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11095 pages, ebook
First published May 1, 2014
Maeric touched Dyrele’s cheek, careless of how many eyes were on them. "Shade of my heart, you must prepare to put on white." Her hand strayed toward the hilt of her belt knife — she had been a Maiden when she made his wreath — but he shook his head firmly. "You must live, wife, roofmistress, to hold together what remains." Nodding, she pressed fingers to his cheek. He was astonished; she had always been very reserved in public.
Raising his veil, Maeric shoved one spear high above his head. "Moshaine!" he roared. "We dance!"
Up the slope they followed him, men and Maidens, nearly a thousand strong counting the Brotherless. Perhaps they could be counted among the sept. Up the slope and west; that way lay the nearest and the fewest. Perhaps they might buy enough time, though he did not really believe that. He wondered whether Sevanna had known of this. Ah, the world had grown very strange since Rand al’Thor came. Some things could not change, though. Laughing, he began to sing.
"Wash the spears, while the sun climbs high.
Wash the spears, while the sun falls low.
Wash the spears; who fears to die?
Wash the spears; no one I know!"
Singing, the Moshaine Shaido ran to dance their deaths.
“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.”