"Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 11 - Knife of Dreams" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jordan Robert)

KNIFE OF DREAMS
By Robert Jordan

BOOK 11 OF THE WHEEL OF TIME




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The sweetness of victory and the bitterness of defeat are alike a knife of dreams.
- From Fog and Steel by Madoc Comadrin



Embers Falling on Dry Grass

Prologue

The sun, climbing toward midmorning, stretched GaladтАЩs 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 horsesтАЩ 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, workmenтАЩs small houses and craftsfolksтАЩ 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 eldersтАЩ 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 animalsтАЩ morning freshness not yet worn off by the short ride from the camp.

тАЬItтАЩs understandable if youтАЩre having second thoughts, Damodred,тАЭ Trom said after a time. тАЬItтАЩs a harsh accusation, bitter as gall,