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  Praise for THE WHEEL OF TIME®

  “The battle scenes have the breathless urgency of firsthand experience, and the . . . evil laced into the forces of good, the dangers latent in any promised salvation, the sense of the unavoidable onslaught of unpredictable events bear the marks of American national experience during the last three decades.”

  —The New York Times

  “Has all the breadth and depth that have made this fantasy author one of the acknowledged greats of the genre.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “His writing is distinguished . . . by the richness of its fabric, with all the charm and naïveté of the Brothers Grimm and the social/moral commentary of Huxley’s Brave New World. With his well-fleshed-out characters, dark imagery, comic relief, vivid landscapes, and a fascinating sense of timelessness, Jordan has created a complex literature with a language and reality all its own.”

  —BookPage

  “Throughout Jordan’s preeminent high-fantasy saga . . . the characters (minor as well as major), the world, and the source of powers have remained remarkably rich and consistent—no mean feat. . . . Amid all the Sturm und Drang, however, is a finely tuned comic strain that both leavens the story and adds to its development. A major fantasy epic.”

  —Booklist

  “Truth is not only stranger, it’s richer than fiction, but Jordan’s fictional universe approaches the variety and complexity of the real. . . . Plot lines [are] strummed with resonating long-wave rhythms something like Beethoven’s Eroica.”

  —Robert Knox, MPG Newspapers

  “Adventure and mystery and dark things that move in the night—a combination of Robin Hood and Stephen King that is hard to resist. Furthermore, Jordan makes the reader put down the book regretting the wait for the next title in the series.”

  —Milwaukee Sentinel

  “The Wheel of Time [is] rapidly becoming the definitive American fantasy saga. It is a fantasy tale seldom equaled and still less often surpassed in English.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “In the decades since J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy was published, many fantasy writers have tried to capture the spirit of that seminal work. While many have been able to imitate the style, develop a similarly swift and complex plot, and create convincing characters, none have captured the spirit of small men and mighty, struggling against a force of overwhelming evil. Robert Jordan has.”

  —Ottawa Citizen

  “Jordan has a powerful vision of good and evil—but what strikes me as most pleasurable . . . is all the fascinating people moving through a rich and interesting world.”

  —Orson Scott Card

  “Jordan can always be counted on to ground his dizzying intrigues in solid chunks of cultural detail, and he here rises to the occasion, with chapters as dense as Spenserian stanzas with symbols and rituals. . . . He manipulates the disorder of his narrative to credibly convey a sense of an embattled world on the verge of self-destruction, and he entertainingly juxtaposes the courtly civility of his villains with the precarious chaos they cause.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Jordan continues to utilize his towering imagination to construct plots of incredible ingenuity and develop themes hidden, sometimes quite deeply, in earlier installments. As ever, Jordan writes intelligently and lyrically—one of the most literary exponents of the genre.”

  —SFX magazine

  “Beware, there is magic in these books. They are liable to make you neglect your work and keep you up way past your bedtime. . . . This is the genuine article.”

  —John Lee, Suffolk County News

  “Jordan’s bestselling high fantasy series carries on . . . colossal, dauntingly complex storytelling . . . the narrative employs elements of realism rare in high fantasy.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Jordan’s characters [are] fleshed out with the strengths and weaknesses of real men and women. . . . Invokes the end-of-the-world milieu of Stephen King’s The Stand.”

  —The Post and Courier (Charleston, S.C.)

  “Jordan writes with the stark vision of light and darkness, and sometimes childlike sense of wonder, that permeates J. R. R. Tolkien’s works. His style is undebatably his own.”

  —The Pittsburgh Press

  “[The Wheel of Time] will be the definitive American exploration of Tolkien’s territory for many years to come. Jordan can spin as rich a world and as event-filled a tale as the master, and the presence of women and a certain sense of the comic possibilities of a high destiny add further dimension to the work.”

  —Booklist

  “Jordan’s multivolume epic continues to live up to its high ambitions. Complex plotting, an array of strong characters, lavish detail, and a panoramic scope make this series a feast for fantasy aficionados. . . . Richly detailed and vividly imagined.”

  —Library Journal

  “Jordan’s writing is clear and his vision is fascinating, as are the philosophies that run his characters. And speaking of characters, a more interesting bunch I would be hard put to name.”

  —Science Fiction Review

  “The most ambitious American fantasy saga, The Wheel of Time, [may] also be the finest. . . . [It] surpasses all but a few of its peers.”

  —Booklist

  “The complex philosophy behind The Wheel of Time series is expounded so simply the reader often gives a start of surprise at returning to the real world. Rand’s adventures are not finished and neither is this thinking person’s fantasy series.”

  —Brunswick Sentinel (Australia)

  “Intricate allegorical fantasy [that] recalls the works of Tolkien because of its intensity and warmth.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Robert Jordan can write one hell of a story. . . . [He] keeps the suspense acute and the surprises and invention beautifully paced. Compelling. An exhilarating experience.”

  —Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction magazine

  “[The Wheel of Time is] a work of genuine and often stirring imagination.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “For those who like to keep themselves in a fantasy world, it’s hard to beat the complex, detailed world created here.”

  —Locus

  “Jordan’s talent for sustaining the difficult combination of suspense and resolution, so necessary in a multivolume series . . . is nothing short of remarkable.”

  —Library Journal

  “Jordan has not merely put old wine into new bottles: he has clothed old bones with new flesh.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  KNIFE OF DREAMS

  THE WHEEL OF TIME®

  by Robert Jordan

  The Eye of the World

  The Great Hunt

  The Dragon Reborn

  The Shadow Rising

  The Fires of Heaven

  Lord of Chaos

  A Crown of Swords

  The Path of Daggers

  Winter’s Heart

  Crossroads of Twilight

  Knife of Dreams

  by Robert Jordan

  and Brandon Sanderson

  The Gathering Storm

  KNIFE OF DREAMS

  ROBERT JORDAN

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book
you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  KNIFE OF DREAMS

  Copyright © 2005 by The Bandersnatch Group, Inc.

  The phrases “The Wheel of Time®” and “The Dragon RebornTM,” and the snake-wheel symbol, are trademarks of Robert Jordan.

  All rights reserved.

  Frontispiece by Michael Komarck

  Maps by Ellisa Mitchell

  Interior illustrations by Matthew C. Nielsen and Ellisa Mitchell

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-1-4299-6081-6

  First Edition: October 2005

  First E-book Edition: August 2010

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In memory of Charles St. George Sinkler Adams July 6, 1976–April 13, 2005

  CONTENTS

  MAPS

  PROLOGUE: Embers Falling on Dry Grass

  1 When Last Sounds

  2 The Dark One’s Touch

  3 At the Gardens

  4 A Deal

  5 Something . . . Strange

  6 A Stave and a Razor

  7 A Cold Medallion

  8 Dragons’ Eggs

  9 A Short Path

  10 A Village in Shiota

  11 A Hell in Maderin

  12 A Manufactory

  13 Siege

  14 Wet Things

  15 A Different Skill

  16 The New Follower

  17 A Bronze Bear

  18 News for the Dragon

  19 Vows

  20 The Golden Crane

  21 Within the Stone

  22 To Make an Anchor Weep

  23 Call to a Sitting

  24 Honey in the Tea

  25 Attending Elaida

  26 As If the World Were Fog

  27 A Plain Wooden Box

  28 In Malden

  29 The Last Knot

  30 Outside the Gates

  31 The House on Full Moon Street

  32 To Keep the Bargain

  33 Nine Out of Ten

  34 A Cup of Kaf

  35 The Importance of Dyelin

  36 Under an Oak

  37 Prince of the Ravens

  EPILOGUE: Remember the Old Saying

  GLOSSARY

  The sweetness of victory and the bitterness of defeat are alike a knife of dreams.

  —From Fog and Steel by Madoc Comadrin

  KNIFE OF DREAMS

  PROLOGUE

  Embers Falling on Dry Grass

  The sun, climbing toward midmorning, stretched Galad’s shadow and those of his three armored companions ahead of them as they trotted their mounts down the road that ran straight through the forest, dense with oak and leatherleaf, pine and sourgum, most showing the red of spring growth. He tried to keep his mind empty, still, but small things kept intruding. The day was silent save for the thud of their horses’ hooves. No bird sang on a branch, no squirrel chittered. Too quiet for the time of year, as though the forest held its breath. This had been a major trade route once, long before Amadicia and Tarabon came into being, and bits of ancient paving stone sometimes studded the hard-packed surface of yellowish clay. A single farm cart far ahead behind a plodding ox was the only sign of human life now besides themselves. Trade had shifted far north, farms and villages in the region dwindled, and the fabled lost mines of Aelgar remained lost in the tangled mountain ranges that began only a few miles to the south. Dark clouds massing in that direction promised rain by afternoon if their slow advance continued. A red-winged hawk quartered back and forth along the border of the trees, hunting the fringes. As he himself was hunting. But at the heart, not on the fringes.

  The manor house that the Seanchan had given Eamon Valda came into view, and he drew rein, wishing he had a helmet strap to tighten for excuse. Instead he had to be content with re-buckling his sword belt, pretending that it had been sitting wrong. There had been no point to wearing armor. If the morning went as he hoped, he would have had to remove breastplate and mail in any case, and if it went badly, armor would have provided little more protection than his white coat.

  Formerly a deep-country lodge of the King of Amadicia, the building was a huge, blue-roofed structure studded with red-painted balconies, a wooden palace with wooden spires at the corners atop a stone foundation like a low, steep-sided hill. The outbuildings, stables and barns, workmen’s small houses and craftsfolks’ workshops, all hugged the ground in the wide clearing that surrounded the main house, but they were nearly as resplendent in their blue-and-red paint. A handful of men and women moved around them, tiny figures yet at this distance, and children were playing under their elders’ eyes. An image of normality where nothing was normal. His companions sat their saddles in their burnished helmets and breastplates, watching him without expression. Their mounts stamped impatiently, the animals’ morning freshness not yet worn off by the short ride from the camp.

  “It’s understandable if you’re having second thoughts, Damodred,” Trom said after a time. “It’s a harsh accusation, bitter as gall, but—”

  “No second thoughts for me,” Galad broke in. His intentions had been fixed since yesterday. He was grateful, though. Trom had given him the opening he needed. They had simply appeared as he rode out, falling in with him without a word spoken. There had seemed no place for words, then. “But what about you three? You’re taking a risk coming here with me. A risk you have no need to take. However the day runs, there will be marks against you. This is my business, and I give you leave to go about yours.” Too stiffly said, but he could not find words this morning, or loosen his throat.

  The stocky man shook his head. “The law is the law. And I might as well make use of my new rank.” The three golden star-shaped knots of a captain sat beneath the flaring sunburst on the breast of his white cloak. There had been more than a few dead at Jeramel, including no fewer than three of the Lords Captain. They had been fighting the Seanchan then, not allied with them.

  “I’ve done dark things in service to the Light,” gaunt-faced Byar said grimly, his deep-set eyes glittering as though at a personal insult, “dark as moonless midnight, and likely I will again, but some things are too dark to be allowed.” He looked as if he might spit.

  “That’s right,” young Bornhald muttered, scrubbing a gauntleted hand across his mouth. Galad always thought of him as young, though the man lacked only a few years on him. Dain’s eyes were bloodshot; he had been at the brandy again last night. “If you’ve done what’s wrong, even in service to the Light, then you have to do what’s right to balance it.” Byar grunted sourly. Likely that was not the point he had been making.

  “Very well,” Galad said, “but there’s no fault to any man who turns back. My business here is mine alone.”

  Still, when he heeled his bay gelding to a canter, he was pleased to have them gallop to catch him and fall in alongside, white cloaks billowing behind. He would have gone on alone, of course, yet their presence might keep him from being arrested and hanged out of hand. Not that he expected to survive in any case. What had to be done, had to be done, no matter the price.

  The horses’ hooves clattered loudly on the stone ramp that climbed to the manor house, so every man in the broad central courtyard turned to watch as they rode in: fifty of the Children in gleaming plate-and-mail and conical helmets, most mounted, with cringing, dark-coated Amadician grooms holding animals for the rest. The inner balconies were empty except for a few servants who appeared to be watching while pretending to sweep. Six Questioners, big men with the scarlet shepherd’s crook
upright behind the sunflare on their cloaks, stood close around Rhadam Asunawa like a bodyguard, away from the others. The Hand of the Light always stood apart from the rest of the Children, a choice the rest of the Children approved. Gray-haired Asunawa, his sorrowful face making Byar look fully fleshed, was the only Child present not in armor, and his snowy cloak carried just the brilliant red crook, another way of standing apart. But aside from marking who was present, Galad had eyes for only one man in the courtyard. Asunawa might have been involved in some way—that remained unclear—yet only the Lord Captain Commander could call the High Inquisitor to account.

  Eamon Valda was not a large man, but his dark, hard face had the look of one who expected obedience as his due. As the very least he was due. Standing with his booted feet apart and his head high, command in every inch of him, he wore the white-and-gold tabard of the Lord Captain Commander over his gilded breast- and backplates, a silk tabard more richly embroidered than any Pedron Niall had worn. His white cloak, the flaring sun large on either breast in thread-of-gold, was silk as well, and his gold-embroidered white coat. The helmet beneath his arm was gilded and worked with the flaring sun on the brow, and a heavy gold ring on his left hand, worn outside his steel-backed gauntlet, held a large yellow sapphire carved with the sunburst. Another mark of favor received from the Seanchan.

  Valda frowned slightly as Galad and his companions dismounted and offered their salutes, arm across the chest. Obsequious grooms came running to take their reins.

  “Why aren’t you on your way to Nassad, Trom?” Disapproval colored Valda’s words. “The other Lords Captain will be halfway there by now.” He himself always arrived late when meeting the Seanchan, perhaps to assert that some shred of independence remained to the Children—finding him already preparing to depart was a surprise; this meeting must be very important—but he always made sure the other high-ranking officers arrived on time even when that required setting out before dawn. Apparently it was best not to press their new masters too far. Distrust of the Children was always strong in the Seanchan.