The Barnes & Noble Review
In Robert Jordan's Winter's Heart -- the ninth volume in his blockbuster Wheel of Time saga -- the prophesied Last Battle (Tarmon Gai'don) between the Light and the Shadow is imminent. But Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn, stands in the Shadow's way. Conflict greets him on all sides, from both foes and allies. Darkfriends, Shadowspawn, and the Forsaken will try to kill Rand to prevent his participation in the Last Battle. Others, on the side of the Light, are afraid that Rand will go mad and cause another Breaking of the World, so they attempt to control him.
The world of Wheel of Time is one of queens and kings, nations and wars, and the One Power. Aes Sedai (women who can tap into the female half of the One Power, called saider) rule from the White Tower located in the city of Tar Valon. Even kings and queens are wary of Aes Sedai manipulations. Men who can channel the male half of the One Power (saiden) are feared because of the taint on saiden by the Dark One. They are hunted down by Aes Sedai and cut off from the power to prevent madness and destruction. However, the prophecies say that the seals on the Dark One's prison will weaken, letting him into the world, and a male Aes Sedai, the Dragon Reborn, will face the Dark One again.
Although Winter's Heart does add a few major plotlines, it mostly enhances the universe of the Wheel of Time. The unnatural summer has ended, bringing winter with its fresh set of problems, plus plenty of fresh activity. Elayne continues her quest for the throne of Andor. Perrin's wife, Faile, is captured by rebel Aiel. After an attempt is made on his life, Rand decides to go on the run to deal with rebel Asha'men. Later, Rand addresses the taint on saiden. Cadsuane tries to help Rand understand his humanity. Mat schemes to get out of Ebou Dar and away from Queen Tylin, receiving help from an unexpected source. A Seanchan princess -- known as Daughter of the Nine Moons -- arrives in Ebou Dar, while the Seanchan capture and consolidate more lands in the west. The Forsaken gather to plot against Rand.
Jordan has created a world of characters and places as diverse and complicated as those in real life. He weaves many stories, tales, and legends to create a colorful tapestry. However, the complex and numerous plots, plus the development of various characters, border on overwhelming at times. And remembering all the pertinent details from preceding volumes is next to impossible: what the characters have previously done, what they know, what they don't. The first few Wheel of Time books are among the finest fantasy writing ever, with tight story lines and fast-moving action. The most recent volumes in the series, including Winter's Heart, have featured less action and fewer grand plot arcs but have developed more character histories and shadings.
Reading the previous eight Wheel of Time books is essential to appreciate the many characters and plot subtleties of Winter's Heart. And although Jordan's latest effort may not be as heart-pounding as earlier books in the series, Winter's Heart adds welcome textures -- and pleasant diversions -- to the Wheel of Time series.
Don Ross is a freelance writer in northern New Jersey.
This is a great example of that rarest of all audiobooks-the kind with no redeeming quality whatsoever. The ninth installment in Jordan's endless, numbingly boring "Wheel of Time" series, this sprawling, muddled story is, unfortunately, also very long. Shallow, mannequin-like characters (too numerous to keep straight) combine with nonsensical-sounding names and places to make listening an exercise in drudgery. Decent work by narrator Kate Reading is completely undermined by Michael Kramer's particularly annoying voice and spastic breathing. Avoid this at all costs.-Douglas C. Lord, Oxford P.L., CT Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
From the Publisher
“Robert Jordan has come to dominate the world Tolkien began to reveal.” The New York Times
Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1: Leaving the Prophet 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 above the Aryth Ocean. 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.
East the wind blew above the cold gray-green ocean swells, toward Tarabon, where ships already unloaded or waiting their turns to enter the harbor of Tanchico tossed at anchor for miles along the low coastline. More ships, great and small, filled the huge harbor, and barges ferrying people and cargo ashore, for there was no mooring empty at any of the city's docks. The inhabitants of Tanchico had been fearful when the city fell to its new masters, with their peculiar customs and strange creatures and E. women held on leashes who could channel, and fearful again when this fleet arrived, mind-numbing in its size, and began disgorging not only soldiers but sharp-eyed merchants, and craftsfolk with the tools of their trades, and even families with wagons full of farm implements and unknown plants. There was a new King and a new Panarch to order the laws, though, and if King and Panarch owed fealty to some far distant Empress, if Seanchan nobles occupied many of the palaces and demanded deeper obeisance than any Taraboner lord or lady, life was little changed for most people, except for the better. The Seanchan Blood had small contact with ordinary folk, and odd customs could be lived with. The anarchy that had ripped thecountry apart was just a memory, now, and hunger with it. The rebels and bandits and Dragonsworn who had plagued the land were dead or captured or driven north onto Almoth Plain, those who had not yielded, and trade moved once more. The hordes of starving refugees that had clogged the city streets were back in their villages, back on their farms. And no more of the newest arrivals remained in Tanchico than the city could support easily. Despite the snows, soldiers and merchants, craftsfolk and farmers fanned out inland in their thousands and tens of thousands, but the icy wind lashed a Tanchico at peace and, after its harsh troubles, for the most part content with its lot.
East the wind blew for leagues, gusting and fading, dividing but never dying, east and veering to the south, across forests and plains wrapped in winter, bare branched and brown-grassed, at last crossing what had once been the border between Tarabon and Amadicia. A border still, but only in name, the customs posts dismantled, the guards gone. East and south, around the southern reaches of the Mountains of Mist, swirling across high-walled Amador. Conquered Amador. The banner atop the massive Fortress of the Light snapped in the wind, the golden hawk it bore truly seeming to fly with lightning bolts clutched in its talons. Few natives left their homes except at need, and those few hurried along the frozen streets, cloaks clutched around them and eyes down. Eyes down not just to mind footing on slick paving stones but to avoid looking at the occasional Seanchan riding by on a beast like a bronze-scaled cat the size of a horse, or steel-veiled Taraboners guarding groups of onetime Children of the Light, now chained and laboring like animals to haul refuse wagons out of the city. A bare month and a half in the Seanchan fold, the people of Amadicia's capital city felt the bitter wind like a scourge, and those who did not curse their fate meditated on what sins had brought them to this.
East the wind howled over a desolated land where as many villages lay burned and farms ruined as held people. Snow blanketed charred timbers and abandoned barns alike, softening the view even as it added freezing to starvation as a way of dying. Sword and axe and spear had been there already, and remained to kill again. East, until the wind moaned a dirge over unwalled Abila. No banners flew above the town's watchtowers, for the Prophet of the Lord Dragon was there, and the Prophet needed no banner save his name. In Abila, people shivered harder at the name of the Prophet than they did for the wind. People elsewhere shivered at that name, too.
Striding out of the tall merchant's house where Masema lived, Perrin let the wind whip his fur-lined cloak as he pulled on his gloves. The midday sun gave no warmth, and the air bit deep. He kept his face smooth, but he was too angry to feel the cold. Keeping his hands from the axe at his belt was an effort. Masema-he would not call the man Prophet, not in his own head he would not!-Masema was very likely a fool, and very certainly insane. A powerful fool, more powerful than most kings, and mad with it.
Masema's guards filled the street from side to side and stretched around the corners of the next streets, bony fellows in stolen silks, beardless apprentices in torn coats, once-plump merchants in the remains of fine woolens. Their breath was white mist, and some shivered without a cloak, but every man clutched a spear, or a crossbow with the bolt in place. Still, none looked outwardly hostile. They knew he claimed acquaintance with the Prophet, and they gaped as if expecting him to leap into the air and fly. Or at least turn somersaults. He filtered out the smell of woodsmoke from the town's chimneys. The lot of them stank of old sweat and unwashed bodies, of eagerness and fear. And of a strange fever he had not recognized before, a reflection of the madness in Masema. Hostile or not, they would kill him, or...