The man who called himself Bors, at least in this place, sneered1 at the low murmuring that rolled around the vaulted3 chamber4 like the soft gabble of geese. His grimace5 was hidden by the black silk mask that covered his face, though, just like the masks that covered the hundred other faces in the chamber. A hundred black masks, and a hundred pairs of eyes trying to see what lay behind them.
If one did not look too closely, the huge room could have been in a palace, with its tall marble fireplaces and its golden lamps hanging from the domed8 ceiling, its colorful tapestries9 and intricately patterned mosaic10 floor. If one did not look too closely. The fireplaces were cold, for one thing. Flames danced on logs as thick as a man's leg, but gave no heat. The walls behind the tapestries, the ceiling high above the lamps, were undressed stone, almost black. There were no windows, and only two doorways11, one at either end of the room. It was as if someone had intended to give the semblance12 of a palace reception chamber but had not cared enough to bother with more than the outline and a few touches for detail.
Where the chamber was, the man who called himself Bors did not know, nor did he think any of the others knew. He did not like to think about where it might be. It was enough that he had been summoned. He did not like to think about that, either, but for such a summons, even he came.
He shifted his cloak, thankful that the fires were cold, else it would have been too hot for the black wool draping him to the floor. All his clothes were black. The bulky folds of the cloak hid the stoop he used to disguise his height, and bred confusion as to whether he was thin or thick. He was not the only one there enveloped13 in a tailor's span of cloth.
Silently he watched his companions. Patience had marked much of his life. Always, if he waited and watched long enough, someone made a mistake. Most of the men and women here might have had the same philosophy; they watched, and listened silently to those who had to speak. Some people could not bear waiting, or silence, and so gave away more than they knew.
Servants circulated through the guests, slender, golden-haired youths proffering14 wine with a bow and a wordless smile. Young men and young women alike, they wore tight white breeches and flowing white shirts. And male and female alike, they moved with disturbing grace. Each looked more than a mirror image of the others, the boys as handsome as the girls were beautiful. He doubted he could distinguish one from another, and he had an eye and a memory for faces.
A smiling, white-clad girl offered her tray of crystal goblets16 to him. He took one with no intention of drinking; it might appear untrusting-or worse, and either could be deadly here-if he refused altogether, but anything could be slipped into a drink. Surely some among his companions would have no objections to seeing the number of their rivals for power dwindle17, whomever the unlucky ones happened to be.
Idly he wondered whether the servants would have to be disposed of after this meeting. Servants hear everything. As the serving girl straightened from her bow, his eye caught hers above that sweet smile. Blank eyes. Empty eyes. A doll's eyes. Eyes more dead than death.
He shivered as she moved gracefully18 away, and raised the goblet15 to his lips before he caught himself. It was not what had been done to the girl that chilled him. Rather, every time he thought he detected a weakness in those he now served, he found himself preceded, the supposed weakness cut out with a ruthless precision that left him amazed. And worried. The first rule of his life had always been to search for weakness, for every weakness was a chink where he could probe and pry20 and influence. If his current masters, his masters for the moment, had no weakness . . .
Frowning behind his mask, he studied his companions. At least there was plenty of weakness there. Their nervousness betrayed them, even those who had sense enough to guard their tongues. A stiffness in the way this one held himself, a jerkiness in the way that one handled her skirts.
A good quarter of them, he estimated, had not bothered with disguise beyond the black masks. Their clothes told much. A woman standing21 before a gold-and-crimson22 wall hanging, speaking softly to a figure-impossible to say whether it was man or woman-cloaked and hooded23 in gray. She had obviously chosen the spot because the colors of the tapestry24 set off her garb25. Doubly foolish to draw attention to herself, for her scarlet26 dress, cut low in the bodice to show too much flesh and high at the hem6 to display golden slippers27, marked her from Illian, and a woman of wealth, perhaps even of noble blood.
Not far beyond the Illianer, another woman stood, alone and admirably silent. With a swan's neck and lustrous28 black hair falling in waves below her waist, she kept her back to the stone wall, observing everything. No nervousness there, only serene29 self-possession. Very admirable, that, but her coppery skin and her creamy, high-necked gown-leaving nothing but her hands uncovered, yet clinging and only just barely opaque30, so that it hinted at everything and revealed nothing-marked her just as clearly of the first blood of Arad Doman. And unless the man who called himself Bors missed his guess entirely31, the wide golden bracelet32 on her left wrist bore her House symbols. They would be for her own House; no Domani bloodborn would bend her stiff pride enough to wear the sigils of another House. Worse than foolishness.
A man in a high-collared, sky-blue Shienaran coat passed him with a wary33, head-to-toe glance though the eyeholes of his mask. The man's carriage named him soldier; the set of his shoulders, the way his gaze never rested in one place for long, and the way his hand seemed ready to dart34 for a sword that was not there, all proclaimed it. The Shienaran wasted little time on the man who called himself Bors; stooped shoulders and a bent35 back held no threat.
The man who called himself Bors snorted as the Shienaran moved on, right hand clenching36 and eyes already studying elsewhere for danger. He could read them all, to class and country. Merchant and warrior37, commoner and noble. From Kandor and Cairhien, Saldaea and Ghealdan. From every nation and nearly every people. His nose wrinkled in sudden disgust. Even a Tinker, in bright green breeches and a virulent38 yellow coat. We can do without those come the Day.
The disguised ones were no better, many of them, cloaked and shrouded39 as they were. He caught sight, under the edge of one dark robe, of the silver-worked boots of a High Lord of Tear, and under another a glimpse of golden lion-head spurs, worn only by high officers in the Andoran Queen's Guards. A slender fellow-slender even in a floor-dragging black robe and an anonymous40 gray cloak caught with a plain silver pin-watched from the shadows of his deep cowl. He could be anyone, from anywhere . . . except for the six-pointed41 star tattooed43 on the web between thumb and forefinger44 of his right hand. One of the Sea Folk then, and a look at his left hand would show the marks of his clan45 and line. The man who called himself Bors did not bother to try.
Suddenly his eyes narrowed, fixing on a woman enveloped in black till nothing showed but her fingers. On her right hand rested a gold ring in the shape of a serpent eating its own tail. Aes Sedai, or at least a woman trained in Tar42 Valon by Aes Sedai. None else would wear that ring. Either way made no difference to him. He looked away before she could notice his watching, and almost immediately he spotted46 another woman swathed from head to toe in black and wearing a Great Serpent ring. The two witches gave no sign that they knew each other. In the White Tower they sat like spiders in the middle of a web, pulling the strings47 that made kings and queens dance, meddling48. Curse them all to death eternal! He realized that he was grinding his teeth. If numbers must dwindle - and they must, before the Day - there were some who would be missed even less than Tinkers.
A chime sounded, a single, shivering note that came from everywhere at once and cut off all other sounds like a knife.
The tall doors at the far end of the chamber swung open, and two Trollocs stepped into the room, spikes50 decorating the black mail that hung to their knees. Everyone shied back. Even the man who called himself Bors.
Head and shoulders taller than the tallest man there, they were a stomach-turning blend of man and animal, human faces twisted and altered. One had a heavy, pointed beak51 where his mouth and nose should have been, and feathers covered his head instead of hair. The other walked on hooves, his face pushed out in a hairy muzzle52, and goat horns stuck up above his ears.
Ignoring the humans, the Trollocs turned back toward the door and bowed, servile and cringing53. The feathers on the one lifted in a tight crest54.
A Myrddraal stepped between them, and they fell to their knees. It was garbed55 in black that made the Trollocs' mail and the humans' masks seem bright, garments that hung still, without a ripple56, as it moved with a viper's grace.
The man who called himself Bors felt his lips drawing back over his teeth, half snarl57 and half, he was shamed to admit even to himself, fear. It had its face uncovered. Its pasty pale face, a man's face, but eyeless as an egg, like a maggot in a grave.
The smooth white face swiveled, regarding them all one by one, it seemed. A visible shiver ran through them under that eyeless look. Thin, bloodless lips quirked in what might almost have been a smile as, one by one, the masked ones tried to press back into the crowd, milling to avoid that gaze. The Myrddraal's look shaped them into a semicircle facing the door.
The man who called himself Bors swallowed. There will come a day, Halfman. When the Great Lord of the Dark comes again, he will choose his new Dreadlords, and you will cower58 before them. You will cower before men. Before me! Why doesn't it speak? Stop staring at me, and speak!
"Your Master comes." The Myrddraal's voice rasped like a dry snake skin crumbling59. "To your bellies60, worms! Grovel61, lest his brilliance62 blind and burn you!"
Rage filled the man who called himself Bors, at the tone as much as the words, but. then the air above the Halfman shimmered63, and the import drove home. It can't be! It can't. . . ! The Trollocs were already on their bellies, writhing64 as if they wanted to burrow65 into the floor.
Without waiting to see if anyone else moved, the man who called himself Bors dropped facedown, grunting66 as he bruised67 himself on the stone. Words sprang to his lips like a charm against danger-they were a charm, though a thin reed against what he feared-and he heard a hundred other voices, breathy with fear, speaking the same against the floor.
"The Great Lord of the Dark is my Master, and most heartily68 do I serve him to the last shred69 of my very soul." In the back of his mind a voice chattered70 with fear. The Dark One and all the Forsaken71 are bound . . . . Shivering, he forced it to silence. He had abandoned that voice long since. "Lo, my Master is death's Master. Asking nothing do I serve against the Day of his coming, yet do I serve in the sure and certain hope of life everlasting72." . . . bound in Shayol Ghul, bound by the Creator at the moment of creation. No, I serve a different master now. "Surely the faithful shall be exalted73 in the land, exalted above the unbelievers; exalted above thrones, yet do I serve humbly74 against the Day of his Return." The hand of the Creator shelters us all, and the Light protects us from the Shadow. No, no! A different master. "Swift come the Day of Return. Swift come the Great Lord of the Dark to guide us and rule the world forever and ever. "
The man who called himself Bors finished the creed75 panting, as if he had run ten miles. The rasp of breath all around told him he was not the only one.
"Rise. All of you, rise."
The mellifluous76 voice took him by surprise. Surely none of his companions, lying on their bellies with their masked faces pressed to the mosaic tiles, would have spoken, but it was not the voice he expected from . . . Cautiously, he raised his head enough to see with one eye.
The figure of a man floated in the air above the Myrddraal, the hem of his blood-red robe hanging a span over the Halfman's head. Masked in blood-red, too. Would the Great Lord of the Dark appear to them as a man? And masked, besides? Yet the Myrddraal, its very gaze fear, trembled and almost cowered78 where it stood in the figure's shadow. The man who called himself Bors grasped for an answer his mind could contain without splitting. One of the Forsaken, perhaps.
That thought was only a little less painful. Even so, it meant the Day of the Dark One's return must be close at hand if one of the Forsaken was free. The Forsaken, thirteen of the most powerful wielders of the One Power in an Age filled with powerful wielders, had been sealed up in Shayol Ghul along with the Dark One, sealed away from the world of men by the Dragon and the Hundred Companions. And the backblast of that sealing had tainted79 the male half of the True Source; and all the male Aes Sedai, those cursed wielders of the Power, went mad and broke the world, tore it apart like a pottery80 bowl smashed on rocks, ending the Age of Legends before they died, rotting while they still lived. A fitting death for Aes Sedai, to his mind. Too good for them. He regretted only that the women had been spared.
Slowly, painfully, he forced the panic to the back of his mind, confined it and held it tight though it screamed to get out. It was the best he could do. None of those on their bellies had risen, and only a few had even dared raise their heads.
"Rise." There was a snap in the red-masked figure's voice this time. He gestured with both hands. "Stand!"
The man who called himself Bors scrambled81 up awkwardly, but halfway82 to his feet, he hesitated. Those gesturing hands were horribly burned, crisscrossed by black fissures83, the raw flesh between as red as the figure's robes. Would the Dark One appear so? Or even one of the Forsaken? The eyeholes of that blood-red mask swept slowly across him, and he straightened hastily. He thought he could feel the heat of an open furnace in that gaze.
The others obeyed the command with no more grace and no less fear in their rising. When all were on their feet, the floating figure spoke77.
"I have been known by many names, but the one by which you shall know me is Ba'alzamon."
The man who called himself Bors clamped his teeth to keep them from chattering84. Ba'alzamon. In the Trolloc tongue, it meant Heart of the Dark, and even unbelievers knew it was the Trolloc name for the Great Lord of the Dark. He Whose Name Must Not Be Uttered. Not the True Name, Shai'tan, but still forbidden. Among those gathered here, and others of their kind, to sully either with a human tongue was blasphemy85. His breath whistled through his nostrils86, and all around him he could hear others panting behind their masks. The servants were gone, and the Trollocs as well, though he had not seen them go.
"The place where you stand lies in the shadow of Shayol Ghul." More than one voice moaned at that; the man who called himself Bors was not sure his own was not among them. A touch of what might almost be called mockery entered Ba'alzamon's voice as he spread his arms wide. "Fear not, for the Day of your Master's rising upon the world is near at hand. The Day of Return draws nigh. Does it not tell you so that I am here, to be seen by you favored few among your brothers and sisters? Soon the Wheel of Time will be broken. Soon the Great Serpent will die, and with the power of that death, the death of Time itself, your Master will remake the world in his own image for this Age and for all Ages to come. And those who serve me, faithful and steadfast87, will sit at my feet above the stars in the sky and rule the world of men forever. So have I promised, and so shall it be, without end. You shall live and rule forever."
A murmur2 of anticipation88 ran through the listeners, and some even took a step forward, toward the floating, crimson shape, their eyes lifted, rapturous. Even the man who called himself Bors felt the pull of that promise, the promise for which he had dealt away his soul a hundred times over.
"The Day of Return comes closer," Ba'alzamon said. "But there is much yet to do. Much to do."
The air to Ba'alzamon's left shimmered and thickened, and the figure of a young man hung there, a little lower than Ba'alzamon. The man who called himself Bors could not decide whether it was a living being or not. A country lad, by his clothes, with a light of mischief89 in his brown eyes and the hint of a smile on his lips, as if in memory or anticipation of a prank90. The flesh looked warm, but the chest did not move with breath, the eyes did not blink.
The air to Ba'alzamon's right wavered as if with heat, and a second country-clad figure hung suspended a little below Ba'alzamon. A curly-haired youth, as heavily muscled as a blacksmith. And an oddity: a battle axe91 hung at his side, a great, steel half-moon balanced by a thick spike49. The man who called himself Bors suddenly leaned forward, intent on an even greater strangeness. A youth with yellow eyes.
For the third time air solidified92 into the shape of a young man, this time directly under Ba'alzamon's eye, almost at his feet. A tall fellow, with eyes now gray, now almost blue as the light took them, and dark, reddish hair. Another villager, or farmer. The man who called himself Bors gasped93. Yet another thing out of the ordinary, though he wondered why he should expect anything to be ordinary here. A sword swung from the figure's belt, a sword with a bronze heron on the scabbard and another inset into the long, two-handed hilt. A village boy with a heron-mark blade? Impossible! What can it mean? And a boy with yellow eyes. He noticed the Myrddraal looking at the figures, trembling; and unless he misjudged entirely, its trembling was no longer fear, but hatred94.
Dead silence had fallen, silence that Ba'alzamon let deepen before he spoke. "There is now one who walks the world, one who was and will be, but is not yet, the Dragon."
A startled murmur ran through his listeners.
"The Dragon Reborn! We are to kill him, Great Lord?" That from the Shienaran, hand grasping eagerly at his side where his sword would hang.
"Perhaps," Ba'alzamon said simply. "And perhaps not. Perhaps he can be turned to my use. Sooner or later it will be so, in this Age or another."
The man who called himself Bors blinked. In this Age or another? I thought the Day of Return was near. What matter to me what happens in another Age if I grow old and die waiting in this one? But Ba'alzamon was speaking again.
"Already a bend is forming in the Pattern, one of many points where he who will become the Dragon may be turned to my service. Must be turned! Better that he serve me alive than dead, but alive or dead, serve me he must and will! These three you must know, for each is a thread in the pattern I mean to weave, and it will be up to you to see that they are placed as I command. Study them well, that you will know them."
Abruptly95 all sound was gone. The man who called himself Bors shifted uneasily, and saw others doing the same. All but the Illianer, woman, he realized. With her hands spread over her bosom96 as if to hide the rounded flesh she exposed, eyes wide, half frightened and half ecstatic, she was nodding eagerly as though to someone face-to-face with her. Sometimes she appeared to give a reply, but the man who called himself Bors heard not a word. Suddenly she arched backwards97, trembling and rising on her toes. He could not see why she did not fall, unless something unseen held her. Then, just as abruptly, she settled back to her feet and nodded again, bowing, shivering. Even as she straightened, one of the women wearing a Great Serpent ring gave a start and began nodding.
So each of us hears his own instructions, and none hears another's. The man who called himself Bors muttered in frustration98. If he knew what even one other was commanded, he might be able to use the knowledge to advantage, but this way . . . Impatiently he waited for his turn, forgetting himself enough to stand straight.
One by one the gathering99 received their orders, each walled in silence yet still giving tantalizing100 clues, if only he could read them. The man of the Atha'an Miere, the Sea Folk, stiffening101 with reluctance102 as he nodded. The Shienaran, his stance bespeaking103 confusion even while he acquiesced104. The second woman of Tar Valon giving a start, as of shock, and the gray-swathed figure whose sex he could not determine shaking its head before falling to its knees and nodding vigorously. Some underwent the same convulsion as the Illianer woman, as if pain itself lifted them to toe tips.
"Bors."
The man who called himself Bors jerked as a red mask filled his eyes. He could still see the room, still see the floating shape of Ba'alzamon and the three figures before him, but at the same time all he could see was the red-masked face. Dizzy, he felt as if his skull105 were splitting open and his eyes were being pushed out of his head. For a moment he thought he could see flames through the eyeholes of the mask.
"Are you faithful . . . Bors?"
The hint of mocking in the name sent a chill down his backbone106. "I am faithful, Great Lord. I cannot hide from you." I am faithful! I swear it!
"No, you cannot."
The certainty in Ba'alzamon's voice dried his mouth, but he forced himself to speak. "Command me, Great Lord, and I obey."
"Firstly, you are to return to Tarabon and continue your good works. In fact, I command you to redouble your efforts."
He stared at Ba'alzamon in puzzlement, but then fires flared107 again behind the mask, and he took the excuse of a bow to pull his eyes away. "As you command, Great Lord, so shall it be."
"Secondly108, you will watch for the three young men, and have your followers109 watch. Be warned; they are dangerous."
The man who called himself Bors glanced at the figures floating in front of Ba'alzamon. How can I do that? I can see them, but I can't see anything except his face. His head felt about to burst. Sweat slicked his hands under his thin gloves, and his shirt clung to his back. "Dangerous, Great Lord? Farmboys? Is one of them the - "
"A sword is dangerous to the man at the point, but not to the man at the hilt. Unless the man holding the sword is a fool, or careless, or unskilled, in which case it is twice as dangerous to him as to anyone else. It is enough that I have told you to know them. It is enough that you obey me. "
"As you command, Great Lord, so shall it be."
"Thirdly, regarding those who have landed at Toman Head, and the Domani. Of this you will speak to no one. When you return to Tarabon . . ."
The man who called himself Bors realized as he listened that his mouth was sagging110 open. The instructions made no sense. If I knew what some of the others were told, perhaps I could piece it together.
Abruptly he felt his head grasped as though by a giant hand crushing his temples, felt himself being lifted, and the world blew apart in a thousand starbursts, each flash of light becoming an image that fled across his mind or spun111 and dwindled112 into the distance before he could more than barely grasp it. An impossible sky of striated113 clouds, red and yellow and black, racing114 as if driven by the mightiest115 wind the world had ever seen. A woman - a girl? - dressed in white receded19 into blackness and vanished as soon as she appeared. A raven116 stared him in the eye, knowing him, and was gone. An armored man in a brutal117 helm, shaped and painted and gilded118 like some monstrous119, poisonous insect, raised a sword and plunged120 to one side, beyond his view. A horn, curled and golden, came hurtling out of the far distance. One piercing note it sounded as it flashed toward him, tugging121 his soul. At the last instant it flashed into a blinding, golden ring of light that passed through him, chilling him beyond death. A wolf leaped from the shadows of lost sight and ripped out his throat. He could not scream. The torrent122 went on, drowning him, burying him. He could barely remember who he was, or what he was. The skies rained fire, and the moon and stars fell; rivers ran in blood, and the dead walked; the earth split open and fountained molten rock . . .
The man who called himself Bors found himself half crouching123 in the chamber with the others, most watching him, all silent. Wherever he looked, up or down or in any direction, the masked face of Ba'alzamon overwhelmed his eyes. The images that had flooded into his mind were fading; he was sure many were already gone from memory. Hesitantly, he straightened, Ba'alzamon always before him.
"Great Lord, what - ?"
"Some commands are too important to be known even by he who carries them out."
The man who called himself Bors bent almost double in his bow. "As you command, Great Lord," he whispered hoarsely124, "so shall it be."
When he straightened, he was alone in silence once more. Another, the Taren High Lord, nodded and bowed to someone none else saw. The man who called himself Bors put an unsteady hand to his brow, trying to hold on to something of what had burst through his mind, though he was not completely certain he wanted to remember. The last remnant flickered125 out, and suddenly he was wondering what it was that he was trying to recall. I know there was something, but what? There was something! Wasn't there? He rubbed his hands together, grimacing126 at the feel of sweat under his gloves, and turned his attention to the three figures hanging suspended before Ba'alzamon's floating form.
The muscular, curly-haired youth; the farmer with the sword; and the lad with the look of mischief on his face. Already, in his mind, the man who called himself Bors had named them the Blacksmith, the Swordsman, and the Trickster. What is their place in the puzzle? They must be important, or Ba'alzamon would not have made them the center of this gathering. But from his orders alone they could all die at any time, and he had to think that some of the others, at least, had orders as deadly for the three. How important are they? Blue eyes could mean the nobility of Andor-unlikely in those clothes-and there were Borderlanders with light eyes, as well as some Tareni, not to mention a few from Ghealdan, and, of course . . . No, no help there. But yellow eyes? Who are they? What are they?
He started at a touch on his arm, and looked around to find one of the white-clad servants, a young man, standing by his side. The others were back, too, more than before, one for each of the masked. He blinked. Ba'alzamon was gone. The Myrddraal was gone, too, and only rough stone was where the door it had used had been. The three figures still hung there, though. He felt as if they were staring at him.
"If it please you, my Lord Bors, I will show you to your room."
Avoiding those dead eyes, he glanced once more at the three figures, then followed. Uneasily he wondered how the youth had known what name to use. It was not until the strange carved doors closed behind him and they had walked a dozen paces that he realized he was alone in the corridor with the servant. His brows drew down suspiciously behind his mask, but before he could open his mouth, the servant spoke.
"The others are also being shown to their rooms, my Lord. If you please, my Lord? Time is short, and our Master is impatient."
The man who called himself Bors ground his teeth, both at the lack of information and at the implication of sameness between himself and the servant, but he followed in silence. Only a fool ranted127 at a servant, and worse, remembering the fellow's eyes, he was not sure it would do any good. And how did he know what I was going to ask? The servant smiled.
The man who called himself Bors did not feel at all comfortable until he was back in the room where he had waited on first arriving, and then not much. Even finding the seals on his saddlebags untouched was small comfort.
The servant stood in the hallway, not entering. "You may change to your own garments if you wish, my Lord. None will see you depart here, nor arrive at your destination, but it may be best to arrive already properly clothed. Someone will come soon to show you the way."
Untouched by any visible hand, the door swung shut.
The man who called himself Bors shivered in spite of himself. Hastily he undid128 the seals and buckles129 of his saddlebags and pulled out his usual cloak. In the back of his mind a small voice wondered if the promised power, even the immortality130, was worth another meeting like this, but he laughed it down immediately. For that much power, I would praise the Great Lord of the Dark under the Dome7 of Truth. Remembering the commands given him by Ba'alzamon, he fingered the golden, flaring131 sun worked on the breast of the white cloak, and the red shepherd's crook132 behind the sun, symbol of his office in the world of men, and he almost laughed. There was work, great work, to be done in Tarabon, and on Almoth Plain.
收听单词发音 |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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domed
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| adj. 圆屋顶的, 半球形的, 拱曲的 动词dome的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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doorways
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semblance
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proffering
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的现在分词 ) | |
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goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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17
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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18
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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19
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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21
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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24
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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25
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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26
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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27
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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28
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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29
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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30
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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31
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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32
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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33
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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34
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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35
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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36
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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37
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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38
virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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39
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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40
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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41
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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42
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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43
tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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44
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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45
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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46
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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47
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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48
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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49
spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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50
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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51
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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52
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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53
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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54
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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55
garbed
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| v.（尤指某类人穿的特定）服装，衣服，制服( garb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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57
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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58
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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59
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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60
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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61
grovel
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| vi.卑躬屈膝，奴颜婢膝 | |
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62
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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63
shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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65
burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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66
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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67
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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68
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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69
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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70
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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71
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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72
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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73
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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74
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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75
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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76
mellifluous
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| adj.（音乐等）柔美流畅的 | |
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77
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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78
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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79
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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80
pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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81
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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82
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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83
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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85
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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86
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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87
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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88
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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89
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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90
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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91
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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92
solidified
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的过去式和过去分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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93
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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94
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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95
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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96
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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97
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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98
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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99
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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100
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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101
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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102
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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103
bespeaking
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| v.预定( bespeak的现在分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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104
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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106
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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107
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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108
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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109
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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110
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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111
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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112
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
striated
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| adj.有纵线，条纹的 | |
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114
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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115
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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116
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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117
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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118
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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119
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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120
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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121
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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122
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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123
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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124
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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125
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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127
ranted
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的过去式和过去分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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128
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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129
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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130
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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131
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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132
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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