Цитадель Детей Света. Возрождённая

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Terez's post at Theoryland.

I am going to write a more detailed report on the prologue reading, but for now, a bit about the two scenes he read:

1. Lan is riding across Saldaea alone. By the end of his scene, he has a friend (Bulen, from New Spring), and there is news of more gathering in Kandor. Lan is still determined to avoid others, riding to the Gap alone.

2. Galad and his men are lost in a swamp. As they come out of the swamp, they run into Asunawa, who has 10,000 fresh troops to Galad's 7000 exhausted ones. The scene ends with Galad taken for questioning by Asunawa and being beaten until he passes out, but Asunawa agreed to his terms. Looking like Byar and Bornhald will probably ally with Perrin to get Galad out of this trap. Also, Galad has plans to go to Andor.

Also, he skipped over one POV because it was very long and he said very cool, and he skipped over another because it was 'incredibly spoilerish'.

Речь идет о двух прочитанных Сандерсоном эпизодах из пролога, более детальный отчет о котором автор поста обещает выложить позже.

1. Лан едет через Салдею один. К концу эпизода у него появляется друг, Булен из Новой Весны, а также мы узнаем, что в Кандоре собирается еще народ. Лан же до сих пор намерен избегать их и ехать к Ущелью в одиночку.

2. Галад и его люди заблудились в болотах. Едва выбравшись, они встречаются с Асунавой, у которого 10,000-ое свежее войско против 7,000 измотанных солдат Галада. Эпизод кончается тем, что Галад попадает на допрос к Асунаве, где его избивают, пока он не теряет сознание, но при этом Асунава принимает его условия. Похоже на то, что Байар и Борнхальд могут объединиться с Перрином, чтобы вытащить Галада из этой западни. Кроме того, у Галада в планах отправиться в Андор.

В добавок к этому, Сандерсон пропустил один ПоВ, потому что тот был очень длинными и, по его словам, очень клевым, и еще один, так как он был 'невероятно спойлерным'.

Thunder rumbled above, soft and menacing like the growl of a distant beast. Perrin turned his eyes toward the sky. A few days ago, the pervasive cloud cover had turned black, darkening like the advent of a horrible storm, but rain had come only in spurts.

Another rumble shook the air. There was no lightning. Perrin patted Stayer on the neck. The horse smelled skittish, prickly, sweaty. The horse wasn't the only one. That scent hung above his enormous force of troops and refugees as they tramped across the muddy ground. That force created a thunder of its own: footsteps, hoofbeats, wagon wheels turning, men and women calling.

They had nearly reached the Jehannah Road. Originally Perrin had planned to cross that and continue on northward, toward Andor, but he'd lost a great deal of time to the sickness that had struck his camp. Both Asha'man had nearly died. Then this thick mud had slowed them even further. All told, it had been over a month since they'd left Malden, and they'd traveled only as far as Perrin had originally hoped to go in a week.

Perrin put his hand into his coat pocket, feeling at the small blacksmith's puzzle there. They'd found it in Malden, and he'd taken to fiddling with it. So far, he hadn't figured out how to get the pieces apart. It was as complex a puzzle as he'd ever seen.

There was no sign of Master Gill, or the people Perrin had sent on ahead with supplies. Grady had managed a few small gateways ahead to send scouts to find them, but they had returned without news. Perrin was beginning to worry about them.

"My lord?" a man asked. He stood beside Perrin's horse. Tuorn (?) was a lanky fellow with curly red hair and a beard he'd tied off with leather cords. He carried a warrior's axe in a loop at his belt, a wicked thing with a spike at the back.

"We can't pay much," Perrin said. "Your men don't have horses?"

"No, my lord," Tuorn said, glancing at his dozen companions. "Jar (?) had one. We ate it a few weeks back." Tuorn smelled unwashed and dirty, and above those scents was an odd staleness. Had the man's emotions gone numb? "If you don't mind, my lord, wages can wait. If you have food, well, that will be enough for now."

I should turn them away, Perrin thought. We already have too many mouths to feed. Light, he was supposed to be getting rid of people, but these fellows looked handy with their weapons, and if he turned them away they'd no doubt turn to pillaging.

"Go ride down the line," Perrin said. "Go find a man named Tam al'Thor. He's a sturdy fellow, dressed like a farmer. Anyone should be able to point you in his direction. Tell him you spoke with Perrin, and I said to take you on for meals."

The dirty men relaxed, and their lanky leader actually smelled grateful. Grateful! Sellswords, maybe bandits, grateful to be taken on only for meals. That was the state of the world.

"Tell me, my lord," Tuorn said as his group began to hike down the line of refugees, "do you really have food?"

"We do," Perrin said. "I just said so."

"And it doesn't spoil after a night left alone?"

"Of course it doesn't," Perrin said sternly, "not if you keep it right." Some of their grain might have weevils in it, but it was edible. The man seemed to find that incredible, as if Perrin had said his wagons would soon sprout wings and fly off for the mountains. "Go on now," Perrin said, "and make sure to tell your men that we run a tight camp. No fighting, no stealing. If I get a whiff of you making trouble, you'll be out on your ears."

"Yes, my lord," Tuorn said, then hastened off to join his men. He smelled sincere. Tam wasn't going to be pleased to have another batch of mercenaries to watch over, but the Shaido were still out there somewhere. Most of them seemed to have turned eastward, but with how slowly Perrin's force had been traveling he was worried the Aiel might change their minds and come back for him.

He nudged Stayer forward, flanked by a pair of Two Rivers men. Now that Aram was gone, the Two Rivers men had, unfortunately, taken it upon themselves to provide Perrin with bodyguards. Today's annoyances were Wil al'Seen and Reed Solan (?). Perrin had tried chewing out the men about it, but they insisted, and he had bigger worries to bother him, not the least of which were his strange dreams, haunting visions of working the forges and being unable to create anything of worth.

Put them out of your mind, he told himself, riding up the long column, al'Seen and Solan keeping up. You have nightmares enough while awake. Deal with those first. The meadow around him was open, though the grass was yellowing, and he noted with displeasure several large swathes of dead wildflowers rotting. The spring rains had turned most areas like this into mudtraps. Moving so many refugees was slow, even discounting the bubble of evil in the mud. Everything took longer than he expected, including getting out of Malden.

The force kicked up mud as it marched; most of the refugees' trousers and skirts were covered with it and the air was thick with its sticky scent. Perrin neared the front of their line, passing riders in red breastplates, lances held high, their helms like rimmed pots. The Winged Guard of Mayene. Lord Galenne rode at their front, red-plumed helm at his side. His bearing was formal enough that you might think he was riding in a parade, but his single eye was keen and sharp as he scanned the countryside. He was a good soldier. There were a lot of good soldiers in this force, though sometimes it was tough as bending a horseshoe to keep their hands from one anothers' throats.

"Lord Perrin!" a voice shouted. Arganda, First Captain of Ghealdan, pushed through the Mayener lines, riding a tall roan gelding. His troops rode in a wide column beside the Mayeners. Ever since Alliandre's return, Arganda had been set on equal treatment. He'd complained that the Winged Guard often rode in front. Rather than spur further arguments, Perrin had ordered their columns to ride side by side. "Was that another batch of mercenaries?" Arganda demanded, pulling his horse up beside Perrin.

"A small band," Perrin said. "Probably once the guard of some local city's lord."

"Deserters." Arganda spat to the side. "You should have sent for me. My queen would want them strung up. Don't forget that we're in Ghealdan now."

"Your queen is my liegewoman," Perrin said as they reached the front of the column. "We're not stringing up anyone unless we have proof of their crimes. Once everyone is safely back where they belong, you can start sorting through the sellswords and see if you can charge any of them. Until then, they're just hungry men looking for someone to follow." Arganda smelled frustrated. Perrin had gained a few weeks of good will from him and Galenne following the successful assault on Malden, but old divisions were resurfacing in the near-impassable mud, under a sky full of tumbling thunderheads. "Don't worry yourself," Perrin said. "I have men watching over the newcomers."

He also had them watching the refugees. Some were so docile that they would hardly go to the privy without being instructed to do so. Others kept looking over their shoulders, as if expecting Shaido to spring from the distant line of oaks and sweetgum trees at any moment. People who smelled that terrified could be trouble, and the various factions of his camp already walked as if trudging through itchweed.

"You may send someone to talk to the newcomers, Arganda," Perrin said. "Talk only. Find out where they're from, learn whether they did serve a lord, see if they can add anything to the maps." They didn't have any good maps of the area, and had been forced to have the Ghealdanin men, Arganda included, draw some from memory.

Arganda rode off, and Perrin moved to the front of the column. Being in charge did have its nice moments; up here the smells of unwashed bodies and rotting mud weren't nearly so strong. Ahead, he could finally see the Jehannah Road, like a long strap of leather cutting through the highland plains, running in a northwestern direction. Perrin rode, lost in thought for a time. Eventually, they reached the roadway. The mud didn't look as bad on the road as it had in the meadows, though if it were like any other road Perrin had traveled on, it would have its mires and washed-out sections.

As he reached it he noticed Gaul approaching. The Aielman had been off scouting ahead, and as Perrin's horse stepped up onto the road he noticed that someone was riding behind Gaul up toward them. It was Fennel (?), one of the farriers that Perrin had sent ahead with Master Gill and the others. Perrin felt a wash of relief to see him, but it was followed by worry. Where were the others?

"Lord Perrin!" the man said, riding up. Gaul stepped to the side. Fennel was a wide-shouldered man, and carried a long-handled workman's axe strapped to his back. He smelled of relief. "Praise the Light. I thought you'd never arrive here. Your man says the rescue worked?"

"It did, Fennel," Perrin said, frowning. "Where are the others?"

"They went on ahead, my lord," Fennel said, bowing from horseback. "I volunteered to stay behind, for when you caught up. We needed to explain, you see–"

"Explain?"

"The rest turned toward Lugard," Fennel explained. "Along the road."

"What?" Perrin said, frustrated. "I gave them orders to continue northward."

"My lord," Fennel said, looking abashed, "we met travelers coming from that way. Said that mud made the roads to the north almost completely impassable for wagons or carts. Master Gill decided that heading to Caemlyn through Lugard would be the best way to follow your orders. Sorry, my lord, that's why one of us had to stay behind."

Light. No wonder the scouts hadn't found Gill and the others; they'd gone in the wrong direction. Well, after slogging through mud for weeks himself, sometimes having to stop and wait out storms, Perrin couldn't blame them for deciding to take the road. That didn't stop him from feeling frustrated.

"How far behind are we?" Perrin asked.

"I've been here five days, my lord."

So Gill and the others had been slowed too. Well, that was something, at least. "Go get yourself something to eat, Fennel," Perrin said. "And thank you for staying behind to let me know what happened. It was a brave thing you did, waiting alone for so long."

"Somebody had to do it, my lord." He hesitated. "Most feared you hadn't ... well, that things had gone wrong, my lord. You see, we figured that you'd be faster than us, since we had those carts, but from the look of things here you decided to bring the entire town with you."

It wasn't far from the truth, unfortunately. He waved Fennel on.

"I found him about an hour along the road," Gaul said softly. "Beside a hill that would make for an excellent camp. Well watered, with a good view of the surrounding area."

Perrin nodded. He'd have to decide what to do: wait until Grady and Neald could make large gateways, follow along after Master Gill and the others on foot, or send most people northward and send only a few toward Lugard. Regardless of the decision, it would be good to camp for the day and sort things through.

"Pass the word to the others, if you will," Perrin said to Gaul. "We'll hike down the road to the place you found, then discuss what to do next. And ask some of the Maidens if they'll ride along the road in the other direction to make sure we're not going to be surprised by anyone moving up the road behind us."

Gaul nodded and moved on to pass the word. Perrin remained sitting atop Stayer, thinking. He had half a mind to send Arganda and Alliandre off to the northwest right now, setting on a path to Jehannah, but the Maidens had picked out some Shaido scouts watching his army. Those were probably there to make sure Perrin wasn't a threat, but they made him uneasy. These were dangerous times. It was best to keep Alliandre and her people with him for now, both for her safety and his own, at least until Grady and Neald recovered. The snakebites from the bubble of evil had affected the two of them, and Masuri, the only one of the Aes Sedai who had been bitten, worse than the others. Still, Grady was starting to look hale again. Soon he'd be able to make a gateway large enough to move the army through. Then Perrin could send Alliandre and the Two Rivers men home. He himself could Travel back to Rand, pretend to make up–most people would still think that he and Rand had parted ways angrily–and then finally be rid of Berelain and her Winged Guard. Everything could go back to the way it should be. Light send it all went that easily.

He shook his head, dispelling the swirling colors and visions that appeared to his eyes whenever he thought of Rand. Nearby, Berelain and her force were marching out onto the road, looking very pleased to reach some solid footing. The beautiful dark-haired woman wore a fine green dress and a belt of firedrops. Her neckline was discomfortingly low. He'd started relying on her during Faile's absence, once she'd stopped treating him like a prize boar to be hunted and skinned. Faile was back now, and it appeared his truce with Berelain was over. As usual, Annoura rode near her, though she didn't spend the time chatting with Berelain she once had. Perrin never had figured out why she'd been meeting with the Prophet–probably never would, considering what had happened to Masema. A day out of Malden, Perrin's scouts had run across a group of corpses that had been killed by arrows and robbed of their shoes, belts, and any valuables. Though ravens had gotten the eyes, Perrin had smelled Masema's scent through the rot. The Prophet was dead, killed by bandits. Well, perhaps that was a fitting end for him, but Perrin still felt he'd failed. Rand had wanted Masema brought to him. The colors swirled again.

Either way, it was time for Perrin to return to Rand. The colors swirled, showing Rand standing in front of a building with a burned front, staring westward. Perrin banished the image. His duty was done, the Prophet seen to, Alliandre's allegiance secure. Only Perrin felt as if something were still very wrong. He fingered the blacksmith's puzzle in his pocket. To understand something you have to figure out its parts.

He smelled Faile before she reached him, heard her horse on the soft earth. "So, Gill turned toward Lugard?" she asked, stopping beside him. He nodded. "That may have been wise. Perhaps we should turn that way too. Were those more sellswords who joined us?"

"Yes."

"We must have picked up five thousand people these past few weeks," she said thoughtfully. "Perhaps more. Odd, in this desolate landscape."

She was beautiful, with her raven hair and strong features, a good Saldaean nose set between two tilted eyes. She was dressed for riding, in deep wine red. He loved her dearly, and praised the Light that he'd gotten her back. Why did he feel so awkward around her now?

"You're troubled, my husband," she noted. She understood him so well, it was almost as if she could read scents. It seemed to be a thing of women, though. Berelain could do it too.

"We've gathered too many people," he said with a grunt. "I should start turning them away."

"I suspect they'd find their way back to our force anyway."

"Why should they? I could leave orders."

"You can't give orders to the Pattern itself, my husband." She glanced over to the column of people as they moved onto the road.

"What do–" He cut off, catching her meaning. "You think this is me, being ta'veren?"

"Every stop along our trip you've gained more followers," Faile said. "Despite our losses against the Aiel we came out of Malden with a stronger force than when we started. Haven't you found it odd that so many of the former gai'shain are taking to Tam's training with weapons?"

"They were beaten down so long," Perrin said. "They want to stop that from happening again."

"And so coopers learn the sword," Faile said, "and find they have a talent for it. Masons who never thought of fighting back against Shaido now train with the quarterstaff. Sellswords and armsmen flock to us."

"It's coincidence."

"Coincidence?" She sounded amused. "With a ta'veren at the army's head?"

She was right, and he fell silent. He could smell her satisfaction at winning the argument. He didn't think of it as an argument, but she'd see it one. If anything, she'd be mad that he hadn't raised his voice.

"This is all going to end in a few days, Faile," he said. "Once we have gateways again, I'll send these people to their proper places. I'm not gathering an army. I'm helping some refugees to get home." The last thing he needed was more people calling him "my lord" and bowing and scraping.

"We shall see," she said.

"Faile," he sighed and lowered his voice. "A man's got to see a thing for what it is. No sense in calling a buckle a hinge or calling a nail a horseshoe. I've told you, I'm not a good leader. I proved that."

"That's not how I see it."

He gripped the blacksmith's puzzle in his pocket. They'd discussed this in the weeks since Malden, but she refused to see sense. "The camp was a mess while you were gone, Faile. I've told you how Arganda and the Maidens nearly killed one another. And Aram? Masema corrupted him right under my nose. The Aes Sedai played at games I can't guess, and the Two Rivers men? You see how they look at me with shame in their eyes." Faile's scent spiked with anger when he said that, and she turned sharply toward Berelain. "It's not her fault," Perrin said. "If I'd been able to think of it I'd have stopped the rumors dead. But I didn't. Now I've got to sleep in the bed I've made for myself." Light. What is a man if his own neighbors don't think well of him? "I'm no lord, Faile, and that's that. I've proven it soundly."

"Odd," she said, "but I've been speaking to the others and they tell a different story. They say that you kept Arganda contained and put out flare-ups in the camp. Then there's the alliance with the Seanchan. The more I learn of that, the more impressed I am. You acted decisively in a time of great uncertainty. You focused everyone's efforts, and you accomplished the impossible in taking Malden. Those are the actions of a leader."

"Faile," he said, suppressing a growl. Why wouldn't she listen? When she'd been a captive nothing had mattered to him but recovering her. Nothing! It didn't matter who had needed his help or what orders he'd been given. Tarmon Gai'don itself could have started and he'd have ignored it in order to find Faile. He recognized now how dangerous his actions had been. Trouble was, he'd take those same actions again. He didn't regret what he'd done, not for a moment. A leader couldn't be like that. He never should have let them raise that wolf head banner in the first place. Now that he'd completed his tasks, now that Faile was back, it was time to put all of that foolishness behind him. Perrin was a blacksmith. It didn't matter what Faile dressed him in or what titles people gave him. You couldn't make a drawknife into a horseshoe by painting it, or by calling it something different.

He turned to the side, where Jori Congar rode before the column, that blasted red wolf head banner flapping proudly from a pole taller than a cavalryman's lance. Perrin opened his mouth to shout for him to take it down, but Faile spoke suddenly.

"Yes, indeed," she said musingly. "I've been thinking on this for the last few weeks and, odd though it seems, I believe my captivity may have been precisely what we needed. Both of us." What? Perrin turned to her, smelling her thoughtfulness. She believed what she'd said. "Now," Faile said, "we need to speak of–"

"Scouts returning," he said, perhaps more abruptly than he intended. "Aiel up ahead." Faile glanced as he pointed, but, of course, she couldn't see anything yet. She knew of his eyes, though. She was one of the few that did. The call went up as others noticed the three figures in cadin'sor approaching alongside the road, the ones Perrin had sent to scout. Two Maidens hurried for the Wise Ones, and one loped up to Perrin.

"There is something beside the road, Perrin Aybara," the woman said. She smelled concerned. That was a dangerous sign. "It is something that you will wish to see."

-----------------

Galad woke to the sound of a tent flap rustling. Sharp pains burned at his side where he had been repeatedly kicked. They matched the duller aches on his shoulder, left arm, and thigh, where he'd been wounded by Valda. His pounding headache was almost strong enough to drown out all else. He groaned, rolling onto his back. All was dark around him, but pinprick lights shone in the sky. Stars? It had been overcast for so long. No. Something was wrong about them. His head pulsed with pain, and he blinked tears from the corners of his eyes. Those stars looked so faint, so distant. They made no familiar patterns. Where could Asunawa have taken him that the very stars were different?  As his mind cleared he began to make out his surroundings.

This was a heavy sleeping tent constructed to be dark during the daylight hours. The lights above weren't stars at all, but sunlight through the occasional pinholes of wear in the canvas. He was still naked, and with tentative fingers he determined that there was dried blood on his face. It had come from a long gash in his forehead. If he didn't wash it soon, infection was likely.

He lay on his back, breathing in and out with care. If he took in too much air at once, his side screamed. Galad did not fear death or pain. He had made the right choices. It was unfortunate that he'd needed to leave the Questioners in charge; they were controlled by the Seanchan. However, there had been no other option. Not after he'd walked into Asunawa's hands. Galad felt no anger at the scouts who had betrayed him; the Questioners were a valid source of authority in the Children, and their lies had no doubt been convincing. No, the one he was angry at was Asunawa, who took what was true and muddied it. There were many who did that in the world, but the Children should be different.

Soon the Questioners would come for him, and then the true price for saving his men would be exacted with their hooks and knives. He had been aware of that price when he'd made his decision. In a way, he had won, for he had manipulated the situation best. The other way to ensure his victory was to hold to the truth under their questioning, to deny being a Darkfriend with his final breath. It would be difficult, but it would be right.

He forced himself to sit up, expecting and weathering the dizziness and nausea. He felt around. His legs were chained together, and that chain was locked to a spike that had been driven deep into the earth, piercing the rough canvas tent bottom. He tried yanking it free, just in case. He pulled so hard that his muscles failed him and he nearly passed out. Once he had recovered, he crawled to the side of the tent. His chains gave him enough room to reach the flaps. He took one of the cloth ties, used to hold the flaps up when they were open, and spat on it, then methodically he wiped the grime and blood from his face. The cleaning gave him a goal, kept him moving and stopped him from thinking about the pain. He carefully scrubbed the crusted blood from his cheek and nose. It was difficult. His mouth was dry. He bit down on his tongue to get saliva.

The strips were not canvas but a lighter material. They smelled of dust. He spat on a fresh section, then worked the spittle into the cloth. The wound to his head, the dirt on his face; these things were marks of victory for the Questioners. He would not leave them. He would go under their tortures with a clean face.

He heard shouts outside, men preparing to break down the camp. Would that delay their questioning? He doubted it. Striking camp could take hours.

Galad continued cleaning, soiling the lengths of both straps, using the work as a kind of ritual, a rhythmic pattern to give him a focus for meditation. His headache withdrew, the pains of his body becoming less significant. He would not run. Even if he could escape, fleeing would invalidate his bargain with Asunawa. But he would face his enemies with self-respect.

As he finished, he heard voices outside the tent. They were coming for him. He scrabbled quietly back to the stake in the ground. Taking a deep breath despite the pain, he rolled onto his knees. Then he took the top of the iron spike in his left hand and pushed, heaving himself to his feet. He wobbled, then steadied himself, standing up all the way. His pains were nothing now. He had felt insect bites that were worse. He put his feet wide in a warrior's stance, his hands held before himself with his wrists crossed. He opened his eyes, back straight, staring at the tent flaps. It wasn't the cloak, the uniform, the heraldry, or the sword that made a man; it was the way he held himself.

The flaps rustled, then drew open. The outside light was brilliant to Galad's eyes, but he did not blink. He did not flinch. Silhouettes moved against an overcast sky. They hesitated, backlit. He could tell they were surprised to see him standing there.

"Light!" one exclaimed. "Damodred, how is it that you're awake?" Unexpectedly, the voice was familiar.

"Trom?" Galad asked, his voice ragged. Men spilled into the room. As his eyes adjusted, Galad made out stocky Trom, along with Bornhald and Byar. Trom fumbled with a set of keys.

"Stop," Galad said. "I gave orders to you three. Bornhald, there is blood on your cloak. I commanded you not to try to free me."

"Your men obeyed your orders, Damodred," a new voice said. Galad looked up to see three men entering the room. Lord Berad Golliver (??), tall and bearded. Lord Alabar Harnish (?), his bald, shadowed head missing its left ear. Lord Brandel Vordarian (?), a blond hulk of a man from Galad's native Andor. All three Lords Captain of a legion; all three men who had stood with Asunawa.

"What is this?" Galad asked them.

Harnish opened a sack and dumped something bulbous to the ground in front of Galad. A head. Asunawa's. All three men drew swords and knelt before him, the points of their weapons stabbing the canvas. Trom unlocked the manacles at Galad's feet.

"I see," Galad said. "You have turned your swords on fellow Children."

"What would you have had us do?" Brandel asked, looking up from his kneeling position.

Galad shook his head. "I do not know. Perhaps you are right. I should not chide you on this choice. It may have been the only one you could have made. But why did you change your minds?"

"We have lost two Lords Captain Commander in under half a year," Harnish said in a gruff voice. "The Fortress of the Light has become a playground for the Seanchan. The world is in chaos."

"And yet," Golliver said, "Asunawa marched us all the way out here to have us battle our fellow Children. It was not right, Damodred. We all saw how you presented yourself. We all saw how you stopped us from killing one another. Faced with that, and with the High Inquisitor naming as a Darkfriend a man we all know to be honorable, well, how could we not turn against him?"

Galad nodded. "You accept me as Lord Captain Commander?"

The three men bowed their heads. "All the Lords Captain are for you," Golliver said. "We were forced to kill a third of those who wore the red shepherd's crook of the Hand of the Light. Some others united with us. Some tried to flee. The Amadicians did not interfere, and many have said they'd rather join with us than return to the Seanchan. We have the other Amadicians and the Questioners who tried to run held at swordpoint."

"Let free those who wish to leave," Galad said. "They may return to their families and their masters. By the time they reach the Seanchan, we will be beyond their grasp."

The men nodded. "I accept your allegiance," Galad said. "Gather the other Lords Captain and fetch me supply reports. Strike camp. We march for Andor."

None of them asked if he needed rest, though Trom did look worried. Galad accepted the white robe a Child brought in to him, and then sat in a proffered chair as another, Child Candiar (?), a man expert in wounds, entered to inspect his injuries. Galad didn't feel wise or strong enough to bear the title he did, but the Children had made their decision. The Light would protect them for it.

- Bela survives!
- Бэла живее всех живых!

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.

Eastward the wind blew, descending from lofty mountains and coursing over desolate hills, it passed a place known as the Westwood, an area that once flourished with pine and leatherleaf. Here, the wind found little more than tangled underbrush, thick save for an occasional towering oak. Those looked stricken by disease, bark peeling free, branches drooping. Elsewhere needles had fallen from pines, draping the ground in a brown blanket. None of the skeletal branches in the Westwood put forth buds.

Northward and eastward the wind blew, across underbrush that crunched and crackled as it shook. It was night, and scrawny foxes picked over the rotting ground, searching in vain for prey or carrion. No spring birds had come to call, and it was telling that the howls of wolves had gone silent across the land.

The wind blew out of the forest and across Taren Ferry—what was left of it. The town had been a fine one, by local standards. Dark buildings, tall above their redstone foundations, the cobbled streets built at the mouth of the land known as the Two Rivers. The smoke had long since stopped rising from burned buildings, but there was little left of the town to rebuild. Feral dogs hunted through the rubble for meat; they looked up as the wind passed, their eyes hungry.

The wind crossed the river eastward, near clusters of refugees carrying torches aloft along the road from Baerlon to Whitebridge despite the late hour. They were sorry groups, with heads bowed, shoulders huddled. Some bore the coppery skin of Domani, their work clothing displayed the hardships of crossing the mountains with little in the way of supplies. Others came from farther off. Taraboners with haunted eyes and dirty veils. Farmers and their wives from Northern Ghealdan. All had heard the rumours that in Andor there was food, in Andor there was hope, but so far they had yet to find either.

Eastward the wind blew along the river that wove between farms without crops, grasslands without grass, orchards without fruit, abandoned villages, trees like bones with the flesh picked free, ravens often clustered in their branches. Starveling rabbits and sometimes larger game picked through the dead grass underneath. Above it all, the ever-present clouds were pressing down upon the land. Sometimes that cloud cover made it impossible to tell if it was day or night.

As the wind approached the grand city of Caemlyn it turned northward, away from the burning city, orange and red, violent, spewing black smoke toward the hungry clouds above. War had come to Andor in the still of the night. The approaching refugees would soon discover that they had been marching toward danger. It was not surprising; danger was in all directions. The only way to avoid walking toward it would be to stand still.

As the wind blew northward, it passed people sitting beside roads, alone or in small groups, staring with eyes of hopelessness. Some lay as they hungered, looking up at those rumbling, boiling clouds. Other people trekked onward, toward what, they knew not. The Last Battle—to the north, whatever that meant. The Last Battle was not hope. The Last Battle was death. But it was a place to be, a place to go.

In the evening dimness, the wind reached a large gathering far north of Caemlyn. This wide field broke the forest-patched landscape, but it was overgrown with tents, like fungi on a decaying log. Tens of thousands of soldiers waited beside campfires, and were quickly denuding the area of timber. The wind blew among them, whipping smoke from fires from the faces of soldiers. The people here didn’t display the same sense of hopelessness as the refugees, but there was a dread to them. They could see the sickened land; they could feel the clouds above. They knew the world was dying.

The soldiers stared at the flames, watching the wood be consumed. Ember by ember, what had once been alive instead turned to dust. A company of men inspected armor that had begun to rust despite being well-oiled. A group of white-robed Aiel gathered water, former warriors who refused to take up weapons again despite their toh having been served. A cluster of frightened servants, sure that tomorrow would bring war between the White Tower and the Dragon Reborn, organized stores within [?] tents shaken by the wind. Men and women whispered the truth into the night: “The end has come. The end has come. All will fail. The end has come.”

Laughter broke the air. Warm light spilled from the large tent at the center of the camp, bursting around the tentflap and from beneath the sides. Inside that tent, Rand al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn, laughed, head thrown back.

“So what did you do?” Rand asked when his laughter subsided. He poured himself a cup of red wine, the other one for Perrin, who blushed at the question. He’s become harder, Rand thought, but somehow he hasn’t lost that innocence of his, not completely. To Rand that was a marvelous thing. A wonder, like a pearl being discovered in a trout. Perrin was strong, but his strength hadn’t broken him.

“Well,” Perrin said. “You know how Marin is. She somehow manages to look—and even sound—as if you were a child who needed mothering. Finding Faile and me on the floor like two fool youths. I think she was torn between laughing at us and sending us to the kitchen to scrub dishes. Separately, to keep us out of trouble.”

Rand smiled, trying to picture it. Perrin—burly, solid. Perrin! So weak he could barely walk. It was an incongruous image. Rand wanted to assume that his friend was exaggerating, but Perrin didn’t have a dishonest hair on his head. Strange how much a man could change while his core remained exactly the same.

“Anyway,” Perrin said, after taking a drink of wine, “Faile picked me up off the floor and set me on my horse, and the two of us pranced about looking important. I didn’t do much, Rand. The fighting was accomplished by the others. I’d have had trouble lifting a cup to my lips.” He stopped, his golden eyes going distant. “You should be proud of them, Rand. Without Dannil here, your father and Mat’s father, without all of them, I wouldn’t have managed half what I did. No, not a tenth.”

“I believe it.” Rand regarded his wine. Lews Therin had loved wine. A part of Rand—that distant part, the memories of the man that he had been—was displeased by the poor vintage. Few grapes in the current world could match the favorite wines of the Age of Legends. He took a small drink, and then set the wine aside. Min still slumbered in another part of the tent, sectioned off with a curtain. Events in Rand’s dreams had awakened him. He had been glad for Perrin’s arrival to distract him from what he had seen.

 «Хорошие отношения», в самом деле. Очень смешно, команда Джордана.

 Блин, не сложилось. Не уверен, что соразмерный ответ всегда на самом деле соразмерный, ребята! Какого фига?!

 Черт, черт, нет, не соглашайся, не соглашайся... ЧЕРТ! Что ж, вот вам и соседство. Зануда ты. (Наверное)

 Я точно слишком давно сижу в Интернете, потому что всё, что мне хочется прокомментировать и чему поудивляться, совсем не подходит для приличной компании. Вы все будете В ШОКЕ! Стоп, о чем это я, ведь большинство из вас в интернете не меньше моего, и с вами всё так же безнадежно. Забейте.

 Ха, так уверены в этой теории, да? Ну, вы были в этом не одиноки. Нате вам!

 Его карман? Правда?

 И вот тут я поперхнулась в первый раз. Чую, не в последний.

 ЧЕРТОВСКИ ПРЯМО, ЧУВАК! Спасибо тебе!

 Онц, а вот тут я поперхнулась во второй раз.

 Ух. Это становится больше похоже на правду, да.

 Ого, а я совсем забыла, что _____ на самом деле не знал про это. И да, чувак, твой расчет времени совсем хреновый. Тьфу!

 И вот я поперхнулась в третий раз – и как раз во время битвы!

 О Господи, они такие СТРАННЫЕ. Понятия не имею, что и думать об их отношениях. Но ведь и они, судя по всему, особо об этом не думают, так что... всё нормально, так?

 Еханый бабай, ВЫБРОСИ ЭТО НЕМЕДЛЕННО, ПРИДУРОК ЧТО ЛИ???!!!! Мда, глупый вопрос.

 *хлопает глазами* Мда, будь я проклята. Упомянули дважды! Не могу понять, это подачка, чтобы я заткнулась, или кивок в указание на то, что я права, или и то, и другое, но пофиг, ибо офигенно.  Больше похоже на то, конечно, что это вообще ко мне не относится, и вообще абсолютно не про это, но пофиг, потому что спасибо. Приятненько.

 АХХАХАХА! Это на случай, если еще остались настаивающие на этом тролли, да?

 О господи, НУ НАКОНЕЦ-ТО! И вообще, если кто-то ставил деньги на это, он сейчас возьмет куш. Не я, но это потому что я вообще не бралась гадать.

 Эй, ты чего, не понимаешь, что ослепнешь, если сделаешь так? Хе-хе.

 Ух. Это тот/та, кто я думаю? Офигеть.

 Что? Вы шутите? Это самое УЖАСНОЕ имя! Фу! Я против! Я топаю ногами на ваши ужасные обзывательства именами. Беее.

 Выучила новое слово – абатис. И еще это ой.

 Что ж, это было не напряжение вовсе. И еще: ПРОПОВЕДУЙ ИМ, СЕСТРА!

 ЧТООООО? Это не может быть правдой, да? (позже) Ладно, я права, что это неправда, но это всё равно ужас! Беее!

 Это один из тех моментов в повествовании, когда на ум приходит только одна фраза, и это фраза «Вот дерьмо!»

 Эй, это НЕ КРУТО. ЗАЧЕЕЕЕЕЕМ так тупить, ну правда?

 А, черт. Ладно, одно пророчество исполнилось.

 Ха-ха-ха, правда что ли? Весело. Кажется, это мухлеж. Да тут даже без «кажется», самый натуральный мухлеж, но он офигенен в своей показушности. И вообще. Офигенно.

 *с круглыми глазами* Вот это надо видеть. Чееееееерт...

 Что ж, вот вам и прилетевший из ниоткуда тапок. Не знаю, радоваться или сердиться. (позже). О, мда, ладно, всё окей. Повезло вам!

 Святой Закон Сохранения Персонажей, Бэтмен! Когда ____ у нас последний раз появлялся, в Великой Охоте? Хех.

 Офигеть, они прекрасны. И это беспокоит. Это должно беспокоить! С чего бы быть иначе? ХВАТИТЬ БЫТЬ ТАКИМИ НЯШАМИ ПРОКЛЯТЬЕ ВЫ МЕНЯ СМУЩАЕТЕ!!!

 О да, чувак, а чего ты ожидал? Это не просто прийти на перестрелку с ножом, это прийти с ножом на Вселенскую Термоядерную Войну. Фу. И вообще, блин, это хреново.

 Ну, это..  это еще более хреново. Совсем. Ого.

 И это тоже хреново! Видать, я дошла до места, где всё хреново, совсем.

 О да, всё налаживается. (позже) А вот и нифига от слова совсем. Яжговорила.

 Не ожидала я ТАКОГО исполнения пророчества. Офигенно.

 Ох ты ж блин.  А теперь всё может и пойти на лад! (позже) Ох ты ж... Забейте. Типа.

 АХАХАХАХА. Это как Alias, только без синего латексного платья. И без присмотра правительства, И с магией еще. Ладно, это вообще не похоже на Alias, но всё равно забавно.

 Ладно, это ДИКО, что после всего этого я поперхнулась в четвертый раз, но... но... НЕЕЕЕЕЕТ! Нечестно! Плакию.

 И это не стало местом, где я поперхнулась в пятый раз, потому что это место, где я реву. Черт, черт.
 
  Ух ты, прекрасно. Это прекрасно.

 Боюсь, вам придется представить, как я сейчас чего-то тараторю вам, потому что я не могу выразить словами мою реакцию на это откровение. Да и вообще на всю эту сцену, но на этот кусок особенно. Я едва не билась головой апстол, если бы это не было так дьявольски умно. Как может быть кто-то так офигенен и при этом так меня бесить? Офигеть!

 НИ ЗА ЧТО! БЛИН! Пардон, ни слова больше. И вообще, как я не замечала, что это грядет? Она знала, чем всё кончится!

 О да. А я всё ждала, когда они появятся. Не то чтобы я шибко беспокоилась из-за их присутствия, конечно.

 *ржот и бьется головой* Охосспади, это охрененно. И сейчас наверняка кто-то скажет «А, так это всё же относилось к делу, не так ли?» Туше, команда Джордана, туше.

 Еханый бабай, да это черт из табакерки! И с ним куча и куча смертей! Офигенно!

 БЛИН, МЫ ВСЕ ЗНАЛИ, ЧТО ЭТО БУДЕТ. Но к счастью, совсем не так, как мы типа ожидали. И вправду хорошо разделилось таким образом, правда? Отличная работа.

Демандред

Brandon Sanderson: If you haven't heard about UNFETTERED before, here's a bit of an introduction. When I was on tour probably for THE ALLOY OF LAW, Shawn Speakman (webmaster for Terry Brooks and Naomi Novik, and who also runs the booksigning service The Signed Page), approached me about an anthology he was putting together (at the suggestion of Terry Brooks) to help defray Shawn's medical bills stemming from his 2011 diagnosis with Hodgkin's lymphoma. Shawn has been a friend and supporter to the careers of a lot of writers, so I was interested in helping out. The question was what to contribute to the anthology. The title Shawn gave it was UNFETTERED, because he didn't want to put any restrictions on whatever the authors wanted to contribute.

When I was writing A MEMORY OF LIGHT, there was a sequence of viewpoints I was working on that were somewhat more daring than some other viewpoints I had done. The character I'm talking about is known as Bao in the book, and if you've read it you'll know who that is. I wanted to try to give some deeper backstory to Bao, but after I showed the scenes to Harriet, though we all liked them, we decided they they didn't fit in the book. Harriet felt that these scenes were distracting and derailing the narrative too close to what was to be the climax of the entire series, because of the new elements I was adding and fleshing out. So after some discussion, we decided that they should be cut.

Though I saw the need for this, the fact that this was necessary left me feeling kind of sad. I felt the scenes were strong and added a lot to the character, giving a lot of extra motivation and poignancy to some of the things going on in A MEMORY OF LIGHT. So when the opportunity for Shawn's anthology came along, I began to think this would be the place for them. I approached Harriet, and she said that was a good idea.

The result is "River of Souls," labeled as a Wheel of Time tale by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson. Since it's actually a sequence of deleted scenes, it's meant to be read as a companion to your read of A MEMORY OF LIGHT. It's not going to make a whole lot of sense if you haven't read at least the rest of the Wheel of Time, but it's a complete arc and I find it very exciting. I think you'll really like it, and I think this anthology is a good place for these scenes because they won't be distracting from the rest of the story.

UNFETTERED also has stories from lots of other wonderful writers in it. I'm honored to have a story in there, to be alongside the names that appear in this anthology. It's great to see so many people pulling together to support someone in the community, and I wish Shawn the best.

http://flibusta.is/a/2884