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Crossroads Of Twilight: Book 10 of the Wheel of Time [Hardcover]

Robert Jordan
2.4 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (218 customer reviews)

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Product Description

Amazon Review

With Crossroads of Twilight, Jordan's gargantuan fantasy sequence The Wheel of Time reaches its tenth huge volume and hits some of the consequences of its own sheer scale. Jordan is running so many story lines--the struggle with the covert agents of evil, the creation of a male magic that is not polluted, the war with magic-using dragon-riders from across the sea, the adventures of a travelling circus--that he has to spend almost all of this book just keeping us in touch with the movements of his characters and how they are getting on.

This is a book with a fair amount of incident, but nothing you could really call a climax. One of Jordan's strengths has always been his ability to send things off at interesting and imaginative tangents, revealing that his is a stranger world than we have begun to know--there is not enough of that here, and rather too much in the way of confrontations and kidnappings and dilemmas of conscience that recapitulate things he has done before. His decent, lumbering "grey" style means that there are no moments when the writing thrills us either--this is a book for those who have committed to Jordan's sequence for the long haul rather than one for new readers to sample. --Roz Kaveney

Review

Jordan has come to dominate the world that Tolkien began to reveal (NEW YORK TIMES)

Epic in every sense (SUNDAY TIMES)

On very rare occasions, very talented storytellers create worlds that are beyond fantasy; worlds that become realities. Robert Jordan has (MORGAN LLYWELYN)

A powerful vision of good and evil (ORSON SCOTT CARD)

Book Description

* Book Ten of the SUNDAY TIMES No. 1 bestselling Wheel of Time series will be the most eagerly awaited fantasy novel of the year.

About the Author

Robert Jordan was born in 1948 in Charleston. He was a graduate of the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina, with a degree in physics, and served 2 tours in Vietnam. His hobbies inc. hunting, fishing, sailing, poker, chess, pool and pipe collecting. He died in September 2007.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Extract from CROSSROADS OF TWILIGHT by Robert Jordan

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 harnesses, 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 tree trunks 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. Six 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.

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