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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 Forest of Shadows. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor ending to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
South the wind blew along Garen's Wall, where its howling threatened to dislodge snow piled high atop the sheer cliffs, they themselves a relic from the Time of Madness that had ended the last Age. South it ran, flowing into Ghealdan, through forest, valley and town. Some only half populated, some abandoned. Whole villages had gone, some to join the Prophet, others to fight him, and still others had simply fled, eager to be as far from the Prophet of the Dragon Reborn as the Light would allow.
The air grew warmer as the wind continued south, yet it still managed to hold to its chill. The snow grew lighter as the wind swept across Amadicia and into Altara, wearing away at the thatching in the village of Salidar, long abandoned, recently occupied and abandoned yet again.
Deeper into Altara the wind swept, through villages and towns whose Mayors and Governors, had paid only half a mind to the edicts of their Queen just months before. Now each one was sworn to Tylin, Queen of Altara, and sworn to Obey, to Await, and to Serve.
The wind still held the edge of its cold bite when, finally, it reached the low hills above Ebou Dar. Marwyn Theodan silently cursed that wind as he huddled deeper into his fur-lined cloak. He could have simply ignored the cold. He had long since learned the trick of concentrating inward that prevented the cold, or the heat, from touching him. But the bite of the wind served to keep him alert. He was deep inside territory controlled by the Seanchan, as the invaders were called. Too deep to risk being caught unaware. After the last battle fought on this very ground, he truly doubted the Seanchan would take kindly to one such as him. Even with that in mind he still wore his black coat under the light gray cloak. It was warmer than the others he had been given. No matter that the Seanchan had no love for men in black coats, and that the Silver Sword and Golden Dragon pins on his high collar clearly marked him for what he was.
Strangely not so long ago he had been nothing more than an ordinary man, a young man, who had left his home near Four Kings after a chance encounter with a tall, red haired fellow and his unfriendly traveling companion. He had given them some bread and cheese, the dark haired one had looked as though his stomach might, at any moment, eat a hole through his spine, the taller one only a little better. They had let slip that they might go to Tar Valon, a strange destination for boys much younger than himself. Strange for any man for that matter. They claimed their real interest lay in reaching Caemlyn in time to glimpse the false Dragon, but Marwyn was certain that they had larger troubles. Still, it was obvious that they were far from home, farther than Marwyn had ever been from his own home, and that had given him ideas. So it was that less than three months found Marwyn training at Tar Valon. A mishap with a cut-purse had earned him a bump on the head and the respect of Warder, who had called him "club footed" and "half-brained", but had also admitted that he had the fastest hands the Warder had yet seen.
The training had been hard, harder because unlike some of the other students, Marwyn had never held a real weapon in his life. It had taken many beatings, most delivered by an annoyingly handsome fellow who called himself Galadedrid Damodred—a Cairheinin name, although he looked nothing like any Cairheinin Marwyn had ever seen, being too tall for one—before Marwyn settled on the weapon he favored even now. The long, slightly serpentine blade was Saldaean, and was well suited to his "fast hands".
Even then, it seemed that he had not yet reached the place he was meant to be. He did not try to explain it to himself, or anyone else. He did not understand it. In the end it was encounter with a young woman—one he had mistaken for a boy, with her short hair and boy's coat and breeches it was an easy mistake to make—that settled it for him. He had told her of his desire to become a Warder, and his many encounters with Galad. She seemed to be looking past him when she replied, "You won't find your bond with Aes Sedai, you are going to Caemlyn." She refused to explain how she knew, what she knew, just that it was true.
Marwyn had left the White Tower and Tar Valon six months thereafter, the girl's words convinced him to get as far from Caemlyn as he could. He chose, instead, to see Illian or Tear. Before he reached Far Madding he met with group claiming to be seeking followers for The Dragon Reborn. At first the thought had repulsed him, but somehow he found himself traveling with them anyway. A trip that took him as far as Mayene, before the recruiting party Traveled to the Black Tower, near Caemlyn. And somehow that had all lead here, where, as a Soldier among the Asha'man, he had battled the Seanchan and their damane. Where friends of his had died.
Marwyn shook himself from the reverie, and quickly assumed the Void. The cold was beginning to distract him, to make his mind wander. He could not afford that. He formed a point in his mind, a tiny bubble, free of all thought or emotion. He concentrated on that bubble, became the bubble, and it grew, pushing extraneous thought to the edge of his mind and beyond, until he floated in emptiness. He had learned that in the Tower—the White Tower—only to find later that it was key to channeling the One Power.
He was not truly alone in the void. A warm glow suffused it, the source of that glow seemingly just out of sight and distant beyond all imagination, yet somehow, just with in the reach of his hand. Outside the void, the desire to reach out to that glow clawed to get in, but Marwyn ignored it. There was something funny about the True Source here. It was somehow unreliable. That combined with the Taint made it the last thing he wanted. The Dark One's Taint, like an oily film on saidin, the male half of the True Source, the legacy of Lews Therin Kinslayer's pride. The Taint had fouled saidin for three thousand years or more, dooming any man who channeled it to madness and death. The first time he had channeled the Power, the foulness of the taint was so shocking, Marwyn lost control and nearly burned himself out—and burned himself up. He could not decide which was worse, the flames he had brought on himself or the healing after. He was not eager to feel either again.
The memory was distant outside the Void, everything was. He had resisted the Void, because it tended to narrow his focus, but the cold was distant as well. For the first time since Logain had given him this Light blasted mission, Marwyn considered returning to his camp early. Seanchan threat or no, they had not bloody moved from Ebou Dar, and despite the activity, he did not think they planned to soon. All his vigilance had earned him was a near run in with Seanchan patrol, a week previous, another experience he did not wish to repeat.
Then he saw it. One of the Seanchan flying beasts circling high over his head. He was covered from the air, under the branches of a leather leaf, but if he could see the creature then there was a chance that the rider could see him. Again he considered saidin, and he rejected it out of hand. He was just too close to the killing fields where saidin ran wild. He schooled himself to stillness; worry skittering outside the Void like a rock skipped off a pond. He was aware of sweat beading on his face, despite the cold. Name the Dark One, and he will appear, Marwyn told himself ruefully, the thought sending ripples through the Void. He could only hope it was happenstance that had this Seanchan scout flying over his head. He could hope, but doubt crawled outside the Void along with hope.
He continued to watch the creature's flight through the leaves of the evergreen. It was only the sharp focus of the Void that prevented him from losing sight of it. Distantly, Marwyn realized that the thing was purposefully flying where it would be difficult to spot from where he was sitting. There was no use hoping, the scout had seen something. By his pattern, he was seeking a place to land.
By the time Marwyn consciously decided to move, he was already deeper, into the small copse of broadleaves that covered the top of the hill. His right hand rested on his sword hilt as he dashed through the trees. He was prepared to drawn, and to fight, but did not want sunlight reflecting from his blade to give him away. He used the Void, keeping his mind clear, becoming one with the flying thin, one with ground, one with the trees. He passed through the sparse underbrush with almost no sound, tracking the Seanchan.
He reached the edge of the trees and dropped into a shallow depression behind yet another leather leaf, he could see the thing clearly now. It was much larger than he had thought. All of the Seanchan flying beast he had seen before had been much smaller. They were still quite a bit larger than a horse, but not so big as this one. How many could that thing carry? the question flowed through him. Five? Ten? More than I can fight with this sword.
Again, before he finished the thought, he released his sword hilt and drew out his bow. Working within the Void often bypassed conscious thought. There was only perception and action. Marwyn knew he had to eliminate this patrol. No, Hunting party was more accurate. The last patrol obviously had not taken him for the lost and frightened farmer he had pretended to be.
The Creature glided to the ground less than two hundred paces away, at the bottom of the hill. Marwyn's fears were confirmed when five lightly armored fighting men climbed from the things back. At least Marwyn thought of them as men. The Seanchan armor, even this lighter variation, made it impossible to tell man from woman. The fact that the Seanchan had women in their armies disturbed him. Marwyn did not like killing women, even when he had to. Then the last five passengers dismounted. All were women. Worse still, two wore the gray dresses and wide silver collars of damane. Those collars linked by silvery leashes to bracelets on the wrists of two other women in red paneled riding dresses, embroidered on the sides and across the breasts with lighting bolts. Sul'dam.
Marwyn, bit back an oath, and the Void wavered. Damane and sul'dam. Weapons of war for the Seanchan. The damane, the "leashed ones" in the old tongue, could channel saidar, the female half of the true source. The Seanchan saw anyone able to do such a thing as dangerous animals, marath'damane, "those who must be leashed". The Leash allowed the sul'dam—"leash holders"—to control the damane. Marwyn had fought damane before, but he did not hate them the way he hated the sul'dam. The thought of what they did to those poor women, simply because they were born with a gift. Because they were like him.
The Void rippled with surprise as Marwyn realized he had seized saidin. The One power raced through him like a river in flood. A river of molten steel, as hot as the sun and cold as the purest ice in winter raged within him. He could feel the taint, like a mouthful of spoiled meat, leaching into his bones, into every fiber of his being. He wanted to retch, and empty his last five meals from his stomach, yet he felt more alive than ever. He could easily become lost in that torrent, swept away by the feeling of total life, but if he did it would kill him, so he fought. That was saidin; just holding the power was like balancing on the edge of a razor during a windstorm, yet it was the most wonderful feeling he could imagine. The filth of the taint only served as counterpoint to the joy of the battle with saidin.
He did not use the Power, only held it. He was still resolved to avoiding it here. Sometimes it simply would not do as he wanted in this place, and the results could be deadly, when the power was used with out control.
One of the other effects of holding saidin was an amplification of senses. He could feel the cold, like ice daggers, digging into his skin. He could taste the salt in the air, even this far from the sea. He could smell the earth, and the faint sent of old blood. He could see each thread the made up the embroidered lighting bolt on the sul'dam dresses, the weariness in the postures of the ten men and women below him, the faint grime on their faces and clothing. They had been away from a bath for quite some time. And he could hear them speaking.
"I should be off," the fifth woman was saying, she was neither damane nor sul'dam. Her voice was thin, and the words slurred by that odd Seanchan accent, "To'raken are of no use in battle."
"And if this man is what these Oath-breakers call Asha'man?" one of the soldiers replied, his tone not questioning. "No, flyer, I think you shall remain here, to allow a more expedient retreat."
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