The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades
to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age,
called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of
Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of
Time. But it was a beginning.
Born below the ever cloud-capped peaks that gave the mountains their name, the wind blew east, out
across the Sand Hills, once the shore of a great ocean, before the Breaking of the World. Down it flailed into the
Two Rivers, into the tangled forest called the Westwood, and beat at two men walking with a cart and horse
down the rock-strewn track called the Quarry Road. For all that spring should have come a good month since,
the wind carried an icy chill as if it would rather bear snow.
Gusts plastered Rand al'Thor's cloak to his back, whipped the earth-colored wool around his legs, then
streamed it out behind him. He wished his coat were heavier, or that he had worn an extra shirt. Half the time
when he tried to tug the cloak back around him it caught on the quiver swinging at his hip. Trying to hold the
cloak one-handed did not do much good anyway; he had his bow in the other, an arrow nocked and ready to
draw.
As a particularly strong blast tugged the cloak out of his hand, he glanced at his father over the back of
the shaggy brown mare. He felt a little foolish about wanting to reassure himself that Tam was still there, but it
was that kind of day. The wind howled when it rose, but aside from that, quiet lay heavy on the land. The soft
creak of the axle sounded loud by comparison. No birds sang in the forest, no squirrels chittered from a branch.
Not that he expected them, really; not this spring.
Only trees that kept leaf or needle through the winter had any green about them. Snarls of last year's
bramble spread brown webs over stone outcrops under the trees. Nettles numbered most among the few weeds;
the rest were the sorts with sharp burrs or thorns, or stinkweed, which left a rank smell on the unwary boot that
crushed it. Scattered white patches of snow still dotted the ground where tight clumps of trees kept deep shade.
Where sunlight did reach, it held neither strength nor warmth. The pale sun sat above the trees to the east, but its
light was crisply dark, as if mixed with shadow. It was an awkward morning, made for unpleasant thoughts.
Without thinking he touched the nock of the arrow; it was ready to draw to his cheek in one smooth
movement, the way Tam had taught him. Winter had been bad enough on the farms, worse than even the oldest
folk remembered, but it must have been harsher still in the mountains, if the number of wolves driven down into
the Two Rivers was any guide. Wolves raided the sheep pens and chewed their way into barns to get the cattle
and horses. Bears had been after the sheep, too, where a bear had not been seen in years. It was no longer safe to
be out after dark. Men were the prey as often as sheep, and the sun did not always have to be down.