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Authors: Robert Silverberg

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BOOK: Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy
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Then he passed out.
 
B
orric said, “She helped him kill her father and the rest?”
“I don’t think so, sir.” Sadly Dirk said, “I think Drogen tricked her, convinced her to elope with him to gain the secret of where her father’s gold was. She was an innocent girl and he was a rake known to have wooed many women. If he killed everyone without awakening her, then bundled her up in those furs and carried her straight to the sled, she wouldn’t have seen. Once away from the Free Cities, she might never have known.” He looked as if he was about to cry, but held his tone steady as he said, “She fell upon me in a fright, and without knowing what had occurred at home. Else she wouldn’t have been so frantic over Drogen’s death, I’m certain. Her death was an accident, but it was all my fault.”
“There was no fault in you, lad. It was, as you say, an accident.” After a moment, Borric nodded. “Yes, it’s better to think of it that way. Lad, why did you come here?”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I thought if Drogen planned on coming this way, I would, too. I knew the Tsurani would take my master’s gold and hang me as likely as not … it was all I could think of.”
“You did well,” said Borric softly.
Dirk put the cup down and said, “That was good. Thank you, sir.” He moved and winced.
“You’re hurt?”
“I bound the wounds as best I could, sir.”
Borric called for an orderly and instructed him to take the boy to the healers’ tent and have the wound treated.
After Dirk had left, the captain said, “That was quite a story, Your Grace.”
Borric agreed. “The boy has special courage.”
“Did the girl know?” asked the Captain.
“Of course she knew,” said Borric. “I knew Paul of White Hill; I’ve done enough business with him through my agent in Bordon, Talbot Kilrane. I’ve been to his home, and he’s been to Crydee.
“And I knew the daughter.” Borric sighed, as if what he thought tired him. “She’s the same age as my Carline. And they’re as different as two children could be. Anika was born scheming.” Borric sighed. “I have no doubt she planned this, though we’ll never know if she anticipated all the murders; she may have only suggested to the bodyguard they steal the gold and flee. With her father behind Tsurani lines and all that gold in her possession … she could have cut quite a social figure for herself back in Krondor or even in Rillanon. She easily could have disposed of the bodyguard—he clearly couldn’t admit to anyone his part in this, could he? And if word of the killings reached us, we would assume the Tsurani murdered the household on some pretext.” Borric was silent. Then he said, “In my bones I know the girl was the one behind all this … but we’ll never know, for certain, will we?”
“No, Your Grace,” agreed the captain. “What of the bodies?”
“Bury them. We have no means to return the girl to her family in Walinor.”
The captain said, “I’ll detail men to the digging. It’ll take a while to dig through the frozen ground.” He then asked, “And the gold?”
Borric said, “It’s confiscated. The Tsurani would have taken it anyway, and we’ve an army to feed. Send it under guard to Brucal in LaMut.” He paused a moment, then said, “Send the boy, too. I’ll pen a note to Brucal asking the boy be found some service there at headquarters. He’s a resourceful lad and as he said, he has nowhere else to go.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
As the captain turned to go, Borric said, “And Captain.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Keep what I said to yourself. The boy doesn’t need to know.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” said the captain as he departed.
Borric sat forward and tried to return his attention to the business at hand, but he found his mind returning to the boy’s story. He tried to imagine what Dirk had felt, alone, armed only with the kitchen knife, and afraid. He had been a trained warrior for most of his life,
but he remembered what it was to be uncertain. He recognized the boy’s act for what it had been, an unusual and rare act of heroism. The image of a lovestruck, frightened boy trudging through the snow at night to confront a murderer and rescue a damsel lingered with the Duke, and he decided it was best that the boy be left with that one shred of illusion about the girl. He had earned that much, at least.
ROBERT JORDAN
THE EYE OF THE WORLD (1990)
THE GREAT HUNT (1990)
THE DRAGON REBORN (1991)
THE SHADOW RISING (1992)
THE FIRES OF HEAVEN (1993)
LORD OF CHAOS (1994)
A CROWN OF SWORDS (1996)
 
 
 
 
 
The world of Robert Jordan’s
The Wheel of Time
lies both in our future and our past, a world of kings and queens and Aes Sedai, women who can tap the True Source and wield the One Power, which turns the Wheel and drives the universe: a world where the war between the Light and the Shadow is fought every day.
At the moment of Creation, the Creator bound the Dark One away from the world of humankind, but more than three thousand years ago Aes Sedai, then both men and women, unknowingly bored into that prison outside of time. The Dark One was able to touch the world only lightly, and the hole was eventually sealed over, but the Dark One’s taint settled on
saidin,
the male half of the Power. Eventually every male Aes Sedai went mad, and in the Breaking of the World they destroyed civilization and changed the very face of the earth, sinking mountains beneath the sea and bringing new seas where land had been.
Now only women bear the title Aes Sedai. Commanded by their Amyrlin Seat and divided into seven Ajahs named by color, they rule the great island city of Tar Valon, where their White Tower is located, and are bound by the Three Oaths, fixed into their bones with
saidar,
the female half of the Power: To speak no word that is not true, to make no weapon for one man to kill another, and never to use the One Power except as a weapon against Shadowspawn or in the last
extreme of defending her own life, or that of her Warder or another sister.
Men still are born who can learn to channel the Power, or worse, who will channel one day whether they try to or not. Doomed to madness, destruction, and death by the taint on
saidin,
they are hunted down by Aes Sedai and gentled, cut off forever from the Power for the safety of the world. No man goes to this willingly. Even if they survive the hunt, they seldom survive long after gentling.
For more than three thousand years, while nations and empires rose and fell, nothing has been so feared as a man who can channel. But for all those three thousand years there have been the Prophecies of the Dragon, that the seals on the Dark One’s prison will weaken and he will touch the world once more, and that the Dragon, who sealed up that hole, will be Reborn to face the Dark One again. A child, born in sight of Tar Valon on the slopes of Dragonmount, will grow up to be the Dragon Reborn, the only hope of humanity in the Last Battle—a man who can channel. Few people know more than scraps of the Prophecies, and few want to know more.
A world of kings and queens, nations and wars, where the White Tower rules only Tar Valon but even kings and queens are wary of Aes Sedai machinations. A world where the Shadow and the Prophecies loom together.
The present story takes place before the first volume of the series. The succeeding books should be read in order.
ROBERT JORDAN
The air of Kandor held the sharpness of new spring when Lan returned to the lands where he had always known he would die. Trees bore the first red of new growth, and a few scattered wildflowers dotted winter-brown grass where shadows did not cling to patches of snow, yet the pale sun offered little warmth after the south, a gusting breeze cut through his coat, and gray clouds hinted at more than rain. He was almost home. Almost.
A hundred generations had beaten the wide road nearly as hard as the stone of the surrounding hills, and little dust rose, though a steady stream of ox-carts was leaving the morning farmers’ markets in Canluum and merchant trains of tall wagons, surrounded by mounted guards in steel caps and bits of armor, flowed toward the city’s high gray walls. Here and there the chains of the Kandori merchants’ guild spanned a chest or an Arafellin wore bells, a ruby decorated this man’s ear, a pearl brooch that woman’s breast, but for the most part the traders’ clothes were as subdued as their manner. A merchant who flaunted too much profit discovered it hard to find bargains. By contrast, farmers showed off their success when they came to town. Bright embroidery decorated the striding country men’s baggy breeches, the women’s wide trousers, their cloaks fluttering in the wind. Some wore colored ribbons in their hair, or a narrow fur collar. They might have been dressed for the coming Bel Tine dances and feasting. Yet country
folk eyed strangers as warily as any guard, eyed them and hefted spears or axes and hurried along. The times carried an edge in Kandor, maybe all along the Borderlands. Bandits had sprung up like weeds this past year, and more troubles than usual out of the Blight. Rumor even spoke of a man who channeled the One Power, but then, rumor often did.
Leading his horse toward Canluum, Lan paid as little attention to the stares he and his companion attracted as he did to Bukama’s scowls and carping. Bukama had raised him from the cradle, Bukama and other men now dead, and he could not recall seeing anything but a glower on that weathered face, even when Bukama spoke praise. This time his mutters were for a stone-bruised hoof that had him afoot, but he could always find something.
They did attract attention, two very tall men walking their mounts and a packhorse with a pair of tattered wicker hampers, their plain clothes worn and travel-stained. Their harness and weapons were well tended, though. A young man and an old, hair hanging to their shoulders and held back by a braided leather cord around the temples. The
hadori
drew eyes. Especially here in the Borderlands, where people had some idea what it meant.
“Fools,” Bukama grumbled. “Do they think we’re bandits? Do they think we mean to rob the lot of them, at midday on the high road?” He glared and shifted the sword at his hip in a way that brought considering stares from a number of merchants’ guards. A stout farmer prodded his ox wide of them.
Lan kept silent. A certain reputation clung to Malkieri who still wore the
hadori,
though not for banditry, but reminding Bukama would only send him into a black humor for days. His mutters shifted to the chances of a decent bed that night, of a decent meal before. Bukama seldom complained when there actually was no bed or no food, only about prospects and the inconsequential. He expected little, and trusted to less.
Neither food nor lodging entered Lan’s thoughts, despite the distance they had traveled. His head kept swinging north. He remained aware of everyone around him, especially those who glanced his way more than once, aware of the jingle of harness and the creak of saddles, the clop of hooves, the snap of wagon canvas loose on its hoops. Any sound out of place would shout at him. That had been the first lesson
Bukama and his friends had imparted in his childhood: Be aware of everything, even when asleep. Only the dead could afford oblivion. Lan remained aware, but the Blight lay north. Still miles away across the hills, yet he could feel it, feel the twisted corruption.
Just his imagination, but no less real for that. It had pulled at him in the south, in Cairhien and Andor, even in Tear, almost five hundred leagues distant. Two years away from the Borderlands, his personal war abandoned for another, and every day the tug grew stronger. The Blight meant death to most men. Death and the Shadow, a rotting land tainted by the Dark One’s breath, where anything at all could kill. Two tosses of a coin had decided where to begin anew. Four nations bordered the Blight, but his war covered the length of it, from the Aryth Ocean to the Spine of the World. One place to meet death was as good as another. He was almost home. Almost back to the Blight.
A drymoat surrounded Canluum’s wall, fifty paces wide and ten deep, spanned by five broad stone bridges with towers at either end as tall as those that lined the wall itself. Raids out of the Blight by Trollocs and Myrddraal often struck much deeper into Kandor than Canluum, but none had ever made it inside the city’s wall. The Red Stag waved above every tower. A proud man was Lord Varan, the High Seat of House Marcasiev; Queen Ethenielle did not fly so many of her own banners even in Chachin itself.
The guards at the outer towers, in helmets with Varan’s antlered crest and the Red Stag on their chests, peered into the backs of wagons before allowing them to trundle onto the bridge, or occasionally motioned someone to push a hood further back. No more than a gesture was necessary; the law in every Borderland forbade hiding your face inside village or town, and no one wanted to be mistaken for one of the Eyeless trying to sneak into the city. Hard gazes followed Lan and Bukama onto the bridge. Their faces were clearly visible. And their
hadori.
No recognition lit any of those watching eyes, though. Two years was a long time in the Borderlands. A great many men could die in two years.
Lan noticed that Bukama had gone silent, always a bad sign, and cautioned him. “I never start trouble,” the older man snapped, but he did stop fingering his sword hilt.
The guards on the wall above the open iron-plated gates and those on the bridge wore only back- and breast-plates for armor, yet they
were no less watchful, especially of a pair of Malkieri with their hair tied back. Bukama’s mouth grew tighter at every step.
“Al‘Lan Mandragoran! The Light preserve us, we heard you were dead fighting the Aiel at the Shining Walls!” The exclamation came from a young guard, taller than the rest, almost as tall as Lan. Young, perhaps a year or two less than he, yet the gap seemed ten years. A lifetime. The guard bowed deeply, left hand on his knee.
“Tai’shar Malkier!”
True blood of Malkier. “I stand ready, Majesty.”
“I am not a king,” Lan said quietly. Malkier was dead. Only the war still lived. In him, at least.
Bukama was not quiet. “You stand ready for
what,
boy?” The heel of his bare hand struck the guard’s breastplate right over the Red Stag, driving the man upright and back a step. “You cut your hair short and leave it unbound!” Bukama spat the words. “You’re sworn to a Kandori lord! By what right do you claim to be Malkieri?”
The young man’s face reddened as he floundered for answers. Other guards started toward the pair, then halted when Lan let his reins fall. Only that, but they knew his name, now. They eyed his bay stallion, standing still and alert behind him, almost as cautiously as they did him. A warhorse was a formidable weapon, and they could not know Cat Dancer was only half-trained yet.
Space opened up as people already through the gates hurried a little distance before turning to watch, while those still on the bridge pressed back. Shouts rose in both directions from people wanting to know what was holding traffic. Bukama ignored it all, intent on the red-faced guard. He had not dropped the reins of the packhorse or his yellow roan gelding.
An officer appeared from the stone guardhouse inside the gates, crested helmet under his arm, but one hand in a steel-backed gauntlet resting on his sword hilt. A bluff, graying man with white scars on his face, Alin Seroku had soldiered forty years along the Blight, yet his eyes widened slightly at the sight of Lan. Plainly he had heard the tales of Lan’s death, too.
“The Light shine upon you, Lord Mandragoran. The son of el‘Leanna and al’Akir, blessed be their memories, is always welcome.” Seroku’s eyes flickered toward Bukama, not in welcome. He planted his feet in the middle of the gateway. Five horsemen could have passed easily on either side, but he meant himself for a bar, and he was. None
of the guards shifted a boot, yet every one had hand on sword hilt. All but the young man meeting Bukama’s glares with his own. “Lord Marcasiev has commanded us to keep the peace strictly,” Seroku went on, half in apology. But no more than half. “The city is on edge. All these tales of a man channeling are bad enough, but there have been murders in the street this last month and more, in broad daylight, and strange accidents. People whisper about Shadowspawn loose inside the walls.”
Lan gave a slight nod. With the Blight so close, people always muttered of Shadowspawn when they had no other explanation, whether for a sudden death or unexpected crop failure. He did not take up Cat Dancer’s reins, though. “We intend to rest here a few days before riding north.”
For a moment he thought Seroku was surprised. Did the man expect pledges to keep the peace, or apologies for Bukama’s behavior? Either would shame Bukama, now. A pity if the war ended here. Lan did not want to die killing Kandori.
His old friend turned from the young guard, who stood quivering, fists clenched at his sides. “All fault here is mine,” Bukama announced to the air in a flat voice. “I had no call for what I did. By my mother’s name, I will keep Lord Marcasiev’s peace. By my mother’s name, I will not draw sword inside Canluum’s walls.” Seroku’s jaw dropped, and Lan hid his own shock with difficulty.
Hesitating only a moment, the scar-faced officer stepped aside, bowing and touching sword hilt, then heart. “There is always welcome for Lan Mandragoran Dai Shan,” he said formally. “And for Bukama Marenellin, the hero of Salmarna. May you both know peace, one day.”
“There is peace in the mother’s last embrace,” Lan responded with equal formality, touching hilt and heart.
“May she welcome us home, one day,” Seroku finished. No one really wished for the grave, but that was the only place to find peace in the Borderlands.
Face like iron, Bukama strode ahead pulling Sun Lance and the packhorse after him, not waiting for Lan. This was not well.
Canluum was a city of stone and brick, its paved streets twisting around tall hills. The Aiel invasion had never reached the Borderlands, but the ripples of war always diminished trade a long way from any battles, and now that fighting and winter were both finished, the city
had filled with people from every land. Despite the Blight practically on the city’s doorstep, gemstones mined in the surrounding hills made Canluum wealthy. And, strangely enough, some of the finest clockmakers anywhere. The cries of hawkers and shopkeepers shouting their wares rose above the hum of the crowd even away from the terraced market squares. Colorfully dressed musicians, or jugglers, or tumblers performed at every intersection. A handful of lacquered carriages swayed through the mass of people and wagons and carts and barrows, and horses with gold- or silver-mounted saddles and bridles picked their way through the throng, their riders’ garb embroidered as ornately as the animals’ tack and trimmed with fox or marten or ermine. Hardly a foot of street was left bare anywhere. Lan even saw several Aes Sedai, women with serene, ageless faces. Enough people recognized them on sight that they created eddies in the crowd, swirls to clear a way. Respect or caution, awe or fear, there were sufficient reasons for a king to step aside for a sister. Once you might have gone a year without seeing an Aes Sedai even in the Borderlands, but the sisters seemed to be everywhere since their old Amyrlin Seat died a few months earlier. Maybe it was those tales of a man channeling; they would not let him run free long, if he existed. Lan kept his eyes away from them. The
hadori
could be enough to attract the interest of a sister seeking a Warder.
Shockingly, lace veils covered many women’s faces. Thin lace, sheer enough to reveal that they had eyes, and no one had ever heard of a female Myrddraal, but Lan had never expected law to yield to mere fashion. Next they would take down the oil lamps lining the streets and let the nights grow black. Even more shocking than the veils, Bukama looked right at some of those women and did not open his mouth. Then a jut-nosed man named Nazar Kurenin rode in front of Bukama’s eyes, and he did not blink. The young guard surely had been born after the Blight swallowed Malkier, but Kurenin, his hair cut short and wearing a forked beard, was twice Lan’s age. The years had not erased the marks of his
hadori
completely. There were many like Kurenin, and the sight of him should have set Bukama spluttering. Lan eyed his friend worriedly.
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