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.

---

"You disagree?" Perrin asked.

"No, my Lord," he said. "The 'objects' the Shaido were given are very suspect, by my estimation. The Aiel were duped, though for what reason, I cannot yet fathom. However, if we had more time to search the city. ..."

Light! Was every person in the camp going to ask him for something they knew they couldn't have? He got down on the ground to check the back of the wheel hub. Something about it bothered him. "We already know that the Forsaken oppose us, Balwer. They won't rightly welcome Rand in with open arms to seal them away again, or whatever it is he's going to do."

Blasted colors, showing Rand in his mind's eye! He pushed those away again. They appeared whenever he thought of Rand or Mat, bringing visions of them.

"Anyway," Perrin continued, "I don't see what you need me to do. We'll take the Shaido gai'shain with us. The Maidens captured their fair share. You can interrogate them. But we're leaving this place."

"Yes, my Lord," Balwer said. "It's just a shame we lost those Wise Ones. My experience has been that they are those among the Aiel with the most. . . understanding."

"The Seanchan wanted them," Perrin said. "So they got them. I wouldn't let Edarra bully me on the point, and what is done is done. What do you expect of me, Balwer?"

"Perhaps a message could be sent," Balwer said, "to ask some questions of the Wise Ones when they awake. I. . . ." He stopped, then stooped down to glance at Perrin. "My Lord, this is rather distracting. Couldn't we find someone else to inspect the wagons?"

"Everyone else is either too tired or too busy," Perrin said. "I want most of the refugees waiting in the camps to move when we give the marching order. And most of our soldiers are scavenging the city for supplies—each handful of grain they find will be needed. Half the stuff's spoiled anyway. I can't help with that work, since I need to be where people can find me." He'd accepted that, cross though it made him.

"Yes, my Lord," Balwer said. "But surely you can be somewhere accessible without crawling under wagons."

"It's work I can do while people talk to me," Perrin said. "You don't need my hands, just my tongue. And that tongue is telling you to forget the Aiel."

"But—"

"There is nothing more I can do, Balwer," Perrin said firmly, glancing up at him through the spokes of the wheel. "We're heading north. I'm done with the Shaido; they can burn for all I care."

Balwer pursed his thin lips again, and he smelled just slightly of annoyance. "Of course, my Lord," he said, giving a quick bow. Then he withdrew.

Perrin squirmed out and stood up, nodding to a young woman who stood in a dirty dress and worn shoes at the side of the line of wagons. "Go fetch Lyncon," he said. "Tell him to have a look at this wheel hub. I think the bearing's been stripped, and the blasted thing looks ready to roll right off."

The young woman nodded, running away. Lyncon was a master carpenter who had been unfortunate enough to be visiting relatives in Cairhien when the Shaido attacked. He'd had the will beaten nearly out of him. Perhaps he should have been the one to inspect the wagons, but with that haunted look in his eyes, Perrin wasn't sure how far he trusted the man to do a proper inspection. He seemed good enough at fixing problems when they were pointed out to him, though.

And the truth was, as long as Perrin kept moving, he felt he was doing something, making progress. Not thinking about other issues. Wagons were easy to fix. They weren't like people, not at all.

Perrin turned, glancing across the empty camp, pocked with firepits and discarded rags. Faile was walking back toward the city; she'd been organizing some of her followers to scout the area. She was striking.

Beautiful. That beauty wasn't just in her face or her lean figure, it was in how easily she commanded people, how quickly she always knew what to do. She was clever in a way Perrin never had been.

He wasn't stupid; he just liked to think about things. But he'd never been good with people, not like Mat or Rand. Faile had shown him that he didn't need to be good with people, or even with women, as long as he could make one person understand him. He didn't have to be good at talking to anyone else as long as he could talk to her.

But now he couldn't find the words to say. He worried about what had happened to her during her captivity, but the possibilities didn't bother him. They made him angry, but none of what had happened was her fault. You did what you had to to survive. He respected her for her strength.

Light! he thought. I'm thinking again! Need to keep working. "Next!" he bellowed, stooping down to continue his inspection of the wagon.

"If I'd seen your face and nothing else, lad," a hearty voice said, "I'd assume that we'd lost this battle."

Perrin turned with surprise. He hadn't realized that Tarn al'Thor was one of those waiting to speak with him. That crowd had thinned, but there were still some messengers and attendants. At the back, the blocky, solid sheepherder leaned on his quarterstaff as he waited. His hair had all gone to silver. Perrin could remember a time when it had been a deep black. Back when Perrin had just been a boy, before he'd known a hammer or a forge.

Perrin's fingers reached down, touching the hammer at his waist. He'd chosen it over the axe. It had been the right decision, but he'd still lost control of himself in the battle for Maiden. Was that what bothered him?

Or was it how much he'd enjoyed the killing?

"What do you need, Tarn?" he asked.

"I'm only bringing a report, my Lord," Tarn said. "The Two Rivers men are organized for the march, each man with two tents on his back, just in case. We couldn't use water from the city, on account of the forkroot, so I sent some lads to the aqueduct to fill some barrels there. We could use a wagon to bring them back."

"Done," Perrin said, smiling. Finally, someone who did things that were needed without having to ask first! "Tell the Two Rivers men that I intend to have them back home as soon as possible. The moment Grady and Neald are strong enough to make a gateway. That could be a while, though."

"That's appreciated, my Lord," Tam said. It felt so strange for him to use a title. "Can I speak to you alone for a moment, though?"

Perrin nodded, noticing that Lyncon was coming—his limp was distinctive—to look at the wagon. Perrin moved with Tam away from the group of attendants and guards, walking into the shadow of Maiden's wall. Moss grew green against the base of the massive blocks making up the fortification; it was strange that the moss was far brighter than the trampled, muddied weeds under their feet. Nothing but moss seemed green this spring.

"What is it, Tam?" Perrin asked as soon as they were far enough away.

Tam rubbed his face; there was gray stubble coming in. Perrin had pushed his men hard these last few days, and there hadn't been time for shaving. Tam wore a simple blue wool coat, and the thick cloth was probably a welcome shield against the mountain breeze.

"The lads are wondering, Perrin," Tam said, a little less formal now that they were alone. "Did you mean what you said about giving up on Manetheren?"

"Aye," Perrin said. "That banner has been nothing but trouble since it first came out. The Seanchan, and everyone else, might as well know. I'm no king."

"You have a queen who's sworn you as her liege."

He considered Tarn's words, working out the best response. Once that kind of behavior had made people think he was slow of thought. Now people assumed his thoughtfulness meant that Perrin was crafty and keen minded. What a difference a few fancy words in front of your name made!

"I think you're right, in what you did," Tam said, surprisingly. "Calling the Two Rivers Manetheren would not only have antagonized the Seanchan, but the Queen of Andor herself. It would imply that you meant to hold more than just the Two Rivers, that perhaps you wanted to conquer all that Manetheren once held."

Perrin shook his head. "I don't mean to conquer anything, Tam. Light! I don't mean to hold what people say I've got. The sooner that Elayne takes her throne and sends a proper lord out to the Two Rivers, the better. We can be done with all of this Lord Perrin business and things can go back to normal."

"And Queen Alliandre?" Tam asked.

"She can swear to Elayne instead," Perrin said stubbornly. "Or maybe directly to Rand. He seems to like scooping up kingdoms. Like a child playing a game of wobbles."

Tarn smelled concerned. Troubled. Perrin looked away. Things should be simpler. They should be. "What?"

"I just thought you were over this," Tarn said.

"Nothing has changed from the days before Faile was taken," Perrin said. "I still don't like that wolf head banner either. I think maybe it's time to take that one down too."

"The men believe in that banner, Perrin, lad," Tam said quietly. He had a soft way about him, but that made you listen when he spoke. Of course, he also usually spoke sense. "I pulled you aside because I wanted to warn you. If you provide a chance for the lads to return to the Two Rivers, some will go. But not many. I've heard most swear that they'll follow you to Shayol Ghul. They know the Last Battle is coming—who couldn't know that, with all of the signs lately? They don't intend to be left behind." He hesitated. "And neither do I, I reckon." He smelled of determination.

"We'll see," Perrin said, frowning. "We'll see."

He sent Tam off with orders to requisition a wagon and take it for those water barrels. The soldiers would listen; Tam was Perrin's First Captain, though that seemed backward to Perrin. He didn't know much of the man's past, but Tam had fought in the Aiel War, long ago; he'd held a sword before Perrin had been born. And now he followed Perrin's orders.

They all did. And they wanted to keep doing so! Hadn't they learned? He rested back against the wall, not walking back to his attendants, standing in the shadow.

Now that he seized upon it, he realized that was a part of what was bothering him. Not the whole of it, but some, tied in with what was troubling him. Even now that Faile had returned.

He hadn't been a good leader lately. He'd never been a model one, of course, not even when Faile had been there to guide him. But during her absence, he'd been worse. Far worse. He'd ignored his orders from Rand, ignored everything, all to get her back.

But what else was a man supposed to do? His wife had been kidnapped!

He'd saved her. But in doing so, he'd abandoned everyone else. And because of him, men were dead. Good men. Men who had trusted in him.

Standing in that shadow, he remembered a moment—only a day past—when an ally had fallen to Aiel arrows, his heart poisoned by Masema. Aram had been a friend, one that Perrin had discarded in his quest to save Faile. Aram had deserved better.

/ should never have let that Tinker pick up a sword, he thought, but he didn't want to deal with this problem right now. He couldn't. There was too much to do. He moved away from the wall, planning to inspect the last wagon in line.

"Next!" he barked as he began again.

Aravine Carnel stepped forward. The Amadician woman no longer wore her gai'shain robes; instead she had on a simple light green dress, not clean, that had been pulled out of the salvage. She was plump but her face still bore a haggard cast from her days as a captive. There was a determination about her. She was surprisingly good at organization, and Perrin suspected she was of noble heritage. She had the scent of it about her: self-confidence, an ease giving commands. It was a wonder those things had survived her captivity.

As he knelt down to look at the first wheel, he figured it was odd that Faile had chosen Aravine to supervise the refugees. Why not one of the youths from Cha Faile? Those dandies could be annoying, but they'd shown a surprising measure of competence.

"My Lord," Aravine said, her practiced curtsy another indication of her background. "I have finished organizing the people for departure."

"So soon?" Perrin asked, looking up from the wheel.

"It was not so difficult as we expected, my Lord. I commanded them to gather by nationality, then by town of birth. Not surprisingly, the Cairhienin form the largest bulk of them, followed by Altarans, then Amadicians, with some smattering of others. A few Domani, some Taraboners, the occasional Borderlander or Tairen."

"How many can stand a day or two of marching without a ride in the wagons?"

"Most of them, my Lord," she said. "The sick and elderly were expelled from the city when the Shaido took it. The people here are accustomed to being worked hard. They're exhausted, Lord, but none too eager to be waiting here with those other Shaido camped not half a day's march away."

"All right," Perrin said. "Start them marching immediately."

"Immediately?" Aravine asked with surprise.

He nodded. "I want them on that road, marching northward, as soon as you can get them going. I'll send Alliandre and her guard to lead the way." That ought to keep Arganda from complaining, and it would get the refugees out of the way. The Maidens would be far better, and far more efficient, at gathering supplies alone. The scavenging was nearly finished anyway. His people would have to survive on the road for only a few weeks. After that, they could jump via gateway to someplace more secure. Andor, perhaps, or Cairhien.

Those Shaido behind had him anxious. They could decide to attack at any time. Better to get away and remove the temptation.

Aravine curtsied and hurried away to make preparations, and Perrin thanked the Light for someone else who didn't see a need to question or second-guess him. He sent a boy to inform Arganda of the impending march, then finished his inspection of the wagon. After that, he stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Next!" he said.

Nobody stepped forward. The only people remaining around him were guards, messenger boys and a few wagoneers waiting to hitch up their oxen and move the wagons off for loading. The Maidens had made a large pile of foodstuffs and supplies in the middle of the former camp, and Perrin could make out Faile there working to organize it.

Perrin sent the ring of attendants with him over to help her, then found himself alone. With nothing to do.

Just what he'd wanted to avoid.

The wind blew past again, carrying that awful stench of death. It also carried memories. The fury of the battle, the passion and thrill of each swing. Aiel were excellent warriors—the best the land knew. Each exchange had been close, and Perrin had earned his share of cuts and bruises, though those had since been Healed.

Fighting the Aiel had made him feel alive. Each one he'd slain had been an expert with the spears; each one could have killed him. But he'd won. During those moments of fighting, he'd felt a driving passion. The passion of finally doing something. After two months of waiting, each blow had meant a step closer to finding Faile.

No more talking. No more planning. He'd found purpose. And now it was gone.

He felt hollow. It was like . . . like the time when his father had promised him something special as a gift for Winternight. Perrin had waited months, eager, doing his chores to earn the unknown gift. When he'd finally received the small wooden horse, he'd been excited for a moment. But the next day, he'd been shockingly melancholy. Not because of the gift, but because there had no longer been anything to strive for. The excitement was gone, and only then had he realized how much more precious he'd found that anticipation than the gift itself.