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.

---

"Yes, you leave within the hour," Rand said, turning to walk up the graceful white stairs.

Dobraine saluted, stoic as always, and left out the front doorway. He obeyed immediately. No word of complaint. He was a good man. Rand knew he was.

Light, what is happening to me? Rand thought. / need to trust some people. Don't I?

Trust. . . ? Lews Therin whispered. Yes, perhaps we can trust him. He cannot channel. Light, the one we can't trust at all is ourselves. . . .

Rand clenched his jaw. He would reward Dobraine with the kingdom if Alsalam couldn't be found. Ituralde didn't want it.

The stairs rose straight and broad to a landing, then split and twisted up to the second floor, touching the landing there on two separate sides. "I need an audience chamber," Rand said to the servants below, "and a throne. Quickly."

Less than ten minutes later, Rand sat in a plushly decorated sitting room on the second floor, waiting for the merchant Milisair Chadmar to be brought to him. His ornately carved white wood chair wasn't quite a throne, but it would do. Perhaps Milisair had used it for audiences herself. The room did seem laid out like a throne room, with a shallowly raised dais for him to sit on. Both dais and floor below were covered in a textured green and red rug of fanciful design which matched the Sea Folk porcelain on pedestals at the corner. Four broad windows behind him—each large enough to walk through—ushered overcast sunlight into the room, and it fell on his back as he sat in the chair and leaned forward, one arm resting across his knees. The figurine sat on the floor just before him.

Shortly, Milisair Chadmar walked through the doorway past the Aiel guards. She wore one of those famous Domani dresses. It covered her body from neck to toe but was barely opaque and clung to every curve—of which she had more than her fair share. The dress was of deep green, and she wore pearls at her neck. Her dark hair, in tight curls, hung down past her shoulders, several locks framing her face. He hadn't expected her to be so young, barely into her thirties.

It would be a shame to execute her.

Just one day, he thought to himself, and already I think of executing a woman for not agreeing to follow me. There was a time when I could barely stand to execute deserving criminals. But he would do what must be done.

Milisair's deep curtsy seemed to imply that she accepted his authority. Or perhaps it was simply a means of allowing him a better view of what the dress accentuated. A very Domani thing to do. Unfortunately for her, he already had more problems with women than he knew how to handle.

"My Lord Dragon," Milisair said, rising from her curtsy. "How may I serve you?"

"When was the last communication you had from King Alsalam?"

Rand asked. He pointedly didn't give her leave to sit in one of the room's chairs.

"The King?" she asked, surprised. "It has been weeks now."

"I will need to speak to the messenger who brought the latest message," Rand said.

"I am not certain he can be found." The woman sounded, flustered. "I do not keep track of the coming and going of every messenger in the city, my Lord."

Rand leaned forward. "Do you lie to me?" he asked softly.

Her mouth opened, perhaps in shock at his bluntness. The Domani were no Cairhienin—who had a seemingly inborn political craftiness— but they were a subtle people. Particularly the women.

Rand was neither subtle nor crafty. He was a sheepherder turned conqueror, and his heart was that of a Two Rivers man, even if his blood was Aiel. Whatever politicking she was used to playing, it wouldn't work on him. He had no patience for games.

"I . . ." Milisair said, staring at him. "My Lord Dragon. . . ."

What was she hiding? "What did you do with him?" Rand asked, making a guess. "The messenger?"

"He knew nothing of the King's location," Milisair said quickly, the words seeming to spill from her. "My questioners were quite thorough."

"He is dead?"

"I. . . . No, my Lord Dragon."

"Then you will have him brought to me."

She paled further, and glanced to one side, perhaps reflexively seeking escape. "My Lord Dragon," she said hesitantly, bringing her eyes back to him. "Now that you are here, perhaps the King will remain . . . hidden. Perhaps there is no need to seek him out further."

She thinks he's dead too, Rand thought. It has made her take risks.

"There is need to find Alsalam," Rand said, "or at least discover what happened to him. We need to know his fate so that you can choose a new king. That is how it happens, correct?"

"I'm certain you can be crowned quickly, my Lord Dragon," she said smoothly.

"I will not be king here," Rand said. "Bring me the messenger, Milisair, and perhaps you will live to see a new king crowned. You are dismissed."

She hesitated, then curtsied again and withdrew. Rand caught a glimpse of Min standing outside with the Aiel, watching the merchant depart. He caught her eyes, and she looked troubled. Had she seen any viewings about Milisair? He almost called to her, but she vanished, walking away with a quick step. To the side, Alivia watched her go with curiosity. The former damane had stayed aloof recently, as if biding her time, waiting until she could fulfill her destiny in helping Rand die.

He found himself standing. That look in Min's eyes. Was she angry with him? Was she remembering his hand at her neck, his knee pressing her against the floor?

He sat back down. Min could wait. "All right," he said, addressing the Aiel. "Bring me my scribes and stewards, along with Rhuarc, Bael and whatever city worthies haven't fled the city or been killed in riots. We need to go over the grain distribution plans."

The Aiel sent runners and Rand settled back into his chair. He would see the people fed, restore order and gather the Council of Merchants. He would even see that a new king was chosen.

But he would also find out where Alsalam had gone. For there, his instincts said, was the best place to find Graendal. It was his best lead.

If he did find her, he would see that she died by balefire, just like Semirhage. He would do what must be done.

CHAPTER 30 Old Advice

Gawyn remembered very little of his father—the man had never been much of a father, to him at least—but he did have a strong memory of a day in the Caemlyn palace gardens. Gawyn had been standing beside a small pond, pitching pebbles into it. Taringail had walked past down the Rose March, young Galad at his side.

The scene was still vivid in Gawyn's mind. The heavy scent of the roses in full bloom. The silver ripples on the pond, the minnows scattering away from the miniature boulder he'd just tossed at them. He could picture his father well. Tall, handsome, hair with a slight wave to it. Galad had been straight-backed and somber even then. A few months later, Galad would rescue Gawyn from drowning in that very pond.

Gawyn could hear his father speak words that he'd never forgotten. Whatever else one thought of Taringail Damodred, this bit of advice rang true. "There are two groups of people you should never trust," the man had been saying to Galad as they passed. "The first are pretty women. The second are Aes Sedai. Light help you, son, if you ever have to face someone who is both." Light help you, son.

"I simply cannot see disobeying the Amyrlin's express will in this matter," Lelaine said primly, stirring ink in the small jar on her desk. No man trusted beautiful women, for all their fascination with them. But few realized what Taringail had said—that a pretty girl, like a coal that had cooled just enough to no longer look hot, could be far, far more dangerous.

Lelaine wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty, particularly when she smiled. Slender and graceful, without a speck of gray in her dark hair, an almond face with full lips. She looked up at him with eyes that were far too comely to belong to a woman of her craftiness. And she seemed to know. She understood that she was just attractive enough to draw attention, but not stunning enough to make men wary.

She was a woman of the most dangerous type. One who felt real, who made men think they might be able to hold her attention. She wasn't pretty like Egwene, who made you want to spend time with her. This woman's smile made you want to count the knives on your belt and in your boot, just to make sure none of them had found their way into your back while you were distracted.

Gawyn stood beside her writing table, shaded by the straight-topped blue tent. He hadn't been invited to sit, and he had not asked for the privilege. Talking to an Aes Sedai, particularly an important one, required wits and sobriety. He'd rather stand. Perhaps it would keep him more alert.

"Egwene is trying to protect you," Gawyn said, controlling his frustration. "That's why she commanded you to forgo a rescue. She obviously doesn't want you to risk yourselves. She is self-sacrificing to a fault." If she weren't, he added in his mind, she'd never have let you all bully her into pretending to be the Amyrlin Seat.

"She seems very confident of her safety," Lelaine said, dipping her pen into the ink. She began to write on a piece of parchment; a note to someone. Gawyn politely didn't read over her shoulder, though he did notice the calculated move on her part. He was unimportant enough that he couldn't demand her full attention. He chose not to acknowledge the insult. Trying to bully Bryne hadn't worked; it would be even less effective with this woman.

"She's trying to put your worries at ease, Lelaine Sedai," he said instead.

"I am a fair judge of people, young Trakand. I do not think she feels she is in danger." She shook her head. Her perfume smelled of apple blossoms.

"I do not doubt you," he replied. "But perhaps if I knew how it is you communicate with her, I could judge better. If I could—"

"You have been warned not to ask about that, child," Lelaine said in her soft, melodious voice. "Leave things of the Aes Sedai to the Aes Sedai."

Virtually the same answer each sister gave when he asked how they communicated with Egwene. He clenched his jaw in frustration. What had he expected? It involved using the One Power. After all his time in the White Tower, he still had little idea of what the Power could and couldn't do.

"Regardless," Lelaine continued, "the Amyrlin thinks herself quite safe. What we've discovered in Shemerin's story only reinforces and corroborates what Egwene has told us. Elaida is so mad with power that she doesn't consider the rightful Amyrlin a threat."

There was more she wasn't saying. Gawyn could tell it. He could never get a straight answer from them regarding what Egwene's status was currently. He'd heard rumors that she'd been imprisoned, no longer allowed to roam free as a novice. But getting information from an Aes Sedai was about as easy as churning rocks into butter!

Gawyn took a breath. He couldn't lose his temper. If he did that, he'd never get Lelaine to listen. And he needed her. Bryne wouldn't move without Aes Sedai authorization, and as far as Gawyn had been able to tell, his best chances of gaining it came from Lelaine or Romanda. Everyone seemed to listen to one of the two or the other.

Fortunately, Gawyn had found that he could play them off one another. A visit to Romanda almost always prompted an invitation from Lelaine. Of course, the reason they were eager to see him in the first place had very little to do with Egwene. No doubt the conversation would move in that direction very soon.

"Perhaps you are right, Lelaine Sedai," he said, trying a different tack. "Perhaps Egwene does believe herself to be safe. But isn't there a possibility that she is wrong? You can't honestly believe that Elaida will let a woman who claimed to be Amyrlin wander around the White Tower free? This is obviously just a means of showing off a captured rival before executing her."

"Perhaps," Lelaine said, continuing to write. She had a flowing, ornate hand. "But must I not uphold the Amyrlin, even if she is misguided?"

Gawyn gave no response. Of course she could disobey the will of the Amyrlin. He knew enough of Aes Sedai politics to understand it was done all the time. But saying that would accomplish nothing.

"Still," Lelaine said absently. "Perhaps I can bring a motion before the Hall. We might be able to persuade the Amyrlin to listen to a new kind of plea. We shall see if I can formulate a new argument."

"We shall see" or "Perhaps we can" or "I will consider what to do." Never a firm commitment; every half-offer came smeared liberally with goose grease for easy escape. Light, but he was growing weary of Aes Sedai answers!

Lelaine looked up at him, favoring him with a smile. "Now, as I have agreed to do something for you, perhaps you will be willing to offer me something. Great deeds are rarely accomplished without the aid of many partners, you may know."

Gawyn sighed. "Speak your needs, Aes Sedai."

"Your sister has, by all reports, made a very admirable showing for herself in Andor," Lelaine said, as if she hadn't said nearly the exact same thing the last three times she'd met with Gawyn. "She did have to step on a few toes to secure her throne, however. What do you think her policy will be regarding House Traemane's fruit orchards? Under your mother, the tax assessments on the land were very favorable toward Traemane. Will Elayne revoke this special privilege, or will she try to use it as honey to soothe those who stood against her?"

Gawyn stifled another sigh. It always came back to Elayne. He was convinced that neither Lelaine nor Romanda had any real interest in rescuing Egwene—they were too pleased with their increased power in her absence. No, they met with Gawyn because of the new queen on the Lion Throne.

He had no idea why an Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah would care about apple orchard taxation rates. Lelaine wouldn't be looking for monetary gain; that wasn't the Aes Sedai way. But she would want leverage, a means of securing a favorable connection with the Andoran noble houses. Gawyn resisted answering. Why help this woman? What good was it doing?

But yet . . . could he be certain she wouldn't work for Egwene's release? If he stopped making these meetings useful to Lelaine, would she discontinue them? Would he find himself shut out of his one source of influence—no matter how small—in the camp?

"Well," he said, "I think that my sister will be more strict than my mother was. She always has thought that the favorable position of the orchard growers was no longer justified."

He could see that Lelaine subtly began taking notes on what he said at the bottom of her parchment. Was that the real reason for getting out the ink and quill?

He had no choice but to answer as honestly as he could, though he had to be careful not to let himself get pressed for too much information. His connection to Elayne was the only thing he had with which to bargain, and he had to ration his usefulness to stretch it long. It irked him. Elayne wasn't a bargaining chip, she was his sister!