“By the Light and my hope for rebirth!” a voice suddenly exclaimed. Everyone in the room turned in shock; that wasn’t the sort of oath you heard every day.

A young soldier stood by the window, looking out with a looking glass. Bashere cursed, and hurried to the window, the others crowding around, several taking out looking glasses.

What now? Ituralde thought, standing despite his fatigue and hurrying over. What could they possibly have come up with? More Draghkar? Darkhounds?

He peered out the window, and someone handed him a looking glass. He raised it, and as he’d guessed, the building was on enough of a rise to look out over the city wall and onto the killing field outside and beyond. The tower positions on the crest of the hill were clustered with ravens. Through the glass, he could see Trollocs clogging the heights, holding the upper camp, the towers, and the bulwarks there.

Beyond the hill, surging down through the pass, was an awesome force of Trollocs, many times the number that had assaulted Maradon. The wave of monsters seemed to continue on forever.

“We need to go,” Bashere said, lowering his looking glass. “Immediately.”

“Light!” Ituralde whispered. “If that force gets past us, there won’t be anything in Saldaea, Andor, or Arad Doman that can stop it. Please tell me the Lord Dragon made peace with the Seanchan, as he promised?”

“In that,” a quiet voice said from behind, “as in so many other things, I have failed.”

Ituralde spun, lowering his looking glass. A tall man with reddish hair stepped into the room—a man whom Ituralde felt he had never met before, despite the familiar features.

Rand al’Thor had changed.

The Dragon Reborn had that same self-confidence, that same straight back, that same attitude expecting obedience. And yet, at the same time, everything seemed different. The way he stood, no longer faintly suspicious. The way he studied Ituralde with concern.

Those eyes, cold and emotionless, had once convinced Ituralde to follow this man. Those eyes had changed, too. Ituralde had not noted wisdom in them before.

Don’t be a thickheaded fool, Ituralde thought, you can’t tell if a man is wise by looking at his eyes.

And yet he could.

“Rodel Ituralde,” al’Thor said, stepping forward and laying a hand on Ituralde’s arm. “I left you and your men stranded and overwhelmed. Please forgive me.”

“I made this choice myself,” Ituralde said. Oddly, he felt less tired than he had just moments ago.

“I have inspected your men,” al’Thor said. “There are so few left, and they are broken and battered. How did you hold this city? What you have done is a miracle.”

“I do what needs to be done.”

“You must have lost many friends.”

“I…Yes.” What other answer was there? To dismiss it as nothing would be to dishonor them. “Wakeda fell today. Rajabi…well, a Draghkar got him. Ankaer. He lasted until this afternoon. Never did find out why that trumpeter sounded early. Rossin was looking into it. He’s dead, too.”