

“Not well enough,” Mat said. “I don’t like this terrain, and we shouldn’t have to fight where we don’t want to.”

“I hesitate to give an extra inch to the Shadow,” Saerin said.

“A pace given up now could earn us two at the dawn,” Mat replied. General Galgan murmured in agreement, and Mat realized that he’d quoted Hawkwing.

Saerin frowned. The others seemed to be letting her lead the meeting. Egwene mostly stayed out of it, fingers laced before her, sitting at the back.

“I should probably tell you,” Saerin said, “that our great captain was not the only one targeted. Davram Bashere and Lord Agelmar also tried to lead their respective armies to destruction. Elayne Sedai did well in her battle, destroying a large force of Trollocs, but she was only able to do so because of the Black Tower’s arrival. The Borderlanders were crushed, losing nearly two-thirds of their numbers.”

Mat felt a chill. Two-thirds? Light! They were among the best troops the Light had. “Lan?”

“Lord Mandragoran lives,” Saerin said.

Well, that was something. “And what of that army up in the Blight?”

“Lord Ituralde fell in battle,” Saerin replied. “No one quite seems to know what happened to him.”

“This was planned very well,” Mat said, mind racing. “Blood and bloody ashes. They tried to crush all four battlefronts at once. I can’t imagine the amount of coordination that would take . . .”

“As I noted,” Egwene said softly, “we must be very careful. Keep that fox of yours near at all times.”

“What does Elayne want to do?” Mat said. “Isn’t she in charge?”

“Elayne Sedai is currently helping the Borderlanders,” Saerin said. “She has instructed us that Shienar is all but lost, and is having the Asha’man bring Lord Mandragoran’s army to a place of safety. Tomorrow, she plans to move her army through gateways and hold the Trollocs in the Blight.”

Mat shook his head. “We need to make a unified stand.” He hesitated. “Could we bring her through one of these gateways? At least contact her?” There seemed to be no good objection. In a short time, another gateway opened in the tent with Egwene and the Sitters. Elayne strode through, thick with child, eyes practically on fire. Behind her, Mat caught a glimpse of soldiers with slumped postures, trudging across a dim evening field. “Light,” Elayne said, “Mat, what is it you want?”

“You’ve won your battle?” Mat asked.

“Barely, but yes. The Trollocs in Cairhien have been destroyed. The city is safe, as well.”

Mat nodded. “I need to withdraw from our position here.”

“Fine,” Elayne said. “Perhaps we can meld your force with what’s left of the Borderlanders.”

“I want to do more than that, Elayne,” Mat said, stepping forward. “This ploy the Shadow tried . . . it was clever, Elayne. Bloody clever. We’re bloodied and almost broken. We don’t have the luxury of fighting on multiple battlefronts anymore.”

“What, then?”

“A last stand,” Mat said softly. “All of us, together, at one place where the terrain favors us.”

Elayne quieted, and someone brought her a chair to sit beside Egwene. She maintained the posture of a queen, but her disheveled hair and clothing burned in several places indicated what she’d been through. Mat could smell smoke coming from her battlefield, where the gateway was still open.

“That sounds desperate,” Elayne finally said.

“We are desperate,” Saerin said.

“We should ask our commanders . .” Elayne trailed off. “If there are any we can trust not to be under Compulsion.”

“There’s only one,” Mat said grimly, meeting her eyes. “And he’s telling you we are finished if we continue as we have. The earlier plan was a good enough one, but after what we lost today . . . Elayne, we’re dead unless we choose one place to stand, gather together, and fight.”

One last toss of the dice.

Elayne sat for a time. “Where?” she finally asked.

“Tar Valon?” Gawyn asked.

“No,” Mat said. “They’d just besiege it and move on. It can’t be a city where we can get boxed in. We need a territory that will work in our favor, also a land that can’t feed the Trollocs.”

“Well, a place in the Borderlands should work for that,” Elayne said with a grimace. “Lan’s army burned almost every city or field they passed to deny the Shadow resources.”

“Maps,” Mat said, waving. “Someone get me maps. We need a location in southern Shienar or Arafel. Someplace close enough that the Shadow will see it as tempting, a place to fight us all at once . .

“Mat,” Elayne asked. “Won’t that be giving them what they want? A chance to wipe us out?”

“Yes,” Mat said softly as the Aes Sedai sent over maps. These had markings on them, notations that appeared to be in General Bryne’s hand, judging by what they said. “We have to be a tempting target. We have to draw them in, face them and either defeat them or be crushed.”

A drawn-out fight would serve the Shadow. Once enough Trollocs reached southern lands, there would be no containing them. He had to win or lose quickly.

One last toss of the dice indeed.

Mat pointed at a location on the maps, a place that Bryne had annotated. It had a good water supply, a nice meeting of hills and rivers. “This place. Merrilor? You’ve been using it as a supply dump?”

Saerin chuckled softly. “And so we go back where we began, do we?”

“It does have some small fortifications,” Elayne said. “The men built a palisade on one side, and we could expand it.”

“It’s what we need,” Mat said, envisioning a battle there.

Merrilor would put them where the two major Trolloc armies could come in, try to crush the humans between them. That would be tempting. But the terrain would be wonderful for Mat to use . . .

Yes. It would be like the Battle of the Priya Narrows. If he put archers along those cliffs—no, dragons—and if he could give the Aes Sedai a few days of rest . . . Priya Narrows. He had counted on using a large river to trap the Hamarean army at the mouth of the Narrows. But as he sprung the trap, the blasted river dried up on him; the Hamareans had dammed it up on the other side of the Narrows. They had stepped right over the riverbed, and got clean away. That’s a lesson I won’t forget.

“This will do,” Mat said, placing his hand on the map. “Elayne?”

“Let it be done,” Elayne said. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mat.”

As she spoke, the dice started tumbling inside his head.

Galad closed Trom’s eyes. He’d searched the battlefield north of Cairhien for over an hour to find him. Trom had bled out, and only a few corners of his cloak were still white. Galad ripped the officer’s knots off his shoulder—amazingly unsoiled—and stood up.

He felt weary to the bone. He started back across the battlefield, passing heaps of the dead. The crows and the ravens had come; they blanketed the landscape behind him. An undulating, quivering blackness that coated the ground like mold. From a distance, it seemed as if the ground had been burned, there were so many carrion birds.

Occasionally, Galad passed men like himself who sifted through the corpses for friends. There were surprisingly few looters—you had to watch for those on a battlefield. Elayne had caught a few trying to sneak out of Cairhien. She’d threatened to hang them.

She’s grown harder, Galad thought, trudging back toward camp. His boots felt like lead on his feet. That is good. As a child, she had often made decisions with her heart. She was a queen now, and acted it. Now, if only he could right her moral compass. She wasn’t a bad person, but Galad wished that she—like other monarchs—could see as clearly as he did.

He was beginning to accept that they didn’t. He was beginning to accept that it was all right, so long as they tried their best. Whatever he had inside of him that allowed him to see the right of things was obviously a gift of the Light, and holding others to scorn because they had not been born with it was wrong. Just as it would be wrong to hold a man to scorn because he had been born with only one hand, and was therefore an inferior swordsman.

Many of the living he passed sat on the ground in the rare spots where there were no corpses and no blood. These men did not look like the victors of a battle, though the arrival of the Asha’man had saved this day. The trick with the lava had given Elayne’s army the breather it needed to regroup and attack.

That battle had been swift, but brutal. Trollocs did not surrender, and they couldn’t be allowed to break and flee. So Galad and the others had fought, bled and died long past when it was obvious they would be victorious.

The Trollocs were dead now. The remaining men sat and stared out at the blanket of corpses, as if numbed by the prospect of searching out the few living among the many thousands dead.

The setting sun and choking clouds made the light red, and gave faces a bloody cast.

Galad eventually reached the long hill that had marked the division between the two battlefields. He climbed it, slowly, forcing down thoughts of how good a bed would feel. Or a pallet on the floor. Or some flat rock in an out-of-the-way place, where he could roll up in his cloak.

The fresher air atop the hill shocked him. He’d been smelling blood and death for so long that now it was the clean air that smelled wrong. He shook his head, walking past tired Borderlanders who were trudging through gateways. The Asha’man had gone to hold off the Trollocs to the north so Lord Mandragoran’s armies could escape.

From what Galad heard, the Borderlander armies were a fraction of what they had been. The betrayal of the great captains had been felt most deeply by Lord Mandragoran and his men. It sickened Galad, for this battle had not gone easily for him or anyone else with Elayne. It had been horrible—and as bad as it had been, the fight had gone more poorly for the Borderlanders.

Galad kept his stomach settled with difficulty as his view from atop the hill let him see just how many carrion birds had come to feast. The Dark Ones minions fell, and the Dark One’s minions glutted themselves.

Galad eventually found Elayne. Her passionate words, being spoken to Tam al’Thor and Arganda, took him by surprise.

“Mat is right,” she said. “The Field of Merrilor is a good battlefield. Light! I wish we could give the people more time to rest. We’ll have only a few days, a week at most, before the Trollocs reach Merrilor behind us.” She shook her head. “We should have seen those Sharans coming. When the deck starts to look like it’s stacked against the Dark One, of course he will just add a few new cards to the game.”

Galad’s pride demanded that he remain standing as he listened to Elayne talk to the other commanders. For once, however, his pride lost out, and he settled down on a stool and slumped forward.

“Galad,” Elayne said, “you really should allow one of the Asha’man to wash away your fatigue. Your insistence upon treating them like outcasts is foolish.”

Galad straightened up. “It has nothing to do with the Asha’man,” he snapped. Too argumentative. He was tired. “This fatigue reminds me of what we lost today. It is an exhaustion my men must endure, and so I will, lest I forget just how tired they are and push them too far.”

Elayne frowned at him. He had stopped worrying that his words offended her long ago. It seemed he couldn’t claim that a day was pleasant or his tea warm without her taking offense somehow.

It would have been nice if Aybara hadn’t run off. That man was a leader—one of the few that Galad had ever met—that one could actually talk to without worrying that he’d take offense. Perhaps the Two Rivers would be a good place for the Whitecloaks to settle.

Of course, there was something of a history of bad blood between them. He could work on that . . .

I called them Whitecloaks, he thought to himself a moment later. Inside my head, that’s how I thought of the Children just now. It had been a long time since he’d done that by accident.

“Your Majesty,” Arganda said. He stood beside Logain, the leader of the Asha’man, and Havien Nurelle, the new commander of the Winged Guard. Talmanes of the Band of the Red Hand trudged up with a few commanders from the Saldaeans and the Legion of the Dragon. Elder Haman of the Ogier sat on the ground a short distance away; he stared off, toward the sunset, seeming dazed.

“Your Majesty,” Arganda continued, “I realize you consider this a great victory—”

“It is a great victory,” Elayne said. “We must persuade the men to see it that way. Not eight hours ago, I assumed that our entire army would be slaughtered. We won.”

“At a cost of half of our troops,” Arganda said softly.

“I will count that a victory,” Elayne insisted. “We were expecting complete destruction.”

“The only victor today is the butcher,” Nurelle said softly. He looked haunted.

“No,” Tam al’Thor said, “she’s right. The troops have to understand what their losses earned. We must treat this as a victory. It must be recorded that way in the histories, and the soldiers must be convinced to see it so.”

“That is a lie,” Galad found himself saying.

“It is not,” al’Thor said. “We lost many friends today. Light, but we all did. Focusing on death, however, is what the Dark One wants us to do. I dare you to tell me I’m wrong. We must look and see Light, not Shadow, or we’ll all be pulled under.”

“By winning here,” Elayne said, deliberately emphasizing the word, “we earn a reprieve. We can gather at Merrilor, entrench there, and make our last stand in our strength against the Shadow.”

“Light,” Talmanes whispered. “We’re going to go through this again, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Elayne said reluctantly.

Galad looked out over the fields of the dead, then shivered. “Merrilor will be worse. Light help us . . . it’s going to get worse.”