By David Dalglish
Fear is available in the palms of prophets . . .
The ultimate instalment of the Shadowdance sequence reveals Haern the Watcher returning to his loved urban of Veldaren, merely to discover it has collapsed into chaos. The solar Guild has conquered the previous thief guilds, destroying the peace Haern fought so challenging to acquire. The Trifect is their subsequent aim, and Alyssa Gemcroft needs to succeed in out to no matter what allies she will be able to locate, whether it skill casting apart longtime friends.
As the chaos grows, so does the ability of the darkish god Karak, who lays siege to Veldaren. If the town falls, the area will undergo . . .
Father or son; a few offerings needs to be made in blood.
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Extra resources for A Dance of Chaos (Shadowdance, Book 6)
The smoke was not enough to obscure it completely. Crimson, with a disc half white and half black, the colors divided by a sinuous line, just like the piece of cloth the siswai’aman wore. Rand al’Thor’s banner. Could he possibly be strong enough to have broken free, overwhelmed all the Aes Sedai and raised that? It had to be. The storm still battered at the dome, but Sevanna heard murmurs behind her. The other women were thinking of retreat. Not her. She had always known that the easiest path to power lay through conquering men who already possessed it, and even as a child she was sure she had been born with the weapons to conquer them.
The only Youngling afoot, he attracted attention. Three cadin’sor-clad figures dodged through the horsemen, rushing at him with spears ready. Perhaps they thought him easy meat, three on one. He disabused them. His sword left the scabbard smoothly, as smoothly as he flowed from The Falcon Stoops to The Creeper Embraces the Oak to The Moon Rises Over the Lakes. Three times he felt the shock in his wrists of blade meeting flesh, and that quickly three veiled Aielmen were down; two still moving weakly, but they were out of the fight as much as the other.
He filled her goblet and his own with wine from the silver pitcher sitting in a bowl of cool water that had been ice a little while ago. “My Lord Niall . . ” The hesitation was just right, the slim hand halfstretched across the table toward him, the added respect in how she addressed him. Once she had called him simply Niall, with more contempt than she would have handed a drunken groom. The hesitation would have been just right had he not had the measure of her. “My Lord Niall, surely you can order Galad to Amador so I may see him.