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

"If you wish. Have you learned something about the


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 GaladТs 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 horsesТ 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,
workmenТs small houses and craftsfolksТ 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 eldersТ 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