The others seemed troubled, but they made no objection. Lan led the way down the slope, their caravan of twenty wagons, warhorses and attendants following.

This was what he’d always worried would happen. Reclaiming Malkier was impossible. They would die, no matter how large their force. An assault? On the Blight? Ridiculous.

He could not ask that of them. He could not allow that of them. As he continued down the road, he became more resolute. Those brave men, flying those flags…they should join with the Shienaran forces and fight in a battle that meant something. He would not take their lives.

Death is lighter than a feather… Rakim had thrown that at him several times during their ride. He had followed Lan decades ago, during the Aiel War. Duty is heavier than a mountain.

Lan was not running from duty. He was running toward it. Still, sight of the camps stirred his heart as he reached the bottom of the slope, then rode forward. The waiting men wore simple warrior’s garb, hadori in place, women marked with a ki’sain on their foreheads. Some of the men wore coats with the Golden Crown on the shoulders—the mark of the royal guard of Malkier. They would have donned those only if their fathers or grandfathers had served in that guard.

It was a sight that would have made Bukama cry. He had thought the Malkieri gone as a people, broken, shattered, absorbed by other nations. Yet here they were, gathering at the faintest whisper of a call to arms. Many were older—Lan had been but a babe when his kingdom fell, and those who remembered that day as men would now be in their seventh or eighth decade. They had gray hair, but they were still warriors, and they’d brought their sons and grandsons.

“Tai’shar Malkier!” a man cried as Lan’s group passed. The call went up a dozen, two dozen times as they saw his hadori. None seemed to recognize him for who he was. They assumed that he had come for the reason they had come.

The Last Battle comes, Lan thought. Must I deny them the right to fight alongside me?

Yes, he must. Best he passed unnoticed and unrecognized. He kept his eyes forward, his hand on his sword, his mouth closed. But each call of Tai’shar Malkier made him want to sit up straighter. Each seemed to strengthen him, push him forward.

The gates between the two fortress keeps were open, though soldiers checked every man who went through. Lan halted Mandarb, and his people stopped behind him. Could the Arafellin have orders to watch for him? What other choice did he have but to go forward? Going around would take weeks. His caravan waited its turn, then stepped up to the guard post.

“Purpose?” asked the uniformed Arafellin, hair in braids.

“Traveling to Fal Moran,” Lan said. “Because of the Last Battle.”

“You’re not going to wait here like the rest?” the guard said, waving a gauntleted hand at the gathered Malkieri. “For your king?”