WOT Prequel 02 - New Spring Read online

  New Spring

  New Spring

  Prequel to The Wheel of Time

  Robert Jordan

  T he 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 only

  able to touch the world 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 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 colour, 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 for ever 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.

  New Spring

  Robert Jordan

  T he 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 grey 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 armour, flowed

  towards the city's high grey 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

  countrymen's baggy breeches, the women's wide trousers, their cloaks fluttering

  in the wind. Some wore coloured 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. Rumour even spoke of a man who channelled

  the One Power, but then, rumour 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 humour 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

  travelled. 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 dry moat 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 on to 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 on to 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

  swordhilt.

  The guards on the wall above the open iron-plated gates and those on the bridge

  wore only back and breastplates for armour, 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

  towards 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 swordhilt.

  A bluff, greying 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 towards

  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

  swordhilt. 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

  channelling 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 behaviour? 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 swordhilt 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. Colourfully-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 channelling;

  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.