Jordan, Robert - Wheel of Time 00 - New Spring

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THE WHEEL
O F TIME
ROBERT JORDAN
The Eye of the World (1990)
The Great Hunt (1990)
The Dragon Reborn (1991)
The Shadow Rising (1992)
The Fires of Heaven (1993)
Lord of Chaos (1994)
A Crown of Swords (1996)
The Path of Daggers (1998)
The world of Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time lies both in our future and our past, a
world of kings and queens and Aes Sedai, women who can tap the True Source and wield the
One Power, which turns the Wheel and drives the universe: a world where the war between the
Light and the Shadow is fought every day.
At the moment of Creation, the Creator bound the Dark One away from the world of
humankind, but more than three thousand years ago Aes Sedai, then both men and women,
unknowingly bored into that prison outside of time. The Dark One was only able to touch the
world lightly, and the hole was eventually sealed over, but the Dark One's taint settled on saidin,
the male half of the Power. Eventually every male Aes Sedai went mad, and in the Breaking of
the World they destroyed civilization and changed the very face of Earth, sinking mountains
beneath the sea and bringing new seas where land had been.
Now only women bear the title Aes Sedai. Commanded by their Amyrlin Seat and divided
into seven Ajahs named by colour, they rule the great island city of Tar Valon, where their White
Tower is located, and are bound by the Three Oaths, fixed into their bones with saidar, the
female half of the Power: to speak no word that is not true, to make no weapon for one man to
kill another, and never to use the One Power except as a weapon against Shadowspawn or in the
last extreme of defending her own life, or that of her Warder or another sister.
Men still are born who can learn to channel the Power, or worse, who will channel one
day whether they try to or not. Doomed to madness, destruction, and death by the taint on saidin,
they are hunted down by Aes Sedai and gentled, cut off for ever from the Power for the safety of
the world. No man goes to this willingly. Even if they survive the hunt, they seldom survive long
after gentling.
For more than three thousand years, while nations and empires rose and fell, nothing has
been so feared as a man who can channel. But for all those three thousand years there have been
the Prophecies of the Dragon, that the seals on the Dark One's prison will weaken and he will
touch the world once more, and that the Dragon, who sealed up that hole, will be Reborn to face
the Dark One again. A child, born in sight of Tar Valon on the slopes of Dragonmount, will grow
up to be the Dragon Reborn, the only hope of humanity in the Last Battle - a man who can
channel. Few people know more than scraps of the Prophecies, and few want to know more.
A world of kings and queens, nations and wars, where the White Tower rules only Tar
Valon but even kings and queens are wary of Aes Sedai machinations. A world where the
Shadow and the Prophecies loom together.
The present story takes place before the first volume of the series. The succeeding books
should be read in order.
NEW SPRING
BY ROBERT JORDAN
The air of Kandor held the sharpness of new spring when Lan returned to the lands where
he had always known he would die. Trees bore the first red of new growth, and a few scattered
wildflowers dotted winter-brown grass where shadows did not cling to patches of snow, yet the
pale sun offered little warmth after the south, a gusting breeze cut through his coat, and grey
clouds hinted at more than rain. He was almost home. Almost.
A hundred generations had beaten the wide road nearly as hard as the stone of the
surrounding hills, and little dust rose, though a steady stream of ox-carts was leaving the morning
farmers' markets in Canluum and merchant trains of tall wagons, surrounded by mounted guards
in steel caps and bits of armour, flowed towards the city's high grey walls. Here and there the
chains of the Kandori merchants' guild spanned a chest or an Arafellin wore bells, a ruby
decorated this man's ear, a pearl brooch that woman's breast, but for the most part the traders'
clothes were as subdued as their manner. A merchant who flaunted too much profit discovered it
hard to find bargains. By contrast, farmers showed off their success when they came to town.
Bright embroidery decorated the striding countrymen's baggy breeches, the women's wide
trousers, their cloaks fluttering in the wind. Some wore coloured ribbons in their hair, or a narrow
fur collar. They might have been dressed for the coming Bel Tine dances and feasting. Yet
country folk eyed strangers as warily as any guard, eyed them and hefted spears or axes and
hurried along. The times carried an edge in Kandor, maybe all along the Borderlands. Bandits
had sprung up like weeds this past year, and more troubles than usual out of the Blight. Rumour
even spoke of a man who channelled the One Power, but then, rumour often did.
Leading his horse toward Canluum, Lan paid as little attention to the stares he and his
companion attracted as he did to Bukama's scowls and carping. Bukama had raised him from the
cradle, Bukama and other men now dead, and he could not recall seeing anything but a glower on
that weathered face, even when Bukama spoke praise. This time his mutters were for a stone-
bruised hoof that had him afoot, but he could always find something.
They did attract attention, two very tall men walking their mounts and a packhorse with a
pair of tattered wicker hampers, their plain clothes worn and travel-stained. Their harness and
weapons were well-tended, though. A young man and an old, hair hanging to their shoulders and
held back by a braided leather cord around the temples. The hadori drew eyes. Especially here in
the Borderlands, where people had some idea what it meant.
`Fools,' Bukama grumbled. `Do they think we're bandits? Do they think we mean to rob
the lot of them, at midday on the high road?' He glared and shifted the sword at his hip in a way
that brought considering stares from a number of merchants' guards. A stout farmer prodded his
ox wide of them.
Lan kept silent. A certain reputation clung to Malkieri who still wore the hadori, though
not for banditry, but reminding Bukama would only send him into a black humour for days. His
mutters shifted to the chances of a decent bed that night, of a decent meal before. Bukama seldom
complained when there actually was no bed or no food, only about prospects and the
inconsequential. He expected little, and trusted to less.
Neither food nor lodging entered Lan's thoughts, despite the distance they had travelled.
His head kept swinging north. He remained aware of everyone around him, especially those who
glanced his way more than once, aware of the jingle of harness and the creak of saddles, the clop
of hooves, the snap of wagon-canvas loose on its hoops. Any sound out of place would shout at
him. That had been the first lesson Bukama and his friends had imparted in his childhood; be
aware of everything, even when asleep. Only the dead could afford oblivion. Lan remained
aware, but the Blight lay north. Still miles away across the hills, yet he could feel it, feel the
twisted corruption.
Just his imagination, but no less real for that. It had pulled at him in the south, in Cairhien
and Andor, even in Tear, almost five hundred leagues distant. Two years away from the
Borderlands, his personal war abandoned for another, and every day the tug grew stronger. The
Blight meant death to most men. Death and the Shadow, a rotting land tainted by the Dark One's
breath, where anything at all could kill. Two tosses of a coin had decided where to begin anew.
Four nations bordered the Blight, but his war covered the length of it, from the Aryth Ocean to
the Spine of the World. One place to meet death was as good as another. He was almost home.
Almost back to the Blight.
A dry moat surrounded Canluum's wall, fifty paces wide and ten deep, spanned by five
broad stone bridges with towers at either end as tall as those that lined the wall itself. Raids out of
the Blight by Trollocs and Myrddraal often struck much deeper into Kandor than Canluum, but
none had ever made it inside the city's wall. The Red Stag waved above every tower. A proud
man, was Lord Varan, the High Seat of House Marcasiev; Queen Ethenielle did not fly so many
of her own banners even in Chachin itself.
The guards at the outer towers, in helmets with Varan's antlered crest and the Red Stag on
their chests, peered into the backs of wagons before allowing them to trundle on to the bridge, or
occasionally motioned someone to push a hood further back. No more than a gesture was
necessary; the law in every Borderland forbade hiding your face inside village or town, and no
one wanted to be mistaken for one of the Eyeless trying to sneak into the city. Hard gazes
followed Lan and Bukama on to the bridge. Their faces were clearly visible. And their hadori. No
recognition lit any of those watching eyes, though. Two years was a long time in the Borderlands.
A great many men could die in two years.
Lan noticed that Bukama had gone silent, always a bad sign, and cautioned him. 'I never
start trouble,' the older man snapped, but he did stop fingering his swordhilt.
The guards on the wall above the open iron-plated gates and those on the bridge wore
only back- and breastplates for armour, yet they were no less watchful, especially of a pair of
Malkieri with their hair tied back. Bukama's mouth grew tighter at every step.
'Al'Lan Mandragoran! The Light preserve us, we heard you were dead fighting the Aiel at
the Shining Walls!' The exclamation came from a young guard, taller than the rest, almost as tall
as Lan. Young, perhaps a year or two less than he, yet the gap seemed ten years. A lifetime. The
guard bowed deeply, left hand on his knee. 'Tai'shar Malkier!' True blood of Malkier. 'I stand
ready, Majesty.'
'I am riot a king,' Lan said quietly. Malkier was dead. Only the war still lived. In him, at
least.
Bukama was not quiet. 'You stand ready for what, boy?' The heel of his bare hand struck
the guard's breastplate right over the Red Stag, driving the man upright and back a step. 'You cut
your hair short and leave it unbound!' Bukama spat the words. 'You're sworn to a Kandori lord!
By what right do you claim to be Malkieri?'
The young man's face reddened as he floundered for answers. Other guards started
towards the pair, then halted when Lan let his reins fall. Only that, but they knew his name, now.
They eyed his bay stallion, standing still and alert behind him, almost as cautiously as they did
him. A warhorse was a formidable weapon, and they could not know Cat Dancer was only half-
trained yet.
Space opened up as people already through the gates hurried a little distance before
turning to watch, while those still on the bridge pressed back. Shouts rose in both directions from
people wanting to know what was holding traffic. Bukama ignored it all, intent on the red-faced
guard. He had not dropped the reins of the packhorse or his yellow roan gelding.
An officer appeared from the stone guardhouse inside the gates, crested helmet under his
arm, but one hand in a steel-backed gauntlet resting on his swordhilt. A bluff, greying man with
white scars on his face, Alin Seroku had soldiered forty years along the Blight, yet his eyes
widened slightly at the sight of Lan. Plainly he had heard the tales of Lan's death, too.
'The Light shine upon you, Lord Mandragoran. The son of el'Leanna and al'Akir, blessed
be their memories, is always welcome.' Seroku's eyes flickered towards Bukama, not in welcome.
He planted his feet in the middle of the gateway. Five horsemen could have passed easily on
either side, but he meant himself for a bar, and he was. None of the guards shifted a boot, yet
every one had hand on swordhilt. All but the young man meeting Bukama's glares with his own.
'Lord Marcasiev has commanded us to keep the peace strictly,' Seroku went on, half in apology.
But no more than half. 'The city is on edge. All these tales of a man channelling are bad enough,
but there have been murders in the street this last month and more, in broad daylight, and strange
accidents. People whisper about Shadowspawn loose inside the walls.'
Lan gave a slight nod. With the Blight so close, people always muttered of Shadowspawn
when they had no other explanation, whether for a sudden death or unexpected crop failure. He
did not take up Cat Dancer's reins, though. 'We intend to rest here a few days before riding north.'
For a moment he thought Seroku was surprised. Did the man expect pledges to keep the
peace, or apologies for Bukama's behaviour? Either would shame Bukama, now. A pity if the war
ended here. Lan did not want to die killing Kandori.
His old friend turned from the young guard, who stood quivering, fists clenched at his
sides. 'All fault here is mine,' Bukama announced to the air in a flat voice. 'I had no call for what I
did. By my mother's name, I will keep Lord Marcasiev's peace. By my mother's name, I will not
draw sword inside Canluum's walls.' Seroku's jaw dropped, and Lan hid his own shock with
difficulty.
Hesitating only a moment, the scar-faced officer stepped aside, bowing and touching
swordhilt then heart. 'There is always welcome for Lan Mandragoran Dai Shan,' he said formally.
'And for Bukama Marenellin, the hero of Salmarna. May you both know peace, one day.'
'There is peace in the mother's last embrace,' Lan responded with equal formality,
touching hilt and heart.
'May she welcome us home, one day,' Seroku finished. No one really wished for the
grave, but that was the only place to find peace in the Borderlands.
Face like iron, Bukama strode ahead pulling Sun Lance and the packhorse after him, not
waiting for Lan. This was not well.
Canluum was a city of stone and brick, its paved streets twisting around tall hills. The
Aiel invasion had never reached the Borderlands, but the ripples of war always diminished trade
a long way from any battles, and now that fighting and winter were both finished, the city had
filled with people from every land. Despite the Blight practically on the city's doorstep,
gemstones mined in the surrounding hills made Canluum wealthy. And, strangely enough, some
of the finest clockmakers anywhere. The cries of hawkers and shopkeepers shouting their wares
rose above the hum of the crowd even away from the terraced market squares. Colourfully-
dressed musicians, or jugglers, or tumblers performed at every intersection. A handful of
lacquered carriages swayed through the mass of people and wagons and carts and barrows, and
horses with gold- or silver-mounted saddles and bridles picked their way through the throng, their
riders' garb embroidered as ornately as the animals' tack and trimmed with fox or marten or
ermine. Hardly a foot of street was left bare anywhere. Lan even saw several Aes Sedai, women
with serene, ageless faces. Enough people recognized them on sight that they created eddies in
the crowd, swirls to clear a way. Respect or caution, awe or fear, there were sufficient reasons for
a king to step aside for a sister. Once you might have gone a year without seeing an Aes Sedai
even in the Borderlands, but the sisters seemed to be everywhere since their old Amyrlin Seat
died a few months earlier. Maybe it was those tales of a man channelling; they would not let him
run free long, if he existed. Lan kept his eyes away from them. The hadori could be enough to
attract the interest of a sister seeking a Warder.
Shockingly, lace veils covered many women's faces. Thin lace, sheer enough to reveal
that they had eyes, and no one had ever heard of a female Myrddraal, but Lan had never expected
law to yield to mere fashion. Next they would take down the oil-lamps lining the streets and let
the nights grow black. Even more shocking than the veils, Bukama looked right at some of those
women and did not open his mouth. Then a jutnosed man named Nazar Kurenin rode in front of
Bukama's eyes, and he did not blink. The young guard surely had been born after the Blight
swallowed Malkier, but Kurenin, his hair cut short and wearing a forked beard, was twice Lan's
age. The years had not erased the marks of his hadori completely. There were many like Kurenin,
and the sight of him should have set Bukama spluttering. Lan eyed his friend worriedly.
They had been moving steadily towards the centre of the city, climbing towards the
highest hill, Stag's Stand. Lord Marcasiev's fortress-like palace covered the peak, with those of
lesser lords and ladies on the terraces below. Any threshold up there offered warm welcome for
al'Lan Mandragoran. Perhaps warmer than he wanted now. Balls and hunts, with nobles invited
from as much as fifty miles away, including from across the border with Arafel. People avid to
hear of his 'adventures'. Young men wanting to join his forays into the Blight, and old men to
compare their experiences there with his. Women eager to share the bed of a man whom, so fool
stories claimed, the Blight could not kill. Kandor and Arafel were as bad as any southland at
times; some of those women would be married. And there would be men like Kurenin, working
to submerge memories of lost Malkier, and women who no longer adorned their foreheads with
the ki'sain in pledge that they would swear their sons to oppose the Shadow while they breathed.
Lan could ignore the false smiles while they named him al'Lan Dai Shan, diademed battle lord
and uncrowned king of a nation betrayed while he was in his cradle. In his present mood,
Bukama might do murder. Or worse, given his oaths at the gate. He would keep those to the
death.
'Varan Marcasiev will hold us a week or more with ceremony,' Lan said, turning down a
narrower street that led away from the Stand. 'With what we've heard of bandits and the like, he
will be just as happy if I don't appear to make my bows.' True enough. He had met the High Seat
of House Marcasiev only once, years past, but he remembered a man given entirely to his duties.
Bukama followed without complaint about missing a palace bed or the feasts the cooks
would prepare. It was worrying.
No palaces rose in the hollows towards the north wall, only shops and taverns, inns and
stables and wagonyards. Bustle surrounded the factors' long warehouses, but no carriages came to
the Deeps, and most streets were barely wide enough for carts. They were just as jammed with
people as the wide ways, though, and every bit as noisy. Here, the street performers' finery was
tarnished, yet they made up for it by being louder, and buyers and sellers alike bellowed as if
trying to be heard in the next street. Likely some of the crowd were cutpurses, slipfingers, and
other thieves, finished with a morning's business higher up or headed there for the afternoon. It
would have been a wonder otherwise, with so many merchants in town. The second time unseen
fingers brushed his coat in the crowd, Lan tucked his purse under his shirt. Any banker would
advance him more against the Shienaran estate he had been granted on reaching manhood, but
loss of the gold on hand meant accepting the hospitality of Stag's Stand.
At the first three inns they tried, slate-roofed cubes of grey stone with bright signs out
front, the innkeepers had not a cubbyhole to offer. Lesser traders and merchants' guards filled
them to the attics. Bukama began to mutter about making a bed in a hayloft, yet he never
mentioned the feather mattresses and linens waiting on the Stand. Leaving their horses with
ostlers at a fourth inn, The Blue Rose, Lan entered determined to find some place for them if it
took the rest of the day.
Inside, a greying woman, tall and handsome, presided over a crowded common room
where talk and laughter almost drowned out the slender girl singing to the music of her zither.
Pipesmoke wreathed the ceiling beams, and the smell of roasting lamb floated from the kitchens.
As soon as the innkeeper saw Lan and Bukama, she gave her blue-striped apron a twitch and
strode towards them, dark eyes sharp.
Before Lan could open his mouth, she seized Bukama's ears, pulled his head down, and
kissed him. Kandori women were seldom retiring, but even so it was a remarkably thorough kiss
in front of so many eyes. Pointing fingers and snickering grins flashed among the tables.
'It's good to see you again, too, Racelle,' Bukama murmured with a small smile when she
finally released him. 'I didn't know you had an inn here. Do you think -?' He lowered his gaze
rather than meeting her eyes rudely, and that proved a mistake. Racelle's fist caught his jaw so
hard that his hair flailed as he staggered.
'Six years without a word,' she snapped. 'Six years?' Grabbing his ears again, she gave
him another kiss, longer this time. Took it rather than gave. A sharp twist of his ears met every
attempt to do anything besides standing bent over and letting her do as she wished. At least she
would not put a knife in his heart if she was kissing him. Perhaps not.
'I think Mistress Arovni might find Bukama a room somewhere,' a man's familiar voice
said drily behind Lan. 'And you, too, I suppose.'
Turning, Lan clasped forearms with the only man in the room beside Bukama of a height
with him, Ryne Venamar, his oldest friend except for Bukama. The innkeeper still had Bukama
occupied as Ryne led Lan to a small table in the corner. Five years older, Ryne was Malkieri too,
but his hair fell in two long bell-laced braids, and more silver bells lined the turned-down tops of
his boots and ran up the sleeves of his yellow coat. Bukama did not exactly dislike Ryne - not
exactly - yet in his present mood, only Nazar Kurenin could have had a worse effect.
While the pair of them were settling themselves on benches, a serving maid in a striped
apron brought hot spiced wine. Apparently Ryne had ordered as soon as he saw Lan. Dark-eyed
and full-lipped, she stared Lan up and down openly as she set his mug in front of him, then
whispered her name, Lira, in his ear, and an invitation, if he was staying the night. All he wanted
that night was sleep, so he lowered his gaze, murmuring that she honoured him too much. Lira
did not let him finish. With a raucous laugh, she bent to bite his ear, hard, then announced that by
tomorrow's sun she would have honoured him till his knees would not hold him up. More
laughter flared at the tables around them.
Ryne forestalled any possibility of righting matters, tossing her a fat coin and giving her a
slap on the bottom to send her off. Lira offered him a dimpled smile as she slipped the silver into
the neck of her dress, but she left sending smoky glances over her shoulder at Lan that made him
sigh. If he tried to say no now, she might well pull a knife over the insult.
'So your luck still holds with women, too.' Ryne's laugh had an edge. Perhaps he fancied
her himself. 'The Light knows, they can't find you handsome; you get uglier every year. Maybe I
ought to try some of that coy modesty, let women lead me by the nose.'
Lan opened his mouth, then took a drink instead of speaking. He should not have to
explain, but Ryne's father had taken him to Arafel the year Lan turned ten. The man wore a single
blade on his hip instead of two on his back, yet he was Arafellin to his toenails. He actually
started conversations with women who had not spoken to him first. Lan, raised by Bukama and
his friends in Shienar, had been surrounded by a small community who held to Malkieri ways.
A number of people around the room were watching their table, sidelong glances over
mugs and goblets. A plump copper-skinned woman wearing a much thicker dress than Domani
women usually did made no effort to hide her stares as she spoke excitedly to a fellow with
curled moustaches and a large pearl in his ear. Probably wondering whether there would be
trouble over Lira. Wondering whether a man wearing the hadori really would kill at the drop of a
pin.
'I didn't expect to find you in Canluum,' Lan said, setting the wine-mug down. 'Guarding a
merchant train?' Bukama and the innkeeper were nowhere to be seen.
Ryne shrugged. 'Out of Shol Arbela. The luckiest trader in Arafel, they say. Said. Much
good it did him. We arrived yesterday, and last night footpads slit his throat two streets over. No
return money for me this trip.' He flashed a rueful grin and took a deep pull at his wine, perhaps
to the memory of the merchant or perhaps to the lost half of his wages. 'Burn me if I thought to
see you here, either.'
'You shouldn't listen to rumours, Ryne. I've not taken a wound worth mentioning since I
rode south.' Lan decided to twit Bukama if they did get a room, about whether it was already paid
for and how. Indignation might take him out of his darkness.
'The Aiel,' Ryne snorted. 'I never thought they could put paid to you.' He had never faced
Aiel, of course. 'I expected you to be wherever Edeyn Arrel is. Chachin, now, I hear.'
That name snapped Lan's head back to the man across the table. 'Why should I be near the
Lady Arrel?' he demanded softly. Softly, but emphasizing her proper title.
'Easy, man,' Ryne said. 'I didn't mean . . .'Wisely, he abandoned that line. 'Burn me, do
you mean to say you haven't heard? She's raised the Golden Crane. In your name, of course.
Since the year turned, she's been from Fal Moran to Maradon, and coming back now.' Ryne
shook his head, the bells in his braids chiming faintly. 'There must be two or three hundred men
right here in Canluum ready to follow her. You, I mean. Some you'd not believe. Old Kurenin
wept when he heard her speak. All ready to carve Malkier out of the Blight again.'
'What dies in the Blight is gone,' Lan said wearily: He felt more than cold inside.
Suddenly Seroku's surprise that he intended to ride north took on new meaning, and the young
guard's assertion that he stood ready. Even the looks here in the common room seemed different.
And Edeyn was part of it. Always she liked standing in the heart of the storm. 'I must see to my
horse,' he told Ryne, scraping his bench back.
Ryne said something about making a round of the taverns that night, but Lan hardly
heard. He hurried through the kitchens, hot from iron stoves and stone ovens and open hearths,
into the cool of the stableyard, the mingled smells of horse and hay and woodsmoke. A greylark
warbled on the edge of the stable roof. Greylarks came even before robins in the spring.
Greylarks had been singing in Fal Moran when Edeyn first whispered in his ear.
The horses had already been stabled, bridles and saddles and packsaddle atop saddle
blankets on the stall doors, but the wicker hampers were gone. Plainly Mistress Arovni had sent
word to the ostlers that he and Bukama were being given accommodation.
There was only a single groom in the dim stable, a lean, hardfaced woman mucking out.
Silently she watched him check Cat Dancer and the other horses as she worked, watched him
begin to pace the length of the strawcovered floor. He tried to think, but Edeyn's name kept
spinning though his head. Edeyn's face, surrounded by silky black hair that hung below her waist,
a beautiful face with large dark eyes that could drink a man's soul even when filled with
command.
After a bit the groom mumbled something in his direction, touching her lips and forehead,
and hurriedly shoved her half-filled barrow out of the stable, glancing over her shoulder at him.
She paused to shut the doors, and did that hurriedly, too, sealing him in shadow broken only by a
little light from open hay doors in the loft. Dust motes danced in the pale golden shafts.
Lan grimaced. Was she that afraid of a man wearing the hadori? Did she think his pacing
a threat? Abruptly he became aware of his hands running over the long hilt of his sword, aware of
the tightness in his own face. Pacing? No, he had been in the walking stance called Leopard in
High Grass, used when there were enemies on all sides. He needed calm.
Seating himself crosslegged on a bale of straw, he formed the image of a flame in his
mind and fed emotion into it, hate, fear, everything, every scrap, until it seemed that he floated in
emptiness. After years of practice, achieving ko'di, the oneness, needed less than a heartbeat.
Thought and even his own body seemed distant, but in this state he was more aware than usual,
becoming one with the bale beneath him, the stable, the scabbarded sword folded behind him. He
could 'feel' the horses, cropping at their mangers, and flies buzzing in the corners. They were all
part of him. Especially the sword. This time, though, it was only the emotionless void that he
sought.
From his beltpouch he took a heavy gold signet ring worked with a flying crane and
turned it over and over in his fingers. The ring of Malkieri kings, worn by men who had held
back the Shadow nine hundred years and more. Countless times it had been remade as time wore
it down, always the old ring melted to become part of the new. Some particle might still exist in it
of the ring worn by the rulers of Rhamdashar, that had lived before Malkier, and Aramaelle that
had been before Rhamdashar. That piece of metal represented over three thousand years fighting
the Blight. It had been his almost as long as he had lived, but he had never worn it. Even looking
at the ring was a labour, usually. One he disciplined himself to every day. Without the emptiness,
he did not think he could have done so today. In ko'di, thought floated free, and emotion lay
beyond the horizon.
In his cradle he had been given four gifts. The ring in his hands and the locket that hung
around his neck, the sword on his hip and an oath sworn in his name. The locket was the most
precious, the oath the heaviest. 'To stand against the Shadow so long as iron is hard and stone
abides. To defend the Malkieri while one drop of blood remains. To avenge what cannot be
defended.' And then he had been anointed with oil and named Dai Shan, consecrated as the next
King of Malkier, and sent away from a land that knew it would die. Twenty men began that
journey; five survived to reach Shienar.
Nothing remained to be defended now, only a nation to avenge, and he had been trained
to that from his first step. With his mother's gift at his throat and his father's sword in his hand,
with the ring branded on his heart, he had fought to avenge Malkier from his sixteenth nameday.
But never had he led men into the Blight. Bukama had ridden with him, and others, but he would
not lead men there. That war was his alone. The dead could not be returned to life, a land any
more than a man. Only, now, Edeyn Arrel wanted to try.
Her name echoed in the emptiness within him. A hundred emotions loomed like stark
mountains, but he fed them into the flame until all was still. Until his heart beat time with the
slow stamping of the stalled horses, and the flies' wings beat rapid counterpoint to his breath. She
was his carneira, his first lover. A thousand years of tradition shouted that, despite the stillness
that enveloped him.
He had been fifteen, Edeyn more than twice that, when she gathered the hair that had still
hung to his waist in her hands and whispered her intentions. Women had still called him beautiful
then, enjoying his blushes, and for half a year she had enjoyed parading him on her arm and
tucking him into her bed. Until Bukama and the other men gave him the hadori. The gift of his
sword on his tenth nameday had made him a man by custom along the Border, though years early
for it, yet among Malkieri, that band of braided leather had been more important. Once that was
tied around his head, he alone decided where he went, and when, and why. And the dark song of
the Blight had become a howl that drowned every other sound. The oath that had murmured so
long in his heart became a dance his feet had to follow.
Almost ten years past now that Edeyn had watched him ride away from Fal Moran, and
been gone when he returned, yet he still could recall her face more clearly than that of any
woman who had shared his bed since. He was no longer a boy, to think that she loved him just
because she had chosen to become his first lover, yet there was an old saying among Malkieri
men. Your carneira wears part of your soul as a ribbon in her hair for ever. Custom strong as law
made it so.
One of the stable doors creaked open to admit Bukama, coatless, shirt tucked raggedly
into his breeches. He looked naked without his sword. As if hesitant, he carefully opened both
doors wide before coming all the way in. 'What are you going to do?' he said finally. 'Racelle told
me about . . . about the Golden Crane.'
Lan tucked the ring away, letting emptiness drain from him. Edeyn's face suddenly
seemed everywhere, just beyond the edge of sight. 'Ryne says even Nazar Kurenin is ready to
follow,' he said lightly. 'Wouldn't that be a sight to see?' An army could die trying to defeat the
Blight. Armies had died trying. But the memories of Malkier already were dying. A nation was
memory as much as land. 'That boy at the gates might let his hair grow and ask his father for the
hadori.' People were forgetting, trying to forget. When the last man who bound his hair was gone,
the last woman who painted her forehead, would Malkier truly be gone, too? 'Why, Ryne might
even get rid of those braids.' Any trace of mirth dropped from his voice as he added, 'But is it
worth the cost? Some seem to think so.' Bukama snorted, yet there had been a pause. He might be
one of those who did.
Striding to the stall that held Sun Lance, the older man began to fiddle with his roan's
saddle as though suddenly forgetting why he had moved. 'There's always a cost for anything,' he
said, not looking up. 'But there are costs, and costs. The Lady Edeyn. . .' He glanced at Lan, then
turned to face him. 'She was always one to demand every right and require the smallest obligation
be met. Custom ties strings to you, and whatever you choose, she will use them like a set of reins
unless you find a way to avoid it.'
Carefully Lan tucked his thumbs behind his swordbelt. Bukama had carried him out of
Malkier tied to his back. The last of the five. Bukama had the right of a free tongue even when it
touched Lan's carneira. 'How do you suggest I avoid my obligations without shame?' he asked
more harshly than he had intended. Taking a deep breath, he went on in a milder tone. 'Come; the
common room smells much better than this. Ryne suggested a round of the taverns tonight.
Unless Mistress Arovni has claims on you. Oh, yes. How much will our rooms cost? Good
rooms? Not too dear, I hope.'
Bukama joined him on the way to the doors, his face going red. 'Not too dear,' he said
hastily. 'You have a pallet in the attic, and I . . . ah . . . I'm in Racelle's rooms. I'd like to make a
round, but I think Racelle . . . I don't think she means to let me . . . I . . . Young whelp!' he
growled. 'There's a lass named Lira in there who's letting it be known you won't be using that
pallet tonight, or getting much sleep, so don't think you can -!' He cut off as they walked into the
sunlight, bright after the dimness inside. The greylark still sang of spring.
Six men were striding across the otherwise empty yard. Six ordinary men with swords at
their belts, like any men on any street in the city. Yet Lan knew before their hands moved, before
their eyes focused on him and their steps quickened. He had faced too many men who wanted to
kill him not to know. And at his side stood Bukama, bound by oaths that would not let him raise a
hand even had he been wearing his blade. If they both tried to get back inside the stable, the men
would be on them before they could haul the doors shut. Time slowed, flowed like cool honey.
'Inside and bar the doors!' Lan snapped as his hand went to his hilt. 'Obey me, armsman!'
Never in his life had he given Bukama a command in that fashion, and the man hesitated a
heartbeat, then bowed formally. 'My life is yours, Dai Shan,' he said in a thick voice. 'I obey.'
As Lan moved forward to meet his attackers, he heard the bar drop inside with a muffled
thud. Relief was distant. He floated in ko'di, one with the sword that came smoothly out of its
scabbard. One with the men rushing at him, boots thudding on the hard-packed ground as they
bared steel.
A lean heron of a fellow darted ahead of the others, and Lan danced the forms. Time like
cool honey. The greylark sang, and the lean man shrieked as Cutting the Clouds removed his
right hand at the wrist, and Lan flowed to one side so the rest could not all come at him together,
flowed from form to form. Soft Rain at Sunset laid open a fat man's face, took his left eye, and a
ginger-haired young splinter drew a gash across Lan's ribs with Black Pebbles on Snow. Only in
stories did one man face six without injury. The Rose Unfolds sliced down a bald man's left arm,
and ginger-hair nicked the corner of Lan's eye. Only in stories did one man face six and survive.
He had known that from the start. Duty was a mountain, death a feather, and his duty was to
Bukama, who had carried an infant on his back. For this moment he lived, though, so he fought,
kicking ginger-hair in the head, dancing his way towards death, danced and took wounds, bled
and danced the razor's edge of life. Time like cool honey, flowing from form to form, and there
could only be one ending. Thought was distant. Death was a feather. Dandelion in the Wind
slashed open the now one-eyed fat man's throat - he had barely paused when his face was ruined -
a forkbearded fellow with shoulders like a blacksmith gasped in surprise as Kissing the Adder put
Lan's steel through his heart.
And suddenly Lan realized that he alone stood, with six men sprawled across the width of
the stableyard. The ginger-haired youth thrashed his heels on the ground one last time, and then
only Lan of the seven still breathed. He shook blood from his blade, bent to wipe the last drops
off on the blacksmith's too-fine coat, sheathed his sword as formally as if he were in the training
yard under Bukama's eye.
Abruptly people flooded out of the inn, cooks and stablemen, maids and patrons shouting
to know what all the noise was about, staring at the dead men in astonishment. Ryne was the very
first, sword already in hand, his face blank as he came to stand by Lan. 'Six,' he muttered,
studying the bodies. 'You really do have the Dark One's own flaming luck.'
摘要：

THEWHEELOFTIMEROBERTJORDANTheEyeoftheWorld(1990)TheGreatHunt(1990)TheDragonReborn(1991)TheShadowRising(1992)TheFiresofHeaven(1993)LordofChaos(1994)ACrownofSwords(1996)ThePathofDaggers(1998)TheworldofRobertJordan'sTheWheelofTimeliesbothinourfutureandourpast,aworldofkingsandqueensandAesSedai,womenwhoc...

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