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 Dark One's stables. 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.
West the wind drifted until its rank stench assailed the nose of the
stableowner. "DAMMIT, YOU'RE DOING THAT ON PURPOSE!" he raged.
"WHAT'VE YOU BEEN EATING ANYWAY?"
Bela's only answer was a coy come-hither look.
"OH, YOU KNOW I CAN NEVER STAY MAD AT YOU," sighed the Great Lord as he
pulled down his trousers.
---
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages... well, you get the idea. In one
Age, the Third Age, a wind rose in the frigid antarctic tundra. The
wind was not the beginning, so on and so forth. But it was a
beginning.
North the wind blew until it reached a mountain in the southern reaches
of the Land of Madmen. The inhabitants of that strange continent
called the mountain Elysum-Seraph and held it in superstitious dread.
Deep within the mountain lay the Pit of Daisies and Rainbows, where the
Creator sat in deep contemplation as the wind whistled through the high
passes overhead.
The Pattern was centering itself on the all-important northern
continent, but he was yet unable to take a direct hand in events. His
nemesis was much stronger in the north, and had many more agents to do
his bidding. The Creator had only been able to place two of his
followers in the north, and alas, the horse had turned out to be a
double agent.
Ever since the first turning of the Wheel, the Creator and the Dark One
had been locked in a desperate race to escape their respective prisons
-- a race with the highest of stakes. The winner would become supreme
God-Emperor of this dismal world and rule over humanity with an iron
fist. The loser would be utterly destroyed.
The Dark One had clearly gained the advantage this past Age, and he was
closer to freedom than he had ever been before. The Creator could feel
the prize slipping from his grasp.
"BLOODY HELL," he muttered to himself in a low voice that only
registered a 4.3 on the Richter scale.
---
Ebou Dar
Two Seanchan foot soldiers patrolled the broken streets, picking their
way through the debris of their great victory.
"What a mess. At least we didn't take too many losses, though."
"Did you hear that Bender's dead? Caught an arrow in the throat."
"Shame. He was a good man," replied the first soldier. "I hope he's
happy with the Daughter of the Nine Moons."
"You know, I've always wondered about that Daughter of the Nine Moons
legend. No heresy intended, but doesn't it seem strange that the Death
Goddess would marry every man and woman she takes from this world?
She'd have to be some kind of nympho to manage that."
"I guess."
They walked on in silence for awhile, until the second soldier motioned
for his companion to stop in front of a pile of rubble that had once
been a wall. An arm was all that was visible of a corpse trapped
underneath the bricks and plaster.
"Would you look at that!" exclaimed the second soldier in morbid
fascination.
"What? It's just another stiff. We must've passed at least a dozen in
the last minute."
"No, look over there, a few feet to your left."
"Looks like an eyeball."
"That must've been his eye." The second soldier pointed to the body
beneath the rubble. "A piece of that wall hit him pretty hard on the
back of the head to knock it out of its socket like that."
The first soldier shrugged noncommittally.
---
Saldaea
It was harvest time and the smell of sex lay thick in the air.
Although the crops were poor and there was little to celebrate, the
Saldaeans weren't about to allow some stupid drought to interfere with
tradition.
The mood was far more somber inside Queen Tenobia and Mazrim Taim's
country love nest, though. A messenger had just brought the news that
an imposter had insinuated himself into a position of trust with Rand
al'Thor. Taim was certain that his doppelganger could only be one of
the Forsaken. He had decided to leave immediately to give warning to
the Dragon Reborn.
"What is al'Thor to you that you have to leave me like this in the dead
of night?" Tenobia asked plaintively. "Screw him. Or better yet, come
back to bed and do me instead."
"There's nothing I'd enjoy more, my little hellcat," said Taim with a
touch of regret, "but I don't have that luxury. As they say, 'Duty is
heavier than a mountain, death lighter than a feather.'"
Tenobia hoarked up a great gob of phlegm in a show of feminine
contempt. The effect didn't seem quite right, so she tried crossing
her eyes while folding her breasts beneath her arms instead. That also
seemed wrong in some indefinable way, though.
(Cut her some slack. She's young and hasn't had any lessons on how to
be a woman from Ila or Nynaeve yet.)
The former False Dragon looked at her quizzically.
"Why must you borderland men all be so fucking pretentious?" she
sighed, finally giving up her attempt to convey meaning through subtle
body language.
Tenobia then added with some resignation, "Forget it. I suppose I
should get back to my throne and ruling the country, anyway. I'll
probably have to execute that meddlesome Tower hag if I'm to get any
work done, though."
Taim shrugged noncommittally.
---
Tar Valon
Egwene blearily regained consciousness and immediately wished she had
not. By some stroke of luck, the blast that had levelled her command
tents atop a hill east of the city had not killed her. However, she
had been thrown at least fifty feet and was badly burned and bruised
all over her body. She also thought she might have dislocated her left
shoulder.
It must have been the Black Ajah, Egwene thought. No Aes Sedai bound
by the Three Oaths could have done something like this.
Egwene could still hear the sounds of battle in the distance, but there
were no signs of life on this side of the hill. The last she had
heard, her forces had had the advantage because Elaida had not
anticipated the rebel Aes Sedai opening Gateways to allow their troops
easy access into Tar Valon. Egwene desperately wanted to stand up and
find someone who could give her a current report, but she was in such
pain she could hardly move.
Five long minutes Egwene waited in agony for someone to appear before a
column of cavalry rounded the hill and came into her view. Her heart
sank as she saw that they flew the banner of Tar Valon, and she tried
to remain as still as possible. No use. The horsemen began searching
for survivors and trotted to where she was sprawled. Egwene thought
she recognized the tall figure with red-gold hair riding at the head of
the column. I must be delirious, she thought.
"Egwene? You're alive?" ventured a tremulous voice from atop the lead
horse. She must have blacked out momentarily because she had not
noticed they had drawn so near.
"Gawyn, it is you," Egwene said weakly. "Light, I hurt. Help me up...
please."
The man she loved dismounted and came to kneel beside her. Tenderly,
he stroked her charred hair. "Egwene, I... I'm pledged to obey Elaida.
She ordered your execution... I'm sorry."
Tears streaming from his eyes, Gawyn stood and drew his sword. He
hesitated but a moment to blink his vision clear. Then, with a wail of
burning anguish, he plunged the point into Egwene's breast. Gawyn
Trakand then fell over and died of extreme pathos.
As her lungs filled with blood and the life drained from her, Egwene
experienced one last powerful vision. She saw her body on a funeral
boat. Her three princes --Gawyn, Galad and Rand -- attended her as she
was ferried to her final resting place on the island of Tar Valon.
(Egwene's corpse was actually torn apart by the rats and crows until
the remains were washed away by the rains a few weeks later. Just goes
to show you how unreliable that Foretelling crap can be.)
---
Ghealdan
Berelain walked uncomfortably closely to Perrin as he surveyed the
bloody site of the most recent clash between the Children of the Light
and the Dragonsworn. If she had not been so intent on flirting, she
probably would have noticed the once-handsome Whitecloak's mangled
corpse lying on the ground in front of her. However, she was far too
engrossed in attracting Perrin's attention to her spectacular breasts
to pay much attention to where she was putting her feet. As a result,
Berelain tripped over the body and tumbled a good ten paces down the
slight incline before landing heavily on her spectacular ass.
Perrin and Faile laughed so hard that they nearly wet themselves.
Berelain sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing with rage at being the
butt of their joke. "You're an ill-mannered swine, Lord Goldeneyes,"
she said in a tight, angry voice, "and for all her breeding, your wife
hasn't the refinement of the filthiest peasant! You deserve one
another, and I want nothing more to do with either of you. You'll
regret not accepting my offer for the rest of your life, blacksmith!"
She then stalked angrily away, surreptitiously trying to wipe the gore
from her shoes.
Neither Perrin nor Faile could respond because both were too busy
gasping for breath and wiping the tears from their eyes. Perrin caught
Faile's eye once he had brought his laughter under control, and she
favored him with a dazzling smile. He brightened at this. Perhaps his
wife had finally realized that she had no reason to be jealous, that
she was the only woman in the world who mattered to him.
Perrin finished inspecting the battleground to his satisfaction. He
then started the column moving again and rode in considerably higher
spirits for the rest of the day.
Later, when the party had stopped to make camp and have supper, Perrin
caught a glimpse of Berelain enjoying a bowl of cherries. He saw her
place a handful of the stems in her mouth and continued watching her
out of the corner of his eye with some curiosity. After a few seconds,
she plucked an object the size of a small egg out of her mouth and set
it down next to the bowl. Perrin, with his unnaturally sharp sight,
could see that it was a cunningly woven miniature basket. He
considered the implications of this for a time.
For the next few weeks, everyone wondered why Perrin had become so
inexplicably silent.
---
Illian
A few hours past dawn, three withered crones rode into the city from
the north. This was not particularly unusual in itself. However, the
old women seemed to radiate such an aura of cruel malevolence that the
north road was deserted for a mile ahead of them and a mile behind
them. They were also riding broomsticks instead of horses, which was
pretty damn unusual in itself.
They didn't have quite so much room inside the crowded city, but people
still gave them as wide a berth as possible. The crones ignored the
frightened Illianers around them and made speed to the centre of the
city and the King's Palace.
Rand was sharing a quiet moment with Min at his chamber window
overlooking the city. He spied the disturbance in the street, and
squinting, he could just make out the three figures at the centre of
it.
"What in the Light is that?" he asked under his breath.
Min followed his eyes to the people milling in the street. She stared
at the scene for a moment, then jumped to her feet in excitement.
"Well, are you going to sit there all day, farmboy?" she asked. "Let's
go down and say hello."
Before he could ask any questions, Min ran from the room and bolted
down the stairs. Rand could only follow her, muttering under his
breath.
By the time Rand and Min reached the palace gates, the three hideous
broomstick-wielding crones were crossing the crowded Square of Tammuz,
making their way towards them. The area immediately surrounding them
was actually quite deserted, but the opposite half of the square was
jammed tight with folk pushing to put a greater distance between
themselves and the weird sisters. Rand found himself quite glad at the
knot of Maidens that had followed him down when he left his quarters.
For some reason, the sight of these old women chilled him to his very
soul.
To his horror, Min ran from his side and threw her arms around the lead
crone with a squeal of delight. "Aunt Rana!" she exclaimed. "What are
you and Aunts Jan and Miren doing here?!"
Rand was suddenly filled with an overpowering sense of dread.
After Min had exchanged news and hugs with each of her aunts, he
greeted them cordially and offered them the hospitality of the King's
Palace. Their cold stares made him distinctly uneasy, but they
accepted his invitation and moved into the palace without further
chitchat.
The next few days were rather strange ones for Rand. When Min's aunts
weren't boiling foul-smelling concoctions in their rooms, they were
going around reciting prophecies in iambic pentameter and generally
finding new ways of keeping the palace staff's nerves raw and ragged.
Some of the prophecies concerned him, but they were even less
comprehensible than Min's visions for the most part. What the hell was
it supposed to mean that he would "never vanquish'd be until Great
Braem Wood to high Cairhien hill shall come against him"? None of it
made any sense.
One of their prophecies -- or perhaps it was a simple threat; he
couldn't tell -- was not so difficult to understand, though.
One might have wondered how three half-mad old women could possibly
harm the most powerful man in the world. Rand had grown very wary of
the weird sisters, though, and he couldn't take it so lightly. He
considered hanging all three, but Min vetoed that idea out of hand when
he suggested it to her. Rand, being quite firmly attached to his
gonads and wishing to remain that way, finally decided he had no choice
but to marry Min.
Normally, it would have taken months to arrange a state wedding for the
King of Illian. Rand was in a hurry to get rid of Min's aunts as
quickly as possible, though, so the lead-time was shortened to ten
days. All too soon, he found himself standing next to Min before the
Wedding Speaker atop a great pavilion in the Square of Tammuz.
Rand paid little attention to the ceremony or to the crowds thronging
the square to witness the Joyous Event. He was far too busy trying to
keep his gaze away from the Speaker's large and colorful hat which bore
an uncanny resemblance to a bird of paradise copulating furiously with
a tropical fish. Beside him, a radiant Min seemed to be biting the
insides of her cheeks hard enough to draw blood.
(Due to the lack of priests and organized religion in Randland, it
became tradition in Illian to draft anyone wearing a suitably
ridiculous hat to officiate at weddings and funerals. Any idiot
wearing a bucket on his head could perform these functions for the
common folk. However, for the nobility -- royalty in particular --
only the most elaborately stupid headgear would suffice.)
After two hours or so, the Speaker finally came to the vows, much to
Rand's relief. "Do you, Rand al'Thor, King of Illian, the Lord Dragon
Reborn, take this woman, Min Farshaw, to be your wife and queen?" he
asked.
Rand glanced behind his back and spotted the three hideous crones in
the first row of onlookers, a wide empty space around them despite the
crowding in the square. That is what Min could look like in a few
years time. Well, I'm not likely to live that long anyway, he thought
to himself in resignation.
Rand turned back to the Speaker and shrugged noncommittally.
---
The Kin's Farm
When news of the wedding came to the Farm, Aviendha received it with
typical Aiel stoicism. Elayne could not quite match her equanimity,
though. She was happy for her friend, Min, but the idea of Rand
marrying another woman hurt even more than she had expected. She
eventually found a cask of brandy and retired to her room to get
seriously polluted.
Nynaeve, being a relentless busybody who never knew when to leave
anyone alone with their pain, decided to talk some sense into the fool
girl. She filled a large bucket with cold water and barged into
Elayne's room.
In all fairness to Nynaeve, she had only seen Elayne drunk on wine,
which just made her giggly and a bit spinny. She had no reason to
suspect that hard liquor would make Elayne a much meaner drunk. When
Nynaeve tried to dunk Elayne's head in the bucket, the taller and
stronger woman knocked her to the floor. Elayne then fell on her and
started bitch-slapping the helpless Nynaeve. "Lecture me, will you,
you stupid cow?!" she screamed. "I'm Daughter-Heir of Andor, and I'll
damn well get myself good and plastered any time I flaming well
please!"
With a flash of anger, Nynaeve embraced saidar and channeled Air to
push Elayne off her. In her anger, though, she misjudged her strength.
Elayne flew backwards into a wall and her neck snapped with a sickening
wet crunch, her blonde head falling forward at an unnatural angle.
Birgitte must have felt her bond breaking, because she ran into the
room with her bow unlimbered only seconds later. She snarled in rage
as she looked upon Elayne's broken body, and then her eyes came to rest
upon a shocked-looking Nynaeve still sitting on the floor. Birgitte
pulled an arrow out of her quiver and nocked it with one smooth motion.
She then fired her shaft straight through Nynaeve's black and midnight
heart, killing her almost instantly.
Lan came running into the room on Birgitte's heels and saw her raise
her bow, but he was not quick enough to save his One True Love. He
unsheathed his sword anyway, and with a single stroke that the eye
could barely follow, Birgitte's head toppled from her shoulders.
Aviendha was right behind Lan in the hallway and she saw most of what
had happened. She was also bright enough to deduce what she had not
seen. Now she just had to figure out what she was going to do about
it. She sat down in the hallway, and pulled her _Abridged Ji'e'Toh
Guidebook (16th edition)_ from her bodice.
(She smiled to herself as she remembered how she had convinced Rand and
Egwene that every Aiel memorized all that garbage. The damn book was
printed in four point type with nonexistent margins and hardly a line
of white space on paper so insubstantial that it was almost
transparent. And it was still a good four inches thick, for God's
sake!)
Aviendha found the section she was looking for, "Ji'e'toh in dealing
with the man who just killed your future sister-wife's female Warder in
retaliation for killing his newlywed bride", somewhere near the middle
of chapter eighty-three. A further scan of the section, and she found
the appropriate protocol for dealing with the specific situation that
she was facing. Aviendha sighed as she realized what she was obligated
to do.
The former Maiden of the Spear took her heavy-bladed belt knife in hand
and launched herself screaming at the grieving Lan who was standing
motionless just inside the doorway. Lan made no effort to avoid
Aviendha's attack, but simply thrust backwards at her with his sword.
He took a deep cut to the side of his neck while his sword opened a
nasty gash in Aviendha's abdomen.
Ironically, neither wound was immediately fatal. However, both Lan and
Aviendha were far too proud to call for help in front of an enemy.
They sat down and tried to hold their wounds closed, staring coldly at
one another until both passed out from loss of blood. They died within
seconds of one another.
The first persons to walk in on that grisly scene were Thom Merrilin
and Juilin Sandar. They had been listening for news and gossip in a
nearby town, and had just returned to report to Elayne and Nynaeve.
Horrified, they scanned the carnage in Elayne's room.
Thom's eyes fell upon the young woman he had loved as a daughter, and
they filled with tears. He tried to walk towards her, but he couldn't
see very well. He slipped in a glistening pool of Nynaeve's semi-
coagulated blood and his head came down hard on the floor, dashing his
brains all over the now badly stained stone tiles.
How am I supposed to explain all this, Juilin thought to himself. He
decided that it just wasn't worth the trouble to stick around. A few
minutes later, he was on his horse and galloping towards Tarabon and
his One True Love.
Some hours later, one of the Sea Folk Windfinders ventured into
Elayne's room and discovered the six cadavers within. Everyone at the
Farm agreed that the inexplicable deaths were a terrible tragedy.
However, it did not change their main purpose for being there. They
had to use the Bowl of the Winds to fix the weather. The most skillful
Wind weaver linked with the twelve strongest remaining channelers, and
with the help of the bowl and the most powerful sa'angreal from the
Ebou Dar stash, she set about undoing what the Dark One's hand had
wrought.
Unfortunately for the world, after the six deaths, every last person at
the Farm was suffering from the terrible and debilitating (but very
common) Randland disease known as minor character incompetencitis.
The Bowl flashed with odd lights and colors, and the clouds in the
glass danced around crazily as the linked thirteen channeled their
weaves into the powerful ter'angreal. From the Spine of the World to
the Aryth Ocean, angry grey clouds gathered over the parched land.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Then the skies opened, and it
rained... and it rained... and it rained...
It did not stop for another forty years.
---
Epilogue
The rain only fell as a light drizzle most of the time, so the floods
weren't too much worse than in normal years. However, the unceasing
dampness made it impossible to fight Tarmon Gai'dan before the end of
the Third Age. The Last Battle was rescheduled to be fought as a
double-header at the end of the Fourth Age instead.
Life went on in Randland, even though the continually overcast weather
increased the suicide rate by tenfold for the first decade or so.
The real Mazrim Taim married Tenobia, and he managed to hold off the
Taint until he died of natural causes in his nineties.
Rand was not so lucky. He succumbed shortly before his and Min's
eighth anniversary, and took his own life. Min decided she was better
off without the whiny idiot. She moved back to Baerlon, where she took
up the old family tradition of creeping people out with cryptic
prophecies.
Juilin eventually found Amathera some twenty years after he picked up
her trail in Tarabon. She was turning tricks in a rather sleazy
Amadician tavern, and he decided he did not love her that much after
all. He left without speaking to her.
Perrin and Faile swore fealty to Morgase and ruled as Lord and Lady of
the Two Rivers. They grew to a ripe old age together and had a simply
ridiculous number of children. Perrin rarely thought about Berelain
and what might have been with her oh-so-talented tongue.
At Shayol Ghul in the north and Elysum-Seraph in the south, the two
most monstrous beings the world had ever known plotted and waited.