Память Света. Новости. (ТОЛЬКО Новости - комментарии ЗАПРЕЩЕНЫ!)

[Shaidar_Haran_v.3.0]

BS twitter update from 5/16/12:

I'm sorry I don't have more specific WoT posts for you — I know that Harriet prefers me to be more closed-mouthed. However, Maria from Team Jordan has finished her revision notes for the entire book, as has Harriet herself. So we're only waiting on Alan's notes. As he's playing "Great Captain" for me on A Memory of Light, his notes are vital — and he needs to be detailed. When I get them, I can finish revising.
...
No chapter names yet, as it won't be until this draft is finished that I settle on the number of chapters. Some are being combined.
...
Q: ...I'm truly hoping this book is 1/3 battles/fights.
BS: More than 1/3, I'd say...

Twitter update on Taim:

Q:   Was Taim's palace made from Shayol Ghul stone?
BS:  Yes.

AMoL timeline:

Q: How much time does aMoL cover?
BS: It depends on which part of the world you are in. You will understand that when you read A Memory of Light.

[Domon]

Вместе с анонсом обложки от издания Orbit:



на Драгонмаунте появилась и аннотация к книге:

And it came to pass in those days, as it had come before and would come again, that the Dark lay heavy on the land and weighed down the hearts of men, and the green things failed, and hope died.' From Charal Drianaan te Calamon, The Cycle of the Dragon.

In the Field of Merrilor the rulers of the nations gather to join behind Rand al'Thor, or to stop him from his plan to break the seals on the Dark One's prison – which may be a sign of his madness, or the last hope of humankind. Egwene, the Amyrlin Seat, leans toward the former.

In Andor, the Trollocs seize Caemlyn.

In the wolf dream, Perrin Aybara battles Slayer.

Approaching Ebou Dar, Mat Cauthon plans to visit his wife Tuon, now Fortuona, Empress of the Seanchan.

All humanity is in peril – and the outcome will be decided in Shayol Ghul itself. The Wheel is turning, and the Age is coming to its end. The Last Battle will determine the fate of the world..

For twenty years The Wheel of Time has enthralled more than forty million readers in over thirty-two languages. A MEMORY OF LIGHT brings this majestic fantasy creation to its richly satisfying conclusion.

Working from notes and partials left by Robert Jordan when he died in 2007, and consulting with Jordan's widow, who edited all of Jordan's books, established fantasy writer Brandon Sanderson has recreated the vision Jordan left behind.

[Shaidar_Haran_v.3.0]

BS twitter update from 6/7/12:

Currently about 250,000 words (of 350,000) into my fourth draft of AMoL. This is the hardest of the drafts. Next one should go faster.

[tomcat]

A Memory of Light (4th Draft) — 79%

[vova64]

A Memory of Light (Last Draft!) 5%

[tomcat]

A Memory of Light (Last Draft!) — 15%

[Шарин Налхара]

Брэндон Сандерсон читает отрывок из начала Памяти Света на КомикКоне-2012.

Транскрипция текста на английском

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 Mountains of Mist. 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.

Eastward the wind blew, descending from lofty mountains and coursing over desolate hills, it passed a place known as the Westwood, an area that once flourished with pine and leatherleaf. Here, the wind found little more than tangled underbrush, thick save for an occasional towering oak. Those looked stricken by disease, bark peeling free, branches drooping. Elsewhere needles had fallen from pines, draping the ground in a brown blanket. None of the skeletal branches in the Westwood put forth buds.

Northward and eastward the wind blew, across underbrush that crunched and crackled as it shook. It was night, and scrawny foxes picked over the rotting ground, searching in vain for prey or carrion. No spring birds had come to call, and it was telling that the howls of wolves had gone silent across the land.

The wind blew out of the forest and across Taren Ferry—what was left of it. The town had been a fine one, by local standards. Dark buildings, tall above their redstone foundations, the cobbled streets built at the mouth of the land known as the Two Rivers. The smoke had long since stopped rising from burned buildings, but there was little left of the town to rebuild. Feral dogs hunted through the rubble for meat; they looked up as the wind passed, their eyes hungry.

The wind crossed the river eastward, near clusters of refugees carrying torches aloft along the road from Baerlon to Whitebridge despite the late hour. They were sorry groups, with heads bowed, shoulders huddled. Some bore the coppery skin of Domani, their work clothing displayed the hardships of crossing the mountains with little in the way of supplies. Others came from farther off. Taraboners with haunted eyes and dirty veils. Farmers and their wives from Northern Ghealdan. All had heard the rumours that in Andor there was food, in Andor there was hope, but so far they had yet to find either.

Eastward the wind blew along the river that wove between farms without crops, grasslands without grass, orchards without fruit, abandoned villages, trees like bones with the flesh picked free, ravens often clustered in their branches. Starveling rabbits and sometimes larger game picked through the dead grass underneath. Above it all, the ever-present clouds were pressing down upon the land. Sometimes that cloud cover made it impossible to tell if it was day or night.

As the wind approached the grand city of Caemlyn it turned northward, away from the burning city, orange and red, violent, spewing black smoke toward the hungry clouds above. War had come to Andor in the still of the night. The approaching refugees would soon discover that they had been marching toward danger. It was not surprising; danger was in all directions. The only way to avoid walking toward it would be to stand still.

As the wind blew northward, it passed people sitting beside roads, alone or in small groups, staring with eyes of hopelessness. Some lay as they hungered, looking up at those rumbling, boiling clouds. Other people trekked onward, toward what, they knew not. The Last Battle—to the north, whatever that meant. The Last Battle was not hope. The Last Battle was death. But it was a place to be, a place to go.

In the evening dimness, the wind reached a large gathering far north of Caemlyn. This wide field broke the forest-patched landscape, but it was overgrown with tents, like fungi on a decaying log. Tens of thousands of soldiers waited beside campfires, and were quickly denuding the area of timber. The wind blew among them, whipping smoke from fires from the faces of soldiers. The people here didn’t display the same sense of hopelessness as the refugees, but there was a dread to them. They could see the sickened land; they could feel the clouds above. They knew the world was dying.

The soldiers stared at the flames, watching the wood be consumed. Ember by ember, what had once been alive instead turned to dust. A company of men inspected armor that had begun to rust despite being well-oiled. A group of white-robed Aiel gathered water, former warriors who refused to take up weapons again despite their toh having been served. A cluster of frightened servants, sure that tomorrow would bring war between the White Tower and the Dragon Reborn, organized stores within [?] tents shaken by the wind. Men and women whispered the truth into the night: “The end has come. The end has come. All will fail. The end has come.”

Laughter broke the air. Warm light spilled from the large tent at the center of the camp, bursting around the tentflap and from beneath the sides. Inside that tent, Rand al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn, laughed, head thrown back.

“So what did you do?” Rand asked when his laughter subsided. He poured himself a cup of red wine, the other one for Perrin, who blushed at the question. He’s become harder, Rand thought, but somehow he hasn’t lost that innocence of his, not completely. To Rand that was a marvelous thing. A wonder, like a pearl being discovered in a trout. Perrin was strong, but his strength hadn’t broken him.

“Well,” Perrin said. “You know how Marin is. She somehow manages to look—and even sound—as if you were a child who needed mothering. Finding Faile and me on the floor like two fool youths. I think she was torn between laughing at us and sending us to the kitchen to scrub dishes. Separately, to keep us out of trouble.”

Rand smiled, trying to picture it. Perrin—burly, solid. Perrin! So weak he could barely walk. It was an incongruous image. Rand wanted to assume that his friend was exaggerating, but Perrin didn’t have a dishonest hair on his head. Strange how much a man could change while his core remained exactly the same.

“Anyway,” Perrin said, after taking a drink of wine, “Faile picked me up off the floor and set me on my horse, and the two of us pranced about looking important. I didn’t do much, Rand. The fighting was accomplished by the others. I’d have had trouble lifting a cup to my lips.” He stopped, his golden eyes going distant. “You should be proud of them, Rand. Without Dannil here, your father and Mat’s father, without all of them, I wouldn’t have managed half what I did. No, not a tenth.”

“I believe it.” Rand regarded his wine. Lews Therin had loved wine. A part of Rand—that distant part, the memories of the man that he had been—was displeased by the poor vintage. Few grapes in the current world could match the favorite wines of the Age of Legends. He took a small drink, and then set the wine aside. Min still slumbered in another part of the tent, sectioned off with a curtain. Events in Rand’s dreams had awakened him. He had been glad for Perrin’s arrival to distract him from what he had seen.

[свернуть]

Оригинал транскрипции взят отсюда.

Русский перевод постараемся выложить чуть позже.

[Domon]

Ирен Галло выложила фотоотчет про печать первых суперобложек Памяти света
http://www.tor.com/blogs/2012/07/printing-the-a-memory-of-light-sales-proof

на нашем форуме выложил тут: http://www.wheeloftime.ru/forum/index.php/topic,2910.465.html

[tomcat]

Скачкообразно продвигается работа: A Memory of Light (Last Draft!) — 70%

[tomcat]

A Memory of Light (Last Draft!) — 90%

[Симмах]

Brandon Sanderson
Last draft is done, folks. From here, we head to copyedits. (And perhaps small tweaks here and there.) Basically, though, AMOL is finished.

Brandon Sanderson
Thanks for the good wishes, all. Final length of the book is around 360k words. Tower of Midnight was 335k, for reference.

Книга, в общем-то, готова. Остались лишь мелкие правки, исправление опечаток, грамматических и прочих ошибок. Длина книги 360т слов (в БП было 335т).

[tomcat]

Брэндон Сандерсон, видимо, сначала пишет в Твиттер, а уже потом на сайте:
A Memory of Light (Last Draft!) — 100%

[tomcat]

Брэндон Сандерсон, пишет на сайте:
Today I got up, and I did not have a Wheel of Time book to work on.

I finished the final revision on A Memory of Light early in the morning Saturday, then sent it off to Team Jordan. And I was done.

что свою часть работы полностью закончил.

[Симмах]

Отрывок из 11 главы ПС:
http://www.tor.com/stories/2012/09/a-memory-of-light-chapter-11-excerpt

[Menelai]

Пролог выйдет в продажу 2 октября, заказать его можно уже сейчас.
http://www.tor.com/blogs/2012/09/prologue-to-a-memory-of-light-now-available-for-preorder

Краткое описание: Человек, любящий охоту, начнает новое преследование, а один из Отрекшихся раскрывает свою новую сущность. Силы Тени триумфально вздымаются над разрушающимся миром. Добродетель и знамена пали, и Последняя битва началась.