rj.thegreathunt-第1部分

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shall　lie　across　the　Pattern　of　the　Age；　and　the　Dark　One　shall　once　more　lay　
his　hand　upon　the　world　of　man。　Women　shall　weep　and　men　quail　as　the　nations　of　
the　earth　are　rent　like　rotting　cloth。　Neither　shall　anything　stand　nor　abide。。。
Yet　one　shall　be　born　to　face　the　Shadow；　born　once　more　as　he　was　born　before　
and　shall　be　born　again；　time　without　end。　The　Dragon　shall　be　Reborn；　and　there　
shall　be　wailing　and　gnashing　of　teeth　at　his　rebirth。　In　sackcloth　and　ashes　
shall　he　clothe　the　people；　and　he　shall　break　the　world　again　by　his　ing；　
tearing　apart　all　ties　that　bind。　Like　the　unfettered　dawn　shall　he　blind　us；　
and　burn　us；　yet　shall　the　Dragon　Reborn　confront　the　Shadow　at　the　Last　Battle；　
and　his　blood　shall　give　us　the　Light。　Let　tears　flow；　O　ye　people　of　the　world。　
Weep　for　your　salvation。

…　from　The　Karaethon　Cycle：
The　Prophecies　of　the　Dragon；
as　translated　by　Ellaine　Marise'idin　Alshinn；
Chief　Librarian　at　the　Court　of　Arafel；
in　the　Year　of　Grace　231
of　the　New　Era；　the　Third　Age
　
PROLOGUE
（Serpent　and　Wheel）
In　the　Shadow

　　　　　　　The　man　who　called　himself　Bors；　at　least　in　this　place；　sneered　at　the　low　murmuring　that　rolled　around　the　vaulted　chamber　like　the　soft　gabble　of　geese。　His　grimace　was　hidden　by　the　black　silk　mask　that　covered　his　face；　though；　just　like　the　masks　that　covered　the　hundred　other　faces　in　the　chamber。　A　hundred　black　masks；　and　a　hundred　pairs　of　eyes　trying　to　see　what　lay　behind　them。
　　　　　　　If　one　did　not　look　too　closely；　the　huge　room　could　have　been　in　a　palace；　with　its　tall　marble　fireplaces　and　its　golden　lamps　hanging　from　the　domed　ceiling；　its　colorful　tapestries　and　intricately　patterned　mosaic　floor。　If　one　did　not　look　too　closely。　The　fireplaces　were　cold；　for　one　thing。　Flames　danced　on　logs　as　thick　as　a　man's　leg；　but　gave　no　heat。　The　walls　behind　the　tapestries；　the　ceiling　high　above　the　lamps；　were　undressed　stone；　almost　black。　There　were　no　windows；　and　only　two　doorways；　one　at　either　end　of　the　room。　It　was　as　if　someone　had　intended　to　give　the　semblance　of　a　palace　reception　chamber　but　had　not　cared　enough　to　bother　with　more　than　the　outline　and　a　few　touches　for　detail。
　　　　　　　Where　the　chamber　was；　the　man　who　called　himself　Bors　did　not　know；　nor　did　he　think　any　of　the　others　knew。　He　did　not　like　to　think　about　where　it　might　be。　It　was　enough　that　he　had　been　summoned。　He　did　not　like　to　think　about　that；　either；　but　for　such　a　summons；　even　he　came。
　　　　　　　He　shifted　his　cloak；　thankful　that　the　fires　were　cold；　else　it　would　have　been　too　hot　for　the　black　wool　draping　him　to　the　floor。　All　his　clothes　were　black。　The　bulky　folds　of　the　cloak　hid　the　stoop　he　used　to　disguise　his　height；　and　bred　confusion　as　to　whether　he　was　thin　or　thick。　He　was　not　the　only　one　there　enveloped　in　a　tailor's　span　of　cloth。
　　　　　　　Silently　he　watched　his　panions。　Patience　had　marked　much　of　his　life。　Always；　if　he　waited　and　watched　long　enough；　someone　made　a　mistake。　Most　of　the　men　and　women　here　might　have　had　the　same　philosophy；　they　watched；　and　listened　silently　to　those　who　had　to　speak。　Some　people　could　not　bear　waiting；　or　silence；　and　so　gave　away　more　than　they　knew。
　　　　　　　Servants　circulated　through　the　guests；　slender；　golden…haired　youths　proffering　wine　with　a　bow　and　a　wordless　smile。　Young　men　and　young　women　alike；　they　wore　tight　white　breeches　and　flowing　white　shirts。　And　male　and　female　alike；　they　moved　with　disturbing　grace。　Each　looked　more　than　a　mirror　image　of　the　others；　the　boys　as　handsome　as　the　girls　were　beautiful。　He　doubted　he　could　distinguish　one　from　another；　and　he　had　an　eye　and　a　memory　for　faces。
　　　　　　　A　smiling；　white…clad　girl　offered　her　tray　of　crystal　goblets　to　him。　He　took　one　with　no　intention　of　drinking；　it　might　appear　untrusting…or　worse；　and　either　could　be　deadly　here…if　he　refused　altogether；　but　anything　could　be　slipped　into　a　drink。　Surely　some　among　his　panions　would　have　no　objections　to　seeing　the　number　of　their　rivals　for　power　dwindle；　whomever　the　unlucky　ones　happened　to　be。
　　　　　　　Idly　he　wondered　whether　the　servants　would　have　to　be　disposed　of　after　this　meeting。　Servants　hear　everything。　As　the　serving　girl　straightened　from　her　bow；　his　eye　caught　hers　above　that　sweet　smile。　Blank　eyes。　Empty　eyes。　A　doll's　eyes。　Eyes　more　dead　than　death。
　　　　　　　He　shivered　as　she　moved　gracefully　away；　and　raised　the　goblet　to　his　lips　before　he　caught　himself。　It　was　not　what　had　been　done　to　the　girl　that　chilled　him。　Rather；　every　time　he　thought　he　detected　a　weakness　in　those　he　now　served；　he　found　himself　preceded；　the　supposed　weakness　cut　out　with　a　ruthless　precision　that　left　him　amazed。　And　worried。　The　first　rule　of　his　life　had　always　been　to　search　for　weakness；　for　every　weakness　was　a　chink　where　he　could　probe　and　pry　and　influence。　If　his　current　masters；　his　masters　for　the　moment；　had　no　weakness。。。
　　　　　　　Frowning　behind　his　mask；　he　studied　his　panions。　At　least　there　was　plenty　of　weakness　there。　Their　nervousness　betrayed　them；　even　those　who　had　sense　enough　to　guard　their　tongues。　A　stiffness　in　the　way　this　one　held　himself；　a　jerkiness　in　the　way　that　one　handled　her　skirts。
　　　　　　　A　good　quarter　of　them；　he　estimated；　had　not　bothered　with　disguise　beyond　the　black　masks。　Their　clothes　told　much。　A　woman　standing　before　a　gold…and…crimson　wall　hanging；　speaking　softly　to　a　figure　…　impossible　to　say　whether　it　was　man　or　woman　…　cloaked　and　hooded　in　gray。　She　had　obviously　chosen　the　spot　because　the　colors　of　the　tapestry　set　off　her　garb。　Doubly　foolish　to　draw　attention　to　herself；　for　her　scarlet　dress；　cut　low　in　the　bodice　to　show　too　much　flesh　and　high　at　the　hem　to　display　golden　slippers；　marked　her　from　Illian；　and　a　woman　of　wealth；　perhaps　even　of　noble　blood。
　　　　　　　Not　far　beyond　the　Illianer；　another　woman　stood；　alone　and　admirably　silent。　With　a　swan's　neck　and　lustrous　black　hair　falling　in　waves　below　her　waist；　she　kept　her　back　to　the　stone　wall；　observing　everything。　No　nervousness　there；　only　serene　self…possession。　Very　admirable；　that；　but　her　coppery　skin　and　her　creamy；　high…necked　gown　…　leaving　nothing　but　her　hands　uncovered；　yet　clinging　and　only　just　barely　opaque；　so　that　it　hinted　at　everything　and　revealed　nothing…marked　her　just　as　clearly　of　the　first　blood　of　Arad　Doman。　And　unless　the　man　who　called　himself　Bors　missed　his　guess　entirely；　the　wide　golden　bracelet　on　her　left　wrist　bore　her　House　symbols。　They　would　be　for　her　own　House；　no　Domani　bloodborn　would　bend　her　stiff　pride　enough　to　wear　the　sigils　of　another　House。　Worse　than　foolishness。
　　　　　　　A　man　in　a　high…collared；　sky…blue　Shienaran　coat　passed　him　with　a　wary；　head…to…toe　glance　though　the　eyeholes　of　his　mask。　The　man's　carriage　named　him　soldier；　the　set　of　his　shoulders；　the　way　his　gaze　never　rested　in　one　place　for　long；　and　the　way　his　hand　seemed　ready　to　dart　for　a　sword　that　was　not　there；　all　proclaimed　it。　The　Shienaran　wasted　little　time　on　the　man　who　called　himself　Bors；　stooped　shoulders　and　a　bent　back　held　no　threat。
　　　　　　　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；