Robert Jordan - Knife of Dreams Prologue (Embers Falling on Dry Grass)

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Embers Falling on Dry Grass
Prologue
The sun, climbing toward midmorning, stretched Galad’s shadow and those of his three
armored companions ahead of them as they trotted their mounts down the road that ran
straight through the forest, dense with oak and leatherleaf, pine and sourgum, most
showing the red of spring growth. He tried to keep his mind empty, still, but small things
kept intruding. The day was silent save for the thud of their horses’ hooves. No bird sang
on a branch, no squirrel chittered. Too quiet for the time of year, as though the forest held
its breath. This had been a major trade route once, long before Amadicia and Tarabon
came into being, and bits of ancient paving stone sometimes studded the hard-packed
surface of yellowish clay. A single farm cart far ahead behind a plodding ox was the only
sign of human life now besides themselves. Trade had shifted far north, farms and
villages in the region dwindled, and the fabled lost mines of Aelgar remained lost in the
tangled mountain ranges that began only a few miles to the south. Dark clouds massing in
that direction promised rain by afternoon if their slow advance continued. A red-winged
hawk quartered back and forth along the border of the trees, hunting the fringes. As he
himself was hunting. But at the heart, not on the fringes.
The manor house that the Seanchan had given Eamon Valda came into view, and he drew
rein, wishing he had a helmet strap to tighten for excuse. Instead he had to be content
with re-buckling his sword belt, pretending that it had been sitting wrong. There had been
no point to wearing armor. If the morning went as he hoped, he would have had to
remove breastplate and mail in any case, and if it went badly, armor would have provided
little more protection than his white coat.
Formerly a deep-country lodge of the King of Amadicia, the building was a huge, blue-
roofed structure studded with red-painted balconies, a wooden palace with wooden spires
at the corners atop a stone foundation like a low, steep-sided hill. The outbuildings,
stables and barns, workmen’s small houses and craftsfolks’ workshops, all hugged the
ground in the wide clearing that surrounded the main house, but they were nearly as
resplendent in their blue-and-red paint. A handful of men and women moved around
them, tiny figures yet at this distance, and children were playing under their elders’ eyes.
An image of normality where nothing was normal. His companions sat their saddles in
their burnished helmets and breastplates, watching him without expression. Their mounts
stamped impatiently, the animals’ morning freshness not yet worn off by the short ride
from the camp.
“It’s understandable if you’re having second thoughts, Damodred,” Trom said after a
time. “It’s a harsh accusation, bitter as gall, but—”
“No second thoughts for me,” Galad broke in. His intentions had been fixed since
yesterday. He was grateful, though. Trom had given him the opening he needed. They
had simply appeared as he rode out, falling in with him without a word spoken. There had
seemed no place for words, then. “But what about you three? You’re taking a risk coming
here with me. A risk you have no need to take. However the day runs, there will be marks
against you. This is my business, and I give you leave to go about yours.” Too stiffly
said, but he could not find words this morning, or loosen his throat.
The stocky man shook his head. “The law is the law. And I might as well make use of my
new rank.” The three golden star-shaped knots of a captain sat beneath the flaring
sunburst on the breast of his white cloak. There had been more than a few dead at
Jeramel, including no fewer than three of the Lords Captain. They had been fighting the
Seanchan then, not allied with them.
“I’ve done dark things in service to the Light,” gaunt-faced Byar said grimly, his deep-set
eyes glittering as though at a personal insult, “dark as moonless midnight, and likely I
will again, but some things are too dark to be allowed.” He looked as if he might spit.
“That’s right,” young Bornhald muttered, scrubbing a gauntleted hand across his mouth.
Galad always thought of him as young, though the man lacked only a few years on him.
Dain’s eyes were bloodshot; he had been at the brandy again last night. “If you’ve done
what’s wrong, even in service to the Light, then you have to do what’s right to balance
it.” Byar grunted sourly. Likely that was not the point he had been making.
“Very well,” Galad said, “but there’s no fault to any man who turns back. My business
here is mine alone.”
Still, when he heeled his bay gelding to a canter, he was pleased to have them gallop to
catch him and fall in alongside, white cloaks billowing behind. He would have gone on
alone, of course, yet their presence might keep him from being arrested and hanged out of
hand. Not that he expected to survive in any case. What had to be done, had to be done,
no matter the price.
The horses’ hooves clattered loudly on the stone ramp that climbed to the manor house,
so every man in the broad central courtyard turned to watch as they rode in: fifty of the
Children in gleaming plate-and-mail and conical helmets, most mounted, with cringing,
dark-coated Amadician grooms holding animals for the rest. The inner balconies were
empty except for a few servants who appeared to be watching while pretending to sweep.
Six Questioners, big men with the scarlet shepherd’s crook upright behind the sunflare on
their cloaks, stood close around Rhadam Asunawa like a bodyguard, away from the
others. The Hand of the Light always stood apart from the rest of the Children, a choice
the rest of the Children approved. Gray-haired Asunawa, his sorrowful face making Byar
look fully fleshed, was the only Child present not in armor, and his snowy cloak carried
just the brilliant red crook, another way of standing apart. But aside from marking who
was present, Galad had eyes for only one man in the courtyard. Asunawa might have
been involved in some way—that remained unclear—yet only the Lord Captain
Commander could call the High Inquisitor to account.
Eamon Valda was not a large man, yet his dark, hard face had the look of one who
expected obedience as his due. As the very least he was due. Standing with his booted
feet apart and his head high, command in every inch of him, he wore the white-and-gold
tabard of the Lord Captain Commander over his gilded breast- and backplates, a silk
tabard more richly embroidered than any Pedron Niall had worn. His white cloak, the
flaring sun large on either breast in thread-of-gold, was silk as well, and his gold-
embroidered white coat. The helmet beneath his arm was gilded and worked with the
flaring sun on the brow, and a heavy gold ring on his left hand, worn outside his steel-
backed gauntlet, held a large yellow sapphire carved with the sunburst. Another mark of
favor received from the Seanchan.
Valda frowned slightly as Galad and his companions dismounted and offered their
salutes, arm across the chest. Obsequious grooms came running to take their reins.
“Why aren’t you on your way to Nassad, Trom?” Disapproval colored Valda’s words.
“The other Lords Captain will be halfway there by now.” He himself always arrived late
when meeting the Seanchan, perhaps to assert that some shred of independence remained
to the Children—finding him already preparing to depart was a surprise; this meeting
must be very important—but he always made sure the other high-ranking officers arrived
on time even when that required setting out before dawn. Apparently it was best not to
press their new masters too far. Distrust of the Children was always strong in the
Seanchan.
Trom displayed none of the uncertainty that might have been expected from a man who
had held his present rank barely a month. “An urgent matter, my Lord Captain
Commander,” he said smoothly, making a very precise bow, neither a hair deeper nor
higher than protocol demanded. “A Child of my command charges another of the
Children with abusing a female relative of his, and claims the right of Trial Beneath the
Light, which by law you must grant or deny.”
“A strange request, my son,” Asunawa said, tilting his head quizzically above clasped
hands, before Valda could speak. Even the High Inquisitor’s voice was doleful; he
sounded pained at Trom’s ignorance. His eyes seemed dark hot coals in a brazier. “It was
usually the accused who asked to give the judgment to swords, and I believe usually
when he knew the evidence would convict him. In any case, Trial Beneath the Light has
not been invoked for nearly four hundred years. Give me the accused’s name, and I will
deal with the matter quietly.” His tone turned chill as a sunless cavern in winter, though
his eyes still burned. “We are among strangers, and we cannot allow them to know that
one of the Children is capable of such a thing.”
“The request was directed to me, Asunawa,” Valda snapped. His glare might as well have
been open hatred. Perhaps it was just dislike of the other man’s breaking in. Flipping one
side of his cloak over his shoulder to bare his ring-quilloned sword, he rested his hand on
the long hilt and drew himself up. Always one for the grand gesture, Valda raised his
voice so that even people inside probably heard him, and declaimed rather than merely
spoke.
“I believe many of our old ways should be revived, and that law still stands. It will
always stand, as written of old. The Light grants justice because the Light is justice.
Inform your man he may issue his challenge, Trom, and face the one he accuses sword-
to-sword. If that one tries to refuse, I declare that he has acknowledged his guilt and order
him hanged on the spot, his belongings and rank forfeit to his accuser as the law states. I
have spoken.” That with another scowl for the High Inquisitor. Maybe there really was
hatred there.
Trom bowed formally once more. “You have informed him yourself, my Lord Captain
Commander. Damodred?”
Galad felt cold. Not the cold of fear, but of emptiness. When Dain drunkenly let slip the
confused rumors that had come to his ears, when Byar reluctantly confirmed they were
more than rumors, rage had filled Galad, a bone-burning fire that nearly drove him
insane. He had been sure his head would explode if his heart did not burst first. Now he
was ice, drained of any emotion. He also bowed formally. Much of what he had to say
was set in the law, yet he chose the rest with care, to spare as much shame as possible to a
memory he held dear.
“Eamon Valda, Child of the Light, I call you to Trial Beneath the Light for unlawful
assault on the person of Morgase Trakand, Queen of Andor, and for her murder.” No one
had been able to confirm that the woman he regarded as his mother was dead, yet it must
be so. A dozen men were certain she had vanished from the Fortress of the Light before it
fell to the Seanchan, and as many testified she had not been free to leave of her own will.
Valda displayed no shock at the charge. His smile might have been intended to show
regret over Galad’s folly in making such a claim, yet contempt was mingled in it. He
opened his mouth, but Asunawa cut in once more.
“This is ridiculous,” he said in tones more of sorrow than of anger. “Take the fool, and
we’ll find out what Darkfriend plot to discredit the Children he is part of.” He motioned,
and two of the hulking Questioners took a step toward Galad, one with a cruel grin, the
other blank-faced, a workman about his work.
Only one step, though. A soft rasp repeated around the courtyard as Children eased their
swords in their scabbards. At least a dozen men drew entirely, letting their blades hang by
their sides. The Amadician grooms hunched in on themselves, trying to become invisible.
Likely they would have run, had they dared. Asunawa stared around him, thick eyebrows
climbing up his forehead in disbelief, knotted fists gripping his cloak. Strangely, even
Valda appeared startled for an instant. Surely he had not expected the Children to allow
an arrest after his own proclamation. If he had, he recovered quickly.
“You see, Asunawa,” he said almost cheerfully, “the Children follow my orders, and the
law, not a Questioner’s whims.” He held out his helmet to one side for someone to take.
“I deny your preposterous charge, young Galad, and throw your foul lie in your teeth. For
it is a lie, or at best a mad acceptance of some malignant rumor started by Darkfriends or
others who wish the Children ill. Either way, you have defamed me in the vilest manner,
so I accept your challenge to Trial Beneath the Light, where I will kill you.” That barely
squeezed into the ritual, but he had denied the charge and accepted the challenge; it
would suffice.
Realizing that he still held the helmet in an outstretched hand, Valda frowned at one of
the dismounted Children, a lean Saldaean named Kashgar, until the man stepped forward
to relieve him of it. Kashgar was only an under-lieutenant, almost boyish despite a great
hooked nose and thick mustaches like inverted horns, yet he moved with open reluctance,
and Valda’s voice was darker and acrid as he went on, unbuckling his sword belt and
handing that over, too.
“Take a care with that, Kashgar. It’s a heron-mark blade.” Unpinning his silk cloak, he let
it fall to the paving stones, followed by his tabard, and his hands moved to the buckles of
his armor. It seemed that he was unwilling to see if others would be reluctant to help him.
His face was calm enough, except that angry eyes promised retribution to more than
Galad. “Your sister wants to become Aes Sedai, I understand, Damodred. Perhaps I
understand precisely where this originated. There was a time I would have regretted your
death, but not today. I may send your head to the White Tower so the witches can see the
fruit of their scheme.”
Worry creasing his face, Dain took Galad’s cloak and sword belt, and stood shifting his
feet as though uncertain he was doing the right thing. Well, he had been given his chance,
and it was too late to change his mind, now. Byar put a gauntleted hand on Galad’s
shoulder and leaned close.
“He likes to strike at the arms and legs,” he said in a low voice, casting glances over his
shoulder at Valda. From the way he glared, some matter stood between them. Of course,
that scowl differed little from his normal expression. “He likes to bleed an opponent until
the man can’t take a step or raise his sword before he moves for the kill. He’s quicker
than a viper, too, but he’ll strike at your left most often and expect it from you.”
Galad nodded. Many right-handed men found it easier to strike so, but it seemed an odd
weakness in a blademaster. Gareth Bryne and Henre Haslin had made him practice
alternating which hand was uppermost on the hilt so he would not fall into that. Strange
that Valda wanted to prolong a fight, too. He himself had been taught to end matters as
quickly and cleanly as possible.
“My thanks,” he said, and the hollow-cheeked man made a dour grimace. Byar was far
from likable, and he himself seemed to like no one save young Bornhald. Of the three, his
presence was the biggest surprise, but he was there, and that counted in his favor.
Standing in the middle of the courtyard in his gold-worked white coat with his fists on his
hips, Valda turned in a tight circle. “Everyone move back against the walls,” he
commanded loudly. Horseshoes rang on the paving stones as the Children and the grooms
obeyed. Asunawa and his Questioners snatched their animals’ reins, the High Inquisitor
wearing a face of cold fury. “Keep the middle clear. Young Damodred and I will meet
here—”
“Forgive me, my Lord Captain Commander,” Trom said with a slight bow, “but since
you are a participant in the Trial, you cannot be Arbiter. Aside from the High Inquisitor,
who by law may not take part, I hold the highest rank here after you, so with your
permission…?” Valda glared at him, then stalked over to stand beside Kashgar, arms
folded across his chest. Ostentatiously he tapped his foot, impatient for matters to
proceed.
Galad sighed. If the day went against him, as seemed all but certain, his friend would
have the most powerful man in the Children as his enemy. Likely Trom would have had
in any event, but more so now. “Keep an eye on them,” he told Bornhald, nodding toward
the Questioners clustered on their horses near the gate. Asunawa’s underlings still ringed
him like bodyguards, every man with a hand on his sword hilt.
“Why? Even Asunawa can’t interfere now. That would be against the law.”
It was very hard not to sigh again. Young Dain had been a Child far longer than he, and
his father had served his entire life, but the man seemed to know less of the Children than
he himself had learned. To Questioners, the law was what they said it was. “Just watch
them.”
Trom stood in the center of the courtyard with his bared sword raised overhead, blade
parallel to the ground, and unlike Valda, he spoke the words exactly as they were written.
“Under the Light, we are gathered to witness Trial Beneath the Light, a sacred right of
any Child of the Light. The Light shines on truth, and here the Light shall illuminate
justice. Let no man speak save he who has legal right, and let any who seek to intervene
be cut down summarily. Here, justice will be found under the Light by a man who
pledges his life beneath the Light, by the force of his arm and the will of the Light. The
combatants will meet unarmed where I now stand,” he continued, lowering the sword to
his side, “and speak privately, for their own ears alone. May the Light help them find
words to end this short of bloodshed, for if they do not, one of the Children must die this
day, his name stricken from our rolls and anathema declared on his memory. Under the
Light, it will be so.”
As Trom strode to the side of the courtyard, Valda moved toward the center in the
walking stance called Cat Crosses the Courtyard, an arrogant saunter. He knew there
were no words to stop blood being shed. To him, the fight had already begun. Galad
merely walked out to meet him. He was nearly a head taller than Valda, but the other man
held himself as though he were the larger, and confident of victory.
His smile was all contempt, this time. “Nothing to say, boy? Small wonder considering
that a blademaster is going to cut your head off in about one minute. I want one thing
straight in your mind before I kill you, though. The wench was hale the last I saw her,
and if she’s dead now, I’ll regret it.” That smile deepened, both in humor and disdain.
“She was the best ride I ever had, and I hope to ride her again one day.”
Red-hot, searing fury fountained inside Galad, but with an effort he managed to turn his
back on Valda and walk away, already feeding his rage into an imagined flame as his two
teachers had taught him. A man who fought in a rage, died in a rage. By the time he
reached young Bornhald, he had achieved what Gareth and Henre had called the oneness.
Floating in emptiness, he drew his sword from the scabbard Bornhald proffered, and the
slightly curved blade became a part of him.
“What did he say?” Dain asked. “For a moment there, your face was murderous.”
Byar gripped Dain’s arm. “Don’t distract him,” he muttered.
Galad was not distracted. Every creak of saddle leather was clear and distinct, every
ringing stamp of hoof on paving stone. He could hear flies buzzing ten feet away as
though they were at his ear. He almost thought he could see the movements of their
wings. He was one with the flies, with the courtyard, with the two men. They were all
part of him, and he could not be distracted by himself.
Valda waited until he turned before drawing his own weapon on the other side of the
courtyard, a flashy move, the sword blurring as it spun in his left hand, leaping to his
right hand to make another blurred wheel in the air before settling, upright and rock-
steady before him, in both hands. He started forward, once more in Cat Crosses the
Courtyard.
Raising his own sword, Galad moved to meet him, without thought assuming a walking
stance perhaps influenced by his state of mind. Emptiness, it was called, and only a
trained eye would know that he was not simply walking. Only a trained eye would see
that he was in perfect balance every heartbeat. Valda had not gained that heron-mark
sword by favoritism. Five blademasters had sat in judgment of his skills and voted
unanimously to grant him the title. The vote always had to be unanimous. The only other
way was to kill the bearer of a heron-mark blade in fair combat, one on one. Valda had
been younger then than Galad was now. It did not matter. He was not focused on Valda’s
death. He focused on nothing. But he intended Valda’s death if he had to Sheathe the
Sword, willingly welcoming that heron-mark blade in his flesh, to achieve it. He accepted
that it might come to that.
Valda wasted no time with maneuvering. The instant he was within range, Plucking the
Low-hanging Apple flashed toward Galad’s neck like lightning, as though the man truly
did intend to have his head in the first minute. There were several possible responses, all
made instinct by hard training, but Byar’s warnings floated in the dim recesses of his
mind, and also the fact that Valda had warned him of this very thing. Warned him twice.
Without conscious thought, he chose another way, stepping sideways and forward just as
Plucking the Low-hanging Apple became the Leopard’s Caress. Valda’s eyes widened in
surprise as his stroke missed Galad’s left thigh by inches, widened more as Parting the
Silk laid a gash down his right forearm, but he immediately launched into the Dove Takes
Flight, so fast that Galad had to dance back before his blade could bite deeply, barely
fending off the attack with Kingfisher Circles the Pond.
Back and forth they danced the forms, gliding this way then that across the stone paving.
Lizard in the Thorn-bush met Lightning of Three Prongs. Leaf on the Breeze countered
Eel Among the Lily Pads, and Two Hares Leaping met the Hummingbird Kisses the
Honeyrose. Back and forth as smoothly as a demonstration of the forms. Galad tried
attack after attack, but Valda was as fast as a viper. The Wood Grouse Dances cost him a
shallow gash on his left shoulder, and the Red Hawk Takes a Dove another on the left
arm, slightly deeper. River of Light might have taken the arm completely had he not met
the draw-cut with a desperately quick Rain in High Wind. Back and forth, blades flashing
continuously, filling the air with the clash of steel on steel.
How long they fought, he could not have said. There was no time, only the moment. It
seemed that he and Valda moved like men under water, their motions slowed by the drag
of the sea. Sweat appeared on Valda’s face, but he smiled with self-assurance, seemingly
untroubled by the slash on his forearm, still the only injury he had taken. Galad could feel
the sweat rolling down his own face, too, stinging his eyes. And the blood trickling down
his arm. Those wounds would slow him eventually, perhaps already had, but he had taken
two on his left thigh, and both were more serious. His foot was wet in his boot from
those, and he could not avoid a slight limp that would grow worse with time. If Valda
was to die, it must be soon.
Deliberately, he drew a deep breath, then another, through his mouth, another. Let Valda
think him becoming winded. His blade lanced out in Threading the Needle, aimed at
Valda’s left shoulder and not quite as fast it could have been. The other man countered
easily with the Swallow Takes Flight, sliding immediately into the Lion Springs. That
took a third bite in his thigh; he dared not be faster in defense than in attack.
Again he launched Threading the Needle at Valda’s shoulder, and again, again, all the
while gulping air through his mouth. Only luck kept him from taking more wounds in
those exchanges. Or perhaps the Light really did shine on this fight.
Valda’s smile widened; the man believed him on the edge of his strength, exhausted and
fixated. As Galad began Threading the Needle, too slowly, for the fifth time, the other
man’s sword started the Swallow Takes Flight in an almost perfunctory manner.
Summoning all the quickness that remained to him, Galad altered his stroke, and Reaping
the Barley sliced across Valda just beneath his rib cage.
For a moment it seemed that the man was unaware he had been hit. He took a step, began
what might have been Stones Falling from the Cliff. Then his eyes widened, and he
staggered, the sword falling from his grip to clatter on the paving stones as he sank to his
knees. His hands went to the huge gash across his body as though trying to hold his
insides within him, and his mouth opened, glassy eyes fixed on Galad’s face. Whatever
he intended to say, it was blood that poured out over his chin. He toppled onto his face
and lay still.
Automatically, Galad gave his blade a rapid twist to shake off the blood staining its last
inch, then bent slowly to wipe the last drops onto Valda’s white coat. The pain he had
ignored now flared. His left shoulder and arm burned; his thigh seemed to be on fire.
Straightening took effort. Perhaps he was nearer exhaustion than he had thought. How
long had they fought? He had thought he would feel satisfaction that his mother had been
avenged, but all he felt was emptiness. Valda’s death was not enough. Nothing except
Morgase Trakand alive again could be enough.
Suddenly he became aware of a rhythmic clapping and looked up to see the Children,
each man slapping his own armored shoulder in approval. Every man. Except Asunawa
and the Questioners. They were nowhere to be seen.
Byar hurried up carrying a small leather sack and carefully parted the slashes in Galad’s
coatsleeve. “Those will need sewing,” he muttered, “but they can wait.” Kneeling beside
Galad, he took rolled bandages from the sack and began winding them around the gashes
in his thigh. “These need sewing, too, but this will keep you from bleeding to death
before you can get it.” Others began gathering around, offering congratulations, men
afoot in front, those still mounted behind. None gave the corpse a glance except for
Kashgar, who cleaned Valda’s sword on that already bloodstained coat before sheathing
it.
“Where did Asunawa go?” Galad asked.
“He left as soon as you cut Valda the last time,” Dain replied uneasily. “He’ll be heading
for the camp to bring back Questioners.”
“He rode the other way, toward the border,” someone put in. Nassad lay just over the
border.
“The Lords Captain,” Galad said, and Trom nodded.
“No Child would let the Questioners arrest you for what happened here, Damodred.
Unless his Captain ordered it. Some of them would order it, I think.” Angry muttering
began, men denying they would stand for such a thing, but Trom quieted them,
somewhat, with raised hands. “You know it’s true,” he said loudly. “Anything else would
be mutiny.” That brought dead silence. There had never been a mutiny in the Children. It
was possible that nothing before had come as close as their own earlier display. “I’ll write
out your release from the Children, Galad. Someone may still order your arrest, but
they’ll have to find you, and you’ll have a good start. It will take half the day for
Asunawa to catch the other Lords Captain, and whoever falls in with him can’t be back
before nightfall.”
Galad shook his head angrily. Trom was right, but it was all wrong. Too much was
wrong. “Will you write releases for these other men? You know Asunawa will find a way
to accuse them, too. Will you write releases for the Children who don’t want to help the
Seanchan take our lands in the name of a man dead more than a thousand years?” Several
Taraboners exchanged glances and nodded, and so did other men, not all of them
Amadician. “What about the men who defended the Fortress of the Light? Will any
release get their chains struck off or make the Seanchan stop working them like
animals?” More angry growls; those prisoners were a sore point to all of the Children.
Arms folded across his chest, Trom studied him as though seeing him for the first time.
“What would you do, then?”
“Have the Children find someone, anyone, who is fighting the Seanchan and ally with
them. Make sure that the Children of the Light ride in the Last Battle instead of helping
the Seanchan hunt Aiel and steal our nations.”
“Anyone?” a Cairhienin named Doirellin said in a high-pitched voice. No one ever made
fun of Doirellin’s voice. Though short, he was nearly as wide as he was tall, there was
barely an ounce of fat on him, and he could put walnuts between all of his fingers and
crack them by clenching his fists. “That could mean Aes Sedai.”
“If you intend to be at Tarmon Gai’don, then you will have to fight alongside Aes Sedai,”
Galad said quietly. Young Bornhald grimaced in strong distaste, and he was not the only
one. Byar half-straightened before bending back to his task. But no one voiced dissent.
Doirellin nodded slowly, as if he had never before considered the matter.
“I don’t hold with the witches any more than any other man,” Byar said finally, without
raising his head from his work. Blood was seeping through the bandages even as he
wrapped. “But the Precepts say, to fight the raven, you may make alliance with the
serpent until the battle is done.” A ripple of nods ran through the men. The raven meant
the Shadow, but everyone knew it was also the Seanchan Imperial sigil.
“I’ll fight beside the witches,” a lanky Taraboner said, “or even these Asha’man we keep
hearing about, if they fight the Seanchan. Or at the Last Battle. And I’ll fight any man
who says I’m wrong.” He glared as though ready to begin then and there.
“It seems matters will play out as you wish, my Lord Captain Commander,” Trom said,
making a much deeper bow than he had for Valda. “To a degree, at least. Who can say
what the next hour will bring, much less tomorrow?”
Galad surprised himself by laughing. Since yesterday, he had been sure he would never
laugh again. “That’s a poor joke, Trom.”
“It is how the law is written. And Valda did make his proclamation. Besides, you had the
courage to say what many have thought while holding their tongues, myself among them.
Yours is a better plan for the Children than any I’ve heard since Pedron Niall died.”
摘要：

EmbersFallingonDryGrassPrologueThesun,climbingtowardmidmorning,stretchedGalad’sshadowandthoseofhisthreearmoredcompanionsaheadofthemastheytrottedtheirmountsdowntheroadthatranstraightthroughtheforest,densewithoakandleatherleaf,pineandsourgum,mostshowingtheredofspringgrowth.Hetriedtokeephismindempty,st...

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Robert Jordan - Knife of Dreams Prologue (Embers Falling on Dry Grass).pdf

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：68 页 大小：278.28KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-14

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