Robert Jordan - The Gathering Storm

• Название: The Gathering Storm
• Автор: Robert Jordan
• Издательство: Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
• Жанр: Фэнтези
• Год: 2009
• ISBN: 978-0-7653-0230-4

The final volume of the Wheel of Time, A Memory of Light, was partially written by Robert Jordan before his untimely passing in 2007. Brandon Sanderson, New York Times bestselling author of the Mistborn books, was chosen by Jordan’s editor—his wife, Harriet McDougal—to complete the final book. The scope and size of the volume was such that it could not be contained in a single book, and so Tor proudly presents The Gathering Storm as the first of three novels that will make up A Memory of Light. This short sequence will complete the struggle against the Shadow, bringing to a close a journey begun almost twenty years ago and marking the conclusion of the Wheel of Time, the preeminent fantasy epic of our era.

In this epic novel, Robert Jordan’s international bestselling series begins its dramatic conclusion. Rand al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn, struggles to unite a fractured network of kingdoms and alliances in preparation for the Last Battle. As he attempts to halt the Seanchan encroachment northward—wishing he could form at least a temporary truce with the invaders—his allies watch in terror the shadow that seems to be growing within the heart of the Dragon Reborn himself.

Egwene al’Vere, the Amyrlin Seat of the rebel Aes Sedai, is a captive of the White Tower and subject to the whims of their tyrannical leader. As days tick toward the Seanchan attack she knows is imminent, Egwene works to hold together the disparate factions of Aes Sedai while providing leadership in the face of increasing uncertainty and despair. Her fight will prove the mettle of the Aes Sedai, and her conflict will decide the future of the White Tower—and possibly the world itself.

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass. What was, what will be, and what is, may yet fall under the Shadow.

---

Light, she thought. Egwene is right. It is coming. Fast. And the girl was imprisoned now; she'd met with the Hall the night before in the World of Dreams, informing them of her disastrous dinner with Elaida and the aftermath of insulting the false Amyrlin. And yet Egwene still refused rescue.

Torches were lit and Warders roused as a precaution against more evil. She smelled smoke. That was the remains of all she had owned in the world.

The Tower needed to be whole. Whatever it took. Would she be willing to bow before Elaida to make that happen? Would she put on an Accepted dress again if it would bring unity for the Last Battle?

She couldn't decide. And that disturbed her nearly as much as those scuttling roaches had.

CHAPTER 27 The Tipsy Gelding

Mat didn't escape the camp without the Aes Sedai, of course. Bloody women. He rode down the ancient stone roadway, no longer followed by the Band. He was, however, accompanied by the three Aes Sedai, two Warders, five soldiers, Talmanes, a pack animal and Thorn. At least Aludra, Amathera and Egeanin hadn't insisted on coming. This group was too big as it was.

The three-needle pines guarded the road, smelling of pine sap, and the air was melodic with mountain finches' calls. It was still several hours until sundown; he'd halted the Band near noon. He rode slightly ahead of the clustered Aes Sedai and Warders. After he'd refused Joline horses and funds, they hadn't been about to let him win another point. Not when they could force him to take them down to the village, where they could spend at least one night in an inn with soft beds and warm baths.

He didn't argue too loudly. He hated to have more tongues wagging about the Band, and women did gossip, even Aes Sedai. But there was little chance of the Band passing without causing a stir in the village anyway. If any Seanchan patrols made it through these twisting mountain paths. . . . Well, Mat would just have to keep the Band on a steady pace northward and that was that. No use crying about it.

Besides, he was beginning to feel right again, riding Pips down that road, spring breeze crisp in the air. He'd taken to wearing one of his older coats, red with brown trim, unbuttoned to show his old tan shirt beneath.

This was what it was about. Traveling to new villages, throwing dice in the inns, pinching a few barmaids. He would not think of Tuon. Flaming Seanchan. She'd be all right, wouldn't she?

No. His hands almost itched to be at the dicing. It had been far too long since he'd sat down in a corner somewhere and thrown with the ordinary sort. They'd be a little dirtier of face and coarser of language, but as good of heart as any man. Better than most lords.

Talmanes rode just ahead. He'd probably wish for a nicer tavern than Mat, a place to join a game of cards rather than throwing dice. But they might not have much of a choice. The village was of decent size, probably worthy of being called a town, but was unlikely to have more than three or four inns. Their choices would be limited.

Decent size, Mat thought, grinning to himself as he took off his hat and scratched at the back of his head. Hinderstap would only have three or four inns, and that made it a "small" town. Why, Mat could remember when he'd thought Baerlon a large city, and it probably wasn't much larger than this Hinderstap!

A horse pulled up beside him. Thom was looking at that blasted letter again. The lanky gleeman's face was thoughtful, his white hair stirring in the breeze, as he stared down at the words. As if he hadn't read them a thousand times already.

"Why don't you put that away?" Mat said. Thom looked up. It had taken some talking to get the gleeman to come down to the village, but Thom needed it, needed some distraction.

"I mean it, Thom," Mat said. "I know you're eager to go for Moiraine. But it'll be weeks before we can break away, and reading over those words won't do anything but make you anxious."

Thom nodded and folded the paper with reverent fingers. "You're right, Mat. But I'd been carrying this letter for months. Now that I've shared it, I feel. . . . Well, I just want to be on with it."

"I know," Mat said, looking up toward the horizon. Moiraine. The Tower of Ghenjei. Mat almost felt as if he could see the building out there, looming. That's where his path pointed, and Caemlyn was just a stepping-stone along the way. If Moiraine was still alive . . . Light, what would that mean? How would Rand react?

The rescue was another reason Mat felt he needed a good night dicing.

Why had he agreed to go with Thorn into the tower? Those burning snakes and foxes—he had no desire to see them again.

But ... he also couldn't let Thorn go alone. There was an inevitability to it. As if a part of Mat had known all along that he had to go back and face those creatures again. They'd gotten the better of him twice now, and the Eelfinn had tied strings around his brain with those memories in his head. He had a debt to settle with them, that was for certain.

Mat had little love for Moiraine, but he wouldn't leave her to them, no matter that she was Aes Sedai. Bloody ashes. He'd probably be tempted to ride in and save one of the Forsaken themselves if they were trapped there.

And . . . maybe one was. Lanfear had fallen through that same portal. Burn him, what would he do if he found her there? Would he really rescue her as well?

You're a fool, Matrim Cauthon. Not a hero. Just a fool.

"We'll get to Moiraine, Thorn," Mat said. "You have my word, burn me. We'll find her. But we have to see the Band someplace safe, and we need information. Bayle Domon says he knows where the tower is, but I won't be comfortable until we can go to some large city and sniff for rumors and stories about this tower. Someone has to know something. Besides, we'll need supplies, and I doubt we'll find what we need in these mountain villages. We need to reach Caemlyn if possible, though maybe we'll stop at Four Kings on the way."

Thorn nodded, though Mat could see he chafed at leaving Moiraine trapped, being tortured or who knows what. Thorn's brilliant blue eyes got a far-off look to them. Why did he care so much? What was Moiraine to him but another Aes Sedai, one of those who had cost the life of Thorn's nephew?

"Burn it," Mat said. "We're not supposed to be thinking about things like this, Thorn! We're going to have a good night of dice and laughter. There'll probably be some time for a song or two as well."

Thorn nodded, face growing lighter. He had his harp case strapped to the back of his horse; it would be good to see him open it again. "You plan to try juggling for your supper again, apprentice?" Thom asked, eyes twinkling.

"Better than trying to play that blasted flute," Mat grumbled. "Never was very good at that. Rand took to it right fine, though, didn't he?"

Colors swirled in Mat's head, resolving to an image of Rand, sitting alone in a room by himself. He sat splay-legged in a richly embroidered shirt, a coat of black and red tossed aside and crumpled next to the log wall beside him. Rand had one hand to his forehead as if trying to squeeze away the pain of a headache. His other was . . .

That arm ended in a stump. The first time Mat had seen that—a few weeks back—it had shocked him. How had Rand lost the hand? The man barely seemed alive, propped up like that, unmoving. Though his lips did seem to be moving, mumbling or muttering. Light! Mat thought. Burn you, what are you doing to yourself?

Well, at least Mat wasn't near him. Count your fortunes in that, Mat told himself. Life hadn't been so easy lately, but he could have been stuck near Rand. Sure, Rand was a friend. But Mat didn't mean to be there when Rand went insane and killed everyone he knew. There was friendship, and then there was stupidity. They'd fight together at the Last Battle, of course, no helping that. Mat just hoped to be on the other side of that battlefield from any saidin-wielding madmen.

"Ah, Rand," Thorn said. "That boy could have made a life for himself as a gleeman, I warrant. Maybe even a proper bard, if he'd started when he was younger."

Mat shook his head, dispelling the vision. Burn you, Rand. Leave me alone,

"Those were better days, weren't they, Mat?" Thorn smiled. "The three of us, traveling down the river Arinelle."

"Myrddraal chasing us for reasons unknown," Mat added grimly. Those days hadn't been so easy either. "Darkfriends trying to stab us in the back every time we turned around."

"Better than gholam and Forsaken trying to kill us."

"That's like saying you're grateful to have a noose around your neck instead of a sword in your gut."

"At least you can escape the noose, Mat." Thorn knuckled his long, white mustache. "Once the sword is stuck into you, there's not much you can do about it."

Mat hesitated, then found himself laughing. He rubbed at the scarf around his neck. "I suppose you're right at that, Thom. I suppose you're right. Well, for today why don't we forget about all of that? We'll go back and pretend things are like they once were!"

"I don't know if that's possible, lad."

"Sure it is," Mat said stubbornly.

"Oh?" Thom asked, amused. "You're going to go back to thinking that old Thom Merrilin is the wisest, most well traveled man you've ever known? You'll play the gawking peasant again, clinging to my coat every time we pass a village with more than one inn in it?"

"Here now. I wasn't so bad as all that."

"I hasten to differ, Mat," Thom said, chuckling.

"I don't remember much." Mat scratched at his head again. "But I do recall that Rand and I did right well for ourselves after we split up with you. We made it to Caemlyn, at least. Brought your flaming harp back to you unharmed, didn't we?"

"I noticed a few nicks in the frame. . . ."

"Burn you, none of that!" Mat said, pointing at him. "Rand practically slept with that harp. Wouldn't think of selling it, even when we were so hungry we'd have gnawed on our own boots if we hadn't needed them to get to the next town." Those days were fuzzy to Mat, full of holes, like an iron bucket left too long to rust. But he had pieced together some things.

Thom chuckled. "We can't go back, Mat. The Wheel has turned, for better or worse. And it will keep on turning, as lights die and forests dim, storms call and skies break. Turn it will. The Wheel is not hope, and the Wheel does not care, the Wheel simply is. But so long as it turns, folk may hope, folk may care. For with light that fades, another will eventually grow, and each storm that rages must eventually die. As long as the Wheel turns. As long as it turns. ..."

Mat guided Pips around a particularly deep cleft in the broken roadway. Ahead, Talmanes chatted with several of their guards. "That has the sound of a song about it, Thom."

"Aye," Thom said, almost with a sigh. "An old one, forgotten by most. I've discovered three versions of it, all with the same words, set to different tunes. I guess the area has me thinking of it; it's said that Dor-eille herself penned the original poem."

"The area?" Mat said with surprise, glancing at the three-needle pines.

Thom nodded, thoughtful. "This road is old, Mat. Ancient. Probably was here before the Breaking. Landmarks like this have a tendency to find their way into songs and stories. I think this area is what was once called the Splintered Hills. If that's true, then we're in what was once Coremanda, right near the Eagle's Reaches. I bet you if we climbed a few of those taller hills, we'd find old fortifications."

"And what does that have to do with Doreille?" Mat asked, uncomfortably. She'd been Queen of Aridhol.

"She visited here," Thorn said. "Penned several of her finest poems in the Eagle's Reaches."

Burn me, Mat thought. I remember. He remembered standing on the walls of a high fort, cold on the mountaintop, looking down at a long, twisting roadway, broken and shattered, and an army of men with violet pennants charging up the hillside into a rain of arrows. The Splintered Hills. A woman on the balcony. The Queen herself.

He shivered, banishing the memory. Aridhol had been one of the ancient nations that had stood long ago, when Manetheren had been a power. The capital of Aridhol had another name. Shadar Logoth.

Mat hadn't felt the pull of the ruby dagger in a very long time. He was nearly beginning to forget what it had been like to be tied to it, if it was possible to forget such a thing. But sometimes he remembered that ruby, red like his own blood. And the old lust, the old desire, would seep into him again . . .

Mat shook his head, forcing down those memories. Burn it, he was supposed to be enjoying himself!

"What a time we've had," Thom said idly. "I feel old these days, Mat, like a faded rug, hung out to dry in the wind, hinting of the colors it once showed so vibrantly. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm any use to you anymore. You hardly seem to need me."

"What? If course I need you, Thom!"

The aging gleeman eyed him. "The trouble with you, Mat, is that you're actually good at lying. Unlike those other two boys."

"I mean it! Burn me, but I do. I suppose you could run off and tell stories and travel like you used to. But things around here might run a lot less smoothly, and I sure would miss your wisdom. Burn me, but I would. A man needs friends he can trust, and I'd trust you with my life any day."

"Why Matrim," Thom said, looking up, eyes glimmering with mirth, "bolstering a man's spirits when he's down? Convincing him to stay and do what is important, rather than running off to seek adventure? That sounds downright responsible. What's gotten into you?"

Mat grimaced. "Marriage, I guess. Burn me, but I'm not going to stop drinking or gambling!" Ahead, Talmanes turned around and glanced at Mat, then rolled his eyes.

Thom laughed, watching Talmanes. "Well, lad, I didn't mean to get your spirits down. Just idle talk. I still have a few things I can show this world. If I really can free Moiraine . . . well, we'll see. Besides, somebody needs to be here to watch, then put this all to song, someday. There will be more than one ballad that comes from all of this."

He turned, rifling through his saddlebags. "Ah!" he said, pulling out his patchwork gleeman's cloak. He threw it on with a flourish.

"Well," Mat said, "when you write about us, you might find a few gold marks in it if you saw your way to include a nice verse about Tal-manes. You know, something about how he has one eye that stares in strange directions, and how he often carries this scent about him which reminds one of a goat pen."

"I heard that!" Talmanes called from ahead.

"I meant you to!" Mat called back.

Thorn just laughed, plucking at his cloak, arranging it for best display. "I can't promise anything." He chuckled some more. "Though, if you don't mind, Mat, I think I'll separate from the rest of you once we get into the village. A gleeman's ears may pick up information that won't be spoken in the presence of soldiers."