"Robert Jordan - Wheel of Time 11 - Knife of Dreams" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jordan Robert)

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