Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time - book 2

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And it shall come to pass that what men made shall be shattered, and the Shadow shall lie across the Pattern of the
Age, and the Dark One shall once more lay his hand upon the world of man. Women shall weep and men quail as the
nations of the earth are rent like rotting cloth. Neither shall anything stand nor abide . . . Yet one shall be born to
face the Shadow, born once more as he was born before and shall be born again, time without end. The Dragon shall
be Reborn, and there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth at his rebirth. In sackcloth and ashes shall he clothe the
people, and he shall break the world again by his coming, tearing apart all tier that bind. Like the unfettered dawn
shall he blind us, and burn us, yet shall the Dragon Reborn confront the Shadow at the Last Battle, and his blood
shall give us the Light. Let tears flow, O ye people of the world. Weep for your salvation. - from The Karaethon
Cycle: The Prophecies of the Dragon, as translated by Ellaine Marise'idin Alshinn, Chief Librarian at the Court of
Atafel, in the Year of Grace 231 of the New Era, the Third Age
PROLOGUE In the Shadow The man who called himself Bors, at least in this place, sneered at the low murmuring
that rolled around the vaulted chamber like the soft gabble of geese. His grimace was hidden by the black silk mask
that covered his face, though, just like the masks that covered the hundred other faces in the chamber. A hundred
black masks, and a hundred pairs of eyes trying to see what lay behind them. If one did not look too closely, the huge
room could have been in a palace, with its tall marble fireplaces and its golden lamps hanging from the domed
ceiling, its colorful tapestries and intricately patterned mosaic floor. If one did not look too closely. The fireplaces
were cold, for one thing. Flames danced on logs as thick as a man's leg, but gave no heat. The walls behind the
tapestries, the ceiling high above the lamps, were undressed stone, almost black. There were no windows, and only
two doorways, one at either end of the room. It was as if someone had intended to give the semblance of a palace
reception chamber but had not cared enough to bother with more than the outline and a few touches for detail. Where
the chamber was, the man who called himself Bors did not know, nor did he think any of the others knew. He did not
like to think about where it might be. It was enough that he had been summoned. He did not like to think about that,
either, but for such a summons, even he came. He shifted his cloak, thankful that the fires were cold, else it would
have been too hot for the black wool draping him to the floor. All his clothes were black. The bulky folds of the
cloak hid the stoop he used to disguise his height, and bred confusion as to whether he was thin or thick. He was not
the only one there enveloped in a tailor's span of cloth. Silently he watched his companions. Patience had marked
much of his life. Always, if he waited and watched long enough, someone made a mistake. Most of the men and
women here might have had the same philosophy; they watched, and listened silently to those who had to speak.
Some people could not bear waiting, or silence, and so gave away more than they knew. Servants circulated through
the guests, slender, golden-haired youths proffering wine with a bow and a wordless smile. Young men and young
women alike, they wore tight white breeches and flowing white shirts. And male and female alike, they moved with
disturbing grace. Each looked more than a mirror image of the others, the boys as handsome as the girls were
beautiful. He doubted he could distinguish one from another, and he had an eye and a memory for faces. A smiling,
white-clad girl offered her tray of crystal goblets to him. He took one with no intention of drinking; it might appear
untrusting-or worse, and either could be deadly here-if he refused altogether, but anything could be slipped into a
drink. Surely some among his companions would have no objections to seeing the number of their rivals for power
dwindle, whomever the unlucky ones happened to be. Idly he wondered whether the servants would have to be
disposed of after this meeting. Servants hear everything. As the serving girl straightened from her bow, his eye
caught hers above that sweet smile. Blank eyes. Empty eyes. A doll's eyes. Eyes more dead than death. He shivered
as she moved gracefully away, and raised the goblet to his lips before he caught himself. It was not what had been
done to the girl that chilled him. Rather, every time he thought he detected a weakness in those he now served, he
found himself preceded, the supposed weakness cut out with a ruthless precision that left him amazed. And worried.
The first rule of his life had always been to search for weakness, for every weakness was a chink where he could
probe and pry and influence. If his current masters, his masters for the moment, had no weakness . . . Frowning
behind his mask, he studied his companions. At least there was plenty of weakness there. Their nervousness betrayed
them, even those who had sense enough to guard their tongues. A stiffness in the way this one held himself, a
jerkiness in the way that one handled her skirts. A good quarter of them, he estimated, had not bothered with disguise
beyond the black masks. Their clothes told much. A woman standing before a gold-and-crimson wall hanging,
speaking softly to a figure-impossible to say whether it was man or woman-cloaked and hooded in gray. She had
obviously chosen the spot because the colors of the tapestry set off her garb. Doubly foolish to draw attention to
herself, for her scarlet dress, cut low in the bodice to show too much flesh and high at the hem to display golden
slippers, marked her from Illian, and a woman of wealth, perhaps even of noble blood. Not far beyond the Illianer,
another woman stood, alone and admirably silent. With a swan's neck and lustrous black hair falling in waves below
her waist, she kept her back to the stone wall, observing everything. No nervousness there, only serene self-
possession. Very admirable, that, but her coppery skin and her creamy, high-necked gown-leaving nothing but her
hands uncovered, yet clinging and only just barely opaque, so that it hinted at everything and revealed nothing-
marked her just as clearly of the first blood of Arad Doman. And unless the man who called himself Bors missed his
guess entirely, the wide golden bracelet on her left wrist bore her House symbols. They would be for her own House;
no Domani bloodborn would bend her stiff pride enough to wear the sigils of another House. Worse than foolishness.
A man in a high-collared, sky-blue Shienaran coat passed him with a wary, head-to-toe glance though the eyeholes
of his mask. The man's carriage named him soldier; the set of his shoulders, the way his gaze never rested in one
place for long, and the way his hand seemed ready to dart for a sword that was not there, all proclaimed it. The
Shienaran wasted little time on the man who called himself Bors; stooped shoulders and a bent back held no threat.
The man who called himself Bors snorted as the Shienaran moved on, right hand clenching and eyes already
studying elsewhere for danger. He could read them all, to class and country. Merchant and warrior, commoner and
noble. From Kandor and Cairhien, Saldaea and Ghealdan. From every nation and nearly every people. His nose
wrinkled in sudden disgust. Even a Tinker, in bright green breeches and a virulent yellow coat. We can do without
those come the Day. The disguised ones were no better, many of them, cloaked and shrouded as they were. He
caught sight, under the edge of one dark robe, of the silver-worked boots of a High Lord of Tear, and under another a
glimpse of golden lion-head spurs, worn only by high officers in the Andoran Queen's Guards. A slender fellow-
slender even in a floor-dragging black robe and an anonymous gray cloak caught with a plain silver pin-watched
from the shadows of his deep cowl. He could be anyone, from anywhere . . . except for the six-pointed star tattooed
on the web between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. One of the Sea Folk then, and a look at his left hand
would show the marks of his clan and line. The man who called himself Bors did not bother to try. Suddenly his eyes
narrowed, fixing on a woman enveloped in black till nothing showed but her fingers. On her right hand rested a gold
ring in the shape of a serpent eating its own tail. Aes Sedai, or at least a woman trained in Tar Valon by Aes Sedai.
None else would wear that ring. Either way made no difference to him. He looked away before she could notice his
watching, and almost immediately he spotted another woman swathed from head to toe in black and wearing a Great
Serpent ring. The two witches gave no sign that they knew each other. In the White Tower they sat like spiders in the
middle of a web, pulling the strings that made kings and queens dance, meddling. Curse them all to death eternal!
He realized that he was grinding his teeth. If numbers must dwindle - and they must, before the Day - there were
some who would be missed even less than Tinkers. A chime sounded, a single, shivering note that came from
everywhere at once and cut off all other sounds like a knife. The tall doors at the far end of the chamber swung open,
and two Trollocs stepped into the room, spikes decorating the black mail that hung to their knees. Everyone shied
back. Even the man who called himself Bors. Head and shoulders taller than the tallest man there, they were a
stomach-turning blend of man and animal, human faces twisted and altered. One had a heavy, pointed beak where his
mouth and nose should have been, and feathers covered his head instead of hair. The other walked on hooves, his
face pushed out in a hairy muzzle, and goat horns stuck up above his ears. Ignoring the humans, the Trollocs turned
back toward the door and bowed, servile and cringing. The feathers on the one lifted in a tight crest. A Myrddraal
stepped between them, and they fell to their knees. It was garbed in black that made the Trollocs' mail and the
humans' masks seem bright, garments that hung still, without a ripple, as it moved with a viper's grace. The man who
called himself Bors felt his lips drawing back over his teeth, half snarl and half, he was shamed to admit even to
himself, fear. It had its face uncovered. Its pasty pale face, a man's face, but eyeless as an egg, like a maggot in a
grave. The smooth white face swiveled, regarding them all one by one, it seemed. A visible shiver ran through them
under that eyeless look. Thin, bloodless lips quirked in what might almost have been a smile as, one by one, the
masked ones tried to press back into the crowd, milling to avoid that gaze. The Myrddraal's look shaped them into a
semicircle facing the door. The man who called himself Bors swallowed. There will come a day, Halfman. When the
Great Lord of the Dark comes again, he will choose his new Dreadlords, and you will cower before them. You will
cower before men. Before me! Why doesn't it speak? Stop staring at me, and speak!
"Your Master comes." The Myrddraal's voice rasped like a dry snake skin crumbling.
"To your bellies, worms! Grovel, lest his brilliance blind and burn you!" Rage filled the man who called himself
Bors, at the tone as much as the words, but. then the air above the Halfman shimmered, and the import drove home.
It can't be! It can't. . . ! The Trollocs were already on their bellies, writhing as if they wanted to burrow into the floor.
Without waiting to see if anyone else moved, the man who called himself Bors dropped facedown, grunting as he
bruised himself on the stone. Words sprang to his lips like a charm against danger-they were a charm, though a thin
reed against what he feared-and he heard a hundred other voices, breathy with fear, speaking the same against the
floor.
"The Great Lord of the Dark is my Master, and most heartily do I serve him to the last shred of my very soul." In the
back of his mind a voice chattered with fear. The Dark One and all the Forsaken are bound . . . . Shivering, he forced
it to silence. He had abandoned that voice long since.
"Lo, my Master is death's Master. Asking nothing do I serve against the Day of his coming, yet do I serve in the sure
and certain hope of life everlasting." . . . bound in Shayol Ghul, bound by the Creator at the moment of creation. No,
I serve a different master now.
"Surely the faithful shall be exalted in the land, exalted above the unbelievers; exalted above thrones, yet do I serve
humbly against the Day of his Return." The hand of the Creator shelters us all, and the Light protects us from the
Shadow. No, no! A different master.
"Swift come the Day of Return. Swift come the Great Lord of the Dark to guide us and rule the world forever and
ever.
" The man who called himself Bors finished the creed panting, as if he had run ten miles. The rasp of breath all
around told him he was not the only one.
"Rise. All of you, rise." The mellifluous voice took him by surprise. Surely none of his companions, lying on their
bellies with their masked faces pressed to the mosaic tiles, would have spoken, but it was not the voice he expected
from . . . Cautiously, he raised his head enough to see with one eye. The figure of a man floated in the air above the
Myrddraal, the hem of his blood-red robe hanging a span over the Halfman's head. Masked in blood-red, too. Would
the Great Lord of the Dark appear to them as a man? And masked, besides? Yet the Myrddraal, its very gaze fear,
trembled and almost cowered where it stood in the figure's shadow. The man who called himself Bors grasped for an
answer his mind could contain without splitting. One of the Forsaken, perhaps. That thought was only a little less
painful. Even so, it meant the Day of the Dark One's return must be close at hand if one of the Forsaken was free.
The Forsaken, thirteen of the most powerful wielders of the One Power in an Age filled with powerful wielders, had
been sealed up in Shayol Ghul along with the Dark One, sealed away from the world of men by the Dragon and the
Hundred Companions. And the backblast of that sealing had tainted the male half of the True Source; and all the
male Aes Sedai, those cursed wielders of the Power, went mad and broke the world, tore it apart like a pottery bowl
smashed on rocks, ending the Age of Legends before they died, rotting while they still lived. A fitting death for Aes
Sedai, to his mind. Too good for them. He regretted only that the women had been spared. Slowly, painfully, he
forced the panic to the back of his mind, confined it and held it tight though it screamed to get out. It was the best he
could do. None of those on their bellies had risen, and only a few had even dared raise their heads.
"Rise." There was a snap in the red-masked figure's voice this time. He gestured with both hands.
"Stand!" The man who called himself Bors scrambled up awkwardly, but halfway to his feet, he hesitated. Those
gesturing hands were horribly burned, crisscrossed by black fissures, the raw flesh between as red as the figure's
robes. Would the Dark One appear so? Or even one of the Forsaken? The eyeholes of that blood-red mask swept
slowly across him, and he straightened hastily. He thought he could feel the heat of an open furnace in that gaze. The
others obeyed the command with no more grace and no less fear in their rising. When all were on their feet, the
floating figure spoke.
"I have been known by many names, but the one by which you shall know me is Ba'alzamon." The man who called
himself Bors clamped his teeth to keep them from chattering. Ba'alzamon. In the Trolloc tongue, it meant Heart of
the Dark, and even unbelievers knew it was the Trolloc name for the Great Lord of the Dark. He Whose Name Must
Not Be Uttered. Not the True Name, Shai'tan, but still forbidden. Among those gathered here, and others of their
kind, to sully either with a human tongue was blasphemy. His breath whistled through his nostrils, and all around
him he could hear others panting behind their masks. The servants were gone, and the Trollocs as well, though he
had not seen them go.
"The place where you stand lies in the shadow of Shayol Ghul." More than one voice moaned at that; the man who
called himself Bors was not sure his own was not among them. A touch of what might almost be called mockery
entered Ba'alzamon's voice as he spread his arms wide.
"Fear not, for the Day of your Master's rising upon the world is near at hand. The Day of Return draws nigh. Does it
not tell you so that I am here, to be seen by you favored few among your brothers and sisters? Soon the Wheel of
Time will be broken. Soon the Great Serpent will die, and with the power of that death, the death of Time itself, your
Master will remake the world in his own image for this Age and for all Ages to come. And those who serve me,
faithful and steadfast, will sit at my feet above the stars in the sky and rule the world of men forever. So have I
promised, and so shall it be, without end. You shall live and rule forever." A murmur of anticipation ran through the
listeners, and some even took a step forward, toward the floating, crimson shape, their eyes lifted, rapturous. Even
the man who called himself Bors felt the pull of that promise, the promise for which he had dealt away his soul a
hundred times over.
"The Day of Return comes closer," Ba'alzamon said.
"But there is much yet to do. Much to do." The air to Ba'alzamon's left shimmered and thickened, and the figure of a
young man hung there, a little lower than Ba'alzamon. The man who called himself Bors could not decide whether it
was a living being or not. A country lad, by his clothes, with a light of mischief in his brown eyes and the hint of a
smile on his lips, as if in memory or anticipation of a prank. The flesh looked warm, but the chest did not move with
breath, the eyes did not blink. The air to Ba'alzamon's right wavered as if with heat, and a second country-clad figure
hung suspended a little below Ba'alzamon. A curly-haired youth, as heavily muscled as a blacksmith. And an oddity:
a battle axe hung at his side, a great, steel half-moon balanced by a thick spike. The man who called himself Bors
suddenly leaned forward, intent on an even greater strangeness. A youth with yellow eyes. For the third time air
solidified into the shape of a young man, this time directly under Ba'alzamon's eye, almost at his feet. A tall fellow,
with eyes now gray, now almost blue as the light took them, and dark, reddish hair. Another villager, or farmer. The
man who called himself Bors gasped. Yet another thing out of the ordinary, though he wondered why he should
expect anything to be ordinary here. A sword swung from the figure's belt, a sword with a bronze heron on the
scabbard and another inset into the long, two-handed hilt. A village boy with a heron-mark blade? Impossible! What
can it mean? And a boy with yellow eyes. He noticed the Myrddraal looking at the figures, trembling; and unless he
misjudged entirely, its trembling was no longer fear, but hatred. Dead silence had fallen, silence that Ba'alzamon let
deepen before he spoke.
"There is now one who walks the world, one who was and will be, but is not yet, the Dragon." A startled murmur ran
through his listeners.
"The Dragon Reborn! We are to kill him, Great Lord?" That from the Shienaran, hand grasping eagerly at his side
where his sword would hang.
"Perhaps," Ba'alzamon said simply.
"And perhaps not. Perhaps he can be turned to my use. Sooner or later it will be so, in this Age or another." The man
who called himself Bors blinked. In this Age or another? I thought the Day of Return was near. What matter to me
what happens in another Age if I grow old and die waiting in this one? But Ba'alzamon was speaking again.
"Already a bend is forming in the Pattern, one of many points where he who will become the Dragon may be turned
to my service. Must be turned! Better that he serve me alive than dead, but alive or dead, serve me he must and will!
These three you must know, for each is a thread in the pattern I mean to weave, and it will be up to you to see that
they are placed as I command. Study them well, that you will know them." Abruptly all sound was gone. The man
who called himself Bors shifted uneasily, and saw others doing the same. All but the Illianer, woman, he realized.
With her hands spread over her bosom as if to hide the rounded flesh she exposed, eyes wide, half frightened and
half ecstatic, she was nodding eagerly as though to someone face-to-face with her. Sometimes she appeared to give a
reply, but the man who called himself Bors heard not a word. Suddenly she arched backwards, trembling and rising
on her toes. He could not see why she did not fall, unless something unseen held her. Then, just as abruptly, she
settled back to her feet and nodded again, bowing, shivering. Even as she straightened, one of the women wearing a
Great Serpent ring gave a start and began nodding. So each of us hears his own instructions, and none hears
another's. The man who called himself Bors muttered in frustration. If he knew what even one other was
commanded, he might be able to use the knowledge to advantage, but this way . . . Impatiently he waited for his turn,
forgetting himself enough to stand straight. One by one the gathering received their orders, each walled in silence yet
still giving tantalizing clues, if only he could read them. The man of the Atha'an Miere, the Sea Folk, stiffening with
reluctance as he nodded. The Shienaran, his stance bespeaking confusion even while he acquiesced. The second
woman of Tar Valon giving a start, as of shock, and the grayswathed figure whose sex he could not determine
shaking its head before falling to its knees and nodding vigorously. Some underwent the same convulsion as the
Illianer woman, as if pain itself lifted them to toe tips.
"Bors." The man who called himself Bors jerked as a red mask filled his eyes. He could still see the room, still see
the floating shape of Ba'alzamon and the three figures before him, but at the same time all he could see was the red-
masked face. Dizzy, he felt as if his skull were splitting open and his eyes were being pushed out of his head. For a
moment he thought he could see flames through the eyeholes of the mask.
"Are you faithful . . . Bors?" The hint of mocking in the name sent a chill down his backbone.
"I am faithful, Great Lord. I cannot hide from you." I am faithful! I swear it!
"No, you cannot." The certainty in Ba'alzamon's voice dried his mouth, but he forced himself to speak.
"Command me, Great Lord, and I obey."
"Firstly, you are to return to Tarabon and continue your good works. In fact, I command you to redouble your
efforts." He stared at Ba'alzamon in puzzlement, but then fires flared again behind the mask, and he took the excuse
of a bow to pull his eyes away.
"As you command, Great Lord, so shall it be."
"Secondly, you will watch for the three young men, and have your followers watch. Be warned; they are dangerous."
The man who called himself Bors glanced at the figures floating in front of Ba'alzamon. How can I do that? I can see
them, but I can't see anything except his face. His head felt about to burst. Sweat slicked his hands under his thin
gloves, and his shirt clung to his back.
"Dangerous, Great Lord? Farmboys? Is one of them the -
"
"A sword is dangerous to the man at the point, but not to the man at the hilt. Unless the man holding the sword is a
fool, or careless, or unskilled, in which case it is twice as dangerous to him as to anyone else. It is enough that I have
told you to know them. It is enough that you obey me.
"
"As you command, Great Lord, so shall it be."
"Thirdly, regarding those who have landed at Toman Head, and the Domani. Of this you will speak to no one. When
you return to Tarabon . . ." The man who called himself Bors realized as he listened that his mouth was sagging
open. The instructions made no sense. If I knew what some of the others were told, perhaps I could piece it together.
Abruptly he felt his head grasped as though by a giant hand crushing his temples, felt himself being lifted, and the
world blew apart in a thousand starbursts, each flash of light becoming an image that fled across his mind or spun
and dwindled into the distance before he could more than barely grasp it. An impossible sky of striated clouds, red
and yellow and black, racing as if driven by the mightiest wind the world had ever seen. A woman - a girl? - dressed
in white receded into blackness and vanished as soon as she appeared. A raven stared him in the eye, knowing him,
and was gone. An armored man in a brutal helm, shaped and painted and gilded like some monstrous, poisonous
insect, raised a sword and plunged to one side, beyond his view. A horn, curled and golden, came hurtling out of the
far distance. One piercing note it sounded as it flashed toward him, tugging his soul. At the last instant it flashed into
a blinding, golden ring of light that passed through him, chilling him beyond death. A wolf leaped from the shadows
of lost sight and ripped out his throat. He could not scream. The torrent went on, drowning him, burying him. He
could barely remember who he was, or what he was. The skies rained fire, and the moon and stars fell; rivers ran in
blood, and the dead walked; the earth split open and fountained molten rock . . . The man who called himself Bors
found himself half crouching in the chamber with the others, most watching him, all silent. Wherever he looked, up
or down or in any direction, the masked face of Ba'alzamon overwhelmed his eyes. The images that had flooded into
his mind were fading; he was sure many were already gone from memory. Hesitantly, he straightened, Ba'alzamon
always before him.
"Great Lord, what - ?"
"Some commands are too important to be known even by he who carries them out." The man who called himself
Bors bent almost double in his bow.
"As you command, Great Lord," he whispered hoarsely,
"so shall it be." When he straightened, he was alone in silence once more. Another, the Taren High Lord, nodded and
bowed to someone none else saw. The man who called himself Bors put an unsteady hand to his brow, trying to hold
on to something of what had burst through his mind, though he was not completely certain he wanted to remember.
The last remnant flickered out, and suddenly he was wondering what it was that he was trying to recall. I know there
was something, but what? There was something! Wasn't there? He rubbed his hands together, grimacing at the feel
of sweat under his gloves, and turned his attention to the three figures hanging suspended before Ba'alzamon's
floating form. The muscular, curly-haired youth; the farmer with the sword; and the lad with the look of mischief on
his face. Already, in his mind, the man who called himself Bors had named them the Blacksmith, the Swordsman,
and the Trickster. What is their place in the puzzle? They must be important, or Ba'alzamon would not have made
them the center of this gathering. But from his orders alone they could all die at any time, and he had to think that
some of the others, at least, had orders as deadly for the three. How important are they? Blue eyes could mean the
nobility of Andor-unlikely in those clothes-and there were Borderlanders with light eyes, as well as some Tareni, not
to mention a few from Ghealdan, and, of course . . . No, no help there. But yellow eyes? Who are they? What are
they? He started at a touch on his arm, and looked around to find one of the white-clad servants, a young man,
standing by his side. The others were back, too, more than before, one for each of the masked. He blinked.
Ba'alzamon was gone. The Myrddraal was gone, too, and only rough stone was where the door it had used had been.
The three figures still hung there, though. He felt as if they were staring at him.
"If it please you, my Lord Bors, I will show you to your room." Avoiding those dead eyes, he glanced once more at
the three figures, then followed. Uneasily he wondered how the youth had known what name to use. It was not until
the strange carved doors closed behind him and they had walked a dozen paces that he realized he was alone in the
corridor with the servant. His brows drew down suspiciously behind his mask, but before he could open his mouth,
the servant spoke.
"The others are also being shown to their rooms, my Lord. If you please, my Lord? Time is short, and our Master is
impatient." The man who called himself Bors ground his teeth, both at the lack of information and at the implication
of sameness between himself and the servant, but he followed in silence. Only a fool ranted at a servant, and worse,
remembering the fellow's eyes, he was not sure it would do any good. And how did he know what I was going to ask?
The servant smiled. The man who called himself Bors did not feel at all comfortable until he was back in the room
where he had waited on first arriving, and then not much. Even finding the seals on his saddlebags untouched was
small comfort. The servant stood in the hallway, not entering.
"You may change to your own garments if you wish, my Lord. None will see you depart here, nor arrive at your
destination, but it may be best to arrive already properly clothed. Someone will come soon to show you the way."
Untouched by any visible hand, the door swung shut. The man who called himself Bors shivered in spite of himself.
Hastily he undid the seals and buckles of his saddlebags and pulled out his usual cloak. In the back of his mind a
small voice wondered if the promised power, even the immortality, was worth another meeting like this, but he
laughed it down immediately. For that much power, I would praise the Great Lord of the Dark under the Dome of
Truth. Remembering the commands given him by Ba'alzamon, he fingered the golden, flaring sun worked on the
breast of the white cloak, and the red shepherd's crook behind the sun, symbol of his office in the world of men, and
he almost laughed. There was work, great work, to be done in Tarabon, and on Almoth Plain.
CHAPTER 1 The Flame of Tar Valon The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass leaving memories that
become legend, then fade to myth, and are long forgot when that Age comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age
by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Dhoom. The wind was not the
beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
Born among black, knife-edged peaks, where death roamed the high passes yet hid from things still more dangerous,
the wind blew south across the tangled forest of the Great Blight, a forest tainted and twisted by the touch of the
Dark One. The sickly sweet smell of corruption faded by the time the wind crossed that invisible line men called the
border of Shienar, where spring flowers hung thick in the trees. It should have been summer by now, but spring had
been late in coming, and the land had run wild to catch up. New-come pale green bristled on every bush, and red new
growth tipped every tree branch. The wind rippled farmers' fields like verdant ponds, solid with crops that almost
seemed to creep upward visibly. The smell of death was all but gone long before the wind reached the stone-walled
town of Fal Dara on its hills, and whipped around a tower of the fortress in the very center of the town, a tower atop
which two men seemed to dance. Hard-walled and high, Fal Dara, both keep and town, never taken, never betrayed.
The wind moaned across wood-shingled rooftops, around tall stone chimneys and taller towers, moaned like a dirge.
Stripped to the waist, Rand al'Thor shivered at the wind's cold caress, and his fingers flexed on the long hilt of the
practice sword he held. The hot sun had slicked his chest, and his dark, reddish hair clung to his head in a sweat-
curled mat. A faint odor in the swirl of air made his nose twitch, but he did not connect the smell with the image of
an old grave fresh-opened that flashed through his head. He was barely aware of odor or image at all; he strove to
keep his mind empty, but the other man sharing the tower top with him kept intruding on the emptiness. Ten paces
across, the tower top was, encircled by a chest-high, crenellated wall. Big enough and more not to feel crowded,
except when shared with a Warder. Young as he was, Rand was taller than most men, but Lan stood just as tall and
more heavily muscled, if not quite so broad in the shoulders. A narrow band of braided leather held the Warder's
long hair back from his face, a face that seemed made from stony planes and angles, a face unlined as if to belie the
tinge of gray at his temples. Despite the heat and exertion, only a light coat of sweat glistened on his chest and arms.
Rand searched Lan's icy blue eyes, hunting for some hint of what the other man intended. The Warder never seemed
to blink, and the practice sword in his hands moved surely and smoothly as he flowed from one stance to another.
With a bundle of thin, loosely bound staves in place of a blade, the practice sword would make a loud clack when it
struck anything, and leave a welt where it hit flesh. Rand knew all too well. Three thin red lines stung on his ribs, and
another burned his shoulder. It had taken all his efforts not to wear more decorations. Lan bore not a mark. As he had
been taught, Rand formed a single flame in his mind and concentrated on it, tried to feed all emotion and passion into
it, to form a void within himself, with even thought outside. Emptiness came. As was too often the case of late it was
not a perfect emptiness; the flame still remained, or some sense of light sending ripples through the stillness. But it
was enough, barely. The cool peace of the void crept over him, and he was one with the practice sword, with the
smooth stones under his boots, even with Lan. All was one, and he moved without thought in a rhythm that matched
the Warder's step for step and move for move. The wind rose again, bringing the ringing of bells from the town.
Somebody's still celebrating that spring has finally come. The extraneous thought fluttered through the void on
waves of light, disturbing the emptiness, and as if the Warder could read Rand's mind, the practice sword whirled in
Lan's hands. For a long minute the swift clack-clack-clack of bundled lathes meeting filled the tower top. Rand made
no effort to reach the other man; it was all he could do to keep the Warder's strikes from reaching him. Turning Lan's
blows at the last possible moment, he was forced back. Lan's expression never changed; the practice sword seemed
alive in his hands. Abruptly the Warder's swinging slash changed in mid-motion to a thrust. Caught by surprise,
Rand stepped back, already wincing with the blow he knew he could not stop this time. The wind howled across the
tower . . . and trapped him. It was as if the air had suddenly jelled, holding him in a cocoon. Pushing him forward.
Time and motion slowed; horrified, he watched Lan's practice sword drift toward his chest. There was nothing slow
or soft about the impact. His ribs creaked as if he had been struck with a hammer. He grunted, but the wind would
not allow him to give way; it still carried him forward, instead. The lathes of Lan's practice sword flexed and bent -
ever so slowly, it seemed to Rand - then shattered, sharp points oozing toward his heart, jagged lathes piercing his
skin. Pain lanced through his body; his whole skin felt slashed. He burned as though the sun had flared to crisp him
like bacon in a pan. With a shout, he threw himself stumbling back, falling against the stone wall. Hand trembling, he
touched the gashes on his chest and raised bloody fingers before his gray eyes in disbelief.
"And what was that fool move, sheepherder?" Lan grated.
"You know better by now, or should unless you have forgotten everything I've tried to teach you. How badly are you
- ?" He cut off as Rand looked up at him.
"The wind." Rand's mouth was dry.
"It - it pushed me! It . . . It was solid as a wall!" The Warder stared at him in silence, then offered a hand. Rand took
it and let himself be pulled to his feet.
"Strange things can happen this close to the Blight," Lan said finally, but for all the flatness of the words he sounded
troubled. That in itself was strange. Warders, those half-legendary warriors who served the Aes Sedai, seldom
showed emotion, and Lan showed little even for a Warder. He tossed the shattered lathe sword aside and leaned
against the wall where their real swords lay, out of the way of their practice.
"Not like that," Rand protested. He joined the other man, squatting with his back against the stone. That way the top
of the wall was higher than his head, protection of a kind from the wind. If it was a wind. No wind had ever felt . . .
solid . . . like that.
"Peace! Maybe not even in the Blight."
"For someone like you .. . . ." Lan shrugged as if that explained everything.
"How long before you leave, sheepherder? A month since you said you were going, and I thought you'd be three
weeks gone by now." Rand stared up at him in surprise. He’s acting like nothing happened! Frowning, he set down
the practice sword and lifted his real sword to his knees, fingers running along the long, leather-wrapped hilt inset
with a bronze heron. Another bronze heron stood on the scabbard, and yet another was scribed on the sheathed blade.
It was still a little strange to him that he had a sword. Any sword, much less one with a blademaster's mark. He was a
farmer from the Two Rivers, so far away, now. Maybe far away forever, now. He was a shepherd like his father - I
was a shepherd. What am I now? - and his father had given him a heron-marked sword. Tam is my father, no matter
what anybody says. He wished his own thoughts did not sound as if he was trying to convince himself. Again Lan
seemed to read his mind.
"In the Borderlands, sheepherder, if a man has the raising of a child, that child is his, and none can say different.
" Scowling, Rand ignored the Warder's words. It was no one's business but his own.
"I want to learn how to use this. I need to." It had caused him problems, carrying a heron-marked sword. Not
everybody knew what it meant, or even noticed it, but even so a heron-mark blade, especially in the hands of a youth
barely old enough to be called a man, still attracted the wrong sort of attention.
"I've been able to bluff sometimes, when I could not run, and I've been lucky, besides. But what happens when I can't
run, and I can't bluff, and my luck runs out?"
"You could sell it," Lan said carefully.
"That blade is rare even among heron-mark swords. It would fetch a pretty price."
"No!" It was an idea he had thought of more than once, but he rejected it now for the same reason he always had, and
more fiercely for coming from someone else. As long as I keep it, I have the right to call Tam father. He gave it to
me, and it gives me the right.
"I thought any heron-mark blade was rare." Lan gave him a sidelong look.
"Tam didn't tell you, then? He must know. Perhaps he didn't believe. Many do not." He snatched up his own sword,
almost the twin of Rand's except for the lack of herons, and whipped off the scabbard. The blade, slightly curved and
single-edged, glittered silvery in the sunlight. It was the sword of the kings of Malkier. Lan did not speak of it - he
did not even like others to speak of it - but al'Lan Mandragoran was Lord of the Seven Towers, Lord of the Lakes,
and uncrowned King of Malkier. The Seven Towers were broken now, and the Thousand Lakes the lair of unclean
things. Malkier lay swallowed by the Great Blight, and of all the Malkieri lords, only one still lived. Some said Lan
had become a Warder, bonding himself to an Aes Sedai, so he could seek death in the Blight and join the rest of his
blood. Rand had indeed seen Lan put himself in harm's way seemingly without regard for his own safety, but far
beyond his own life and safety he held those of Moiraine, the Aes Sedai who held his bond. Rand did not think Lan
would truly seek death while Moiraine lived. Turning his blade in the light, Lan spoke.
"In the War of the Shadow, the One Power itself was used as a weapon, and weapons were made with the One
Power. Some weapons used the One Power, things that could destroy an entire city at one blow, lay waste to the land
for leagues. Just as well those were all lost in the Breaking; just as well no one remembers the making of them. But
there were simpler weapons, too, for those who would face Myrddraal, and worse things the Dreadlords made, blade
to blade.
"With the One Power, Aes Sedai drew iron and other metals from the earth, smelted them, formed and wrought
them. All with the Power. Swords, and other weapons, too. Many that survived the Breaking of the World were
destroyed by men who feared and hated Aes Sedai work, and others have vanished with the years. Few remain, and
few men truly know what they are. There have been legends of them, swollen tales of swords that seemed to have a
power of their own. You've heard the gleemen's tales. The reality is enough. Blades that will not shatter or break, and
never lose their edge. I've seen men sharpening them-playing at sharpening, as it were-but only because they could
not believe a sword did not need it after use. All they ever did was wear away their oilstones.
"Those weapons the Aes Sedai made, and there will never be others. When it was done, war and Age ended together,
with the world shattered, with more dead unburied than there were alive and those alive fleeing, trying to find some
place, any place, of safety, with every second woman weeping because she'd never see husband or sons again; when
it was done, the Aes Sedai who still lived swore they would never again make a weapon for one man to kill another.
Every Aes Sedai swore it, and every woman of them since has kept that oath. Even the Red Ajah, and they care little
what happens to any male.
"One of those swords, a plain soldier's sword" - with a faint grimace, almost sad, if the Warder could be said to show
emotion, he slid the blade back into its sheath -
"became something more. On the other hand, those made for lord-generals, with blades so hard no bladesmith could
mark them, yet marked already with a heron, those blades became sought after." Rand's hands jerked away from the
sword propped on his knees. It toppled, and instinctively he grabbed it before it hit the floorstones.
"You mean Aes Sedai made this? I thought you were talking about your sword."
"Not all heron-mark blades are Aes Sedai work. Few men handle a sword with the skill to be named blademaster and
be awarded a heron-mark blade, but even so, not enough Aes Sedai blades remain for more than a handful to have
one. Most come from master bladesmiths; the finest steel men can make, yet still wrought by a man's hands. But that
one, sheepherder . . . that one could tell a tale of three thousand years and more."
"I can't get away from them," Rand said,
"can I?" He balanced the sword in front of him on scabbard point; it looked no different than it had before he knew.
"Aes Sedai work." But Tam gave it to me. My father gave it to me. He refused to think of how a Two Rivers shepherd
had come by a heron-mark blade. There were dangerous currents in such thoughts, deeps he did not want to explore.
"Do you really want to get away, sheepherder? I'll ask again. Why are you not gone, then? The sword? In five years I
could make you worthy of it, make you a blademaster. You have quick wrists, good balance, and you don't make the
same mistake twice. But I do not have five years to give over to teaching you, and you do not have five years for
learning. You have not even one year, and you know it. As it is, you will not stab yourself in the foot. You hold
yourself as if the sword belongs at your waist, sheepherder, and most village bullies will sense it. But you've had that
much almost since the day you put it on. So why are you still here?"
"Mat and Perrin are still here," Rand mumbled.
"I don't want to leave before they do. I won't ever-I might not see them again for-for years, maybe." His head
dropped back against the wall.
"Blood and ashes! At least they just think I'm crazy not to go home with them. Half the time Nynaeve looks at me
like I'm six years old and I've skinned my knee, and she's going to make it better; the other half she looks like she's
seeing a stranger. One she might offend if she looks too closely, at that. She's a Wisdom, and besides that, I don't
think she's ever been afraid of anything, but she . . ." He shook his head.
"And Egwene. Burn me! She knows why I have to go, but every time I mention it she looks at me, and I knot up
inside and . . ." He closed his eyes, pressing the sword hilt against his forehead as if he could press what he was
thinking out of existence.
"I wish . . . I wish . . ."
"You wish everything could be the way it was, sheepherder? Or you wish the girl would go with you instead of to
Tar Valon? You think she'll give up becoming an Aes Sedai for a life of wandering? With you? If you put it to her in
the right way, she might. Love is an odd thing." Lan sounded suddenly weary.
"As odd a thing as there is."
"No." It was what he had been wishing, that she would want to go with him. He opened his eyes and squared his
back and made his voice firm.
"No, I wouldn't let her come with me if she did ask." He could not do that to her. But Light, wouldn't it he sweet, just
for a minute, if she said she wanted to?
"She gets muley stubborn if she thinks I'm trying to tell her what to do, but I can still protect her from that." He
wished she were back home in Emond's Field, but all hope of that had gone the day Moiraine came to the Two
Rivers.
"Even if it means she does become an Aes Sedai!" The corner of his eye caught Lan's raised eyebrow, and he
flushed.
"And that is all the reason? You want to spend as much time as you can with your friends from home before they go?
That's why you're dragging your feet? You know what's sniffing at your heels." Rand surged angrily to his feet.
"All right, it's Moiraine! I wouldn't even be here if not for her, and she won't as much as talk to me."
"You'd be dead if not for her, sheepherder," Lan said flatly, but Rand rushed on.
"She tells me . . . tells me horrible things about myself"-his knuckles whitened on the sword. That I'm going to go
mad and die! -
"and then suddenly she won't even say two words to me. She acts as if I'm no different than the day she found me,
and that smells wrong, too."
"You want her to treat you like what you are?"
"No! I don't mean that. Burn me, I don't know what I mean half the time. I don't want that, and I'm scared of the
other. Now she's gone off somewhere, vanished . . ."
"I told you she needs to be alone sometimes. It isn't for you, or anyone else, to question her actions."
". . . without telling anybody where she was going, or when she'd be back, or even if she would be back. She has to
be able to tell me something to help me, Lan. Something. She has to. If she ever comes back."
"She's back, sheepherder. Last night. But I think she has told you all she can. Be satisfied. You've learned what you
can from her." With a shake of his head, Lan's voice became brisk.
"You certainly aren't learning anything standing there. Time for a little balance work. Go through Parting the Silk,
beginning from Heron Wading in the Rushes. Remember that that Heron form is only for practicing balance.
Anywhere but doing forms, it leaves you wide open; you can strike home from it, if you wait for the other man to
move first, but you'll never avoid his blade."
"She has to be able to tell me something, Lan. That wind. It wasn't natural, and I don't care how close to the Blight
we are."
"Heron Wading in the Rushes, sheepherder. And mind your wrists." From the south came a faint peal of trumpets, a
rolling fanfare slowly growing louder, accompanied by the steady thrum-thrum-thrum-thrum of drums. For a
moment Rand and Lan stared at each other, then the drums drew them to the tower wall to stare southward. The city
stood on high hills, the land around the city walls cleared to ankle height for a full mile in all directions, and the keep
covered the highest hill of all. From the tower top, Rand had a clear view across the chimneys and roofs to the forest.
The drummers appeared first from the trees, a dozen of them, drums lifting as they stepped to their own beat, mallets
whirling. Next came trumpeters, long, shining horns raised, still calling the flourish. At that distance Rand could not
make out the huge, square banner whipping in the wind behind them. Lan grunted, though; the Warder had eyes like
a snow eagle. Rand glanced at him, but the Warder said nothing, his eyes intent on the column emerging from the
forest. Mounted men in armor rode out of the trees, and women on horseback, too. Then a palanquin borne by horses,
one before and one behind, its curtains down, and more men on horseback. Ranks of men afoot, pikes rising above
them like a bristle of long thorns, and archers with their bows held slanted across their chests, all stepping to the
drums. The trumpets cried again. Like a singing serpent the column wound its way toward Fal Dara. The wind
flapped the banner, taller than a man, straight out to one side. As big as it was, it was close enough now for Rand to
see clearly. A swirl of colors that meant nothing to him, but at the heart of it, a shape like a pure white teardrop. His
breath froze in his throat. The Flame of Tar Valon.
"Ingtar's with them." Lan sounded as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
"Back from his hunting at last. Been gone long enough. I wonder if he had any luck?"
"Aes Sedai," Rand whispered when he finally could. All those women out there . . . Moiraine was Aes Sedai, yes, but
he had traveled with her, and if he did not entirely trust her, at least he knew her. Or thought he did. But she was only
one. So many Aes Sedai together, and coming like this, was something else again. He cleared his throat; when he
spoke, his voice grated.
"Why so many, Lan? Why any at all? And with drums and trumpets and a banner to announce them." Aes Sedai
were respected in Shienar, at least by most people, and the rest respectfully feared them, but Rand had been in places
where it was different, where there was only the fear, and often hate. Where he had grown up, some men, at least,
spoke of
"Tar Valon witches" as they would speak of the Dark One. He tried to count the women, but they kept no ranks or
order, moving their horses around to converse with one another or with whoever was in the palanquin. Goose bumps
covered him. He had traveled with Moiraine, and met another Aes Sedai, and he had begun to think of himself as
worldly. Nobody ever left the Two Rivers, or almost nobody, but he had. He had seen things no one back in the Two
Rivers had ever laid eyes on, done things they had only dreamed of, if they had dreamed so far. He had seen a queen
and met the Daughter-Heir of Andor, faced a Myrddraal and traveled the Ways, and none of it had prepared him for
this moment.
"Why so many?" he whispered again.
"The Amyrlin Seat's come in person." Lan looked at him, his expression as hard and unreadable as a rock.
"Your lessons are done, sheepherder." He paused then, and Rand almost thought there was sympathy on his face.
That could not be, of course.
"Better for you if you were a week gone." With that the Warder snatched up his shirt and disappeared down the
ladder into the tower. Rand worked his mouth, trying to get a little moisture. He stared at the column approaching Fal
Dara as if it really were a snake, a deadly viper. The drums and trumpets sang, loud in his ears. The Amyrlin Seat,
who ordered the Aes Sedai. She's come because of me. He could think of no other reason. They knew things, had
knowledge that could help him, he was sure. And he did not dare ask any of them. He was afraid they had come to
gentle him. And afraid they haven't, too, he admitted reluctantly. Light, I don't know which scares me more.
"I didn't mean to channel the Power," he whispered.
"It was an accident! Light, I don't want anything to do with it. I swear I'll never touch it again! I swear it!" With a
start, he realized that the Aes Sedai party was entering the city gates. The wind swirled up fiercely, chilling his sweat
like droplets of ice, making the trumpets sound like sly laughter; he thought he could smell an opened grave, strong
in the air. My grave, if I keep standing here. Grabbing his shirt, he scrambled down the ladder and began to run.
CHAPTER 2 The Welcome The halls of Fal Dara keep, their smooth stone walls sparsely decorated with elegantly
simple tapestries and painted screens, bustled with news of the Amyrlin Seat's imminent arrival. Servants in black-
and-gold darted about their tasks, running to prepare rooms or carry orders to the kitchens, moaning that they could
not have everything ready for so great a personage when they had had no warning. Dark-eyed warriors, their heads
shaven except for a topknot bound with a leather cord, did not run, but haste filled their steps and their faces shone
with an excitement normally reserved for battle. Some of the men spoke as Rand hurried past.
"Ah, there you are, Rand al'Thor. Peace favor your sword. On your way to clean up? You'll want to look your best
when you are presented to the Amyrlin Seat. She'll want to see you and your two friends as well as the women, you
can count on it." He trotted toward the broad stairs, wide enough for twenty men abreast, that led up to the men's
apartments.
"The Amyrlin herself, come with no more warning than a pack peddler. Must be because of Moiraine Sedai and you
southerners, eh? What else?" The wide, iron-bound doors of the men's apartments stood open, and half jammed with
top-knotted men buzzing with the Amyrlin's arrival.
"Ho, southlander! The Amyrlin's here. Come for you and your friends, I suppose. Peace, what honor for you! She
seldom leaves Tar Valon, and she's never come to the Borderlands in my memory.
" He fended them all off with a few words. He had to wash. Find a clean shirt. No time to talk. They thought they
understood, and let him go. Not a one of them knew a thing except that he and his friends traveled in company with
an Aes Sedai, that two of his friends were women who were going to Tar Valon to train as Aes Sedai, but their words
stabbed at him as if they knew everything. She's come for me. He dashed through the men's apartments, darted into
the room he shared with Mat and Perrin . . . and froze, his jaw dropping in astonishment. The room was filled with
women wearing the black-and-gold, all working purposefully. It was not a big room, and its windows, a pair of tall,
narrow arrowslits looking down on one of the inner courtyards, did nothing to make it seem larger. Three beds on
black-and-white tiled platforms, each with a chest at the foot, three plain chairs, a washstand by the door, and a tall,
wide wardrobe crowded the room. The eight women in there seemed like fish in a basket. The women barely glanced
at him, and went right on clearing his clothes-and Mat's and Perrin's-out of the wardrobe and replacing them with
new. Anything found in the pockets was put atop the chests, and the old clothes were bundled up carelessly, like
rags.
"What are you doing?" he demanded when he caught his breath.
"Those are my clothes!" One of the women sniffed and poked a finger through a tear in the sleeve of his only coat,
then added it to the pile on the floor. Another, a black-haired woman with a big ring of keys at her waist, set her eyes
on him. That was Elansu, shatayan of the keep. He thought of the sharp-faced woman as a housekeeper, though the
house she kept was a fortress and scores of servants did her bidding.
"Moiraine Sedai said all of your clothes are worn out, and the Lady Amalisa had new made to give you. Just keep out
of our way," she added firmly,
"and we will be done the quicker." There were few men the shatayan could not bully into doing as she wished-some
said even Lord Agelmar-and she plainly did not expect any trouble with one man young enough to be her son. He
swallowed what he had been going to say; there was no time for arguing. The Amyrlin Seat could be sending for him
at any minute.
"Honor to the Lady Amalisa for her gift," he managed, after the Shienaran way,
"and honor to you, Elansu Shatayan. Please, convey my words to the Lady Amalisa, and tell her I said, heart and soul
to serve." That ought to satisfy the Shienaran love of ceremony for both women.
摘要：

Anditshallcometopassthatwhatmenmadeshallbeshattered,andtheShadowshalllieacrossthePatternoftheAge,andtheDarkOneshalloncemorelayhishandupontheworldofman.Womenshallweepandmenquailasthenationsoftheeartharerentlikerottingcloth.Neithershallanythingstandnorabide...YetoneshallbeborntofacetheShadow,bornoncem...

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