按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
The man who called himself Bors snorted as the Shienaran moved on； right hand clenching and eyes already studying elsewhere for danger。 He could read them all； to class and country。 Merchant and warrior； moner and noble。 From Kandor and Cairhien； Saldaea and Ghealdan。 From every nation and nearly every people。 His nose wrinkled in sudden disgust。 Even a Tinker； in bright green breeches and a virulent yellow coat。 We can do without those e the Day。
The disguised ones were no better； many of them； cloaked and shrouded as they were。 He caught sight； under the edge of one dark robe； of the silver…worked boots of a High Lord of Tear； and under another a glimpse of golden lion…head spurs； worn only by high officers in the Andoran Queen's Guards。 A slender fellow…slender even in a floor…dragging black robe and an anonymous gray cloak caught with a plain silver pin…watched from the shadows of his deep cowl。 He could be anyone； from anywhere 。。。 except for the six…pointed star tattooed on the web between thumb and forefinger of his right hand。 One of the Sea Folk then； and a look at his left hand would show the marks of his clan and line。 The man who called himself Bors did not bother to try。
Suddenly his eyes narrowed； fixing on a woman enveloped in black till nothing showed but her fingers。 On her right hand rested a gold ring in the shape of a serpent eating its own tail。 Aes Sedai； or at least a woman trained in Tar Valon by Aes Sedai。 None else would wear that ring。 Either way made no difference to him。 He looked away before she could notice his watching； and almost immediately he spotted another woman swathed from head to toe in black and wearing a Great Serpent ring。 The two witches gave no sign that they knew each other。 In the White Tower they sat like spiders in the middle of a web； pulling the strings that made kings and queens dance； meddling。 Curse them all to death eternal！ He realized that he was grinding his teeth。 If numbers must dwindle … and they must； before the Day … there were some who would be missed even less than Tinkers。
A chime sounded； a single； shivering note that came from everywhere at once and cut off all other sounds like a knife。
The tall doors at the far end of the chamber swung open； and two Trollocs stepped into the room； spikes decorating the black mail that hung to their knees。 Everyone shied back。 Even the man who called himself Bors。
Head and shoulders taller than the tallest man there； they were a stomach…turning blend of man and animal； human faces twisted and altered。 One had a heavy； pointed beak where his mouth and nose should have been； and feathers covered his head instead of hair。 The other walked on hooves； his face pushed out in a hairy muzzle； and goat horns stuck up above his ears。
Ignoring the humans； the Trollocs turned back toward the door and bowed； servile and cringing。 The feathers on the one lifted in a tight crest。
A Myrddraal stepped between them； and they fell to their knees。 It was garbed in black that made the Trollocs' mail and the humans' masks seem bright； garments that hung still； without a ripple； as it moved with a viper's grace。
The man who called himself Bors felt his lips drawing back over his teeth； half snarl and half； he was shamed to admit even to himself； fear。 It had its face uncovered。 Its pasty pale face； a man's face； but eyeless as an egg； like a maggot in a grave。
The smooth white face swiveled； regarding them all one by one； it seemed。 A visible shiver ran through them under that eyeless look。 Thin； bloodless lips quirked in what might almost have been a smile as； one by one； the masked ones tried to press back into the crowd； milling to avoid that gaze。 The Myrddraal's look shaped them into a semicircle facing the door。
The man who called himself Bors swallowed。 There will e a day； Halfman。 When the Great Lord of the Dark es again； he will choose his new Dreadlords； and you will cower before them。 You will cower before men。 Before me！ Why doesn't it speak？ Stop staring at me； and speak！
〃Your Master es。〃 The Myrddraal's voice rasped like a dry snake skin crumbling。 〃To your bellies； worms！ Grovel； lest his brilliance blind and burn you！〃
Rage filled the man who called himself Bors； at the tone as much as the words； but then the air above the Halfman shimmered； and the import drove home。 It can't be！ It can't。。。！ The Trollocs were already on their bellies； writhing as if they wanted to burrow into the floor。
Without waiting to see if anyone else moved； the man who called himself Bors dropped facedown； grunting as he bruised himself on the stone。 Words sprang to his lips like a charm against danger … they were a charm； though a thin reed against what he feared … and he heard a hundred other voices； breathy with fear； speaking the same against the floor。
〃The Great Lord of the Dark is my Master； and most heartily do I serve him to the last shred of my very soul。〃 In the back of his mind a voice chattered with fear。 The Dark One and all the Forsaken are bound。。。 Shivering； he forced it to silence。 He had abandoned that voice long since。 〃Lo； my Master is death's Master。 Asking nothing do I serve against the Day of his ing； yet do I serve in the sure and certain hope of life everlasting。〃 。。。bound in Shayol Ghul； bound by the Creator at the moment of creation。 No； I serve a different master now。 〃Surely the faithful shall be exalted in the land； exalted above the unbelievers； exalted above thrones； yet do I serve humbly against the Day of his Return。〃 The hand of the Creator shelters us all； and the Light protects us from the Shadow。 No； no！ A different master。 〃Swift e the Day of Return。 Swift e the Great Lord of the Dark to guide us and rule the world forever and ever。〃
The man who called himself Bors finished the creed panting； as if he had run ten miles。 The rasp of breath all around told him he was not the only one。
〃Rise。 All of you； rise。〃
The mellifluous voice took him by surprise。 Surely none of his panions； lying on their bellies with their masked faces pressed to the mosaic tiles； would have spoken； but it was not the voice he expected from。。。 Cautiously； he raised his head enough to see with one eye。
The figure of a man floated in the air above the Myrddraal； the hem of his blood…red robe hanging a span over the Halfman's head。 Masked in blood…red； too。 Would the Great Lord of the Dark appear to them as a man？ And masked； besides？ Yet the Myrddraal； its very gaze fear； trembled and almost cowered where it stood in the figure's shadow。 The man who called himself Bors grasped for an answer his mind could contain without splitting。 One of the Forsaken； perhaps。
That thought was only a little less painful。 Even so； it meant the Day of the Dark One's return must be close at hand if one of the Forsaken was free。 The Forsaken； thirteen of the most powerful wielders of the One Power in an Age filled with powerful wielders； had been sealed up in Shayol Ghul along with the Dark One； sealed away from the world of men by the Dragon and the Hundred panions。 And the backblast of that sealing had tainted