Cover image for Crossroads of twilight
Title:
Crossroads of twilight
Author:
Jordan, Robert, 1948-2007.
Personal Author:
Edition:
1st ed.
Physical Description:
700 pages : map ; 25 cm.
Summary:
Mat Cauthon flees the Shadow and the Seanchan Empire with the kidnapped Daughter of the Nine Moons, while Perrin Aybara seeks to free his captive wife, and Egwere al'Vere seeks to reunite the Aes Sedai.
General Note:
Map on lining papers.

"Tom Doherty Associates book."
Language:
English
Program Information:
AR 7.1 45.0.
ISBN:
9780312864590

9780312877750

9780812571332
Format :
Book

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Summary

Summary

The Wheel of Time ® is a PBS Great American Read Selection! Now in development for TV!

Since its debut in 1990, The Wheel of Time® by Robert Jordan has captivated millions of readers around the globe with its scope, originality, and compelling characters.

The Wheel of Time turns and Ages come and go, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth returns again. In the Third Age, an Age of Prophecy, the World and Time themselves hang in the balance. What was, what will be, and what is, may yet fall under the Shadow.

Fleeing from Ebou Dar with the kidnapped Daughter of the Nine Moons, whom he is fated to marry, Mat Cauthon learns that he can neither keep her nor let her go, not in safety for either of them, for both the Shadow and the might of the Seanchan Empire are in deadly pursuit.

Perrin Aybara seeks to free his wife, Faile, a captive of the Shaido, but his only hope may be an alliance with the enemy. Can he remain true to his friend Rand and to himself? For his love of Faile, Perrin is willing to sell his soul.

At Tar Valon, Egwene al'Vere, the young Amyrlin of the rebel Aes Sedai, lays siege to the heart of Aes Sedai power, but she must win quickly, with as little bloodshed as possible, for unless the Aes Sedai are reunited, only the male Asha'man will remain to defend the world against the Dark One, and nothing can hold the Asha'man themselves back from total power except the Aes Sedai and a unified White Tower.

In Andor, Elayne Trakland fights for the Lion Throne that is hers by right, but enemies and Darkfriends surround her, plotting her destruction. If she fails, Andor may fall to the Shadow, and the Dragon Reborn with it.

Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn himself, has cleansed the Dark One's taint from the male half of the True Source, and everything has changed. Yet nothing has, for only men who can channel believe that saidin is clean again, and a man who can channel is still hated and feared-even one prophesied to save the world. Now, Rand must gamble again, with himself at stake, and he cannot be sure which of his allies are really enemies.

TV series update: "Sony will produce along with Red Eagle Entertainment and Radar Pictures. Rafe Judkins is attached to write and executive produce. Judkins previously worked on shows such as ABC's "Agents of SHIELD," the Netflix series "Hemlock Grove," and the NBC series "Chuck." Red Eagle partners Rick Selvage and Larry Mondragon will executive produce along with Radar's Ted Field and Mike Weber. Darren Lemke will also executive produce, with Jordan's widow Harriet McDougal serving as consulting producer." -- Variety

The Wheel of Time ®
New Spring: The Novel
#1 The Eye of the World
#2 The Great Hunt
#3 The Dragon Reborn
#4 The Shadow Rising
#5 The Fires of Heaven
#6 Lord of Chaos
#7 A Crown of Swords
#8 The Path of Daggers
#9 Winter's Heart
#10 Crossroads of Twilight
#11 Knife of Dreams

By Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson
#12 The Gathering Storm
#13 Towers of Midnight
#14 A Memory of Light

By Robert Jordan and Teresa Patterson
The World of Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time

By Robert Jordan, Harriet McDougal, Alan Romanczuk, and Maria Simons
The Wheel of Time Companion

By Robert Jordan and Amy Romanczuk
Patterns of the Wheel: Coloring Art Based on Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time


Author Notes

Robert Jordan was born James Oliver Rigney Jr. on October 17, 1948 in Charleston, South Carolina. He received a B.S. in physics from The Citadel in 1974. He served two tours of duty in Vietnam with the U.S. Army and won The Distinguished Flying Cross, the Bronze Star and two Vietnamese Crosses of Gallantry. From 1974 to 1978, he worked for the U.S. Civil Service as a nuclear engineer.

During the 1980's, he began writing several novels for the Conan the Barbarian series that was created in the 1930's by Robert E. Howard. He also wrote under many pseudonyms, which include the historical novels The Fallon Blood (1980), The Fallon Pride (1981) and The Fallon Legacy (1982) as Reagan O'Neal; and the western Cheyenne Riders (1982) as Jackson O'Reilly. He wrote articles for periodicals for the Library Journal, Fantasy Review and Science Fiction Review as Chang Lung. He was the author of the Wheel of Time series and The Towers of Midnight.

He died on September 16, 2007 following a battle with cardiac amyloidosis. Jordan was cremated and his ashes buried in the churchyard of St. James Church in Goose Creek, outside Charleston.

(Bowker Author Biography)


Reviews 3

Booklist Review

The Wheel of Time continues to turn slowly and purposely in the tenth novel in Jordan's popular, epic series. Jordan follows his well-established pattern of tracking the activities of his widely spread characters as he moves them inexorably toward the looming Final Battle between the Dark One and those who oppose it. In this story, Mat flees with the kidnapped Daughter of the Nine Moons, whom he is fated to marry, pursued by the army of the Seanchan Empire as well as by the Dark One. Perrin is trying to rescue his wife, Faile, from the Shaido. Egwene, now Amyrlin of the rebel Aes Sedai, and her forces lay siege to the White Tower, where Elaida wears the Amyrlin shawl. The Aes Sadai must be reunited to defend against the Dark One. And Rand al' Thor, the Dragon Reborn, faces his own demons, even though he has managed to cleanse the Dark One's taint from the males who can channel. As usual, Jordan's canvas is vast and his plotting intricate. Each of the many characters is as distinctively recognizable as any of those in the series' other volumes, while on all fronts, intrigues and dangers intensify. Must-reading for Jordan's huge and faithful following. --Sally Estes


Publisher's Weekly Review

The eagerly awaited 10th installment (after 2000's Winter's Heart) in Jordan's monumental Wheel of Time has all the breadth and depth that have made this fantasy author one of the acknowledged greats of the genre. Like Tolkien's Ring trilogy, Wheel of Time is a single, extended novel rather than a series, and in Crossroads, new characters join the cast and old favorites grow ever more complex. Yet if the scope of Jordan's richly nuanced creation has won him millions of readers, it also forms the saga's biggest obstacle. Here Mat Cauthon is still fleeing the Seanchan; Perrin Goldeneyes still hunts the Shaido to free his beautiful wife, Faile; the cities Caemlyn and Tar Valon are still besieged and the battles have not been joined. Those impatient with the glacial movement of the last four books will find more of the same. As the title suggests, this entry represents a turning point, a time of momentous decisions as the rebel Aes Sedai consider an alliance with the Asha'man and Rand ponders a truce with the Seanchan. Lending perhaps the most recognizable humanity is Mat's love interest, Tuon, the spoiled, adorable Daughter of the Nine Moons, whose kidnapping is concealed by Valan Luca's Grand Traveling Show and Magnificent Display of Marvels and Wonders. She twists Mat around her finger, deliberately annoying him by calling him "Toy." The epilogue suggests Tuon will play a major role in volume 11. Jordan fans who miss the breakneck pace of the earlier books can always hope the action will pick up again. (Jan. 7) Forecast: Backed by a $600,000 national marketing campaign, which includes an author tour, this one is guaranteed to debut at number one on many lists. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Library Journal Review

In this tenth novel in the "Wheel of Time" saga, Jordan continues the glacially slow pace he set with other series entries (e.g., The Path of Daggers). New characters are added to old in this annoyingly intricate and sprawling soap opera. Love sprouts between Mat Cauthon, fleeing from Ebou Dar, and Tuon, daughter of the Nine Moons. Egwene al'Vere attacks the White Tower, Perrin Aybara seeks to rescue his wife, Faile, and as the rebel Aes Sedai considers joining the Asha'man, Rand al'Thor ponders the same with the Seanchan. Kate Reading and Michael Kramer, our earnest narrators, seamlessly pronounce the outlandish names, but this droning, humorless story with a huge and confusing cast of characters lacks energy. Recommended only for libraries where the series has high circulation; without the earlier works, this doesn't make sense.-Douglas C. Lord, formerly with Connecticut State Lib., Hartford (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

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 in the Rhannon Hills. 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. Born among the groves and vineyards that covered much of the rugged hills, the olive trees in evergreen rows, the ordered vines leafless till spring, the cold wind blew west and north across the prosperous farms dotting the land between the hills and the great harbor of Ebou Dar. The land lay winter fallow still, but men and women were already oiling plowshares and tending harness, preparing for the planting to come. They paid little mind to the trains of heavily laden wagons moving east along the dirt roads carrying people who wore odd clothes and spoke with odd accents. Many of the strangers seemed to be farmers themselves, familiar implements lashed to their wagon boxes, and in their wagons unfamiliar saplings with roots balled in rough cloth, but they were heading on toward more distant land. Nothing to do with life here and now. The Seanchan hand lay lightly on those who did not contest Seanchan rule, and the farmers of the Rhannon Hills had seen no changes in their lives. For them, rain or the lack of it had always been the true ruler. West and north the wind blew, across the broad blue-green expanse of the harbor, where hundreds of huge ships sat rocking at anchor on choppy swells, some bluff-bowed and rigged with ribbed sails, others long and sharp-prowed, with men laboring to match their sails and rigging to those of the wider vessels. Not nearly so many ships still floated there as had only a few days before, though. Many now lay in the shallows, charred wrecks heeled over on their sides, and burned frames settling in the deep gray mud like blackened skeletons. Smaller craft skittered about the harbor, slanting under triangular sails or crawling on oars like many-legged waterbugs, most carrying workers and supplies to the ships that still floated. Other small vessels and barges rode tethered to what appeared to be treetrunks shorn of branches, rising out of the blue-green water, and from those men dove holding stones to carry them down swiftly to sunken ships below, where they tied ropes to whatever could be hauled up for salvage. Six nights ago death had walked across the water here, the One Power killing men and women and ships in darkness split by silver lightnings and hurtling balls of fires. Now, the rough rolling harbor, filled with furious activity, seemed at peace by comparison, the chop giving up spray to the wind that blew north and west across the mouth of the River Eldar, where it widened into the harbor, north and west and inland. Sitting cross-legged atop a boulder covered with brown moss, on the reed-fringed bank of the river, Mat hunched his shoulders against the wind and cursed silently. There was no gold to be found here, no women or dancing, no fun. Plenty of discomfort, though. In short, it was the last sort of place he would choose, normally. The sun stood barely its own height above the horizon, the sky overhead was pale slate gray, and thick purple clouds moving in from the sea threatened rain. Winter hardly seemed winter without snow - he had yet to see a single flake in Ebou Dar - but a cold damp morning wind off the water could serve as well as snow to chill a man to the bone. Four nights since he had ridden out of the city in a storm, yet his throbbing hip seemed to think he was still soaked to the skin and clinging to a saddle. This was no weather or time of day for a man to be out by his own choice. He wished he had thought to bring a cloak. He wished he had stayed in bed. Ripples in the land hid Ebou Dar, just over a mile to the south, and hid him from the city, as well, but there was not a tree or anything more than scrub brush in sight. Being in the open this way made him feel as though ants were crawling under his skin. He should be safe, though. His plain brown woolen coat and cap were nothing like the clothes he was known by in the city. Instead of black silk, a drab woolen scarf hid the scar around his neck, and the collar of his coat was turned up to hide that, as well. Not a bit of lace or a thread of embroidery. Dull enough for a farmer milking cows. No one he needed to avoid would know him to recognize if they saw him. Not unless they were close. Just the same, he tugged the cap a bit lower. "You intend to stay out here much longer, Mat?" NoalÆs tattered dark blue coat had seen better days, but then so had he. Stooped and white-haired, the broken-nosed old fellow was squatting on his heels below the boulder, fishing off the riverbank with a bamboo pole. Most of his teeth were missing, and sometimes he felt at a gap with his tongue as though surprised to find the empty space. "ItÆs cold, in case you havenÆt noticed. Everybody always thinks itÆs warm in Ebou Dar, but winter is cold everywhere, even places that make Ebou Dar feel like Shienar. My bones crave a fire. Or a blanket, anyway. A man can be snug with a blanket, if heÆs out of the wind. Are you going to do anything but stare downriver?" When Mat only glanced at him, Noal shrugged and went back to peering at the tarred wooden float bobbing among the sparse reeds. Now and then he worked one gnarled hand as though his crooked fingers felt the chill particularly, but if so, it was his own fault. The old fool had gone wading in the shallows to scoop up minnows for bait with a basket that now sat half-submerged and anchored by a smooth stone at the edge of the water. Despite his complaints about the weather, Noal had come along to the river without urging or invitation. From things he had said, everyone he cared about was long years dead, and the truth of it was, he seemed almost desperate for any sort of company. Desperate, indeed, to choose MatÆs company when he could be five days from Ebou Dar by now. A man could cover a lot of ground in five days if he had reason to and a good horse. Mat had thought on that very subject often enough himself. On the far side of the Eldar, half-hidden by one of the marshy islands that dotted the river, a broad-beamed rowboat backed oars, and one of the crew stood up and fished in the reeds with a long boathook. Another oarsman helped him heave what he had caught into the boat. At this distance, it looked like a large sack. Mat winced and shifted his eyes downriver. They were still finding bodies, and he was responsible. The innocent died along with the guilty. And if you did nothing, then only the innocent died. Or as bad as died. Maybe worse than, depending on how you looked at it. He scowled irritably. Blood and ashes, he was turning into a bloody philosopher! Taking responsibility drained all the joy out of life and dried a man to dust. What he wanted right then was a great deal of mulled wine in a snug common room full of music, and a plump, pretty serving maid on his knee, somewhere far from Ebou Dar. Very far. What he had were obligations he could not walk away from and a future he did not fancy. There seemed no help at all in being taÆveren, not if this was how the Pattern shaped itself to you. He still had his luck, anyway. At least, he was alive and not chained in a cell. Under the circumstances, that counted as luck. From his perch, he had a fairly clear view down past the last low marshy river islands. Wind-caught spray drifted up the harbor like banks of fine mist, but not enough to hide what he needed to see. He was attempting to do sums in his head, counting ships afloat, trying to count wrecks. He kept losing his place, though, thinking he had counted vessels twice and starting over. The Sea Folk who had been recaptured intruded on his thoughts, too. He had heard that gibbets in the Rahad, across the harbor, displayed more than a hundred corpses, with placards listing æmurderÆ and ærebellionÆ as their crimes. Normally, the Seanchan used the headsmanÆs axe and the impaling stake, while the Blood got the strangling cord, but property had to settle for being hanged. Burn me, I did what I could, he thought sourly. There was no use feeling guilty that that was all he could do. Not a bit of use. None! He had to concentrate on the people who escaped. The AthaÆan Miere who got away had taken ships in the harbor for their flight, and while they might have seized some smaller craft, anything they could board and overwhelm in the night, they had intended to carry off as many of their people as possible. With thousands of them laboring as prisoners in the Rahad, that would have meant big ships, by choice, and that meant Seanchan greatships. Many of the Sea FolkÆs own vessels were large enough, for certain, but they all had been stripped of their sails and rigging by that time, to be fitted out in the Seanchan fashion. If he could calculate how many greatships remained, he might have some notion of how many AthaÆan Miere had actually reached freedom. Freeing the Sea Folk Windfinders had been the right thing to do, the only thing he could do, but aside from the hangings, hundreds and hundreds of bodies had been fished out of the harbor in the last five days, and the Light only knew how many had washed out to sea with the tides. The gravediggers labored from sunup to sundown, and the graveyards were filled with weeping women and children. Men, too. More than a few of those dead had been AthaÆan Miere, with no one to weep while they were dumped into mass graves, and he wanted some idea of the number he had saved to balance his bleak suspicions of the number he had killed. Estimating how many ships had made it out into the Sea of Storms was difficult, though, quite apart from losing the count. Unlike Aes Sedai, Windfinders had no strictures against using the Power as a weapon, not when the safety of their people was at stake, and they would have wanted to halt pursuit before it began. No one gave chase in a burning ship. The Seanchan, with their damane, had even less compunction against fighting back. Lightning bolts lacing through the rain as numerous as blades of grass and balls of fire streaking across the sky, some the size of horses, and the harbor seemed aflame from one side to the other, till even in a storm the night made any IlluminatorÆs show look stark. Without turning his head he could count a dozen places where the charred ribs of a greatship stuck up out of shallow water or a huge bluff-bowed hull lay on its side with the harbor waves licking against the tilted deck, and twice as many where the lines of blackened timbers were finer, the remains of Sea Folk rakers. Apparently they had disliked leaving their own vessels to people who had put them in chains. Three dozen right in front of him, and that without adding in the sunken wrecks that had salvage boats working over them. Perhaps a seafarer could tell greatship from raker by the tops of masts sticking out of the water, but the task was beyond him. Suddenly an old memory tugged at him, of lading ships for an attack from the sea, and how many men could be crowded into how much space for how long. It was not his memory, really, from an ancient war between Fergansea and Moreina, yet it seemed his. Realizing that he had not actually lived one of those ancient bits of other menÆs lives that were stuck in his head always took him a little by surprise now, so maybe they were his, in a way. They were certainly sharper than some stretches of his own life. The vessels he recalled had been smaller than most in the harbor, yet the principles were the same. "They donÆt have enough ships," he muttered. The Seanchan had even more in Tanchico than had come here, but the losses here were sufficient to make the difference. "Enough ships for what?" Noal said. "I never saw so many in one place before." That was quite a statement, coming from him. To hear Noal tell it, he had seen everything, and nearly always bigger or grander than what was in front of his nose. Back home, they would have said he kept tight purse-strings on the truth. Mat shook his head. "They donÆt have enough ships left to take them all back home." "We donÆt have to go home," a woman drawled behind him. "WeÆve come home." He did not quite jump at the slurred Seanchan accent, but it was a near thing before he recognized who was speaking. Egeanin was scowling, her eyes like blue daggers, but not for him. At least, he thought not. She was tall and lean, with a hard face that was pale skinned despite a life at sea. Her green dress was bright enough for a Tinker, or close to it, and embroidered with a mass of tiny yellow and white blossoms on the high neck and down the sleeves. A flowered scarf tied tightly under her chin held a long black wig on her head, spilling halfway down her back and over her shoulders. She hated the scarf and the dress, which did not quite fit, but her hands checked every other minute to make sure the wig was straight. That concerned her more than her clothes, though concern was not nearly a strong enough word. She had only sighed over cutting her long fingernails short, but she almost had a fit, red-faced and pop-eyed, when he told her she must shave her head completely. The way her hair had been cut before, shaved above her ears with only a bowl-like cap and a wide shoulder-length tail in the back remaining, shouted that she was of the Seanchan Blood, a lesser noble. Even someone who had never laid eyes on a Seanchan would have remembered seeing her. She had agreed, reluctantly, but afterwards she was close to hysterical until she was able to cover her scalp. Not for the reasons most women would have gone over the moon, though. No, among the Seanchan, only the Imperial family shaved their heads. Men who went bald began wearing wigs as soon as their hair started falling out to any noticeable degree. Egeanin would have died before letting anyone think she was pretending to belong to the Imperial family, even people who would never have had the thought in their lives. Well, that sort of pretense did carry a death penalty among the Seanchan, but he would never have believed she would go on about it so. What was one more death penalty when your neck was already being stretched for the axe? The strangling cord, in her case. The noose would be for him. Slipping the half-drawn knife back up his left sleeve, he slid down from the boulder. He landed poorly and almost fell, barely hiding a wince at the stabbing jar to his hip. He did hide it, though. She was a noblewoman and a ship captain, and she made enough tries at taking charge without him showing any more weakness to give her an opening than he had to. She had come to him for help, not the other way round, but that buttered no bread with her. Continues... Excerpted from Crossroad of Twilight by Robert Jordan Copyright © 2003 by Robert Jordan Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.