Jordan, Robert - The Wheel of Time 10 - Crossroads of Twilight

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CROSSROADS OF TWILIGHT

Book Ten of

The Wheel of Time

ROBERT JORDAN

And it shall come to pass, in the days when the Dark Hunt rides, when the right hand falters and

the left hand strays, that mankind shall come to the Crossroads of Twilight and all that is, all that was,

and all that will be shall balance on the point of a sword, while the winds of the Shadow grow.

- From The Prophecies of the Dragon

translation believed done by Jain

Charin, known as Jain Farstrider,

shortly before his disappearance

Prologue

Glimmers of the Pattern

Rodel Ituralde hated waiting, though he well knew it was the largest part of being a soldier.

Waiting for the next battle, for the enemy to move, to make a mistake. He watched the winter forest and

was as still as the trees. The sun stood halfway to its peak and gave no warmth. His breath misted white

in front of his face, frosting his neatly trimmed mustache and the black fox-fur lining his hood. He was

glad that his helmet hung at his pommel. His breastplate held the cold and radiated it through his coat

and all the layers of wool, silk and linen beneath. Even Dart’s saddle felt cold, as though the white

gelding were made of frozen milk. The helmet would have addled his brain.

Winter had come late to Arad Doman very late, but with a vengeance. From summer heat that

lingered unnaturally into fall to winter’s heart in less than a month. The leaves that had survived the long

summer’s drought had been frozen before they could change color, and now they glistened like strange,

ice-covered emeralds in the morning sun. The horses of the twenty-odd armsmen around him

occasionally stamped a hoof in the knee-deep snow. It had been a long ride this far, and they had further

to go whether this day turned out good or ill. Dark clouds roiled the sky to northward. He did not need

his weather-wise there to tell him the temperature would plummet before nightfall. They had to be under

shelter by then.

“Not as rough as winter before last, is it, my Lord” Jaalam said quietly. The tall young officer

had away of reading Ituralde’s mind and his voice was pitched for the others to hear. “Even so, I

suppose some men would be dreaming of mulled wine about now. Not this lot, of course. Remarkably

abstemious. They all drink tea, I believe. Cold tea. If they had a few birch switches, they’d be stripping

down for snow-baths.”

‘They’ll have to keep their clothes on for the time being,” Ituralde replied dryly, “but they might

get some cold tea tonight, if they’re lucky.” That brought a few chuckles. Quiet chuckles. He had chosen

these men with care, and they knew about noise at the wrong time.

He himself could have done with a steaming cup of spiced wine, or even tea. But it was a long

time since merchants had brought tea to Arad Doman. A long time since any outland merchant had

ventured further than the border with Saldaea. By the rime news of the outside world reached him, it was

as stale as last month’s bread, if it was more than rumor to begin. That hardly mattered, though. If the

White Tower truly was divided against itself, or men who could channel really were being called to

Caemlyn, well, the world would have to do without Rodel Ituralde until Arad Doman was whole again.

For the moment, Arad Doman was more than enough for any sane man to go on with. Once again lie

reviewed the orders he had sent, carried by the fastest riders he had, to every noble loyal to the King-

Divided as they were by bad blood and old feuds, they still shared that much. They would gather their

armies and ride when orders came from the Wolf; at least, so long as he held the King’s favor. They

would even hide in the mountains and wait, for his order. Oh, they would chafe, and some would curse

his name, but they would obey. They knew the Wolf won battles. More, they knew he won wars. The

Little Wolf, they called him when they thought he could nor hear, but he did not care whether they drew

attention to his stature-well, not much-so long as they rode when and where he said.

Very soon they would be riding hard, moving to set a trap that would not spring for months. It

was a long chance he was taking. Complex plans had many ways to fall apart, and this plan had layers

inside layers. Everything would be ruined before it began if he failed to provide the bait. Or if someone

ignored his order to evade couriers from the King. They all knew his reasons, though, and even the most

stiff-necked shared them, though few were willing to speak of the matter aloud. He himself had moved

like a wraith racing on a storm since he received Alsalam’s latest command. In his sleeve the folded

paper lay tucked above the pale lace that fell onto his steel-backed gauntlet. They had one last chance,

one very small chance, to save Arad Doman. Perhaps even to save Alsalam from himself before the

Council of Merchants decided to put another man on the throne in his place. He had been a good ruler,

for over twenty years. The Light send that he could be again.

A loud crack to the south sent Ituralde’s hand to die hilt of his longsword. There was a faint

creak of leather and metal as others eased their weapons. For the rest, silence. The forest was as still as a

frozen tomb. Only a limb breaking under the weight of snow. After a moment, he let himself relax as

much as he had relaxed since the tales came north of the Dragon Reborn appearing in the sky at Falme.

Perhaps the man really was the Dragon Reborn, perhaps he really had appeared in the sky, but whatever

the truth, those tales had set Arad Doman on fire.

Ituralde was sure he could have put out that fire, given a freer hand. It was not boasting to think

so. He knew what he could do, with a battle, a campaign, or a war. But ever since the Council had

decided the King would be safer smuggled out of Bandar Eban, Alsalam seemed to have taken into his

head that he was the rebirth of Artur Hawkwing. His signature and seal had marked scores of battle

orders since, heading out from wherever the Council had him hidden. They would not: say where that

was, even to Ituralde himself. Every woman on the Council that he confronted went flat-eyed and

evasive at any mention of the King. He could almost believe they did nor know where Alsalam was. A

ridiculous thought, of course. The Council kept an unblinking eye on the King. Ituralde had always

believed the merchant Houses interfered too much, yet he wished they would interfere now. Why they

remained silent was a mystery, for a king who damaged trade did not remain long on the throne. He was

loyal to his oaths, and Alsalam was a friend, besides, but the orders the King sent could not have been

better written to achieve chaos. Nor could they be ignored. Alsalam was the King. But he had

commanded Ituralde to march north with all possible speed against a great gathering of Dragonsworn

that Alsalam supposedly knew of from secret spies; then ten days later, with no Dragonsworn yet in

sight, an order came to move south again, with all possible speed, against another gathering that never

materialized. He had been commanded to concentrate his forces to defend Bandar Eban when a three-

pronged attack might have ended it all and to divide them when a hammer blow could have done the

same, to harry ground he knew the Dragonsworn had abandoned, and to march away from where he

knew they camped. Worse, Alsalam’s orders often had gone directly to the powerful nobles who were

supposed to be following Ituralde, sending Machir in this direction, Teacal in that, Rahman in a third.

Four rimes, pitched battles had resulted from parts of the army blundering into one another in the night

while moving to the King’s express command and expecting none but enemies ahead. And all the while

the Dragonsworn gained numbers, and confidence, Ituralde had had his triumphs-at Solanje and Maseen,

at Lake Somal and Kandelmar, the Lords of Katar had learned nor to sell the products of their mines and

forges to the enemies of Arad Doman-but always, Alsalam’s orders wasted his gains.

This last order was different, though. For one thing, a Gray Man had killed Lady Tuva trying to

stop it from reaching him. Why the Shadow might fear this order more than any other was a mystery, yet

it was all the more reason to move swiftly. Before Alsalam reached him with another. This order opened

many possibilities, and he had considered every last one he could see. But good ones all started here,

today. When small chances of success were all that remained, you had to seize them.

A snowjay’s strident cry rang out in the distance, then a second time, a third. Cupping his hands

around his mouth, Ituralde repeated the three harsh calls. Moments later a shaggy, pale dapple gelding

appeared out of the trees, his rider in a white cloak streaked with black. Man and horse alike would have

been hard to see in the snowy forest had they been standing still. The rider pulled up beside Ituralde. A

stocky man, he wore only a single sword, with a short blade, and there was a cased bow and a quiver

fastened to his saddle.

“Looks like they all came, my Lord,” he said in his permanently hoarse voice, pushing his cowl

back from his head. Someone had cried to hang Donjel when he was young, though the reason was lost

in the years. What remained of his short-cropped hair was iron gray. The dark leather parch covering the

socket of his right eye was a remnant of another youthful scrape. One eye or two, though, he was the

best scout Ituralde had ever known. “Most anyways,” he went on. “They put two rings of sentries around

the lodge, one inside the other. You can see them a mile of but nobody will get close without them at the

lodge hearing of it in time to get away. By the tracks, they didn’t bring no more men than you said they

could, not enough to count. Course,” he added wryly “that still leaves you outnumbered a fair bit.”

Ituralde nodded. He had offered the White Ribbon, and the men he was to meet had accepted.

Three days when men pledged under the Light, by their souls and hope of salvation, not to draw a

weapon against another or shed blood. The White Ribbon had not been tested in this war, however, and

these days, some men had strange ideas of where salvation lay. Those who called themselves

Dragonsworn, for instance. He had always been called a gambler, though he was not. The trick was in

knowing what risks you could take. And sometimes, in knowing which ones you had to take.

Pulling a packet sewn into oiled silk from his boottop, he handed it to Donjel. If I don’t reach

Coran Ford in two days, take this to my wife.”

The scour tucked the packet somewhere beneath his cloak, touched his forehead, and turned his

horse west. He had carried its like for Ituralde before, usually on the eve of battle. The Light send this

was not the time Tamsin would have to open that packet. She would come after him-she had told him

so-the first incident ever of the living haunting the dead, “Jaalam,” Ituralde said, “let us see what waits

at Lady Osana’s hunting lodge.” As he heeled Dart forward, the other fell in behind him.

The sun rose to its height and began again to descend as they rode. The dark clouds in the north

moved closer, and the chill bit deeper. There was no sound but the crunch of hooves breaking through

the snowcrust. The forest seemed empty save for themselves. He did not see any of the sentries Donjel

had spoken of. The man’s opinion of what could be seen from a mile differed from that of most. They

would be expecting him, of course. And watching to make sure he was not followed by an army, White

Ribbon or no White Ribbon. A good many of them likely had reasons they felt sufficient to feather

Rodel Ituralde with arrows. A lord might pledge the White Ribbon for his men, but would all of those

feel bound? Sometimes, there were chances you just had to take. About mid-afternoon, Osana’s so-

called hunting lodge loomed suddenly out of the trees, a mass of pale towers and slender, pointed domes

that would have fitted well among the palaces of Bandar Eban itself. Her hunting had always been for

men or power, her trophies numerous and note-worthy despite her relative youth, and the “hunts” that

had taken place here would have raised eyebrows even in the capital. The lodge lay desolate, now.

Broken windows gaped like mouths with jagged teeth. None showed a glimmer of light or movement.

The snow covering the cleared ground around the lodge had been well trampled by horses, however. The

ornate brassbound gates of the main courtyard stood open, and he rode through without slowing,

followed by his men. The horses’ hooves clattered on the paving stones, where the snow had been

beaten to slush. No servants came out to greet him, not that he had expected any. Osana had vanished

early in the troubles that now shook Arad Doman like a dog shaking a rat, and her servants had drifted

quickly to others of her house, taking whatever places they could find. These days, the masterless

starved, or turned bandit. Or Dragonsworn. Dismounting in front of the broad marble stairway at the end

of the courtyard, he handed Dart’s reins to one of his armsmen, and Jaalam ordered the men to take

shelter where they could find it for themselves and the animals. Eyeing the marble balconies and wide

windows that surrounded the courtyard, they moved as if expecting a crossbow bolt between the

shoulder blades. One set of stable doors stood slightly ajar, but in spite of the cold, they divided

themselves between the corners of the courtyard, huddling with the horses where they could keep watch

in every direction. If the worst came, perhaps a few might make it out, removing his gauntlets, he tucked

them behind his belt and checked his lace as he climbed the stairs with Jaalam. Snow that had been

trodden underfoot and frozen again crackled beneath his boots. He refrained from looking anywhere but

straight ahead. He must appear supremely assured, as though there were no possibility events should go

other than he expected. Confidence was one key to victory. The other side believing you were confident

was sometimes almost as good as actually being confident. At the head of the stairs, Jaalam pulled open

one of the tall, carved doors by its gilded ring. Ituralde touched his beauty spot with a finger to make

sure it was in place-his cheeks were too cold to feel the black velvet star clinging-before he stepped

inside. As self-assured as he would have been at a ball.

The cavernous entry hall was as icy as the outside. Their breath made feathered mists. Unlit, the

space seemed already wreathed in twilight. The floor was a colorful mosaic of hunters and animals, the

tiles chipped in places, as though heavy weights had been dragged over them, or perhaps dropped. Aside

from a single toppled plinth that might once have held a large vase or a small statue, the hall was bare.

What the servants had not taken when they fled had long since been looted by bandits. A single man

awaited them, white-haired and more gaunt than when Ituralde had last seen him. His breastplate was

battered, and his earring was just a small gold hoop, but his face was immaculate, and the sparkling red

quarter moon beside his left eye would have gone well at court, in better times. “By the Light, be

welcome under the White Ribbon, Lord Ituralde,” he said formally, with a slight bow. “By the Light, I

come under the White Ribbon, Lord Shimron,” Ituralde replied, making his courtesy in return. Shimron

had been one of Alsalam’s most trusted advisers. Until he joined the Dragonsworn, at least. Now he

stood high in their councils. “My armsman is Jaalam Nishur, honor-bound to House Ituralde as are all

who came with me.” There had been no House Ituralde before Rodel, but Shimron answered Jaalam’s

bow, hand to heart. “Honor be to honor. Will you accompany me, Lord Ituralde” he said as he

straightened.

The great doors to the ballroom were gone from their hinges, though Ituralde could hardly

imagine bandits looting those, for they left a tall pointed arch wide enough for ten men to pass. Within

the windowless oval room, half a hundred lanterns of every size and sort beat at shadows, though the

light barely reached the domed ceiling. Separated by a wide expanse of floor, two groups of men stood

against the painted walls, and if the White Ribbon had induced them to leave off helmets, all two

hundred or more were armored otherwise, and certainly no one had put aside his swords. To one side

were a few Domani lords as powerful as Shimron-Rajabi, Wakeda, Ankaer-each surrounded by his

cluster of lesser lords and sworn commoners, and smaller clusters, as few as two or three, many

containing no nobles at all. The Dragonsworn had councils, but no one commander. Still, each of those

men was a leader in his own right, some counting their followers in scores, a few in thousands. None

appeared happy to be where he was, and one or two shot glares across the floor, to where fifty or sixty

Taraboners stood in one solid mass and scowled back. Dragonsworn they might all be yet there was little

love lost between Domani and Taraboners. Ituralde almost smiled at the sight of the outlanders, though.

He had not dared to count on half so many appearing today.

“Lord Rodel Ituralde comes under the White Ribbon.” Shimron’s voice rang through the lantern

shadows. “Let whoever may think of violence search his heart, and consider his soul.” And that was the

end of formality.

“Why does Lord Ituralde offer the White Ribbon?” Wakeda demanded, one hand gripping the

hilt of his longsword and the other in a fist at his side. He was not a tall man, though caller than Ituralde

but as haughty as if he held the throne himself. Women had called him beautiful once. Now a slanting

black scarf covered the socket of his missing right eye, and his beauty-spot was a black arrowhead

pointing at the thick scar running from his cheek up onto his forehead. “Does he intend to join us? Or

ask us to surrender? All know the Wolf is bold as well as devious. Is he that bold?” A rumble rose

among the men on his side of the room, part mirth, part anger.

Ituralde clasped his hands behind his back to keep from fingering the ruby in his left ear. That

was widely known as a sign that lie was angry, and sometimes he did it on purpose, but he needed to

present a calm face, now. Even while the man spoke past his ear! No. Calm. Duels were entered into in

anger, but he was here to tight a duel, and that required calm. “Every man here knows we have another

enemy to the south,” he said in a steady voice. “The Seanchan have swallowed Tarabon.” He ran his

gaze over the Taraboners, and met flat stares. He never had been able to read Taraboners’ faces.

Between those preposterous mustaches-like hairy tusks, worse than a Saldaean’s! -And those ridiculous

veils, they might as well wear masks, and the poor light from the lanterns did not help. But he had seen

them veiled in mail, and he needed them. “They have flooded onto Almoth Plain, and moved ever north.

Their intent is clear. They mean to have Arad Doman, too. They mean to have the whole world, I fear.”

“Does Lord Ituralde want to know who we will support if these Seanchan invade us.” Wakeda

demanded.

“I have true faith you will fight for Arad Doman, Lord Wakeda,” Ituralde said mildly. Wakeda

went purple at having the direct insult flung in his teeth, and his oath-men’s hands went to hilts.

“Refugees have brought word that there are Aiel on the plain, now,” Shimron put in quickly, as

though he feared Wakeda might break the White Ribbon. None of Wakeda’s oath-men would draw steel

unless he did, or commanded them to, “They fight for the Dragon Reborn, so say the reports. He must

have sent them, perhaps as an aid to us. No one has ever defeated an Aiel army, not even Artur

Hawkwing. You recall the Blood Snow, Lord Ituralde, when we were younger? I believe you agree with

me that we did not defeat them there, whatever the histories may say and I cannot believe the Seanchan

have the numbers we did then. I myself have heard of Seanchan moving south, away from the border.

No, I suspect the next we hear will be of them retreating from the plain, not advancing on us.” He was

not a bad commander in the field, but he had always been pedantic.

Ituralde smiled. Word came more swiftly from the south than from anywhere else, but he had

been afraid he would have to bring up the Aiel, and they might have thought he was trying to trick them.

He could hardly believe it himself, Aiel on Almoth Plain. He did not point out that Aiel sent to help the

Dragonsworn were more likely to have appeared in Arad Doman itself.” I’ve questioned refugees, too,

and they speak of Aiel raids, not armies. Whatever the Aiel are doing on the plain may have slowed the

Seanchan, but it hasn’t turned them back. Their flying beasts have begun scouting on our side of the

border. That does not smack of retreat.”

Producing the paper from his sleeve with a flourish, he held it up so all could see the Sword and

Hand impressed in green-and-blue wax. As always of late, he had used a hot blade to separate the Royal

Seal on one side while leaving it whole, so he could show it unbroken to doubters. There had been

plenty of those, when they heard some of Alsalam’s orders-“I have orders from King Alsalam to gather

as many men as I can, from wherever I can find them, and strike as hard as I can at the Seanchan.” He

took a deep breach. Here, he took another chance-and Alsalam might have his head on die block unless

the dice fell the right way. “I offer a truce-I pledge in the King’s name not to move against you in any

way so long as the Seanchan remain a threat to Arad Doman, if you will all pledge the same and fight

beside me against them until they are beaten back.” A stunned silence answered him. Bull-necked

Rajabi appeared poleaxed. Wakeda chewed his lip like a startled girl Then Shimron muttered, “Can they

be beaten back, Lord Ituralde? I faced their . . . their chained Aes Sedai on Almoth Plain, as did you.”

Boots scraped the floor as men shifted their feet and faces darkened in bleak anger. No man liked to

think he was helpless before an enemy, but enough had been there in the early days, with Ituralde and

Shimron, for all to know what this enemy was like.

“They can be defeated. Lord Shimron,” Ituralde replied, “even with their . . . little surprises.” A

strange thing to call the earth erupting under your feet, and scouts that rode what looked like

Shadowspawn, but he had to sound assured as well as look it. Besides, when you knew what the enemy

could, do, you adapted. That had been one core of warfare long before the Seanchan appeared. Darkness

cut the Seanchan advantages, and so did storms, and a weather-wise could always tell yon when a storm

was coming. “A wise man stops chewing when he reaches bone,” he continued, “but so far, the

Seanchan have had their meat sliced thin before they reached for it. I intend to give them a tough roast to

gnaw. More, I have a plan to make them snap so hard they’ll break their teeth on bone before they have

a mouthful of meat. Now. I have pledged. Will you?”

It was hard nor to hold his breath. Each man seemed to be looking inward. He could all butsee

them mulling it over. The Wolf had a plan. The Seanchan had chained Aes Sedai and flying beasts and

the Light alone knew what else. But the Wolf had a plan. The Seanchan. The Wolf. “If any man can

defeat them,” Shimron said finally “you can, Lord Ituralde. I will so pledge.”

“I do so pledge!” Rajabi shouted. “We’ll chase them back across the ocean where they came

from!” He had a bull’s temperament as well as its neck.

Surprisingly Wakeda thundered his agreement with equal enthusiasm, and then a storm of voices

broke, calling that they would match the King’s pledge, that they would smash the Seanchan, even some

that would follow the Wolf into the Pit of Doom. All very gratifying but not all Ituralde had come for.

“If you ask us to fight for Arad Doman,” one voice shouted above the rest, “then ask us!” The

men who had been calling their pledges fell to angry mutters and half-heard curses.

Hiding his pleasure behind a bland expression, Ituralde turned to face the speaker, on the other

side of the room, The Taraboner was a lean man, with a sharp nose that made a tent of his veil. His eyes

were hard, though, and keen. Some of the other Taraboners frowned as if displeased he had spoken, so it

appeared they had no one leader any more than the Domani, but he had spoken, Ituralde had hoped for

the pledges he had received, but they were nor necessary to his plan. The Taraboners were. At least, they

would make it a hundred times more likely to work. He addressed the man courteously, with a bow.

“I offer you the chance to fight for Tarabon, my good Lord. The Aiel are making some confusion

on the plain; the refugees speak of it. Tell me, could a small company of your men-a hundred, perhaps

two-cross the plain in that disorder and enter Tarabon, if their armor was marked with stripes, as those

who ride for the Seanchan.”

It seemed impossible the Taraboners face could grow any tighter, yet it did, and it was the turn of

the men on his side of the room to mutter angrily and curse. Enough word had come north for them to

know of a King and Panarch put on their thrones by the Seanchan and swearing fealty to an Empress on

the other side of the Aryth Ocean. They could not like reminders of how many of their countrymen now

rode for this Empress. Most of the “Seanchan” on Almoth Plain were Taraboners.

“What good could one small company do?” the lean man growled, contemptuous.

“Little good,” Ituralde replied. “But if there were fifty such companies? A hundred?” These

Taraboners might have that many men behind them, all told. “If they all struck on the same day, all

across Tarabon? I myself would ride with them, and as many of my men as can be outfitted in Taraboner

armor. Just so you will know this is not simply a stratagem to get rid of you.”

Behind him, the Domani began protesting loudly. Wakeda the loudest of all, if it could be

believed! The Wolf’s plan was all very well, but they wanted the Wolf himself at their head. Most of the

Taraboners began arguing among themselves, over whether so many men could cross the plain without

being discovered, even in such small bands, over what good, if any, they could do in Tarabon in small

companies, over whether they were willing to wear armor marked with Seanchan stripes. Taraboners

argued as easily as Saldaeans, and as hotly. Not the sharp-nosed man. He met Ituralde’s glare steadily.

Then gave a slight nod. It was hard to tell, behind those thick mustaches, but Ituralde thought he smiled.

The last tension faded from Ituralde’s shoulders. The fellow would not have agreed while the

others argued if he were not more of a leader among them than he seemed. The others would come too,

he was certain. They would ride south with him into the heart of what the Seanchan considered their

own, and slap them hard and full across the face. The Taraboners would want to stay afterwards, of

course, and continue the fight in their own homeland. He could not expect anything more. Which would

leave him and the two thousand men he could take with him to be hounded back north again, all the long

way across Almoth Plain. If the Light shone on him, hounded with fury. He returned the Taraboners

smile, if smile it was. With any luck, furious generals would not see where he was leading them, until it

was too late. And if they did... Well he had a second plan.

Eamon Valda held his cloak tight around himself as lie tramped through the snow among the trees. Cold

and steady, the wind sighed through the snow-laden branches, a deceptively quiet sound in the damp

gray light. It sliced through the thick white wool as through gauze, chilling him to the bone. The camp

sprawling around him through the forest was too quiet. Movement provided a little warmth, but in this,

men huddled together unless driven to move.

Abruptly he stopped in his tracks, wrinkling his nose at a sudden stench, a gagging foulness like

twenty midden heaps crawling with maggots. He did not gag; instead, he scowled. The camp lacked the

precision he preferred. The tents were clustered haphazardly wherever the limbs overhead grew thickest,

the horses tethered close by rather than properly picketed. It was the sort of slackness that led to filth.

Unwatched, the men would bury horse-dung under a few shovels of dirt to be done with it quicker, and

dig latrines where they would not have to walk far in the cold. Any officer of his who allowed that

would cease to be an officer, and learn firsthand how to use a shovel.

He was scanning the camp for the source of the smell, when suddenly there was no smell. The

wind did not change; the stink just vanished. He was startled for only a moment. Walking on, he

scowled all the harder. The stench had come from somewhere. He would find whoever thought

discipline had slackened, and make examples of them. Discipline had to be tight, now; tighter than ever.

At the edge of abroad clearing, he paused again. The snow in the clearing was smooth and

unmarked despite the camp hidden all around if. Staging back among the trees, lie scanned the sky.

Scudding gray clouds hid the noonday sun. A flicker of motion made his breath catch before he realized

it was just a bird, some small brown thing wary of hawks and staying low. He barked .a laugh that was

more than touched with bitterness. Little more than a month since the Light-cursed Seanchan had

swallowed Amador and the Fortress of Light in one unbelievable gulp, but he had learned new instincts.

Wise men learned, while fools ... Ailron had been a fool puffed up with old tales of glory brightened by

age and new hope of winning real power to go with his crown. He refused to see the reality in front of

his eyes, and Ailron’s Disaster had been the result. Valda had heard it named the Battle of Jeramel, but

only by some of the bare handful of Amadician nobles who escaped, dazed as poleaxed steers yet still

trying mechanically to put the best face on events. He wondered what Ailron had called it when the

Seanchan’s tame witches began tearing his orderly ranks to bloody rags. He could still see that in his

head, the earth turning to fountains of fire. He saw it in his dreams-Well, Ailron was dead, cut down

trying to flee the field and his head displaced on a Taraboner’s lance. A suitable death for a fool. He, on

the other hand, had over nine thousand of the Children gathered around him. A man who saw clearly

could make much out of that in times like these.

On the far side of the clearing, just inside the treeline, was a rude house that had once belonged

to a charcoal burner, a single room with winter-brawn weeds thick in the gaps between the stones. By all

appearances, the man had abandoned the place some time ago; parts of the thatch roof sagged

dangerously, and whatever had once filled the narrow windows was long since gone, replaced now by

dark blankets. Two guards stood beside the ill-fitting wooden door-big men with the scarlet shepherd’s

crook behind the golden sunflare on their cloaks. They had their arms wrapped around themselves and

were stamping their boots against the cold. Neither could have reached his sword in time to do any good,

had Valda been an enemy. Questioners liked to work indoors.

Their faces might have been carved stone as they watched him approach. Neither offered more

than a halfhearted salute. Not for a man without the shepherd’s crook, even if he was Lord-Captain

Commander of the Children. One opened his mouth as if to question Valda’s purpose, but Valda walked

by them and pushed open the rough door. At least they did not try to stop him. He would have killed

them both, if they had.

At his entrance, Asunawa looked up from the crooked table where he was perusing a small book,

one bony hand cupped around a steaming pewter cup that gave off the odor of spices. His ladder-backed

chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room, appeared rickety, but someone had strengthened it

with rawhide lashings. Valda tightened his mouth to stop a sneer. The High Inquisitor of the Hand of the

Light demanded a real roof, not a tent, even if it was thatch sorely in need of patching, and mulled wine

when no one else had tasted, wine of any sort in a week. A small fire burned on the stone hearth, too,

giving a meager warmth. Even cook fires had been banned since before the Disaster, to prevent smoke

from giving them away. Still, although most Children despised the Questioners, they held Asunawa in a

strange esteem, as if his gray hair and gaunt martyr’s face graced him with all the ideals of the Children

of the Light. That had been a surprise, when Valda first learned of it; he was unsure whether Asunawa

himself knew. In any case, there were enough Questioners to make trouble. Nothing he could not handle,

but it was best to avoid that sort of trouble. For now.

“It is almost time,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Are you ready?”

Asunawa made no move to rise or reach for the white cloak folded across the table beside him.

There was no sun-flare on that, just the scarlet crook. Instead, he folded his hands over the book, hiding

the pages. Valda thought it was Mantelar’s The Way of the Light. Odd reading for the High Inquisitor.

More suited to new recruits; those who could not read when they swore were taught so that could study

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THISISUNCORRECTEDPRE-RELEASE.CROSSROADSOFTWILIGHTBookTenofTheWheelofTimeROBERTJORDANAnditshallcometopass,inthedayswhentheDarkHuntrides,whentherighthandfaltersandthelefthandstrays,thatmankindshallcometotheCrossroadsofTwilightandallthatis,allthatwas,andallthatwillbeshallbalanceonthepointofasword,while...

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Jordan, Robert - The Wheel of Time 10 - Crossroads of Twilight

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