A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance, Book 2) by David Dalglish

By David Dalglish

“Veldaren aches for a purge, and that i stands out as the one to carry it. Cry out at me if you want, however it will switch not anything. The gold is spent, the orders are given. enable the blood flow.”

It’s been 5 years due to the fact Haern faked his dying to flee the tyranny of his father. He has develop into the Watcher, a vicious killer who understands no limits, and whose hatred of the thief guilds is unmatched. but if the son of Alyssa Gemcroft, one of many 3 leaders of the robust Trifect, is assumed murdered, the slaughter starts off anew. Mercenaries flood the streets, with one aim in brain: locate and kill the Watcher.

Peace or destruction; each conflict should have its finish.

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Additional info for A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance, Book 2)

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Concern for him? He wasn’t the one being tortured. The box, Lews Therin whispered. We should have died in the box. Then . . then it would be over. Cadsuane sipped her wine. Rand hadn’t tasted his—he already knew that the spices were so strong as to render the drink unpalatable. Better that than the alternative. “You press us for results, boy,” Cadsuane said. “And yet you deny us the tools we need to get them. Whether you name it torture, questioning, or baking, I 50 T HE G ATHERING S TORM call it foolishness.

Yet he felt as if his other hand should be there to touch. Steel, he thought. I am steel. This cannot be fixed, and so I move on. The building—a thick-logged structure of pine and cedar after a design favored by the Domani wealthy—groaned and settled in the wind. Something on that wind smelled of rotten meat. Not an uncommon scent, these days. Meat spoiled without warning, sometimes only a few minutes after butchering. Drying it or salting it didn’t help. It was the Dark One’s touch, and it grew with each passing day.

It might get him killed someday. The door opened and Cadsuane strode in, as confident as any queen at court. She was a handsome woman, with dark eyes and an angular face. Her dark gray hair was up in a bun, a dozen tiny golden ornaments—each one a ter’angreal or angreal—hanging in their places atop it. Her dress was of a simple, thick wool, tied at the waist with a yellow belt, with more yellow embroidery across the collar. The dress itself was green, which was not uncommon, as that was her Ajah.

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