The Path of Daggers by Robert Jordan EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Author: Robert Jordan
- Genre: Sword & Sorcery Fantasy
- Publish Date: September 16, 2021
- Size: 2.8 MB
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Avail for Download
- Price: Free
To Keep the Bargain
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 above the great mountainous island of Tremalking. 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.
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East the wind blew across Tremalking, where the fair-skinned Amayar
farmed their fields, and made fine glass and porcelain, and followed the peace
of the Water Way. The Amayar ignored the world beyond their scattered
islands, for the Water Way taught that this world was only illusion, a
mirrored reflection of belief, yet some watched the wind carry dust and deep
summer heat where cold winter rains should be falling, and they remembered
tales heard from the Atha’an Miere.
Tales of the world beyond, and what
prophecy said was to come. Some looked to a hill where a massive stone
hand rose from the earth, holding a clear crystal sphere larger than many
houses. The Amayar had their own prophecies, and some of those spoke of
the hand and the sphere. And the end of illusions.
Onward the wind blew into the Sea of Storms, eastward beneath a searing
sun in a sky abandoned by clouds, whipping the tops of green sea swells,
battling winds from the south and westward winds, shearing and swirling as
the waters below heaved. Not yet the storms of winter’s heart, though winter
should have been half gone, much less the greater storms of a dying summer,
but winds and currents that could be used by ocean-faring folk to coast
around the continent from World’s End to Mayene and beyond, then back
again. Eastward the wind howled, over rolling ocean where the great whales
rose and sounded, and flying fish soared on outstretched fins two paces and
more across, eastward, now whirling north, east and north, over small fleets
of fishing ships dragging their nets in the shallower seas.
Some of those
fishermen stood gaping, hands idle on the lines, staring at a huge array of tall
vessels and smaller that purposefully rode the wind’s hard breath, shattering
swells with bluff bows, slicing swells with narrow, their banner a golden
hawk with talons clutching lightning, a multitude of streaming banners like
portents of storm. East and north and on, and the wind reached the broad,
ship-filled harbor of Ebou Dar, where hundreds of Sea Folk vessels rode as
they did in many ports, awaiting word of the Coramoor, the Chosen One.
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