Knife of Dreams
896
Knife of Dreams
896Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9785389242180 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Azbooka |
| Publication date: | 02/07/2024 |
| Sold by: | Bookwire |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 896 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
| Language: | Russian |
About the Author
ROBERT JORDAN (October 17, 1948–September 16, 2007), a native of Charleston, South Carolina, was the author of the bestselling The Wheel of Time®, with millions of books in print.
Date of Birth:
October 17, 1948Date of Death:
September 16, 2007Place of Birth:
Charleston, South CarolinaPlace of Death:
Charleston, South CarolinaEducation:
B.S. in physics, The Citadel, 1974Website:
http://www.tor.com/Jordan/Read an Excerpt
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.....