NIGHT ANGEL TRILOGY PDF
Conjuration of the Sixth Mystery with the Seal of the Power-Angels The practice preempted no one A Dictionary o ONE NIGHT @ THE CALL CENTER. Night Angel Trilogy (The Way of Shadows; Shadow's Edge; Beyond the Shadows ) · Read more III. Beyond the Shadows (The Night Angel Trilogy) · Read more. BOOKS BY BRENT WEEKS THE NIGHT ANGEL TRILOGY The Way of Shadows Shadow's Edge Beyond the Shadows The Way of Shadows 1 A zoth squatted.
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[PDF] Download Night Angel: The Complete Trilogy (The Night Angel Trilogy) Ebook | READ ONLINE Download at. The Way of Shadows. Night Angel Trilogy (Series). Book 1. Brent Weeks Author Paul Boehmer Narrator (). cover image of The Way of Shadows. The Way Of Shadows: Night Angel Trilogy, Book 1 Pdf the way of shadows is the first in the night angel trilogy by newcomer brent weeks. let me start by saying.
He slithered to the unfinished pine beam he had gotten stuck under last time and shoveled mud away until water filled the depression. The gap was still so narrow that he had to turn his head sideways to squeeze underneath it. Holding his breath and pushing his face into the slimy water, he began the slow crawl. His head and shoulders made it through, but then a stub of a branch caught the back of his tunic, tearing the cloth and jabbing his back. Through a wide space between bamboo poles, Azoth saw a man seated at the bar, still drinking.
In the Warrens, you had to judge people quickly.
Even if you had quick hands like Azoth did, when you stole every day, you were bound to get caught eventually. All merchants hit the guild rats who stole from them. If they wanted to have any goods left to sell, they had to. Azoth thought he saw something kind and sad and lonely in this lanky figure. He was perhaps thirty, with a scraggly blond beard and a huge sword on his hip.
Is it because of Vonda? He ignored it. It was just his imagination again. He reached behind his back to free his tunic. He needed to find his coins and get out of here. Something heavy dropped onto the floor above Azoth and slammed his face into the water, driving the breath from his lungs. He gasped and nearly inhaled water. Nothing was visible of the man through the gaps except a drawn dagger.
He must have dropped from the rafters. Made me damn near bawl my eyes out. His voice was slow, broken. Are you sure you want to make it seven? The lanky man was the wetboy Durzo Blint.
A wetboy was like an assassin—in the way a tiger is like a kitten. Among wetboys, Durzo Blint was indisputably the best. And I thought Durzo Blint looked kind? There was something crawling up the inside of his trousers. It felt big, but not as big as a cockroach.
Its poison liquefied flesh in a slowly spreading circle. If it bit, even with a healer the best an adult could hope for was to lose a limb. And I had four before that. If he jerked his legs together to kill the spider, the water would splash and the men would know he was there.
Even if Durzo Blint had looked kind, that was an awful big sword, and Azoth knew better than to trust grown-ups. Trembling, he pulled his tunic up in back and stretched the waist of his trousers, making a gap and praying the spider would crawl for it.
Above him, the assassin reached two fingers up to his lips and whistled. There were yells as the front and back doors burst open. The boards flexed and jumped. Slowly, Azoth drew his hand around so he could see it. His fears were right. He reached for the splintered branch holding his tunic and broke it off.
The sound was magnified in the sudden silence above. A few feet away, something was dripping from the boards into a puddle. The silence was eerie. If any of the men walked across the floor, groaning boards and flexing bamboo would have announced it.
The entire fight had lasted maybe twenty seconds, and Azoth was sure no one had left the tavern. Had they all killed each other? He was chilled, and not just from the water. Death was no stranger in the Warrens, but Azoth had never seen so many people die so fast and so easily. Even taking extra care to look out for the spider, in a few minutes, Azoth had gathered six coppers.
Maybe he was a demon, like the other guild rats said. Maybe he was standing outside, waiting to kill Azoth for spying on him. Chest tight with fear, Azoth turned and scooted toward his hole. Six coppers was good.
Dues were only four, so he could download bread tomorrow to share with Jarl and Doll Girl. He was a foot from the opening when something bright flashed in front of his nose. It was so close, it took a moment to come into focus. Azoth ducked his head. Not the beating—Rat was definitely hitting Jarl—but he was hitting him with an open hand.
It was louder that way. He was watching the rest of the guild, enjoying their fear. At sixteen, Rat was already as big as a man and he had fat, which made him unique among the slaveborn. Azoth held out his four coppers.
Some of the bigs shifted and looked at each other, but no one said a word. She noticed the looks and withered, shrinking into herself. Rat knew. Everyone knew. But Rat was the Fist. Rat pulled Azoth close and lowered his voice. Black hatred stabbed through him. Azoth hated Rat, hated the guild, hated himself. He cleared his throat to try again. Rat caught his eye and smirked. He knew how far he was pushing Azoth. He knew Azoth would crumple, afraid, just like everyone else. A golden moment of victory.
Azoth thought he could hear jaws dropping. Black spots blotted out the world as he hit the ground. He blinked up at Rat, whose black hair glowed like a halo as it blocked the noon sun, and knew he was going to die. Rat, I need you.
He coughed unhealthily. I said now. His face cleared, and he smiled at Azoth. Just smiled. They were propped against a wall several blocks away, sharing the stale loaf Azoth had bought. The smells of baking, though less intense this late in the day, covered at least some of the smells of sewage, rotting garbage piled on the banks of the river, and the rancid bite of the urine and brains of the tanneries.
If Ceuran architecture was all bamboo and rice fiber walls and screens, Cenarian architecture was rougher, heavier, lacking the studied simplicity of Ceuran design. If Alitaeran architecture was all granite and pine, Cenarian architecture was less formidable, lacking the deliberate durability of Alitaeran structures. Cenarian buildings were everything squat and dank and cheap and low, especially in the Warrens. A material that cost twice as much was never used, even if it lasted four times as long.
Their buildings frequently incorporated bamboo and rice fiber, both of which grew nearby, and pine and granite, which were not too far away, but there was no Cenarian style. The country had been conquered too many times over the centuries to pride itself on anything but survival. Azoth absently ripped the loaf into thirds, then scowled. He put one of the bigger pieces on his leg and handed the other big piece to Doll Girl, who followed him like a shadow. Azoth sighed and took the small piece for himself.
Five years till you get review. Now, the bread tasted like dust. He stared into the market, not even seeing the fishmonger beating her husband. Jarl smiled, his teeth brilliant against his black Ladeshian skin. The loud crunching of bread and smacking of lips beside him stopped him. The combination of the crumbs stuck to her face and her scowl of outrage made them howl with laughter. Azoth rubbed her blonde head and, when she kept scowling, pulled her close.
She looked at Jarl expectantly. Tucked within its folds were a dozen coppers, four silvers, and impossibly, two gold gunders. The beatings were a small price to pay for hope. After a while, most guild rats withered and let life beat them. They became animals. Or they went crazy like Azoth had today and got themselves killed. Looking at that treasure, part of Azoth wanted to strike Jarl, grab the sash, and run.
With that money, he could get out, get clothes to replace his rags, and pay apprentice fees somewhere, anywhere. Then he saw Doll Girl.
You deserve it. You have a plan? He looked up, his brown eyes bright.
All right? Four years. Dozens of beatings. He was so ashamed. He was so afraid. Afraid of Rat. Afraid of Durzo Blint. Always afraid. But if he got out, he could help Jarl. And Blint would teach him to kill. Azoth looked up at Jarl, not daring to look at Doll Girl for fear of what might be in her big brown eyes.
The perfect guard, Durzo thought: a bit slow, lacking imagination, and dutiful.
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He took his thirty-nine steps, stopped at the corner, planted his halberd, scratched his stomach under his gambeson, checked in all directions, then walked on.
He held on by his fingertips. He dropped and hit the grass just as the guard thumped the butt of his halberd on the wood walkway. The yard was small, and the house not much bigger. It was built on the Ceuran design, with translucent rice paper walls.
Bald cypress and white cedar formed the doors and arches and cheaper local pine had been used for the frame and the floors. More than that, it fit his budget. Durzo found an unlocked window on the second floor. They were, however, poor enough that the mattress was stuffed with straw rather than feathers.
The covers on the side she was facing had been disturbed. The wetboy slid into the room, using his Talent to soften the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor.
They actually shared the room.
Perhaps he was even poorer than people thought. He stopped. The woman was turned toward the disturbed covers. Not on the far side of the bed, the way a woman merely doing her marital duties would.
It was a love match. After her murder, Aleine Gunder had planned to offer the general a quick remarriage to a rich noblewoman. The idiot. The prince was so consumed with ambition that he thought everyone else was, too. The wetboy sheathed the knife and stepped into the hall.
He still had to know where the general stood. The wetboy had given the king his final dose of poison tonight. By dawn, he would be dead, leaving a throne in contention between one man who was strong and just, and another who was weak and corrupt.
The voice had come from the receiving room downstairs. The wetboy hurried to the end of the hall. The house was so small that the receiving room doubled as the study. He had a perfect view of the two men.
He was thin and sinewy, his legs slightly bowed from a life in the saddle. The man across from him was Duke Regnus Gyre. The wing-backed chair creaked as he shifted his weight. He was a huge man, both tall and wide, and little of his bulk was fat. He folded ringed fingers on his belly.
By the Night Angels. I need your opinion as a friend, not as a vassal. He drew the throwing knives slowly, careful with the poisoned edges. He is a weak, foul, and faithless man. Not at all. And the throne is yours by rights. We could do it? Duke Wesseros is out of the country. My own regiment is in the city. The men believe in you, my lord.
We need a strong king. A good king. We need you, Regnus. They believe in you that much. Durzo barely stifled an overpowering urge to throw the daggers. The suddenness of his rage shook him. What was that about? It was Regnus. A king worthy of it.
Regnus looked stricken. I never speak of it. As I decide whether to be a man or a king, let me. I should be over it. I am, except when I have to see her with her children and have to imagine her sharing a bed with Aleine Gunder. The only joy my marriage has given me is my son Logan, and I can scarce believe her own has been better. And myself. Always myself. I cannot. I will swear fealty.
Blint saw the ambush from fifty paces away, and walked right into its teeth. He had affected a bad right knee and pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders, the hood pulled low over his face. As he limped into the trap, one of the older children, a big as they called them, jumped into the alley ahead of him and whistled, brandishing a rusty saber.
Guild rats surrounded the wetboy. Not bad. Whose idea was that? The wetboy looked at the small boy on the rooftop. He was holding a rock aloft, his pale blue eyes intent, ready. He looked familiar. We need this. The fight was over by the time the guild rats flinched. He threw back his hood. He knew he was nothing special to look at. He was lanky and sharp-featured, with dark blond hair and a wispy blond beard over lightly pockmarked cheeks.
But he might have had three heads from the way the children shrank back. Rocks rattled to the ground. He saw fear and awe in their eyes. He smirked. Only an amateur lets his blade rust.
Then he walked through the mob. They scattered as if he might kill them all. Azoth watched him stride into the early morning mists, disappearing like so many other hopes into the sinkhole of the Warrens. He was powerful, dangerous, confident, fearless. He was like a god. Someday, Azoth swore. When Blint was far enough away not to notice, Azoth followed.
Each had a lightning bolt tattooed down his forehead. Durzo stopped cold, a lance twisting through his guts. He held the door open. Glanced at his brother. Part of Durzo knew he should say something cutting or threatening or funny, but his tongue was leaden. It was a place to inspire fear. Carved from black fireglass, a platform dominated the room. Nine chairs sat on the platform. A tenth chair sat above them like a throne.
There was only bare floor facing the chairs. Those the Nine interviewed would stand. The chamber was a tight rectangle, but it was deep. The ceiling was so high it disappeared in the darkness. It gave those questioned the feeling of being interrogated in hell. That the chairs, walls, and even the floor were carved with little gargoyles, dragons, and people, all screaming, did nothing to cool the effect. But Durzo walked in with an easy familiarity.
The night held no terrors for him. The shadows welcomed his eyes, hid nothing from him. At least that much is left me. The Nine had their cowls on, except for Momma K, though most knew there was no hiding their identities from Durzo. Above them, the Shinga, Pon Dradin, sat in his throne. He was as still and silent as usual. He was a fashionable, handsome man with a reputation for cruelty, especially toward those children in the guilds he managed. The laughter his lisp might have provoked somehow dried up under the everpresent malice on his face.
He gave his report briefly. He turned his heavy-lidded eyes to Blint. Durzo looked at him, refusing to take the provocation. He spoke the language of meat. Durzo walked to him. A bell rang and a moment later, Bernerd and Lefty burst into the room. Blint crossed his arms and made no move to defend himself. Blint was tall, but his mass was all lean muscle and sinew. Lefty charged like a warhorse. Durzo merely extended both hands, unclenched, but when Lefty crashed into him, the impossible happened.
The rest of him continued forward. His body lifted parallel to the ground, then crashed to the stone floor. Bernerd skidded to a halt in front of Durzo and then knelt by his brother.
Lefty was moaning, his bleeding nose filling the mouth of a rat carved into the rock floor. Corbin pulled the needle out of his calf with a grimace. It was the first time the Shinga had spoken since Blint entered. You are—but you still take your orders from me. The next time you touch one of my Nine, there will be consequences.
Now get the hell out. This tunnel had started out like any other: rough cut, winding, and of course dark. But as it plunged deeper into the earth, the walls got straighter, the floor smoother. This tunnel was important. But that was different, not wrong.
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What was wrong was one step in front of Azoth. He squatted on his heels, resting, thinking. If he squinted, he thought could see something, but he was pretty sure that was just from squeezing his eyes. He extended his hand again. Was the air cooler just there? Then he was sure he felt the air shift. Sudden fear arced through Azoth.
Blint had passed through here twenty minutes ago. Now he remembered the stories. A little puff of sour air lapped at his cheek. He had no way to defend himself. The Fist kept all the weapons.
Another puff touched his other cheek. It smells. Like garlic? Then two nice bashers with orders to kill intruders will find you. It makes you conspicuous. Azoth jumped to his feet, feeling his hope slip away with the fading laughter.
He ran up the tunnel in the dark.
Azoth ran faster. A stone grabbed his foot and he fell roughly, skinning his knees and hands on the stone floor. I need to apprentice with you. Master Blint, please! Go home, kid. Blint was gone. But there was no help for it. He wanted to cry, but crying was for babies. Azoth walked back to Black Dragon territory as the sky lightened. Parts of the Warrens were shaking off their drunken slumber. Usually, the smells of the Warrens were comfortable. There was the permeating smell of the cattle yards over the more immediate smells of human waste glooping through wide gutters in every street to further foul the Plith River, the rotting vegetation from the shallows and backwaters of the slow river, the less sour smell of the ocean when a lucky breeze blew, the stench of the sleeping never-washed beggars who might attack a guild rat for no reason other than their rage at the world.
For the first time to Azoth, rather than home, the smells denoted filth. Rejection and despair were the vapors rising from every moldering ruin and shit pile in the Warrens.
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It was a sign. It was all garbage and rejection, and Azoth was part of it. When he got to the guild home, Azoth nodded to the lookout and slipped inside with no attempt at stealth. Maybe that was what furtive meant. Lying down in his usual spot next to the window, he slipped between Doll Girl and Jarl. He nudged his friend.
Long night, I guess. Like all the guild rats, Azoth, Jarl, and Doll Girl slept close to each other for warmth. Doll Girl scooted close and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tightly, and Azoth was glad for her warmth. A worry gnawed at the back of his mind like a rat, but he was too tired. He slept. Roth and Harelip stood on either side of Rat, almost bursting with excitement. Doll Girl was gone. Jarl was gone. The rest of the guild was gone, either working, scavenging, or just deciding that now would be a good time to be outside.
Roth stood by the back door, and Harelip stood behind Rat in case Azoth ran for the front door or a window. You missed the fun. Azoth knew violence. Cruelty walked the Warrens holding hands with poverty and rage.
Harelip had been born without part of his lip. Rat had been born without a conscience. He hauled it inside, and Azoth saw that it was Jarl. He was missing teeth and he had crusted blood on his face from where his hair had been pulled so hard his scalp bled.
He was wearing a dress. Azoth felt hot and cold tingles on his skin, a rush of blood to his face. Behind him, Jarl let out a little whimper. For a while. Jarl turned his face to the floor, his shoulders shaking as he cried silently.
If Master Blint apprenticed you, why are you here, Azo? You come back to kill me? There was nothing to say. Jarl slumped. He wiggled his eyebrows at Azoth.
I will destroy everything you love. I will destroy you so completely that no one will ever defy me again. So do your best, do your worst, do nothing at all. I win no matter what. I always do. He hoped Rat would hit him. Of course, he brought nothing. He merely extended an empty hand, as if already beaten. And so it was, every dues day. The Jarl he knew disappeared by slow degrees.
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The nights were worse. Rat took Jarl every night while the rest of the guild pretended not to hear. He became reckless, cursing Rat to his face, questioning every order the boy gave and championing anyone Rat beat.
Rat swore back, but always with that little smile in his eyes. The littles and the losers in the guild started deferring to Azoth and looking at him with worshipful eyes. Azoth could feel the guild reaching a critical mass the day two bigs brought him lunch and sat with him on the porch. It was a revelation. Why would they? He was nothing. And then he saw his mistake. Rat had been waiting for this.
It was going to be a purge. A hundred Gyre knights made their own last-minute preparations, checking their saddles, horses, and weapons.
Servants who would be leaving their families said hurried goodbyes. Even Master Vorden admits that I handle a sword almost as well as the soldiers. The fact is, your mother needs you here more than I need you in the mountains.
Is that where you got the bruises on your knuckles? If I stay, the king will give me one or the other eventually. She had been born to another ducal family, the Graesins, and she had their green eyes, petite features, and temper. Despite the early hour, she was dressed in a beautiful green silk dress edged with ermine, her hair brushed glossy.
Destroy you, destroy them—he wins no matter what. Go inside. He spoke without turning toward Logan. His father clapped him on the shoulder. Wendel will teach you everything you need to know. I swear the man understands more about running our lands than I do. There are those who would destroy us. Surprise them. Be smarter, better, braver, and faster than anyone expects. House Gyre is counting on you.
All our retainers and vassals are counting on you, and maybe even the kingdom itself. Azoth squatted against the alley wall, hoping the night wind covered the sound of thunder in his heart. There was still no motion in the alley. Azoth stuck the blade in the dirt of the alley and put his hands in his armpits to keep them warm. Nothing might happen for hours. He was running out of chances. He was cruel, but he had plans. Flailing when he could have been planning.
The Fist had declared his intentions. That made it easy enough. Azoth knew some of what he was planning; all he had to do was piece together how. A purge will give me safety for a couple of years. Other guild heads have killed to keep their power. Azoth worked on the idea. Rat had bottled up his hatred for three months.
Why would he be willing to not even hit Azoth for three months? He was imprisoned for 22 months  as civil war ensued between the federal government and the Biafrans. Though refused materials such as books, pens, and paper, he still wrote a significant body of poems and notes criticising the Nigerian government. He also published a collection of his poetry, Idanre and Other Poems. While still imprisoned, Soyinka translated from Yoruba a fantastical novel by his compatriot D. Release and literary production[ edit ] In October , when the civil war came to an end, amnesty was proclaimed, and Soyinka and other political prisoners were freed.
For the first few months after his release, Soyinka stayed at a friend's farm in southern France, where he sought solitude. He wrote The Bacchae of Euripides , a reworking of the Pentheus myth. At the end of the year, he returned to his office as Headmaster of Cathedral of Drama in Ibadan. In June , he finished another play, called Madman and Specialists.
It gave them all experience with theatrical production in another English-speaking country. In , his poetry collection A Shuttle in the Crypt was published. Madmen and Specialists was produced in Ibadan that year. Soyinka travelled to Paris to take the lead role as Patrice Lumumba , the murdered first Prime Minister of the Republic of the Congo , in the production of his Murderous Angels.
In April , concerned about the political situation in Nigeria, Soyinka resigned from his duties at the University in Ibadan, and began years of voluntary exile. In , he was awarded an Honoris Causa doctorate by the University of Leeds. His powerful autobiographical work The Man Died, a collection of notes from prison, was also published that year.
From to , Soyinka spent time on scientific studies. In Soyinka was promoted to the position of editor for Transition , a magazine based in the Ghanaian capital of Accra , where he moved for some time. He used his columns in Transition to criticise the "negrophiles" for instance, his article "Neo-Tarzanism: The Poetics of Pseudo-Transition" and military regimes. He protested against the military junta of Idi Amin in Uganda.
After the political turnover in Nigeria and the subversion of Gowon's military regime in , Soyinka returned to his homeland and resumed his position at the Cathedral of Comparative Literature at the University of Ife. In , he published his poetry collection Ogun Abibiman, as well as a collection of essays entitled Myth, Literature and the African World. In these, Soyinka explores the genesis of mysticism in African theatre and, using examples from both European and African literature, compares and contrasts the cultures.
In he both directed and acted in Jon Blair and Norman Fenton's drama The Biko Inquest, a work based on the life of Steve Biko , a South African student and human rights activist who was beaten to death by apartheid police forces. Soyinka founded another theatrical group called the Guerrilla Unit.
Its goal was to work with local communities in analysing their problems and to express some of their grievances in dramatic sketches. In his play Requiem for a Futurologist had its first performance at the University of Ife. In July, one of his musical projects, the Unlimited Liability Company, issued a long-playing record entitled I Love My Country, on which several prominent Nigerian musicians played songs composed by Soyinka.
In , he directed the film Blues for a Prodigal; his new play A Play of Giants was produced the same year. During the years —84, Soyinka was more politically active. At the University of Ife, his administrative duties included the security of public roads. He criticized the corruption in the government of the democratically elected President Shehu Shagari.
When he was replaced by the army general Muhammadu Buhari , Soyinka was often at odds with the military. Since [ edit ] Soyinka in Soyinka was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in ,   becoming the first African laureate. He was described as one "who in a wide cultural perspective and with poetic overtones fashions the drama of existence".
Reed Way Dasenbrock writes that the award of the Nobel Prize in Literature to Soyinka is "likely to prove quite controversial and thoroughly deserved". He also notes that "it is the first Nobel Prize awarded to an African writer or to any writer from the 'new literatures' in English that have emerged in the former colonies of the British Empire. Soyinka's speech was an outspoken criticism of apartheid and the politics of racial segregation imposed on the majority by the Nationalist South African government.
In , he received the Agip Prize for Literature. In , his collection of poems Mandela's Earth, and Other Poems was published, while in Nigeria another collection of essays entitled Art, Dialogue and Outrage: Essays on Literature and Culture appeared. Both works are very bitter political parodies, based on events that took place in Nigeria in the s. In Soyinka was awarded an honorary doctorate from Harvard University.
The following year his play The Beatification of Area Boy was published. In he was charged with treason by the government of General Sani Abacha. The International Parliament of Writers IPW was established in to provide support for writers victimized by persecution.
Soyinka became the organization's second president from to That same year, a BBC-commissioned play called "Document of Identity" aired on BBC Radio 3 , telling the lightly-fictionalized story of the problems his daughter's family encountered during a stopover in Britain when they fled Nigeria for the US in ; her baby was born prematurely in London and became a stateless person.Did he really mean that?
Even if you had quick hands like Azoth did, when you stole every day, you were bound to get caught eventually.
The guards stopped. The Nine had their cowls on, except for Momma K, though most knew there was no hiding their identities from Durzo.
For the first time to Azoth, rather than home, the smells denoted filth. Do you understand? You will be different.
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